A hand flies out and connects sharply with the high cheekbone of an absurdly self-satisfied face.
There's the sound of shuffling and boots scraping against concrete as the owner of that very face stumbles with the force of the slap, a hand shooting up to cradle a throbbing jaw - the skin there a blotchy, angry red.
Emerald eyes screw tightly shut - sudden, hot tears threatening to break free - trying to keep from clenching the jaw that the person she had just paid a friggin' compliment to had just completely smacked the living shit out of.
And despite the pain - she's sure is not even half as bad as it would've been had she not been three sheets to the fucking wind, and seriously did Regina use a spark of magic with that slap, because jesus fuck that fucking hurt - she whips her head back to glare into almost midnight black eyes.
Her eyebrows shoot up in incredulity.
"What the fuck, Regina!?" She brings her hand away from her face to see if there's blood on her fingers before doing the motion again, gently pressing against the left corner of her lips before bringing them back for inspection.
There's no blood. But fuck. There'll be a definite bruise - like all over the left side of her face.
"Was that really necessary?"
And those incredibly dark eyes flash dangerously, widening in astonishment before glittering with barely contained rage.
"Was that - Miss Swan, get off my porch." Bare lips curl upward. "Now."
"No."
It comes out as a challenge.
One Regina would have, on any other occasion, accepted with almost tangible ease. But tonight, she hasn't the patience for it. She bristles at the tone in the blonde's voice instead.
"Emma." She growls out, hoping the use of her first name will help the blonde to see she isn't in the mood for their usual banter game. "I am in no mood for this tonight. You're drunk and I'm not going to be your babysitter. Leave."
And because she truly is so drunk she can barely keep herself upright - her right arm gripping the white pillar of Regina's porch her saving grace - she shakes her head and snorts, the sound sloppy and loud - incredibly unattractive.
"Why are you so pissed? I complimented you, Regina. Jesus."
Perfectly sculpted eyebrows lift in disbelief, a matching sound leaving parted lips.
"Compliment? Miss Swan, telling me you'd like to fuck me into tomorrow does not in any way constitute as a compliment."
And there's a cavalier shrug and a lift of slightly chapped lips.
"Semantics."
A derisive scoff.
"Do you even know what that word means?"
Emerald eyes snap up.
"Fuck you, Regina."
A wicked smirk.
"I think we've already established that you'd like to, dear."
A throbbing jaw clenches, the muscles twitching and teeth grinding and Emma's had enough of this woman's pompous attitude. Of thinking she's always two steps ahead - even if she really always is - of thinking she's above everyone else. Above Emma.
She may very well have been a queen, may very well be a mayor, but she is also just Regina. Human. Prone to mistakes. Vulnerability. Lust.
And Emma may be drunk beyond coherence but she's not unconscious. She's not incapable of detecting an emotion as raw and palpable as desire.
And Regina's slack jaw and quirk of lips seconds after her compliment did not go unnoticed.
Nor did the dilation of black pupils encased by chocolate irises.
Regina had been aroused.
Regina was still aroused.
And Emma was going to turn her compliment into an action. No matter how much her fucking face hurt.
Emma's hand slides lazily from the wooden pillar she had been leaning on since she had stepped away from banging - yes, actual banging - Regina's door and in three rather steady steps, is inches away from lips so supple and so bare, Emma has to bite back a strangled whimper.
Regina's breath catches - the sound slamming straight to Emma's core, her eyes fluttering when her name, her first name, tumbles out of Regina's mouth in a shaky exhale.
It's nervous. Trembling. Completely out of place to the harshness of her name leaving those same lips only moments before.
Emma feels her heartbeat in every inch of her skin.
She's alight with an almost unbearable heat and when Regina's breath - smelling of apple cider - breaks against her lips, that desperate whimper rips from her throat with a vengeance, morphing into a full-bodied moan when she surges forward and can suddenly taste the tangy liquor on Regina's lips.
Emma swallows the gasp of surprise and then another when Regina's back hits the wall of the house next to the front door - still wide open from Regina having stepped out onto the porch and not closing it - Emma's hands on either side of her head.
Emma runs her tongue along a bottom lip and when Regina's mouth opens eagerly in allowance, she feels hands shoot out and grab at her hips, pulling her harshly into the other woman's body.
Regina's mouth opens on a moan and Emma feels hands rake down her cotton t-shirt, ending at the small of her back before once again finding purchase at her hips.
Her skinny jeans feel too tight, too restricting and the almost painful throb at the juncture of her thighs is making the zipper of them feel as if it's directly pressing against naked nerves.
She feels Regina's tongue swipe along the roof of her mouth, her knees trembling at the sensation and just as her hands move to tangle in raven locks, she feels hands pressing against her chest, pushing her backwards.
She stumbles again, completely disoriented.
Her breath is ragged and harsh, mirroring Regina's.
She furrows her eyebrows and opens her mouth in question when Regina cuts her off.
Regina's lips are swollen and red and glistening in the glow of the porch light above them and Emma's stomach clenches violently at the sight.
"If we are going to do this, I won't have it be outside on my porch."
Her words come out in a rush, her breath still labored, thick with arousal.
And she's turning and making her way through the foyer and up the stairs, stopping just as she reaches the third step, leaning over the rail and arching an eyebrow.
"Coming, dear?"
And Emma shakes her head - having fallen into a trance watching Regina's backside - clad only in a thin, black negligee and a cerulean silk robe - bringing her eyes up to meet those of the woman who had once told her all she'd ever get from her was a blouse.
God, I hope so.
Emma smirks, feeling more lucid than she ever has in her whole entire life - which may or may not be an illusion...because she's honestly really drunk - but she had the ten minute walk here (she's not stupid enough to drive) and the cool night air of the impending winter to help clear some of the blurriness away and she's definitely level-headed enough to know that if she doesn't move her ass soon, Regina is going to get pissy and tell her to leave - again.
So she steps into the warmth of Regina's house, the smell of vanilla and apples - a weird but surprisingly delicious combination - invading her senses as she makes her way up the stairs, her boots clomping loudly, echoing off the walls of the large house and a wide smile on her lips.
She should have complimented Regina years ago.