jumping on board w/ bq cuz i like it.

trigger warnings - rape, mild violence, incest (f u see it that way).

He was lost in the moment, the moment of immense anger and pain. He must have been, Henry tells himself, because he knows it's wrong. Deep down inside him, he knows that his lips shouldn't be pressed against hers. Not like this.

But she's the Evil Queen, he reasons. She isn't his real mother. She may have raised him, in this world, in this house, but she wasn't the one who carried him for those months. She didn't give him life. In fact, she cursed him this life. A life that for the past seventeen years, as far as he can remember, he's the only one thats aged. He's the only one that remembers further back than anyone else. At least everyone in town, that no one can leave and have never thought to question why. Everyone, that is, except her.

Claw-like hands find his chest and she pushes it away from her as hard as she can. Her footing slides a bit from the loss of traction under high heels and he barely takes a step back from the strength of it, but it's all she has.

He might've been thrown across the dining room and possibly clear through the wall and into the backyard had she any magic, Henry surmises if not with a slight tilt of arrogance near the corners of his mouth. From what hes read in his book, she was one of the most powerful beings in all of the Enchanted Forest. If not the most feared. Her given name and title held quite a infamous reputation, after all. But they aren't in fairy tale land. This is the real world. Here, she isn't royalty or a sorceress. Here, he can easily toss her around like a ragdoll.

Her features express confusion, discomfort, and perhaps a little disgust. This is her son, she thinks, he knows better. Doesn't he? But his features express much darker themes. She can smell the alcohol on his breath. His hair is a bit tasseled and looks as if he dressed himself in the dark, with his shirt inside out and his belt having skipped a loop. Regina knows where hes been and with who. But the waitress isn't here and she isn't the one he's looking at now with those eyes. Those eyes that have always been able to see right through her. Regina doesn't think she can take it, and most definitely doesn't want to even fathom what those eyes are insinuating. He's not in his right mind.

"Henry...?" she whispers, her voice registering a lower-octave tone of caution. A warning.

"Your Majesty," he bites back. He can't help himself.

She averts her gaze around the room a moment before connecting with his again, taking on the ever-shading hues of his orbs, and swallowing over the lump that's formed in her throat. "We'll finish this conversation in the morning...when you've sobered up."

A chuckle bubbles out of him, a laugh so dark and sinister that it takes a double shot for her to realize what's happening, and her head slides to the back of her neck. "But we've just started, mother."

He says the word as if spitting it from his mouth, like the mere taste of it on his tongue is bad enough without having to add feeling behind it.

His eyes flicker down to her mouth and he unconsciously licks his lips. Then they're trailing down her neck in a deliberately slow manner. She can seemingly feel his eyes on her and she squirms under his scrutiny, finally landing on the cleft of her cleavage.

Regina can't anymore and she turns to leave but a strong arm shoots out in front of her across the threshold. Henry takes a fortifying step forward that towers over her. For a split second he sees something hes never seen before—fear in her gaze. A spurt of pride shoots through him, down his spine as he supposes he's the only one who will ever witness such a thing. And he'd be lying if he didn't detect something almost seductive about it, arousing him like nothing ever has or possibly ever will. There's something animalistic about it, too, something Ruby could never give him. Perhaps even with her memories, he silently muses.

She opens her mouth as if to rebuke, but it shuts just as quickly. She eases forward and tests wither he will give her permission to pass. He doesn't. He doesn't even flinch. Her face scowls with wonder, then she asks him, through his eyes she actually asks for permission. Again, he does nothing. Nothing, but smile. That, it appears, frightens her.

She tests her strength again, this time vocally. "Henry, dear? Let me pass."

It isn't a request. She's demanding now. She hasn't earned that yet, he tells himself, she doesn't deserve any more control over him. Not anymore.

When he doesn't move, her tone deepens to an octave he's never heard before. The Evil Queen, herself, finally making an appearance, he surmises with a shudder of excitement.

"You're starting to upset me, now, step aside."

"No."

She glares at him, "Why the hell not?"

"I like it when you're angry."

"...what?"

He kisses her then, her slack-jaw gap enough to allow his tongue to slip inside. But as soon as hes done that, her teeth clamp down, hard and fast, and he recoils away from her a moment, pressing a hand to his mouth. Then she slaps him fiercely across the jaw. His head jerks violently to the side and he stays there to collect his bearings. Her breath comes out in haggard exhales, he supposes in shock of her own actions before quickly scurrying away. He's setting his jaw and sucks in air as he swirls around to face her. The instant their eyes connect, she turns to run up the stairs as fast as her legs will carry her.

A minute later, he's body-slamming her atop her mattress, once his foot stops her door from slamming in his face and shoves it against the wall. He's leaning all of his weight onto her back now and pressing her down. He steals a second to tuck his nose in her short hair and inhales sharply, reveling in the distinct aroma of her that hes grown to know so well. It comforts him and throbs achingly between his legs. He rears back just far enough to slide his hands around her, first grabbing at her breasts through the thin material of her blouse and cup of her bra. She growls, pushing his hands away and continues to squirm underneath. But they both know that she isn't going anywhere. She isn't strong enough, at least not physically. He can quite literally keep her trapped there for as long as he likes.

"Henry, stop this. Stop this right now!"

She insists on fighting him and he doesn't know why. On some level, in the back of his mind, he knows this is wrong. But this isn't incest. It won't be, anyway. His trigger-happy fingers are only too eager for what he truly wants to touch. So if she won't let him feel around, he'll just jump straight to the chase then.

His hands slither quickly across rich cotton, soon finding the hem of her skirt. The instant she feels his fingers curling round it, she begins to struggle harder, kicking and pushing her feet against the floor to buck him off her somehow. Though to no avail. He's heavier and it's then that it hits her what is happening now, there's nothing she's going to be able to do to stop it.

His rough fingertips run along the inside of her thighs and she brings her knees together. He only laughs, his breath hitching the closer he nears his destination. He's unnervingly close and she desperately tries to will herself to squeeze her legs closer still. It doesn't work. He manages to force his right hand between them and comes in contact with her underwear, or what little there is of it. She growls again, which sounds more like a whine, silently cursing herself for having chosen it earlier that day. The single thread of lace runs between her cheeks before splitting in opposite directions, only to meet again in a wide triangle, covering her front. His other hand trails across the left side of her rear and grasps at the taught, squishy skin.

She gasps and pushes against him. "Henry, this is not..." Her words fail her as her mind races, anything to convince him to stop. "What are you doing? What is it you want?"

"You know what I want." He presses against her. His nose nuzzling in the crook of her neck and her head willingly slides to the side. Either in reprove, to place distance between them, or out of whatever maternal delusions she has from when he was younger and did the same, he isn't sure. Neither make him feel any better.

His crotch is at full solute now and can't wait much longer. It bumps against the cleft of her ass and slides up, so his shaft rubs perfectly in the dip between. She shifts away but he only scoots closer. His knees lean against the edge of the mattress while he balances of the tips of his toes, the rest of him resting on her while she fits snugly beneath. Where she ought to be.

"Henry," she gulps. He feels the motion run over his lips.

"Is this how Graham did it?" he cuts her off. "Did he touch you this way while I was just in the other room? Why don't you giggle and shush me when I do it?"

"Please, you don't want to do this, sweetheart."

She's reverting to pet names now. She thinks this will somehow persuade him into the little boy he once was. The little boy who had believed wholeheartedly that this woman—this pathetic excuse for a human being—had given birth to him. He didn't question her reasonings for why she did certain things or why he didn't know who his father was. Why they never took vacations to the beach like the commercials he'd seen on TV. Why, every year on his birthday, the friends he invited over got younger and younger from him.

"Don't call me that!" he hisses into her neck. Tears are threatening to spill from his eyes and a spark of anger ignites in him. His hands clutch firmly at her waist and lifts, lifting her with him to move up further on the bed, so legs aren't hanging off the end and he is now able to bunch her skirt up over her thighs, and yanks the panties down and off completely, g-strings snapping, so his dick can gain purchase of her center. Once he's freed himself from his buckle and already unzipped jeans.

She begins to whimper now and though her energy is fading, damn if she doesn't find an extra dose of adrenaline to fuel her struggles. What with keeping her down and dodging her arms flailing at him, he takes a few of his fingers and caresses roughly. She's wet, but not nearly enough for what he's about to do. It doesn't matter. He needs to do this, to teach her a lesson.

He positions himself at her entrance and almost as if in a hurry, in a frenzy to get this over with, he forces himself inside her. She isn't ready for him. She's tight and her whole body goes rigid and tense upon invasion, her head rearing back and she tries to crawl away on the bed.

"Ah, no-no, don't..." she begs. Her voice sounds so small and unlike anything remotely Regina Mills. But the words roll off her lips almost too easily, and it leaves him wondering if she's had to say them before. In this context. A pang of something makes his stomach churn.

The instant he slides out, she takes the opportunity to rear her foot up fast, the spike of her heel hitting him square in the back. He recoils long enough for her to scamper away, but she doesn't get far. A strong tug on her scalp has her thrown back on the mattress with a bounce and a yelp, her head hitting the pillows and he's on top of her again. Only this time covering her front.

Her hands are pushing, clawing at his face, ultimately succeeding in red ugly scratches across flushed skin. He manages to trap her wrists above her head and leans his weight upon that one arm, holding them there. Before her legs have a chance to act, again, he locks his knees on top, spreading her for him.

Now does his eyes take her in, bottom half ranked up, naked and bare before him. Soft, ivory shaven skin. On a whim, his free hand smacks her center and her body cringes from each blow. Over and over, until the flesh is glistening and red. He then spits in his palm and rubs the tip of his cock before bending down and entering her once more.

Her sheath is warm and wet, welcoming in this new position, yawning wide and seemingly wrapping around his length. She's mute, her eyes are squeezed shut and head turned away from him, features scrunched and creased with what appears to be pained endurance.

From all the excitement, however, he doesn't last long and his groan tingles, vibrating inside her as he thrusts, which are falling out of rhythm and growing in speed.

In some sick twisted way, as he gazes down at her, he doesn't like that she's not taking pleasure from this. He's so close and is beginning to feel so good that he wants her to feel it too. So he leans down, never stopping his ministrations, and starts kissing her. Her neck first, she makes a sound in her throat, a cross between disgust and yearning, then moves upwards to her cheek.

It's becoming difficult to keep this up because he's on the edge now and his breathing is shallow.

Her folds must be leaking with her juices because his penis is just sliding in and out with ease, wet slapping sounds faintly echoing against the ceiling. Regina's eyes are still closed and she's doing her best to lye as still as possible. Her wrists are chafing as Henry leans heavier upon them.

"Don't be sad," he pants, almost sympathetically, before finally dropping a kiss to her tightly pressed lips. "I'm loving you, mommy."

It's the last thing he says before his entire body shakes and he groans loudly as if singing to the music in his head. His hips drive hard against hers, driving his cock as deep as he can as he releases himself inside her.

His mouth hangs open and Henry's forced to throw his head back and look away, anger fading from him like his energy.

He soon sags on top of her, nuzzling his head in her neck, heart pounding in his chest, trying to catch his breath while loosening his grip.

It's over and he's still inside her.

She's able to free her hands and stretch out her legs beneath him, but neither of them move.

Instead, she hesitantly drapes her arms over his limp body and opens her eyes, his words having stricken a cord.

tbc?