This thing we do—this self-hating act of pain and revenge—it's not for others to know about. She can play mother to Emma, and play princess to his Prince Charming, but what we do is the thing that silently eats away at her insides. The knowledge that deep down, she's mine.

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Regina/Mary – Evil Queen/Snow White

AN: I started writing this version of Snow Queen from Regina's POV, and I got a bit carried away with it. All that pain and hate, with a touch of insanity—it's enticing. :) So this is going to be multi-chaptered, and it takes place in Storybrooke, after the curse is broken. It's more of just scenes of interaction between Regina and Mary, so it doesn't focus on the season 2 plot. I hope you like it. I'd love to hear your feedback, so hit me up.

Intimacy of Destruction

This isn't love.

I know what it is. It's something more powerful than that. It's hate. Because I hate her, more than anything in this world or the next. I would stop at nothing to destroy her. I can't leave her, I can't kill her, I can't live without her.

I can't even remember if I loved Daniel as much as I hate Snow White.

And someone more sane than I would see the fault in that, but I can't give her up. She's mine. Mine to hurt and mine alone to hate.

Because no one hates her. They all see her as something good and pure, but I know better. I've always known she wasn't good, only skilled at fooling others. With bright eyes, and a brighter smile, she could hide everything behind her good intentions.

But she lies, and she deceives, and I've seen her darkness for a very long time. I'm the only one who sees it, and there's an intimacy in that, one of shared anger and regret. A romance of heartache and deception.

I used to wonder how I could spend twenty eight years without needing her, without wanting the infliction of pain that I used to cause her—the kind that was so specific to the two of us. It wasn't until the curse was broken that I realized that it was her memories I wanted to torment. Because now she looks at me and she remembers. She sees what I know about her, and she can't stand it. It makes her sick and broken, and I absolutely love it.

I love the way tears swell in her eyes when my hands run down the curve of her hips. My body fits against hers like it never left, pinning her to the wall of my office.

"Miss me?" I whisper, my voice darkening. I keep my face close to hers, watching every pained expression that crosses it. Then my hand slides quick and easy up her leg and under her skirt, making a path I know well. She closes her eyes tight, while weakly trying to grab my forearm before it reaches the abundance of wet heat that I eventually find. "Oh, yes dear. It seems you did."

And it doesn't take long, not nearly as long as it should for such an innocent girl, for her face to soften slightly at my skilled ministrations, her hips pushing into my hand when I brush against her clit just so. I know her. Everything there is to know, and how her body reacts to my touch is something I'll never forget. Apparently, neither will she.

Her eyes are still closed though, so my free hand grabs the back of her neck roughly.

"Look at me." I order, and she obeys, because it's instinct. It's the blood in her veins, it's the darkness in her heart that has my name written all over it, just as hers is written on mine. "I want you to know that it's me doing this to you." There's a gasp that escapes her lips as I push two fingers inside her. "I'm the one inside you. I was always here." A slight bend at the knuckles as I pull out, and she's gripping at my shoulders. "And the ache that you could never name," My words are getting lower and faster, my head swimming from this power I have over her, and all the semblance of control and order I try to maintain on the surface comes cracking away. "It wasn't for him. It was for this." Her head lightly falls against the wall, tense and frustrated at my slow pace. "It was for me."

She doesn't take her eyes off me, taking all the abuse my words give, just like the good martyr she is. But I know better. Because her eyes are hooded and her hips are practically thrusting against my hand, and that's not fear that's making her so easy to please.

It's never fear.

After a beat of silence, I see her lick her lips. I knew it.

I crash against her, kissing her with a fierce hatred, teeth banging and tongues fighting. When she moans into my mouth at the contact, my body reacts to it with an intensity that is almost embarrassing.

I take her hard and rough, and in a way that David never would. Because she deserves it, and I want her to suffer, to die, I want her crawling off the walls and screaming out my name. Not his. Like it used to be, and after everything she's done to me and everything she's done with me, she can't just run off and have her happily ever after. We're bound and tied together in this misery that I will not share alone. I never want her to leave, keeping that stained memory tight within my soul, and—dammit I had her first.

My free hand starts pulling and tearing at her blouse, fingers burning along her hot skin. I'm rushed and desperate, and it shows, the decades that have passed don't allow me to hold onto the control I used to own so well when we were like this.

But it makes my skin crawl just being this close to her, makes my hatred burn and grow, and all I want is for her to leave. To go and never come back. But I can't stop hurting her. I can't stop.

…

But it's okay.

She breaks the kiss, and after a few labored breaths, she whispers 'more', and my face could break in two, with how wide my smile is right now.

Because she can't stop either.

So, I give her more. I push harder and rub faster, her nails digging into my back, and my face is twisted up in self-satisfaction because of this power I have over her. I do this. I can make her snow white skin turn red just by a smirk and a well-placed innuendo. I can make her arch off the wall and cry out. I make her hate herself every time she begs just to come.

"Please…" The sound barely comes out, but I see her lips mouth the word. I slow the movement of my hand, and she whimpers.

"What was that, dear?" I ask innocently, as if she's not squirming against me, wet and wanting.

Tears sting her eyes, and my smile turns evil.

"Please." She says again, louder this time. My thumb pushes quickly against a bundle of nerves that causes her hips to jerk against my hand.

"Please, what?" Mary doesn't respond, just looks away and bites her lip. So stubborn—she always has been. Even when this was new and she was young and I was Queen, she held onto that sliver of tenacious defiance. I hate her for it, but I'll admit; it does make it worth it when I finally get her to crack.

My fingers push deeper inside her, as deep as they can go, and then stay perfectly still aside from a slight flexing of my knuckles. She sucks in a deep breath at the sensation, the palm of my hand pushes down, replacing my thumb, and as her hips start to push against it, my free hand hold them still against the wall.

"Say it." I snap at her, my eyes growing darker by the passing seconds.

"God—please. Please, I need it. I need you." So broken when she says it, all that control she holds onto slipping away from her as well, leaving just us—and this—and it makes it almost worth it. All the pain she's caused, all the failed attempts at destruction—these small moments of begging and pleading, and her nails in my back, and those watered eyes full of shame and regret makes me almost forget—almost—if only for a moment. For a moment this destruction we bring on ourselves is the only thing I need.

"How much?" My voice sounds far away, my head not becoming heavy enough to care though, because this could be a dream. But when she answers, it's clear and real, and the loudest thing I've ever heard.

"More than anything."

Our lips meet again, as my hand continues its movements, fast and faster, and I feel fingers scorching their way through my hair as she wraps her arms around my neck. It brings us closer, closer than the two of us should ever be. Closer than I ever want to be, and I swore I was done—the last was the last, because there are consequences to falling so deeply into this madness with someone like Snow White. But damned if I care right now, because madness has always been inside me, and twenty eight years is too long for me to be without it. I wonder briefly if they would even care of my reasons, when this all goes to hell again, and I'm stripped bare—all my actions laid out before me as if there was no rhyme or reason to the things I did. I wonder if they'll lie Snow out before me, and claim corruption and abuse, her green eyes accusing me. I'll laugh at them, because they don't know—they don't know what Snow is capable of, and they have no idea how much worse I could have made it for her—

She breaks the kiss, gasping and arching, so close that I can practically taste it. My free hand trails up her neck, thumb gently stroking her cheek as I marvel at how beautiful she is like this—she's always beautiful, but like this? That's when I see her.

And she would turn me over to them, wait until I'm weaker while she gets stronger, then claim that she wasn't strong enough to stop me. That I forced her. I never forced her. She'd say the words though, because she's a liar and she's devious—she'll cry rape and pain, and poor, poor, Snow White.

Off with my head.

There's a cold feeling that runs down my spine, making my eyes narrow, and my hand holds tighter to her face, making her pay attention.

"I hate you." I whisper full of loathing. I consider other things to say to her—horrible things, knowing she'll have no choice but to take it, along with the fingers that are inside her. But it seems that I don't need to, because said fingers suddenly are getting very hard to move as she tenses and arches off the wall. I smile, wide-eyed and fascinated, as I watch her climax. Her mouth agape in a silent scream, her eyes barely open, but still looking at me.

Right at me. Because it's always been me, just as it's always been her. This contagious decay—this communal desolation—this is ours.

…

Soon enough though, her eyes stray down as the heat from our bodies begin to cool. My hand comes out from under her skirt and roams over the curve of her hip before resting on the wall. I lean there for a moment, waiting for my nerves to calm and my vision to clear. When it does, I look down as well and see her open blouse and chest straining against mine, and her body is rigid against mine. Then I look up to her face, and it looks as though someone has sucked the life out of her, but she meets my eye contact all the same and after my allotted moment, she leans in to kiss me.

I flinch and jerk away before she makes contact, and push off the wall, suddenly disgusted at the sight of her, and disgusted at myself. My shaky stance turns quickly into a confident stride across my office to a mirror, where I precede to fix my crumpled appearance. Mary hovers though, like she always does, like she's waiting for me to say something I never will—or she's waiting for the courage to say what she never can.

I stay silent, and eventually she leaves. My mind doesn't even spin some well-placed insult, or threat of blackmail her way. This thing we do—this self-hating act of pain and revenge—it's not for others to know about. It never has been. She can play mother to Emma, and play princess to his Prince Charming, but what we do is the thing that silently eats away at her insides. The knowledge that deep down, where the feeling of my fingers linger, she's mine.

Mine to hurt, and mine alone to hate.