Work Text:
8:00 AM
Emma Swan was flying high on post-sexual-bliss and caffeine-a dangerous combination that blurred her better judgment.
She should’ve known better. She did know better. But love makes you dumb, and when Regina strutted out that morning in slacks too tight and a silk blouse two sizes too small, Emma’s last two brain cells waved the white flag and quietly perished.
Wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, hair a mess, thighs still pleasantly trembling, she slouched sideways on Regina’s ridiculously high-thread-count couch, sipping from a coffee mug that read “Don’t Make Me Curse You.” It wasn’t even hers. Which only made it hotter.
The air hung faintly of enchanted massage oil and sex-heady, magical, and unmistakably Regina. Emma was drifting in that cloud-nine bliss-the kind that made her limbs hum and her brain float-the kind that should come with a warning label: “do not operate heavy machinery”.
But instead, she grabbed her phone, and began typing a little love note to the woman who possessed her body-and very possibly, her soul-the same woman who had absolutely destroyed her the night before.
A hint of a smirk curled at the edges of her still kiss-swollen lips.
To: Regina
My clingy morning marshmallow, still can’t feel my thighs. also-pretty sure u cracked a rib when u moaned “mine” and mounted me like a victory flag. 10/10 would let u destroy me again 🤠🔥
She hit send, blissed out. And then.
Then.
Her soul left her body.
Because she didn’t send it to Regina. She sent it to-
Fairy Tales & Poor Life Choices
(aka the family group chat that included every magic-wielding menace, semi-reformed villain, heroic do-gooder, teenage son, and exasperated grandparent they knew.)
Her coffee hit the floor.
Emma Swan = 🔥🦢
Fairy Tales & Poor Life Choices has received a message.
She screamed. It was a full-body, throw-the-phone-in-the-firepit, knees-to-chest, soul-fleeing-body panic screech.
8:05 AM
Emma snatched up her phone as if it were a live grenade-one poised to annihilate her love life and, judging by the current situation, her entire being. Her fingers moved in a frenzied blur of panic typing-partial apologies-only to erase them furiously, as though sheer desperation could somehow undo the digital apocalypse she’d just unleashed.
EMMA:
THAT WAS A JOKE
A JOKE
A WRESTLING JOKE
ABOUT ARM WRESTLING
ON A BENCH NOT A BED
VERY ATHLETIC
TOTALLY CLOTHED
NOT SEX
I MEANT-DAMN
She stared in horror, already sweating. She could feel Regina’s magical aura from her mayor office-a slow, simmering heat rolling off her like a dragon mildly inconvenienced by someone rearranging her gemstone hoard.
Should she run? Jump through the nearest window? Pretend she was possessed? Say Zelena cursed her with a texting hex? She mentally cycled through at least six escape plans before realizing she was still holding the phone and had not, in fact, died of shame.
She tried again:
EMMA:
I MEAN SHE LANDED ON ME? HARD? LIKE IN A SPORTS WAY??
NOT LIKE THAT THOUGH-OKAY MAYBE LIKE THAT A LITTLE BUT IT WAS TENDER
AND PRIVATE
AND SHE’S VERY STRONG
The chat box blinked back at her like a smug little traitor.
“Benedict freaking Textbox,” she muttered, wiping her sweaty palms on the couch throw.
There was no way out. The damage was done. And somewhere in the town, the Marshmallow Monarch was absolutely planning a magical roast.
Emma could already hear Zelena’s cackling echoing across dimensions.
“Oh my gosh,” she whispered to herself in horror. “Why the hell did I lead with that!”
8:07 AM
The group thread detonated, as if someone had dropped a lit firework into a dragon’s den.
Zelena, naturally, was first to pounce. “Mounted like a victory flag, she says,” she cackled. “I need that embroidered on a pillow. Or Regina’s robe. Possibly both. Ooo-maybe as a slogan for next year’s Fall Festival shirts?”
Maleficent followed, purring like a cat watching two canaries argue. “I always knew our Queen had claws. And now… so does Swan. Impressive grip, if I do say so.”
Ursula, clearly delighted, waded in with ease. “Just say it was magical aquatic therapy,” she offered. “That’s what I use when I break someone’s pelvis. Soothing. Effective. Memorable.”
Cruella lit her cigarette with flair. “Well. I need one and I didn’t even participate. Though I suppose I’m now emotionally involved.”
Tinkerbell posted from some glitter-drenched forest nook. “This is why I make enchanted tattoos and not group chats. I’m putting ‘Victory Flag Swan’ on the flash board now. Thanks for the inspo.”
Ruby, queen of chaos cheerleading, sent a rainbow-flag emoji, a fireball, and then a wolf howling gif. “I am so proud of both of you right now. Emma, congrats on surviving. Regina, congrats on the new nickname-and the thighs of legend.”
Granny’s reply was swift and full of old-world menace. “The next person who moans before 9am is getting the ladle. And it will be enchanted.”
Belle, visibly sipping from her world-weary mug of judgment, dropped in with, “This is a family thread. Can we not talk about cracked ribs and possession mounting before breakfast?”
Zelena-relishing the mess-came right back. “Also… clingy morning marshmallow? Really, Emma? I’m putting that on a mug and printing fifty.”
Cruella exhaled a dramatic plume of smoke. “That’s worse than the flag. She’s going to combust. Publicly.”
Ursula gasped, hand to chest. “Someone check on Regina. Is she okay? Is she fizzing yet? Because if she combusts indoors, it voids the fire insurance.”
Tink chimed in again, voice hushed and reverent. “I can feel her aura twitching from here. It smells like scorched velvet, cider, and righteous fury. That’s her ‘I will ruin you’ scent.”
Maleficent, cool and glinting with wicked amusement, added, “It’s very distinct. Notes of expensive wine and impending doom. She’s about two seconds away from roasting a Swan for dinner-medium-well, if not straight to ash.”
Belle, who only sounded gentle, typed the digital equivalent of a weary sigh. “Someone, somewhere, is about to regret their life choices in increasingly creative ways. Probably in alphabetical order.”
Ruby placed the final bet. “Ten bucks says Regina pretends she’s not blushing… while replaying that message on loop with noise-canceling headphones and a glass of wine.”
Henry, poor Henry, had already bailed. Left the chat. Again. Rejoined. Only to delete Emma’s contact. Again. Added Zelena to the block list. Again. Sent Regina a therapy link. Again.
8:10 AM
“EMMA. WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘MOUNTED LIKE A FLAG’-REGINA IS YOUR-SHE’S-WE’RE RELATED THROUGH-YOU WERE MY BABY GIRL.”
Snow’s ALL-CAPS tirade landed like a lightning bolt in the chat, complete with enough emotional baggage to derail an entire therapy convention. Stress balls & Co.
Emma, already curled in a fetal position, groaned. “Snow. Please stop typing. I can feel your Victorian Guilt from here.”
Snow, unfortunately, did not stop typing.
“DAVID. WE NEED TO CALL BLUE. OR A PRIEST. OR BOTH.”
David’s response arrived with the exhausted chill of a man who had seen too much and preferred pie. “She’s thirty-something, Snow. Let her live.”
Snow doubled down. “SHE CALLED HER A MARSHMALLOW.”
The chat went still for half a breath.
Zelena:
“Honestly, that part broke me. Clingy morning marshmallow? She’s never going to live that down. I’m getting it engraved on Regina’s wine glass. In cursive.”
Cruella:
“Do we think ‘marshmallow’ is literal or metaphorical? I need to know what kind of snack I’m dealing with. More sugar puff or burnt toffee?”
Maleficent:
“Regina is absolutely the toasted kind. Golden-brown, deceptively soft, but will ignite with the slightest provocation.”
Ruby:
“Marshmallow on the outside, demonic thigh clamp on the inside. I’m getting her that on a Valentine.”
Tink:
“Too late. Already sketched it.”
Zelena:
“I’m starting a petition to change her official title. Her Royal Toastiness, the Marshmallow Monarch of Storybrooke.”
Snow (somewhere in the background, continued spiraling):
“WE ARE A FAMILY. YOU GREW UP TO SLEEP WITH YOUR EVIL STEPGRANDMOTHER. THIS IS A GREEK TRAGEDY.”
Emma, forehead to cushion, whispered, “It’s not technically-okay it is, but it’s still hot.”
8:12 AM
Emma was halfway through typing another frantic apology (and possibly researching how to become legally untraceable via pirate magic) when Zelena struck with the force of a perfectly timed curse.
Fairy Tales & Poor Life Choices
→ Clingy Morning Marshmallows & Co. 🦢🔥
The notification landed with all the subtlety of a guillotine. Emma’s eyes widened in sheer digital horror as she read the new name-complete with animated marshmallows, and a little dancing swan icon. No doubt created by Zelena’s chaotic magic just to ensure Emma would never know peace again.
Her phone buzzed again. Zelena had posted: “You’re welcome. I trademarked the marshmallow. Merch incoming.”
Emma whimpered-audibly-questioning every life choice that led to this moment.
The chat immediately exploded with gifs of literal marshmallows catching fire. Someone added a “HOT STUFF” sticker over her face. Tink posted a sketch of Emma lying in a puddle of regret while Regina sat on a throne made of cinnamon sticks and judgment.
Emma, now halfway under the couch throw and seriously considering chewing through a throw pillow to escape reality, typed out a desperate message.
Emma (privately to Regina):
Help me. They’re circling. I think they smell fear. Or sex. Or both.
Regina (privately, calm as death in silk):
You’re the one who handed them the matchbox, dear.
Now bend over. I need to confirm the rib count.
Emma made a sound that was not human.
She flung her phone across the couch, buried her face in the nearest pillow, and screamed. The pillow absorbed it dutifully. Unlike the chat, which was still going strong with a poll titled:
How should Regina punish the Swan?
A) Magically enforced silence
B) Banishment to the love dungeon
C) Roasting, medium-well
D) All of the above
Zelena voted D. Twice.
8:15 AM
The chat went silent for thirty full seconds.
Then-Regina struck.
Her message appeared like a royal decree carved from obsidian and dipped in sarcasm.
“Thank you all for your feedback.”
“Emma and I will be having a very private discussion about digital literacy.”
“And when she can walk again… Swan will issue a formal apology.”
“Until then, I trust you’ll delete the message. Or face the same fate.”
The temperature in the group chat dropped ten degrees. Somewhere, a thunderclap echoed over the diner.
Belle (immediately):
“Already deleted. In fact, I deleted it twice just to be safe.”
Ruby:
“Can’t. Tattooed it on my brain. It’s permanent now. Like trauma. Or the first time I saw Emma try to use chopsticks.”
Tink:
“Literally my job. You’re welcome. Merch line incoming.”
Cruella:
“Requesting transcripts of the apology. Purely for archival purposes. And possibly a dramatic reading over drinks.”
Granny:
“I’m knitting a patch for Emma’s jacket. It’ll say ‘Medium-Well.’ Or just ‘Marshmallow Tender.’ Depends how long she limps.”
Ursula:
“Don’t forget the rating stars. I give that performance a solid five. Presentation: 10. Stamina: clearly advanced. Vocabulary: chef’s kiss.”
11:57 PM
Emma was sprawled naked on the velvet couch-one pillow over her face, one existential crisis gripping her soul, and one growing suspicion that her obituary would contain the word marshmallow.
Regina, meanwhile, glided through the room wrapped in a silk, looking far too pleased for someone who had just weaponized an emoji swarm. She strolled by with one hand holding her phone and the other? A glass of wine that sparkled like guilt-free sin.
She paused.
Leaned down.
Kissed Emma’s bare shoulder with agonizing slowness.
“I did warn you. So, who is the marshmallow now?” Regina murmured against her skin. Her voice had the exact same energy as a velvet-wrapped gasoline.
Emma whimpered. “They’re never going to forget.”
Regina smiled like a cat stretching on a warm summer day. “Neither will your thighs, dear.”
Emma groaned. “I won’t be able to walk straight for days.”
“That was the idea,” Regina purred, casually adjusting her robe and sipping her wine-a victory flag of its own.
She paused again. “Also, if you ever call me a clingy marshmallow in public again, I will enchant your underwear to hum Hopelessly Devoted to You every time you sit.”
Emma whimpered harder.
Regina straightened, pressed one more kiss to the top of her head, smiled innocently, and headed toward the kitchen like she hadn’t just turned a group chat into a sex scandal.
Emma groaned again. Her body was wrecked, her soul was roasted-medium well, and somewhere deep in the group chat, a fresh wave of flaming marshmallow GIFs began looping with a vengeance.
The phone dinged one final time:
Zelena:
“So when do we get Part Two? Asking for the group. And science. 🥂🔥”
Swan Queen Rule #1:
What happens in the bedroom… stays in the bedroom.
Unless you want your Swan medium-well.