Butterflies
Title: Butterflies
Rating: Light R for non explicit sexytimes
Pairing: Quinn/Rachel
Word Count: ~1110
Summary: Butterflies are a good thing.
When Quinn was little she had a fascination with butterflies. Butterflies of all types, their wings painted with eyes and stripes like zebras as they zoom, zoom, zoomed in the air. Freely they flew away over the summer grasses and into the tall green leaves, stretching for the puffy clouds. Quinn always wondered where the butterflies went in the winter and why they didn't come back out for Jesus' birthday because if Jesus was going to be proud of anything, it should be his butterflies. She read the books and watched the Animal Planet specials and when they went to Washington, D.C., for her older sister Lindsay's birthday she forced her parents to stop by the butterfly exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. Quinn was nothing short of obsessed as a child, her respect for the beauty and fragility of the butterfly amusing her parents and annoying her sister. The first time she got the feeling of butterflies in her stomach she'd just recently turned ten, ready to sing her first solo as part of St. Andrew's Catholic Church's children's choir at the Christmas festival. The little fluttering erupted in the pit of her stomach, forcing jumpy and terrible and scary thoughts into her brain. She clung to her mother's pant legs nearly in tears because she was just ten and not quite evil yet.
“Mommy, why does my stomach feel icky?”
A sip from the wine glass in her hand, leftover from the pre-show banquet. “Are you gonna throw up, Quinn? Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
The tiny blonde girl shook her head, desperate to bask here in the warmth of her mother's presence instead of abandon her for the cold empty stage. “No, Mommy. Just like...tickles. Little tickles, in my tummy.”
Her mother's comforting hand ruffled her hair, smiled despite her buzz, or maybe because of it. “Oh, sweetie, those are just butterflies.”
“Butterflies? Really?” Quinn's eyes lit up and her terrified face began to glow, her fear slowly evaporating. “I have butterflies in my tummy?”
Judy let herself grin, let herself actually see her daughter in a way removed from the cloudy haze of alcohol. Quinn was beautiful, and she'd missed it; she'd missed the innocent years. “Yes. They're there to make you stronger and less afraid.”
Quinn went out on stage that night, and she hit every note. Every single note.
But within the next year, she'd enter the cruel and unforgiving world of middle school, and she'd adapted. Like the viceroy butterfly, she had no poison in her but in the real world there were birds trying to eat her and she had to adapt. She had to turn her spots to ones of a monarch butterfly, so the birds will think there's poison, know not to eat her. Why, with a little bit of worth, she ended up turning into a bird herself. And when the butterflies came back, invaded her stomach and ate her up like little parasites, she tried to push them away because everything about them reminded her of sunny summer days and big blue skies and actual happiness. But she needed the poison to survive, and then she couldn't stop. She allowed herself to cry once when she first realized she was hooked on the poison of power, in eighth grade the first time she had called Rachel Berry “Man Hands” in front of half the grade at lunch. The future Broadway star dashed off to the bathroom while a bunch of losers laughed at her, and Quinn ran home that day to cry. But the power and the poison all swirled in her, and she couldn't stop.
It's different now, Quinn thinks. She had a baby for Christ sakes and if that didn't stop the poison, nothing would. Somehow bringing Savannah Grace Fabray into the world had rid her of the poison, like it had just flowed right out with the baby. Maybe somewhere, wrapped up in all the amniotic fluids, had been the poison. Because there's nothing poisonous about Savannah's tiny face, her angelic hazel eyes boring into her mother's matching ones as she slowly drifts off to sleep to the sound of Rachel's voice crooning “Your Song” by Elton John. Quinn's not a bird anymore, she knows, but a butterfly. Not a viceroy or a monarch, but a blue Morpho with beautiful radiant coloring she's not ashamed of. Rachel made her feel beautiful again, made her feel her like a butterfly, and Savannah gave her the sky. Now all she has to do is accept it.
Here come the butterflies again, marching one by one to set up camp in her stomach as Rachel's hands trail over the warm pale skin there. Up, up, up they go, taking her shirt with them and the butterflies are exploding as Rachel's hands brush against her white-hot skin. Quinn feels utterly naked without the shirt even though she still has her pajama bottoms on; she's never been this exposed to anyone before, not even Puck. He just pulled off her underwear, filled her up, snuck his hands under her shirt, and left. That was it. Now, though, Rachel gets a full view and Quinn knows it's cliched to want to cover up her chest, but the butterflies make her brave enough to let Rachel see.
“You're beautiful, Quinn. So beautiful.” The butterflies dance with joy in the pit of her stomach and Quinn grins widely, wrapping her arms around Rachel's neck and pulling her down for breathtaking kiss. She slides Rachel's own shirt off and soon they're matching: two bodies, coffee and cream, a perfect compliment. Rachel's lips move over her, Rachel's hands move around her, Rachel's fingers move in her. Rachel's fingers move in her, in time with the butterflies. She feels her eyes grow wide, but there is no fear. Rachel's mouth is on her neck, dropping warm kisses as Quinn's hands reach up to rest on her back. They squeeze tightly, pushing Rachel into her so their skin is touching, so the butterflies are touching Rachel. And it's beautiful and loving and tender, and when Quinn reaches her climax, she feels the butterflies in her stomach burst out of her. She feels the sky and the trees and the breeze on her skin, like somehow she's little again, but in a different way.
And when she closes her eyes to sleep that night, an exhausted singer tangled around her, she dreams of Rachel in a purple sun dress and big British hat, her bare feet dancing in a field of amber wheat, butterflies fluttering around her on their way to the sky.
Rating: Light R for non explicit sexytimes
Pairing: Quinn/Rachel
Word Count: ~1110
Summary: Butterflies are a good thing.
When Quinn was little she had a fascination with butterflies. Butterflies of all types, their wings painted with eyes and stripes like zebras as they zoom, zoom, zoomed in the air. Freely they flew away over the summer grasses and into the tall green leaves, stretching for the puffy clouds. Quinn always wondered where the butterflies went in the winter and why they didn't come back out for Jesus' birthday because if Jesus was going to be proud of anything, it should be his butterflies. She read the books and watched the Animal Planet specials and when they went to Washington, D.C., for her older sister Lindsay's birthday she forced her parents to stop by the butterfly exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. Quinn was nothing short of obsessed as a child, her respect for the beauty and fragility of the butterfly amusing her parents and annoying her sister. The first time she got the feeling of butterflies in her stomach she'd just recently turned ten, ready to sing her first solo as part of St. Andrew's Catholic Church's children's choir at the Christmas festival. The little fluttering erupted in the pit of her stomach, forcing jumpy and terrible and scary thoughts into her brain. She clung to her mother's pant legs nearly in tears because she was just ten and not quite evil yet.
“Mommy, why does my stomach feel icky?”
A sip from the wine glass in her hand, leftover from the pre-show banquet. “Are you gonna throw up, Quinn? Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
The tiny blonde girl shook her head, desperate to bask here in the warmth of her mother's presence instead of abandon her for the cold empty stage. “No, Mommy. Just like...tickles. Little tickles, in my tummy.”
Her mother's comforting hand ruffled her hair, smiled despite her buzz, or maybe because of it. “Oh, sweetie, those are just butterflies.”
“Butterflies? Really?” Quinn's eyes lit up and her terrified face began to glow, her fear slowly evaporating. “I have butterflies in my tummy?”
Judy let herself grin, let herself actually see her daughter in a way removed from the cloudy haze of alcohol. Quinn was beautiful, and she'd missed it; she'd missed the innocent years. “Yes. They're there to make you stronger and less afraid.”
Quinn went out on stage that night, and she hit every note. Every single note.
But within the next year, she'd enter the cruel and unforgiving world of middle school, and she'd adapted. Like the viceroy butterfly, she had no poison in her but in the real world there were birds trying to eat her and she had to adapt. She had to turn her spots to ones of a monarch butterfly, so the birds will think there's poison, know not to eat her. Why, with a little bit of worth, she ended up turning into a bird herself. And when the butterflies came back, invaded her stomach and ate her up like little parasites, she tried to push them away because everything about them reminded her of sunny summer days and big blue skies and actual happiness. But she needed the poison to survive, and then she couldn't stop. She allowed herself to cry once when she first realized she was hooked on the poison of power, in eighth grade the first time she had called Rachel Berry “Man Hands” in front of half the grade at lunch. The future Broadway star dashed off to the bathroom while a bunch of losers laughed at her, and Quinn ran home that day to cry. But the power and the poison all swirled in her, and she couldn't stop.
It's different now, Quinn thinks. She had a baby for Christ sakes and if that didn't stop the poison, nothing would. Somehow bringing Savannah Grace Fabray into the world had rid her of the poison, like it had just flowed right out with the baby. Maybe somewhere, wrapped up in all the amniotic fluids, had been the poison. Because there's nothing poisonous about Savannah's tiny face, her angelic hazel eyes boring into her mother's matching ones as she slowly drifts off to sleep to the sound of Rachel's voice crooning “Your Song” by Elton John. Quinn's not a bird anymore, she knows, but a butterfly. Not a viceroy or a monarch, but a blue Morpho with beautiful radiant coloring she's not ashamed of. Rachel made her feel beautiful again, made her feel her like a butterfly, and Savannah gave her the sky. Now all she has to do is accept it.
Here come the butterflies again, marching one by one to set up camp in her stomach as Rachel's hands trail over the warm pale skin there. Up, up, up they go, taking her shirt with them and the butterflies are exploding as Rachel's hands brush against her white-hot skin. Quinn feels utterly naked without the shirt even though she still has her pajama bottoms on; she's never been this exposed to anyone before, not even Puck. He just pulled off her underwear, filled her up, snuck his hands under her shirt, and left. That was it. Now, though, Rachel gets a full view and Quinn knows it's cliched to want to cover up her chest, but the butterflies make her brave enough to let Rachel see.
“You're beautiful, Quinn. So beautiful.” The butterflies dance with joy in the pit of her stomach and Quinn grins widely, wrapping her arms around Rachel's neck and pulling her down for breathtaking kiss. She slides Rachel's own shirt off and soon they're matching: two bodies, coffee and cream, a perfect compliment. Rachel's lips move over her, Rachel's hands move around her, Rachel's fingers move in her. Rachel's fingers move in her, in time with the butterflies. She feels her eyes grow wide, but there is no fear. Rachel's mouth is on her neck, dropping warm kisses as Quinn's hands reach up to rest on her back. They squeeze tightly, pushing Rachel into her so their skin is touching, so the butterflies are touching Rachel. And it's beautiful and loving and tender, and when Quinn reaches her climax, she feels the butterflies in her stomach burst out of her. She feels the sky and the trees and the breeze on her skin, like somehow she's little again, but in a different way.
And when she closes her eyes to sleep that night, an exhausted singer tangled around her, she dreams of Rachel in a purple sun dress and big British hat, her bare feet dancing in a field of amber wheat, butterflies fluttering around her on their way to the sky.