Sinking Like A Stone In the Sea
Title: Sinking Like A Stone In the Sea
Fandom: Glee
Pairings: Rachel/Quinn
Spoilers: Through "Laryngitis"
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,577
Description: Rachel, Quinn, hate and alcohol-infused sex.
Warnings: Dubcon
Author's Note: This is quite different from other things that I've written. I'm not sure where this came from, but it's here.
I'm sinking like a stone in the sea. I'm burning like a bridge for your body.
"Tautou" - Brand New
When I look at you, all I want to do is to tear you apart.
I hate you. I hate everything about you. I hate that you always have to be the center of attention. I hate how you always manage to be so damn superior about everything. I hate that when you laugh, all of you laugh, and your dark chocolate eyes light up. I hate how your brown hair just perfectly cascades around your face like the prettiest frame and picture mother nature ever made. I hate that when you sing, the world stops. I hate that everything about you is honest and real and nothing like me.
But what I hate the most about you is how I don't mean the slightest bit to you.
And I've tried. Oh, I've tried. Those slushie facials? The crude pornographic drawings? The name-callings and constant insults? I spew my vitriol at you, hoping that it would make a dent, and I hate how you just shrug them off. When you look at me, your eyes are always clear, warm and friendly. You could be looking at Brittany or Santana or Mercedes or Tina. And I don't want you looking at me like you do at everyone else. I am Quinn freakin' Fabray, but you always make me feel like I'm just another girl.
So I can't stop myself from trying to hurt you. Being hated is better than being nothing.
"Finn, can you get me another drink?" My voice so sweet that it hurts.
Literally, it churns my stomach, because I don't have any feelings for him anymore and I'm doing this for all the wrong reasons. I'm doing this because I know that you're watching. I glance out of the corner of my eyes to confirm - but of course, I'm right. You're standing off in the corner, passively listening to Tina and Artie chatting, but your large doe eyes are wounded and glued to us (to me). It's been over a year since glee club started, and so much has changed since then, but some things never do. After Puck, after Jesse, after everything, you still want him. And after Puck and the baby, after you, after everything, he still wants me, because now he's grinning like a sap as he bounces off into the kitchen to fetch me another beer.
I shift, and I look at you fully. You, caught staring, force a tense, friendly smile. So I saunter over. As if sensing danger, Artie and Tina disperse, which is perfectly fine by me. It leaves you alone in my sights.
"What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," you say quickly.
"Nothing?" I pretend to seethe because it's fun to watch you squirm.
"That's not what I meant!" It's cute when you're flustered, do you know that? But of course you don't.
I'm thinking of the perfect insult to hurl at you when Finn returns, clutching two bottles of beer. I suddenly have a better idea. I take both bottles from him, and I shove one of them into your hands.
"Thanks, Finn." I smile fawningly, sickeningly. "You didn't get one for yourself?"
"Oh, those were the last two. I thought that-" Finn's mouth flaps ineffectually. But he's too much of a gentleman to point out that I'd just stolen his beer and given it to you. "Time for a beer run!" His grin is so genuine. Sometimes I wonder why I don't love him, then I wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
He bounds away to collect Puck for a beer run. You're watching him go. I'm watching you and hating you.
"Well?" I demand. "Drink up!"
"But, Quinn, I don't-"
"Don't be rude, Berry," I snap. "I thought the gays had more etiquette. Didn't your dads ever teach you that it's rude to refuse a drink?"
"No, and I'm a frequent reader of Miss Manners. I don't believe that-"
"Oh, my god! No wonder you're such a loser! Just shut up and drink. Mike was stupid enough to invite you to one of his parties, and this is how you repay him? Look around you. All the popular kids are here tonight. Could you try to act like a decent human being for once and not embarrass the hell out of your host, not to mention the rest of glee club?" Yeah, it's low, but it works because after a moment of hesistance, you bring the bottle to your lips and take a sip.
They say that it's important to stand up to bullies, and you really should have stood up to me just then. Because now I've got you and from there on, it gets easier. Finn and Puck are still out on the beer run, so I talk Mike into raiding his parent's liquor cabinet.
"Drink," I prompt as I hand you a shot of clear vodka.
"Drink!" I insist as I hand you a shot of golden whiskey.
"Drink it!" I command as I hand you a shot of dark rum.
And you do.
As the liquids run from clear to dark, so does my mood, because you're handling the situation with more grace and courage than I would have expected. Every time I turn around, you're holding an empty shot glass in your hand and a bright (if nervous) smile on your face. This isn't the reaction I was expecting. I expected tears in your eyes, coughing gags, pained winces - more ammunition for me to humiliate you with. But even as I feel the alcohol in my own body kick into effect and the room starts looking a little blurry, you're still standing there, calm and composed.
I hate you so much.
"Wallflower!" Is it just me or am I slurring a little? "Are you planning on mating with that ficus?" You've been hovering next to a potted plant in your little corner all night. I can't humiliate you if you're huddled up in a corner instead of drunkenly tripping all over yourself. You're holding an empty shot glass again, even though I had handed it to you full of liquor not a minute ago. You're wearing a slightly guilty expression on your face. I think that there's something I'm missing here, but I can't quite put it together at the moment. Everything seems so fuzzy.
I decide to investigate by taking a closer look. Somehow, my feet get tangled up, then I'm falling forward and I find myself in your arms.
"Quinn." Your voice so close to my ear that it makes me shiver. "I think that you're inebriated. Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to cease-"
"Oh, blah blah blah!" I cry out. I can't take all the words right now. "Don't you ever shut up, Berry?"
You're slipping in and out of focus. I'm seeing spots, black and soft around the edges, contracting and expanding, blotting you in and out of existence. (I wish.)
Next thing I know, I'm hunched over the sink - the bathroom, I think - and I'm splashing cold water on my face. Except that my hands are firmly gripping onto the counter's linoleum edges. I don't know when I grew a second pair of hands, but they feel nice. They're soft and warm as they bring the cool water to my overheated cheeks. They're comforting and strong as they gently dry my face with a towel. Then the hands and the towel are gone, and I see you.
I'm dimly aware of you saying my name, but it takes a little time to adjust. I recognize the setting as the upstairs bathroom. I don't really remember walking up the stairs, but the vague recollection of you tugging at my arm and a sharp pain in my right shin (banged against the steps?) tell me that I did, and that it hadn't been a particularly easy journey.
"Quinn," you say. "Say something."
"Why are you so short?"
The edges of your mouth temporarily tighten into a line, and maybe there's a slight flicker in your eyes, but for the most part, you don't seem very offended. How disappointing.
"For your information, the average height of the American female-"
Thankfully, I don't hear the rest, because a sudden rush of blood to my head overwhelms me and all I can hear is my own heartbeat. I'm tipping forward. I think I feel your arms around me, but I can't be sure because a black cloud descends over my consciousness.
When the cloud lifts, I find myself in a dark room, and I'm lying on a soft surface. A bed. I can hear the sounds of the party going on downstairs. This feels awfully familiar, and not in a good way. The last time that I was this drunk and in a bed, I woke up with a baby. I begin to panic a little, half-expecting to hear a deep, husky voice by my ear, or to turn my head and see a naked male form next to me. I think that I'm thankful when I hear your voice.
"-not to move," you're saying. "I'm going to see if Noah's back, and he can take you home-"
"No!" I'm too drunk to disguise the panic. "Not him. Please, not him." Nothing against Puck. After all, he's the father of the baby I gave away, and that kind of thing bonds you to someone. But him, here, right now, with me in my current state - that just brings back too many bad memories.
The room is so still that I wonder if you didn't already leave. But then:
"Would you like me to get Finn?" I can hear the ache in your voice. I know that I can hurt you if I say yes, if I make you bring him to me. Instead, I hear myself saying,
"No. No, I'll be okay in a minute."
"Very well. I'll sit with you." I don't know why you would. You're just that good, I suppose. That kind of goodness makes my stomach turn with bile. Or maybe that's the alcohol. I don't know, it's a little hard to tell at the moment.
I feel a dip, and then you're sitting on the bed next to me. You're quiet, and this is almost nice, until I remember how much I dislike you.
"I don't need a babysitter."
"Seeing as how you're barely enunciating your vowels, I would say that the evidence points to the contrary."
"Why do I hate you so much?" I blurt out.
"I wouldn't know," you reply softly.
Propping myself up by my elbows, I struggle to sit up. You help me by placing your hand against my back, but you use too much force or I'm much too weak, because I stumble forth into your arms. Limbs tangled, chest against chest. You're so close that I smell the scent of your skin. You're trying to pull back, but my fingers dig into your forearms.
"Rachel." I hate you, I want to say. I loathe you. Instead, what comes out is a half-frustrated, half-strangled growl before I crush my lips against yours.
Maybe you're just too surprised to do otherwise, but your mouth springs to action, breathing into me the essence of life. Your tongue is a live wire jolting a monster into being, and I feel its unbidden hunger, forceful and angry after years of forced slumber. I kiss you hard. So hard that you cry out in pain and start pulling away. I pursue like any good hunter would, gripping you by the back of your head to bring you back in. Your struggle is very brief. Once our lips touch, you stop pulling away and start pushing against me. I hate how easy you make this.
We're kissing and kissing and everything's almost okay until you gasp and begin to retreat. It's only then that I realize that I have my hands underneath your shirt, pushing up the bra and groping at the flesh underneath. I honestly wasn't conscious of making the decision to do that. I guess my sneaky drunk hands have a mind of their own.
"Quinn." I hear the trepidation in your voice. "I don't think this is a very good idea as you and I are-"
"Shut up, Berry." I press my lips to yours, and you mutter a weak protest, but you're not backing away anymore. I lightly bit at your bottom lip, and you groan beautifully. I kiss my way along your jawline up to your earlobe. My tongue darts out for an experimental lick before I take your earlobe between my lips. You shiver as I do. My mouth hotly pressed against your ear, I whisper furiously, "Don't ruin this, Berry. Just shut up and don't ruin this like you ruin everything else. Just shut up." At this point, I don't really know the difference between a plead and a threat.
As I continue to whisper my refrain, I lean my body into yours until you're sinking down against the mattress. My hands are working at undressing you, fumbling over the smooth hard buttons of your blouse, the rough metallic zipper of your skirt, the soft, warm flesh I'm seeking to unveil. You whimper, but you don't say anything and you're not stopping me. That is, not until I'm tugging at the waistband of your panties.
"Quinn." Your hands on my shoulders. "Maybe we should-" I try to cut you off with another kiss, but this time you turn your head. "No, really, we must discuss the-"
So I dip my head and take one of your breasts into my mouth. That works. Your words die into an intense hiss as you arch yourself into me. I work my tongue against your nipple as my fingers finds its way to the other peak, massaging and pinching. Then you're panting and moaning and writhing with such intensity and that you forget whatever it is you were going to say to me.
"Fuck," you say, your eyes shut tight. I've never heard you curse before. Curses are supposed to be crude and vulgar; from you, breathy and heated, it sounds sexy. I hate that you make it sound that way. So I tug at your panties, mostly because I want to touch you, but also partly because I know you don't want me to. Sure enough, you rouse yourself from the carnal mini-vacation you're taking at the moment; your eyes snap open and you grab my hand to stop me. I take my mouth away.
"What?" I snap, even though I already know the answer.
"I just- I mean, I've never done this so- I don't-" Under normal circumstances, I would pride myself on having rendered you speechless. Right now, I'm just annoyed, and you know it. So you hurriedly add, "Here- I can- why don't you let me-"
Then your hands are on my jeans, unbutton, unzipping, sliding down. You slip one hand inside my panties. You don't hesitate in delving in, and then I feel your fingers pressing right there and holyjesuschristalmighty it feels amazing. You start rubbing, gently at first, then increasingly harder, faster. My head is already a pulsating mess from the drinking, now my lower half is engulfed in a throbbing flame. It's like sensory overload, and I have to close my eyes just to keep myself from being overwhelmed.
You keep moving your fingers, but you're not trying to enter me. I think about asking - no, telling - you to do it, but before I can, I feel an unexpected orgasmic wave pass through me. I dig my fingernails into your shoulders as I cry out. The shudders pass through my body. You press a tender kiss to my lips, like you're happy and content with this. I'm not. The moment was over too soon, and I feel a little cheated.
I turn to you with renewed vigor. Our teeth clash together as I pull you in too roughly, and it hurts a little, but it's worth it. My tongue pushing insistently into your mouth, my hands pulling adamantly at your underwear. The third time's the charm. You don't stop me. I shove you down against the mattress and climb over you, my hands possessively prowling over your body. You moan as I do. It doesn't surprise me to reach down and find you soaking wet. You stiffen when I touch you there. You grab my wrist, stopping my hand, my fingers on your clit like a trigger.
"You- you don't have to-"
"I want to," I say firmly.
"But-" you swallow hard. "Quinn, I'm a virgin."
"Gee, really?" My voice drips with sarcasm.
"I- I just don't know if I'm ready-"
"It's not a big deal, Berry," I say sharply. "Besides, it doesn't count if it's two girls."
Your brows furrow. I would find it cute if I didn't hate you.
"I'm reasonably certain that's not true."
"Oh, so you can touch me but I can't touch you?"
"But you wanted me to-"
"It's not a big deal." I start to pull away from you. Every movement of my body is infused with resentment. "I should've known that you'd be a freak about this."
That works. Your eyes widen and you grab onto my arm.
"No!" you plead. "No, please don't go."
And I've got you now.
When I kiss you, you kiss back with zeal, like you've got something to prove. You pull me on top of you. You take a hold of my hand and guide me south. I can feel you trembling as you do. I dip my fingers in, seeking out your clit and I rub slowly. I want to make it burn so good that it hurts. You start panting, and the noises that you make reignite the fire in my belly. I want to touch you. I need to.
But I think that maybe this is wrong. I think that I'm drunk. I think that your judgment must be heavily clouded from all those shots you downed earlier. I think that this shouldn't be happening. I think don't do it don't do it don't do it.
Even as I think these things, my fingers push in deep inside of you.
You cry out. It sounds like pain. I thought that I would enjoy hurting you more, but I don't. But then again, this feels incredible - you feel incredible, and I can't resist the urge to move my fingers, to feel you from the inside. I don't know how I feel about any of this. I don't know, but I can't stop, but you're so tight and clenched that it's hard to move. You whimper. You take a deep breath. I see you forcing yourself to relax. It's easier now. I start pumping my fingers in and out, curling my fingers against the ridges of your inner wall and your hips rise to meet me even as you grimace with pain. I reach your clit with my thumb, and I press against it hard. You grunt. I see your hands balling up the sheets. So I do it again. You grunt again. It's like having my hand in a puppet.
I think about touching myself, but I know that I'm much too drunk for that amount of coordination. Besides, it's plenty fascinating to be watching you. I settle for rubbing myself against your thigh. You jolt when you first feel the wetness on your skin, but then I twist my fingers inside you and you don't question it. I start pumping faster, harder, reaching into you as far as I can like I want to possess you. I feel you squeeze against my fingers, so I give you one final thrust, then you're coming undone by my hand, my name on your lips.
So that's what that's like.
I come quietly against you. I suddenly feel tired, the combination of liquor and orgasms having finally sapped the last bit of energy from my body. I roll off you and sink heavily onto the bed, my eyes fluttering shut. I feel you reach for me, but I slap your hand away. I feel my consciousness slip away, and I don't try to fight it.
When I wake, the house is quiet. I can tell that it's almost dawn by the dim gray light peering through the blinds. I'm underneath the covers. My head feels like a jackhammer and my mouth feels like the Sahara. I feel heavy in my body. I close my eyes and think of last night's events, and it feels almost like a dream. If I keep my eyes closed long enough, maybe it will be.
Then I hear it. You. I didn't even know that you were still there.
I open my eyes and follow the direction of the thick, stifled, half-sobs. You're next to me in bed, your back turned to me. The early morning gray lights cascade through the blinds, casting horizons on your bare, trembling shoulders and faintly illuminating your fragile outline as you weep quietly, repressively, mournfully. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and it's breaking my heart.
Now I look at you, and all I want to do is put you back together.
I just hope that it's not too late.
Fandom: Glee
Pairings: Rachel/Quinn
Spoilers: Through "Laryngitis"
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,577
Description: Rachel, Quinn, hate and alcohol-infused sex.
Warnings: Dubcon
Author's Note: This is quite different from other things that I've written. I'm not sure where this came from, but it's here.
I'm sinking like a stone in the sea. I'm burning like a bridge for your body.
"Tautou" - Brand New
When I look at you, all I want to do is to tear you apart.
I hate you. I hate everything about you. I hate that you always have to be the center of attention. I hate how you always manage to be so damn superior about everything. I hate that when you laugh, all of you laugh, and your dark chocolate eyes light up. I hate how your brown hair just perfectly cascades around your face like the prettiest frame and picture mother nature ever made. I hate that when you sing, the world stops. I hate that everything about you is honest and real and nothing like me.
But what I hate the most about you is how I don't mean the slightest bit to you.
And I've tried. Oh, I've tried. Those slushie facials? The crude pornographic drawings? The name-callings and constant insults? I spew my vitriol at you, hoping that it would make a dent, and I hate how you just shrug them off. When you look at me, your eyes are always clear, warm and friendly. You could be looking at Brittany or Santana or Mercedes or Tina. And I don't want you looking at me like you do at everyone else. I am Quinn freakin' Fabray, but you always make me feel like I'm just another girl.
So I can't stop myself from trying to hurt you. Being hated is better than being nothing.
"Finn, can you get me another drink?" My voice so sweet that it hurts.
Literally, it churns my stomach, because I don't have any feelings for him anymore and I'm doing this for all the wrong reasons. I'm doing this because I know that you're watching. I glance out of the corner of my eyes to confirm - but of course, I'm right. You're standing off in the corner, passively listening to Tina and Artie chatting, but your large doe eyes are wounded and glued to us (to me). It's been over a year since glee club started, and so much has changed since then, but some things never do. After Puck, after Jesse, after everything, you still want him. And after Puck and the baby, after you, after everything, he still wants me, because now he's grinning like a sap as he bounces off into the kitchen to fetch me another beer.
I shift, and I look at you fully. You, caught staring, force a tense, friendly smile. So I saunter over. As if sensing danger, Artie and Tina disperse, which is perfectly fine by me. It leaves you alone in my sights.
"What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," you say quickly.
"Nothing?" I pretend to seethe because it's fun to watch you squirm.
"That's not what I meant!" It's cute when you're flustered, do you know that? But of course you don't.
I'm thinking of the perfect insult to hurl at you when Finn returns, clutching two bottles of beer. I suddenly have a better idea. I take both bottles from him, and I shove one of them into your hands.
"Thanks, Finn." I smile fawningly, sickeningly. "You didn't get one for yourself?"
"Oh, those were the last two. I thought that-" Finn's mouth flaps ineffectually. But he's too much of a gentleman to point out that I'd just stolen his beer and given it to you. "Time for a beer run!" His grin is so genuine. Sometimes I wonder why I don't love him, then I wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
He bounds away to collect Puck for a beer run. You're watching him go. I'm watching you and hating you.
"Well?" I demand. "Drink up!"
"But, Quinn, I don't-"
"Don't be rude, Berry," I snap. "I thought the gays had more etiquette. Didn't your dads ever teach you that it's rude to refuse a drink?"
"No, and I'm a frequent reader of Miss Manners. I don't believe that-"
"Oh, my god! No wonder you're such a loser! Just shut up and drink. Mike was stupid enough to invite you to one of his parties, and this is how you repay him? Look around you. All the popular kids are here tonight. Could you try to act like a decent human being for once and not embarrass the hell out of your host, not to mention the rest of glee club?" Yeah, it's low, but it works because after a moment of hesistance, you bring the bottle to your lips and take a sip.
They say that it's important to stand up to bullies, and you really should have stood up to me just then. Because now I've got you and from there on, it gets easier. Finn and Puck are still out on the beer run, so I talk Mike into raiding his parent's liquor cabinet.
"Drink," I prompt as I hand you a shot of clear vodka.
"Drink!" I insist as I hand you a shot of golden whiskey.
"Drink it!" I command as I hand you a shot of dark rum.
And you do.
As the liquids run from clear to dark, so does my mood, because you're handling the situation with more grace and courage than I would have expected. Every time I turn around, you're holding an empty shot glass in your hand and a bright (if nervous) smile on your face. This isn't the reaction I was expecting. I expected tears in your eyes, coughing gags, pained winces - more ammunition for me to humiliate you with. But even as I feel the alcohol in my own body kick into effect and the room starts looking a little blurry, you're still standing there, calm and composed.
I hate you so much.
"Wallflower!" Is it just me or am I slurring a little? "Are you planning on mating with that ficus?" You've been hovering next to a potted plant in your little corner all night. I can't humiliate you if you're huddled up in a corner instead of drunkenly tripping all over yourself. You're holding an empty shot glass again, even though I had handed it to you full of liquor not a minute ago. You're wearing a slightly guilty expression on your face. I think that there's something I'm missing here, but I can't quite put it together at the moment. Everything seems so fuzzy.
I decide to investigate by taking a closer look. Somehow, my feet get tangled up, then I'm falling forward and I find myself in your arms.
"Quinn." Your voice so close to my ear that it makes me shiver. "I think that you're inebriated. Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to cease-"
"Oh, blah blah blah!" I cry out. I can't take all the words right now. "Don't you ever shut up, Berry?"
You're slipping in and out of focus. I'm seeing spots, black and soft around the edges, contracting and expanding, blotting you in and out of existence. (I wish.)
Next thing I know, I'm hunched over the sink - the bathroom, I think - and I'm splashing cold water on my face. Except that my hands are firmly gripping onto the counter's linoleum edges. I don't know when I grew a second pair of hands, but they feel nice. They're soft and warm as they bring the cool water to my overheated cheeks. They're comforting and strong as they gently dry my face with a towel. Then the hands and the towel are gone, and I see you.
I'm dimly aware of you saying my name, but it takes a little time to adjust. I recognize the setting as the upstairs bathroom. I don't really remember walking up the stairs, but the vague recollection of you tugging at my arm and a sharp pain in my right shin (banged against the steps?) tell me that I did, and that it hadn't been a particularly easy journey.
"Quinn," you say. "Say something."
"Why are you so short?"
The edges of your mouth temporarily tighten into a line, and maybe there's a slight flicker in your eyes, but for the most part, you don't seem very offended. How disappointing.
"For your information, the average height of the American female-"
Thankfully, I don't hear the rest, because a sudden rush of blood to my head overwhelms me and all I can hear is my own heartbeat. I'm tipping forward. I think I feel your arms around me, but I can't be sure because a black cloud descends over my consciousness.
When the cloud lifts, I find myself in a dark room, and I'm lying on a soft surface. A bed. I can hear the sounds of the party going on downstairs. This feels awfully familiar, and not in a good way. The last time that I was this drunk and in a bed, I woke up with a baby. I begin to panic a little, half-expecting to hear a deep, husky voice by my ear, or to turn my head and see a naked male form next to me. I think that I'm thankful when I hear your voice.
"-not to move," you're saying. "I'm going to see if Noah's back, and he can take you home-"
"No!" I'm too drunk to disguise the panic. "Not him. Please, not him." Nothing against Puck. After all, he's the father of the baby I gave away, and that kind of thing bonds you to someone. But him, here, right now, with me in my current state - that just brings back too many bad memories.
The room is so still that I wonder if you didn't already leave. But then:
"Would you like me to get Finn?" I can hear the ache in your voice. I know that I can hurt you if I say yes, if I make you bring him to me. Instead, I hear myself saying,
"No. No, I'll be okay in a minute."
"Very well. I'll sit with you." I don't know why you would. You're just that good, I suppose. That kind of goodness makes my stomach turn with bile. Or maybe that's the alcohol. I don't know, it's a little hard to tell at the moment.
I feel a dip, and then you're sitting on the bed next to me. You're quiet, and this is almost nice, until I remember how much I dislike you.
"I don't need a babysitter."
"Seeing as how you're barely enunciating your vowels, I would say that the evidence points to the contrary."
"Why do I hate you so much?" I blurt out.
"I wouldn't know," you reply softly.
Propping myself up by my elbows, I struggle to sit up. You help me by placing your hand against my back, but you use too much force or I'm much too weak, because I stumble forth into your arms. Limbs tangled, chest against chest. You're so close that I smell the scent of your skin. You're trying to pull back, but my fingers dig into your forearms.
"Rachel." I hate you, I want to say. I loathe you. Instead, what comes out is a half-frustrated, half-strangled growl before I crush my lips against yours.
Maybe you're just too surprised to do otherwise, but your mouth springs to action, breathing into me the essence of life. Your tongue is a live wire jolting a monster into being, and I feel its unbidden hunger, forceful and angry after years of forced slumber. I kiss you hard. So hard that you cry out in pain and start pulling away. I pursue like any good hunter would, gripping you by the back of your head to bring you back in. Your struggle is very brief. Once our lips touch, you stop pulling away and start pushing against me. I hate how easy you make this.
We're kissing and kissing and everything's almost okay until you gasp and begin to retreat. It's only then that I realize that I have my hands underneath your shirt, pushing up the bra and groping at the flesh underneath. I honestly wasn't conscious of making the decision to do that. I guess my sneaky drunk hands have a mind of their own.
"Quinn." I hear the trepidation in your voice. "I don't think this is a very good idea as you and I are-"
"Shut up, Berry." I press my lips to yours, and you mutter a weak protest, but you're not backing away anymore. I lightly bit at your bottom lip, and you groan beautifully. I kiss my way along your jawline up to your earlobe. My tongue darts out for an experimental lick before I take your earlobe between my lips. You shiver as I do. My mouth hotly pressed against your ear, I whisper furiously, "Don't ruin this, Berry. Just shut up and don't ruin this like you ruin everything else. Just shut up." At this point, I don't really know the difference between a plead and a threat.
As I continue to whisper my refrain, I lean my body into yours until you're sinking down against the mattress. My hands are working at undressing you, fumbling over the smooth hard buttons of your blouse, the rough metallic zipper of your skirt, the soft, warm flesh I'm seeking to unveil. You whimper, but you don't say anything and you're not stopping me. That is, not until I'm tugging at the waistband of your panties.
"Quinn." Your hands on my shoulders. "Maybe we should-" I try to cut you off with another kiss, but this time you turn your head. "No, really, we must discuss the-"
So I dip my head and take one of your breasts into my mouth. That works. Your words die into an intense hiss as you arch yourself into me. I work my tongue against your nipple as my fingers finds its way to the other peak, massaging and pinching. Then you're panting and moaning and writhing with such intensity and that you forget whatever it is you were going to say to me.
"Fuck," you say, your eyes shut tight. I've never heard you curse before. Curses are supposed to be crude and vulgar; from you, breathy and heated, it sounds sexy. I hate that you make it sound that way. So I tug at your panties, mostly because I want to touch you, but also partly because I know you don't want me to. Sure enough, you rouse yourself from the carnal mini-vacation you're taking at the moment; your eyes snap open and you grab my hand to stop me. I take my mouth away.
"What?" I snap, even though I already know the answer.
"I just- I mean, I've never done this so- I don't-" Under normal circumstances, I would pride myself on having rendered you speechless. Right now, I'm just annoyed, and you know it. So you hurriedly add, "Here- I can- why don't you let me-"
Then your hands are on my jeans, unbutton, unzipping, sliding down. You slip one hand inside my panties. You don't hesitate in delving in, and then I feel your fingers pressing right there and holyjesuschristalmighty it feels amazing. You start rubbing, gently at first, then increasingly harder, faster. My head is already a pulsating mess from the drinking, now my lower half is engulfed in a throbbing flame. It's like sensory overload, and I have to close my eyes just to keep myself from being overwhelmed.
You keep moving your fingers, but you're not trying to enter me. I think about asking - no, telling - you to do it, but before I can, I feel an unexpected orgasmic wave pass through me. I dig my fingernails into your shoulders as I cry out. The shudders pass through my body. You press a tender kiss to my lips, like you're happy and content with this. I'm not. The moment was over too soon, and I feel a little cheated.
I turn to you with renewed vigor. Our teeth clash together as I pull you in too roughly, and it hurts a little, but it's worth it. My tongue pushing insistently into your mouth, my hands pulling adamantly at your underwear. The third time's the charm. You don't stop me. I shove you down against the mattress and climb over you, my hands possessively prowling over your body. You moan as I do. It doesn't surprise me to reach down and find you soaking wet. You stiffen when I touch you there. You grab my wrist, stopping my hand, my fingers on your clit like a trigger.
"You- you don't have to-"
"I want to," I say firmly.
"But-" you swallow hard. "Quinn, I'm a virgin."
"Gee, really?" My voice drips with sarcasm.
"I- I just don't know if I'm ready-"
"It's not a big deal, Berry," I say sharply. "Besides, it doesn't count if it's two girls."
Your brows furrow. I would find it cute if I didn't hate you.
"I'm reasonably certain that's not true."
"Oh, so you can touch me but I can't touch you?"
"But you wanted me to-"
"It's not a big deal." I start to pull away from you. Every movement of my body is infused with resentment. "I should've known that you'd be a freak about this."
That works. Your eyes widen and you grab onto my arm.
"No!" you plead. "No, please don't go."
And I've got you now.
When I kiss you, you kiss back with zeal, like you've got something to prove. You pull me on top of you. You take a hold of my hand and guide me south. I can feel you trembling as you do. I dip my fingers in, seeking out your clit and I rub slowly. I want to make it burn so good that it hurts. You start panting, and the noises that you make reignite the fire in my belly. I want to touch you. I need to.
But I think that maybe this is wrong. I think that I'm drunk. I think that your judgment must be heavily clouded from all those shots you downed earlier. I think that this shouldn't be happening. I think don't do it don't do it don't do it.
Even as I think these things, my fingers push in deep inside of you.
You cry out. It sounds like pain. I thought that I would enjoy hurting you more, but I don't. But then again, this feels incredible - you feel incredible, and I can't resist the urge to move my fingers, to feel you from the inside. I don't know how I feel about any of this. I don't know, but I can't stop, but you're so tight and clenched that it's hard to move. You whimper. You take a deep breath. I see you forcing yourself to relax. It's easier now. I start pumping my fingers in and out, curling my fingers against the ridges of your inner wall and your hips rise to meet me even as you grimace with pain. I reach your clit with my thumb, and I press against it hard. You grunt. I see your hands balling up the sheets. So I do it again. You grunt again. It's like having my hand in a puppet.
I think about touching myself, but I know that I'm much too drunk for that amount of coordination. Besides, it's plenty fascinating to be watching you. I settle for rubbing myself against your thigh. You jolt when you first feel the wetness on your skin, but then I twist my fingers inside you and you don't question it. I start pumping faster, harder, reaching into you as far as I can like I want to possess you. I feel you squeeze against my fingers, so I give you one final thrust, then you're coming undone by my hand, my name on your lips.
So that's what that's like.
I come quietly against you. I suddenly feel tired, the combination of liquor and orgasms having finally sapped the last bit of energy from my body. I roll off you and sink heavily onto the bed, my eyes fluttering shut. I feel you reach for me, but I slap your hand away. I feel my consciousness slip away, and I don't try to fight it.
When I wake, the house is quiet. I can tell that it's almost dawn by the dim gray light peering through the blinds. I'm underneath the covers. My head feels like a jackhammer and my mouth feels like the Sahara. I feel heavy in my body. I close my eyes and think of last night's events, and it feels almost like a dream. If I keep my eyes closed long enough, maybe it will be.
Then I hear it. You. I didn't even know that you were still there.
I open my eyes and follow the direction of the thick, stifled, half-sobs. You're next to me in bed, your back turned to me. The early morning gray lights cascade through the blinds, casting horizons on your bare, trembling shoulders and faintly illuminating your fragile outline as you weep quietly, repressively, mournfully. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and it's breaking my heart.
Now I look at you, and all I want to do is put you back together.
I just hope that it's not too late.