DISCLAIMER: Glee, the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Ryan Murphy Productions, and 20th Century Fox Entertainment. This piece of fan fiction was created for fun and not profit.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
SPOILERS: Post 'Sectionals'
The Day After You Died
La Petite Mort.
Leave it to the French to make an orgasm sound so, well, French. Certainly better than the English word, which makes it sound like some kind of parasite. Which, you know - considering how you were raised, you were totally willing to buy into. Sex equals sinful, dirty, wrong. Three words you were never supposed to be.
You used to be on top of the world. Now, you've fallen so far and so hard you have to look up to see what you've lost.
You're sixteen, pregnant and, at the moment, homeless. But you don't concentrate on that at the moment. On the look on Finn's face when he realized the depth of your betrayal. Or the look on your father's face when he hit the depth of his disappointment.
You don't think about that right now because all you can think about is you're pregnant. Well, not really the pregnant part, but the parts about being pregnant no one told you about. The aches and the pains, the swelling in your feet and your breasts, the vomiting, the increasing pressure on your bladder that makes you have to pee every other second. The pendulous swaying of your hormones, crying one second, ready to punch someone in the face the next.
Then there are the cravings. God, the cravings. The empty gnawing feeling in your stomach after you've just eaten.
And it'd all be fine and good if it were just food you craved. But, mix that with your violently changing hormones and, well, you've definitely been craving more than food.
La Petite Mort.
You've never had 'the little death'. Never. Ever. Not even during the one time you actually had sex. You're 'the Good Girl'. The 'Christian Girl'. The All-American, Blonde, not exactly blue eyed but close enough, girl next door. You were everything they wanted you to be. And you gleefully gazed down upon them from the pedestal they placed you on, being the person they wanted. You loved it, you hated it, you held onto it with everything you had. Because if you weren't the person they wanted you to be, who were you?
Even then, when you were what they wanted, you never strayed outside the lines. Pushed, poked, danced upon, yes, but you never crossed over.
You were never the girl who did 'that'.
Now, it's all you can think about. Sure, you thought about it before. Even before you did the deed with the boy you didn't really love. You thought about it, you talked about it. Because thinking and talking wasn't doing, and doing is the sin.
And you could have held off, could have not done it for so long. But then you got pregnant and there are all these damn hormones raging through your body. Your skin's become so damn sensitive. The clothes you covet became your captor. The silk, cotton, satin against your skin, your tormentors. The simplest brush against your flesh and your temperature sky rocket's, the flesh between your legs swells and another pair of panties are ruined. And you're no longer content with squeezing your thighs together, sitting in class, crossing and re-crossing your legs, both quelling and stoking the heat.
Quite frankly, you can't take it anymore. You're already serving the punishment. Isn't it time you actually did the crime?
It's the night of Sectionals. You're blissfully happy, for the first time in what seems like ages. Everyone's happy. Even Finn dares to send a smile your way. It's a party at the hotel pool where Miss Pillsbury can supervise properly.
But, you're also tired. You've been on your feet all day. Your back hurts. The music from the blaring from iPod's speakers, their chaotic voices are starting to make your head hurt. So you slip away, head back to the room you, Brittany and Santana share for some quiet because you know those two won't be back until dawn.
You take off your clothes, pull on a t-shirt because it's the only thing that doesn't make your skin itch while you sleep. You slide onto the mattress, roll onto your back because the days of you sleeping on your stomach have gone the way of the dodo bird. The AC's turned down as low as it can go but you still feel too warm, almost feverish. Goose pimples ripple across your skin. You shift. The cotton of your t-shirt brushes against your already erect and aching nipples and there's another ripple of energy, twisting your insides, ending with a hard pulse between your legs.
Your eyes fly open at the sound of the ragged gasp escaping your throat.
An arm flops over your face in exasperation as you wonder just how much God really hates you. But closing your eyes and throwing an arm over your face just seems to make things worse because now it's just the images of your heated brain projecting over the blacks of your eyelids - skin, lips, fingers.
Fingers. Just under your left breast, thumb grazing over the sensitive skin. Down the stomach that's not as flat as it used to be. Lazy swooping circles and it feels so good. The heat between your legs is calling to the fingers like a Siren's song. Just a little lower.
A little lower.
The arm pulls off your face as your eyes snap open. Dazed, you lift your head and stare down your body. At the phantom fingers that are yours but not, fingertips barely meeting the top of your perfectly waxed landing strip.
You couldn't.. you can't.. it's dirty, wrong. SINFUL. God is always watching, your mother's voice rings in your ears. But God's turned His back on you. Sixteen, pregnant and homeless. And horny. That's what it is. Horny. You're so.. fucking (there, you said it, now you're totally damned) horny. And your fingers are right there. And you're tired of aching, of pain and sorrow and tears. Just once, just one goddamned (sorry Lord) time you want to feel good and if it has to be by your own fingers, if you're the one who has to be dirty, wrong, sinful then, dammit, so be it.
Your head falls back on the mattress, heart hammering in your chest. You inhale, close your eyes.. and lower your fingers.
The first touch is tentative but it feels good, good enough to seize your chest, make your mouth go slack. Your body a dam straining from the pressure and your fingers cause it to burst. Everything under your touch is slippery wet, swollen and silky smooth. You tease your opening to see what it feels like, your hips buck at the sensation. You're wet, so unbelievably wet, it coats your fingertips as you slide them all over your sex.
With your other hand, you slide it under your t-shirt, find your breast. Cup it. Knead it. When you pinch your nipple, a ragged groan slips from your lips. It's not supposed to feel this good, is it? You're not supposed to feel this good.
Your hips are rolling now, undulating on your fingers because you've found your clit. And when you pinch your nipple a little harder, just a little, it sends a jolt of electricity, of unbelievable pleasure between your legs.
And you understand now, because you really think you just might die but you don't dare stop. There's this tension building in your body, in the pit of your stomach, between your legs. It feels so good. You think about how good it would feel if there were someone with you, someone doing this to you. The images cycle through your brain, until it stops on just one - long, chestnut hair, honey colored skin, full lips and your body seizes as you think her name.
Something explodes within you, something good. Back arching, neck craning, toe curling, ragged moan hissing from your throat - good. Your ears are ringing and there's this whimpering, mewling sound coming from your throat as you slowly stroke yourself.
But, there's something else. Something that wasn't there before but is now. You feel it in the air, a certain stillness. You open your eyes.
And your heart stops cold in your chest.
It's the shock that keeps you from screaming, from pulling your hands away and grabbing at the sheets.
It's the expression on her face.
She's standing at the edge of the bed. Just standing there. Her features scrunched together like she's thinking about a particularly hard math equation. Her face is kinda flushed, eyes a bit droopy like she's a bit drunk. Which she probably is since Puck snuck in two bottles of vodka.
How she got into your room is, quite frankly, not really important at the moment. She's here. Now. Who knows how long she's been there. How long she watched you do this. She's staring at you. No, not you, Rachel's staring there, between your legs, where your hand still is. Her arms are slack at her sides, her hands balled into tight fists. Like she knows she's not supposed to be here, not supposed to be staring at Quinn's vagina with Quinn's hand still on it. And, God, she's such a freak. Wearing her stupid, too tight sweater and too short skirt. With her stupid brown eyes and stupid full lips..
Lips that open and you watch as she rolls her lower lip into her mouth, licks it like.. she wants to taste you. And the twitch between your legs is so hard it makes you gasp.
She lifts her eyes to you and.. yep, she's definitely a little drunk. But there's this look - hunger and desire and trepidation, like a kid in a candy store who can only look but not touch, not taste. That's what she's asking you with her eyes - can I taste you?
With a look, you could destroy her, totally, completely. Before, you wanted nothing more than to annihilate Rachel Berry. Now, you want nothing more than for her to taste you.
You blink. Maybe nod your head. You're not sure. You stopped breathing the moment Rachel lowered, placed her hands on the mattress and slowly crawled towards you between your legs.
She places her hand gently on yours, on the one between your legs. Then lifts your wrist and you watch as those lips you hate but can't stop thinking about wrap around one of your fingers and slowly pulls it into her mouth. And there's this moan coming from Rachel, like it hurts and it's the best thing in the entire universe. It sends a shiver down your spine, a shiver that reminds you to breathe. Breathe as you feel her tongue on your finger, swirling and sucking, and just licking your finger clean.
She pulls back, releasing your finger from her mouth and it's your turn to whimper because that was like the hottest thing you've ever experienced. And you really didn't want Rachel to stop but she releases your finger from her mouth and looks at you. Like she did before all hunger and desire and trepidation. But there's less trepidation, more hunger, definitely more desire. There are no words between the two of you and, quite honestly, you have absolutely no idea what to say. But she asks and you say yes. And then her head is lowering and you have to lie back down, focus your eyes on the ceiling because her lips are on the inside of your thigh and if you watch and feel you think you really will die.
Rachel's lips are gentle. She plants a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh. Soft and silky and, wow, that's what they mean by an 'erogenous zone' and you didn't think anything like that could feel so good until..
You feel her tongue on you. Rachel's always had a big mouth and, apparently, that includes a big tongue. She licks you, swipes the entire length of your.. well, vagina sounds too clinical and you don't have it in you to call it the 'p' word. Your neck cranes backwards as your mouth goes slack and your throat seizes on the groan erupting from within.
Rachel's tentative, exploratory, but not for long. She's everywhere at once, licking, prodding, poking, suckling. Your hips buck as she slides her tongue into you, not a lot, just enough, until the penetration meets resistance and there's a little bit of pain as she stretches you open. Not like Puck who just shoved it in and you were too drunk to realize how much it really hurt. Rachel circles, wiggles her tongue around your opening. Just when you think you could really get used to this, she pulls out and her tongue, her lips find your clit.
You find your voice. It's nothing but keening moans and mewling whimpers. And it's good. Really good. Like, why did I waste my time with Finn, good. Why did I give it up to Puck, good. Rachel's a freak and so are you, because you never want this to end. You want to die right now. It's like you have 'Restless Leg Syndrome' but it's not just your legs, it's your entire body. You're writhing, wriggling, undulating, like your bones are trying to slither out of your skin.
Your insides tighten, coil. Your hands ball the sheets into white-knuckled fists as the release you crave but dread because you don't want this to end wracks your body.
Rachel doesn't stop. Just keeps.. battering your clit with lips and tongue, friction and suction. When your body collapses and you have no more shudders to give, she slides her tongue into you, feasts on the wetness that seemingly never ends. And you have to reach down, thread your fingers in her hair to get her to stop because your body's on sensory overload. Like, if she doesn't stop you really will die.
You feel her clambering over you. Everything's warm and tingly and good but, though you can feel her staring down at you, you're afraid to open your eyes. You're 'the Good Girl'. The 'Christian Girl'. The All-American, Blonde, not exactly blue but close enough, girl next door. You were everything they wanted you to be.
And you've just done that. You did it with Rachel Berry. You don't want to open your eyes because you think all you'll see is your sin. How far you've fallen. Again. The corners of your eyes sting and you can feel the tears building on your lashes. The bed dips. You feel Rachel's hands gently touching you, rolling you onto your side, the warmth of her body as she presses her chest to your back and her arm drapes over your stomach. You don't mean to cry. You don't mean to feel good in the comfort of Rachel's arms.
You haven't meant a lot of things.
Rachel's gone when you wake. The covers of the hotel bed have been draped over you. Even the scent of sex has dissipated. The only evidence of your sinful transgression - the stickiness between your thighs, the dull throbbing of your sex.
The two of you never talk about that night. In fact, you barely acknowledge the other's existence. You're with Puck now. Who's invited you into his home, who's sworn to be with you every step of the way, even though you're still planning on giving away the baby. You're together but not. You won't have sex with him. He still sees other girls.
Rachel's with Jesse now. And she looks.. happy. You want to hate her. Parts of you still do. Because, as much as you want to, you can't forget her. You can't forget that night she silently slipped into your room and watched as you sinned, then helped you sin some more. You can't forget her because you still keep sinning. Those nights when you're actually alone in Puck's house, your hormones are raging and your hand quietly slips between your legs.
You're sixteen, pregnant and, not exactly but close enough, homeless. But something within you has changed. You don't know what. It still remains intangible, out of reach. Of all the bad things that have happened to you, deep down, you know something good has come of it. And it all started -
The day after you died.
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