olaf47: (lips)
[personal profile] olaf47
Title: Lord, would you forgive me (if you know that I’m going to do it again?)
Fandom: Glee
Characters/Pairing: Quinn Fabray, Rachel Berry, Santana Lopez, Faberry, tiny side Brittana
Rating: R
Spoilers: Set post-season 2 finale, but spoilers only really through Special Education
Summary: You’re pretty sure this is what people call the morning after.
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. The words are.
A/N: Sequel to doing my best to regret these sins. One line inspired by Beth Lisick in Sister Spit. Go watch that, it’s hilarious. Title from Joe Purdy’s “Ode to Sad Clown.”

Oh and I got caught in this whistling wind,
doing my best to regret this sins
Lord would you forgive me
if you know that I’m gonna do it again
It’s not that I’m not sorry, Lord,
it’s just that I’m not strong
oh ’cause when that woman looks at me
I can’t remember right from wrong

You wake up to a throbbing headache. Or maybe it’s the headache that wakes you—it’s certainly painful enough to, but you’re not sure.

You’re not sure of a lot of things, really, like why your blinds are open, letting shafts of sunlight cut across your face. You’re also not sure why there are so many pillows in your bed, but you don’t question it, because you can pull one over your eyes to block the sun.

Except your head under a pillow jogs your memory.

You sit straight up but your headache and a wave of nausea send you back to the bed, eyes clenched closed.

You hope your mind is playing tricks on you. It could be Mike’s room, or that new Cheerio’s. The only problem is that in the split second that you had your eyes open, you know you saw a gold star painted above the mirror. So the fuzzy memory of Rachel grinding against your thigh is no dream. (Okay, fine, maybe it’s not exactly a fuzzy memory, maybe you remember exactly how her hips felt under your fingers and how her breath panted warm across your face, but you’re trying to pretend not to.)

Berry’s not next to you, and since she didn’t start talking as soon as it was clear you were awake, you can only assume she’s not in the room.

You’re pretty sure this is what people call the morning after.

Slowly, you sit up, propping pillows behind you. The room is exactly what you’d expect Rachel Berry’s room to be—pink and black (except that big gold star) with a whole bookcase of dance and singing trophies and pictures of Broadway stars everywhere. There’s a glass of water and some pills on the bedside table. You try not to think it’s cute that she’s taking care of you, except it is actually, or would be if she were anyone else.

You wonder where she is but can’t hear anything from downstairs. Of course, then you remember the soundproof room, remember how that came in handy last night, and you can feel the blush settle on your cheeks. For about thirty seconds, you seriously consider fleeing out of Rachel’s window.

But you don’t know where your phone is, or your purse, or your shoes for that matter.

The aspirin and water sound good, actually, so you swallow the pills and chug the water. You’re still nauseated but you don’t gag, so you count it as a step in the right direction.

If you’re honest with yourself, the previous night was not completely surprising. You spent enough nights pretending to be asleep while Brittany and Santana had sex to know you like girls. You and God came to an understanding about that. (You learned the meaning of a merciful god when you were pregnant, and you and He have a lot of understandings now.) You even knew you had a thing for Berry. Just for her body, obviously, and you guess her voice, which you would like more if she didn’t like it so much. But she’s a beautiful girl, really, except that nose and certain aspects of her personality, and maybe you’ve masturbated just to the thought of her in that Britney Spears outfit. Having acted on those impulses, though, you now have no idea what to do. The window’s looking good again.

Of course, that’s when the door opens quietly. You’re totally not ready for it, but there’s Rachel, looking timid and for once she doesn’t seem to have anything to say. Not that you’re much better. Your usual approach certainly won’t work. It’s hard to be haughty and superior when you’re in her room, in her bed even, nursing a hangover.

Instead you just look at her and she at you and when she smiles, she’s so clearly nervous you can’t help but smile back. That seems to energize her, bring her back to her normal self.

“I’m glad you see you awake, Quinn.” Her voice is at least a little quieter than usual. “And even more glad you’ve already finished your water. I’ll refill it for you in a moment. How are you feeling? It’s almost noon but not to worry, your mother knows you are here and thinks you have the flu, though I am not sure my fathers believe that. However, they have not said anything yet and have even invited you to lunch, in about fifteen minutes.” She looks at you before repeating. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” you reply, even though your stomach is churning and you can feel your pulse throbbing behind your eyes. The response makes her smile, and your headache eases somewhat.

“Excellent. Here, let me get you water.”

She takes your cup and disappears into the hallway. As soon as she’s gone, you’re nervous again. You can’t do this. She’s going to make you talk about things and just because you and God have come to an understanding about you thinking Rachel Berry is hot does not mean it’s something you want to talk about. If she asks what this all means, your only hope is to pull a HBIC and say something about how it means you fucked and next time she better get you off, too. You remember the way she shivered when you called her names and wonder if you could curse enough to distract her from talking. The only reason you even used the word cunt to begin with was that it’s something Puck says and you figured channeling him when you wanted to get laid should do the trick. It did, obviously.

When Rachel returns with your water, she’s still smiling and even though you know everything about this is a bad idea, even though you know no good will come of the situation, you can’t help but smile back. (It’s not your fault—she’s fucking cute, okay?)

Your fingers brush hers as she hands you the glass. You can’t look her in the eye.

She sits on the edge of the bed and says, “So we should probably talk.”

You make sure you’re too busy drinking water to respond.

“I mean, just to figure some things out.” She’s fiddling the comforter between her fingers. “For instance, Santana has called several times this morning. I had taken your phone so it would not wake you, however, I never answered because I was fairly certain you would not want her knowing you were here.”

Your stomach tightens and you try to pass it off as part of the hangover, but you’re pretty sure it’s guilt. You refuse to feel guilty about using Rachel Berry, though, so you push the thought from your mind.

“Wait,” you say, suddenly even more nervous. “Santana called? How many times? Where’s my phone?”

Rachel pulls your cell from her pocket, looking confused. “It’s here, but I would really prefer it if we could—”

You rip the phone from her hands.

Sure enough, you have five missed calls and three new text messages from Santana. Plus a missed called from Coach Sylvester. Your stomach plummets.

You, Santana and Brittany had rejoined Cheerios after Nationals. You just wanted to be part of something impressive again. So even though Sue calls you the three retarded mice and failure numbers one through three and makes some bitch named Kelsey captain, you’re still back on the team. You figure you can oust Kelsey by the end of the summer, and San hates her enough she’s fine being your lieutenant again instead of trying for top dog herself. (Except she does force Sue to sign a document stating that she won’t shoot Brittany out of a cannon before rejoining.)

The thing about being part of something impressive though, is that you have to practice. And sometimes Sue calls impromptu practices, giving the team just two hours’ notice. She says you always need to be ready to perform and Santana mutters something about constant vigilance. (She’s such a closet nerd.)

So with a missed call from Coach Sylvester and so many from Santana, you’re pretty sure you’re screwed.

Rachel watches you, but you can’t worry about her if you’re missing practice—Sue’s wrath generally takes precedence over anything.

The first text asks if you need a ride to practice and uses some choice words to describe her hangover. The next text is slightly worried and with the third, you cringe.

“Your mom says you’re at rupaul’s? What the FUCK Q? Practice in TWENTY”

It was sent fifteen minutes ago. Your head still hurts and your stomach rolls like it’s seasick, but you jump from the bed.

“I have to go. Where are my shoes? Where’s my purse?”

Rachel’s eyes are as wide as you’ve ever seen them, like she’s related to Miss Pillsbury or something, and for a second you’re afraid she might cry.

“This is a cheap way to get out of the conversation, Quinn,” she says instead.

“Rachel, I’m going to be late to practice and Sue’s going to kill me—I don’t really care about talking right now.”

She pouts, but directs you to your purse and shoes. You’re swearing under your breath (occasional cursing is another thing you and God have an understanding about). You have to go home for clothes before you can even go to practice, and you’re going to be so late you can’t imagine the punishment.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Rachel mutters. “Here.”

She shoves clothes into your hands, workout clothes, even a sports bra and if you weren’t freaking out about coach, you would be about this.

“Change. Then I’ll drive you.”

The clothes fit well enough; the tank’s a little short and slips up, revealing a stripe of your stomach. You put her shoes on in the car, as she’s speeding toward school. They’re only a tiny bit tight and you’d tease her about having huge feet—you’re four inches taller and wear almost the same shoe size?—but you’re too grateful.

The drive is silent except you periodically glancing at the clock and cursing. You’re not even going to be ten minutes late, but that’s more than enough excuse for Sue to work you until you can’t walk.

Rachel stops the car just around the corner from the field. “I didn’t think you’d want everyone to see Treasure Trail dropping you off,” she says without meeting your eyes.

You’re almost out of the car when she says it, and even though it’s depressing, it’s also sweet and you lean back in, across the passenger seat and over the center console, to kiss her long and hard before racing to practice.


Santana glares at you the entire practice, even while you’re on the absolute bottom of the pyramid, even while Coach makes you run laps as she lectures the other Cheerios on the importance of being on time. You run, and run, and run. When other girls get breaks, you get suicides. Rachel’s shoes are rubbing your feet raw and you throw up three times before practice is over. Each time, Sue smirks.

When everyone else hits the locker room, you follow Coach Sylvester to the weight room. She works you another hour and by the end of it, you can’t even lift your arms above your head.

You consider showering in the locker room, but mostly you just want to go home and pass out and worry about showering later. You head for your car.

It’s not until you see Santana leaning against her own car, arms crossed, that you remember Rachel dropped you off. Santana’s car is the only one left in the parking lot, and she’s still glaring at you while Brittany stands next to her making faces like she’s trying to make the brunette laugh.

“Q!” Brittany smiles sympathetically when she sees you. “Are you okay? How’s your back? I’ve never been on the bottom but I used to give San massages ’cause her back was sore.”

Santana looks a little annoyed that Brittany said that, but you know she is completely incapable of staying mad at the blonde.

“When Brittany saw your car wasn’t here, she made me wait and give you a ride home,” Santana snaps. “But I’m not driving you unless you explain why you were at Rachel fucking Berry’s.”

Brittany runs a hand from Santana’s elbow to her fingers and the smaller girl visibly relaxes, but when she opens her eyes she still fixes you with an angry glare.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” you sigh, too tired to be nervous. “I was drunk. She took me away from the party before Puck could take me upstairs.”

“And you slept over?”

“She didn’t want to take me home drunk. And my other friends were otherwise engaged.”

You emphasize the last two words and it makes Brittany giggle.

“Fine, whatever, let’s go.”

Santana gets into the car and slams the door. Brittany beams at you.

“Did you kiss Rachel?”

You sputter and hope Santana can’t hear. She’s just sitting angrily in her car, so you think you’re okay. “What?”

“I see the way you look at her in glee sometimes,” she says. “It’s like how San looks at me when we haven’t kissed in a while. Do your looks mean something different?”

You’re too tired to even lie to the dancer.

“Let’s just go, B.”


She flounces over to the passenger’s side. You get in the backseat, kick off Rachel’s shoes, and press your forehead against the window, pretty sure you’ll be asleep before you make it home. No one talks, but Brittany sings along to the radio.

“You totally should get more solos,” Santana tells her when a commercial comes on.

You’d bet anything that San’s driving with her left hand and has her right pinky hooked with Brittany’s, but you’re too tired to look. The car stops and you’re unbuckled with your door open and the shoes in your hand before you realize you’re not in front of your house. You’re in front of Rachel’s.


“Berry runs past my house sometimes. I recognized her workout clothes. Thought you’d want to return them,” she says it all in a sickly sweet, faux-innocent voice.

Brittany turns around from the front seat and winks at you.

Fuck. You’re too tired to deal with this shit. It’s literally difficult to close your door hard enough to make sure it latches. You manage, though, and trudge toward Rachel’s house.

“We will talk about this later, Fabray!” Santana shouts at you out her window before speeding away.

Rachel opens her front door as soon as Santana’s car rounds the block. She’s wearing jeans for once, skinny jeans, and even if you’re worn out, you still notice that she definitely pulls them off.

“You look exhausted,” she says. “How can you even walk?”

As if on cue, you don’t lift your foot high enough for her front steps. Her hands slip around your waist to steady you, the way this all started. She smiles at you, eyes shining, and she must be thinking the same thing.

“Let’s get you some food, and maybe a shower.”

You shake your head, stomach still queasy. “I don’t think I’ll keep anything down.”

She gives you a look that makes it hard to remember that most people still call you enemies. It makes you think that maybe everything that came before doesn’t matter. You think of Finn and almost laugh; it probably wouldn’t be a pretty sight if he found out the girls he’s been chasing for two years are sleeping together.

Slept together, you mean. You’re not doing it again. You don’t think you could if you tried right now, anyway—you’re too exhausted. Her staircase looks like the ocean or the Great Plains or something, anything that stretches to the horizon.

She stays behind you as you climb, slowing, putting both feet on one step before trying for the next. Her hands aren’t actually on you, but you can feel them hovering around your hips. She’s silent behind you, like a Cheerio spotting a lift, eyes quick to any wobble, ready to put her body in way of your fall.

You’re too tired to think about how sweet she’s being, how after everything you’ve done to her, all she’s focused on is taking care of you. It’d probably frighten you if you had brain power past shower and sleep.

When you finally make the top of the stairs she leads you to the bathroom. You all but collapse onto the toilet lid, your legs shaking beneath you.

“Quinn, do you need—” she looks away for a moment and when she meets your eyes again hers are steeled, determined. “I’ll help you shower.”

Even in your exhaustion, a frisson of want goes through you.


Your brain is sluggish, but you don’t think that’s why you experience the next few minutes in slow motion.

Rachel is almost clinical as she undresses you, except you can see her pupils dilate when she pulls the shirt over your head. You know you’re sticky with sweat and you probably smell, but her eyes drag across your torso and you want to be clean just so she can get you dirty again. You want her fingers trailing your skin instead of her eyes.

“Is this okay?” she asks, voice mostly breathless and you think of all the diaphragm exercises she probably does everyday and feel proud of yourself.


She moves to your bottom half next, like she’s not ready to see you completely bare. You tilt your hips up so she can slide your shorts down and her breath falls warm over your center. She smirks at you. How did you not realize just how sexy Rachel Berry was?

She peels your underwear down so slowly that you almost tell her to just get on with it. You’d take off your bra yourself if you could move your arms. It’s confusing, this mix of exhaustion and arousal. You were so certain that you just wanted to sleep but now she’s unclasping your bra and sliding the straps down your arms and you remember that she hadn’t even seen you last night, much less touched you. God, you haven’t seen her either. You hold your breath as she pulls her shirt over her head. Her bra is black with gold stars and you laugh. She pouts, but it just makes you laugh harder. Her eyes are hooded, even through her pout, so you know she’s not too worried about being teased.

“C’mon Quinn. Into the shower,” she says.

“But you’re not—” you start. She arches an eyebrow perfectly and you wonder if she learned from you.

She’s just in her bra and jeans and it’s hot, she looks delicious, but you want to see her. She stays mostly clothed, though, turning on the water and adjusting the temperature before helping you into the shower.

It feels amazing. She set it to massage so the water’s pounding into your exhausted muscles. You sag, hands against the shower wall to keep upright.

Rachel keeps her hands on you the entire time, except to squirt soap on the loofah. But then one hand holds you steady by the hip as she drags soap suds across your body. She squeezes a little to let you know she needs you to turn around so she can get your front.

You just feel warm, and tingly, and the only thing is that she doesn’t quite touch you everywhere. She cleans your arms and back and spins you to wash your stomach and draw the loofah in progressively smaller circles over your breasts. By that point her skin shines with tiny droplets, the shower sending spray ricocheting off of you. She drops to her knees and washes each leg. Methodically. She starts at the bottom of your left ankle and slowly works her way up. Just when she’s almost right where you want her, at the apex of your thigh, she drops down to do the same thing to your right leg.

Not half an hour ago you thought you were going to pass out from exhaustion. By the end of the shower, you’re pretty sure it’s sexual frustration that’ll make you lose consciousness. Your whole body is thrumming, vibrating, ready, on edge but not quite there, like an amp that’s turned all the way up but with no guitar plugged in yet.

She keeps it up, though. She turns off the shower and grabs a towel and starts at your fucking ankles again. You can barely stand, exhaustion and the need to get her horizontal making your legs quiver. When you’re dry, she wraps the towel around you, takes you by the hand and leads you out of the bathroom.

You didn’t exactly pay much attention to the layout of her house, but she must be taking you to her room, right? Sure enough, she leads you into her bedroom, directly to the bed. You actually thank God.

She pulls the covers back and sits you on the edge of the bed, and she brushes her hair out of your eyes, which you’re sure are blacked out by your pupils by this point, and smiles gently.

“Lay back,” she says, and tugs on the towel.

You let her pull it off of you and do as she says. You can’t remember why you were tired, can only focus on the way her fingers slide down your side.

But she is the biggest fucking tease you have ever met.

All she does is pull a sheet over you and say, “You should sleep.”

“Raaaaachel,” you whine and you’re pretty sure she laughs.

“What?” Okay, her fake innocent act can rival Santana’s. “Do you need something? Food, a glass of water?”

“I need you.

That’s what she was waiting for.

You don’t know where her hand was, but suddenly she slides two fingers inside you like it’s where they belong, and it is, you’re pretty sure, or it wouldn’t feel this good. Her palm presses against your clit and you’re done, you’re already coming and you’ll probably be embarrassed that it’s so quick, except she spent so long building you up and also your brain whites out.

Her hand cups around your hip as you remember what gravity feels like, remember how your senses work. She’s still in just that bra and her jeans and you reach for her, but she catches your hand.

“Shhh,” she says even though you weren’t making any noise. She brushes a kiss to your palm. “Sleep. Everything will still be here when you wake up.”

You want to kiss her, or apologize for everything you’ve ever done to her, tell her you’ll be different, you swear, but all you manage is a weak smile and you’re asleep before she lets go of your hand.

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January 2013

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