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Volume II, chapter one.

I first stopped by my apartment—an attempt to convince myself not to go.

Because honestly, Quinn (I told myself, sounding almost like Rachel in my own fucking head) what you need is to rest, black your brain out, and forget about everyone.

Ourselves included.

I walked around my room and rationalized like that; running my hand through my hair at intervals and sighing too much

That bottomless thought-spiral went along like this (winding like a kid's choo-choo train): It's super late anyway. And she probably doesn't want to see me after I dared to ignore her texts all night—after I cut her off so rudely and brought up Alec to her just to spite everybody (especially me).

(Then Alec's stupid smiling face floated past my head and my stomach knotted up).

(And then Camila's memory came back, sudden and painfully potent—all her dark, dark hair and her bright red smile).

And so all the blood drained right out of me.

I lied in my bed with an arm around my own waist and made plans just to feel sad all night. I had it over me just like my warm, grey quilt.

Well—then she texted me.

My phone was next to me, almost up against the back of my left hand. I felt it buzz and quickly grabbed it. Her name flashed at me—her message scrolling across the top of my screen. She was asking if I made it home okay. My lips curled up; smirking despite me. My blood was hot and pulsing in me again. I remembered that Alec wasn't my problem. That Camila was a closed book—and I know the ending well enough by now to be over it.

Rachel's little text was the Jesus to my Lazarus. Funny.

I licked my lips and typed very fast. I asked if I could go over.

It took a second (and I could guess she was having some sort of reaction about it, because I had never wanted to go over to hers before—I don't like getting so involved, or settled into a space that isn't mine).

But fuck it. I wasn't going to make her walk at this time, or even take an uber.

I mean, I'm the one with a new car in her driveway. And Rachel's car had a shit radiator, and at this point could barely make it a few blocks without overheating—in fucking winter.

She texted back (four entire minutes after having read my text): "Yes, Quinn. You can come over."

It seemed heavily edited. Whatever.

I told her I was on my way.

1

I wore my harness under my joggers and my toy was tucked inside it, ready to go.

Good thing I didn't have to make any stops on the way there— walking around with a giant boner tenting my pants was not conducive to staying out of trouble at 4 in the morning. New Haven or not.

Our lube, I tucked into my pea coat's pocket. I didn't want to bring a bag or anything. I mean I thought about it—thought about putting some clothes and make-up and perfume into my rucksack so I'd be prepared if I were to pass out there, and thus unintentionally stay the night at Rachel's.

But god, that seemed so—girlfriend. It almost gave me a panic attack. I dropped the thought straight-away, and kept it moving.

Why plan anything? I thought, feeling pretty intelligent and mature.

I'm going to just—show up, fuck, and...whatever, we'll see. But to show up with a…bag of...things—WHOA.

I think I even scoffed at myself, walking to the door.

I made a face at myself at the hallway mirror (I looked a sight—hair full of flyaways and dressed awkwardly with honestly zero make-up) but I didn't break my gait just to fix my face. My face was going to spend most of the rest of the night drowning in Rachel Berry's pussy anyway.

2

She answered the door with her full-on dimply grin; trying to contain it by biting her lip.

I smiled back, and tucked some of her hair behind her ear.

We just stood and watched each other, standing right in her doorway. My stupid, obvious stare made her maybe self-conscious, because she ducked her head—broke the gaze first. She slipped her hands in her back pockets (wearing tiny-tiny denim shorts) and I wished they were my hands.

The oversized sweater she wore made her look so warm—I nearly reached down to hug her the way I'd never gotten a chance to before but always daydreamed about.

Well, I just grabbed for her ass (meeting my impulses halfway)—leaned in, and started kissing her in this manner she must be used to by now. She groaned, and good thing she has her own apartment (and very loving parents, apparently, who likely pay way too much in rent for their baby's privacy).

I took a few steps forward, our lips bending against each other's, now so used to it. With a grunt that may have been audible, I lifted her up and carried her along—back-kicking the door closed with a resounding deep and hollow thud.

I tried not to pay attention to the way her legs wrapped around my body as we kissed, with tongues and teeth. The feeling made my body warm. Everything in me was already buzzing—heady and alive.

I couldn't honestly tell you shit about her décor (and I was there for hours). Whatever—you've probably been there.

I remember her bed. It felt expensively soft, when we fell into it.

She started testing herself against my grip as we kissed, with a breathless smile flexed against my mouth. I had her wrists locked above her head, one in each of my hands. When she bucked up, I rolled my hips down. We humped like that for a while, with her whining into my mouth at ever shorter intervals.

My tongue slid over hers before feeling around her mouth. She tasted like her peppermint toothpaste (same as whenever she came over). And suddenly too, I could smell her shampoo. Fucking strawberry fields forever. I breathed it in and wished time would still and just replay the moment, ad infinitum. I could be happy.

When we pulled apart, she said, "So you definitely have a dick in your pants..."

And I laughed, whatever tension in me broken. She could be so dorky and cute.

I rutted more firmly into her (cheesy smile in place), and kept kissing, going "Mmm hmm."

The big sweater (which was warm against me), I tugged up and off of her. Under that she'd been wearing a soft, cottony bralette of an adorable pink pattern, but I tugged that off too.

Her breasts and me I feel are all best friends now. I swear they like me too. I kissed them deep and adoringly, and her little nipples had already been hard for me.

She gasped and whined some more, sounding like she might cry. I sucked a little more gently—she's such a baby; so sensitive about her fucking nipples. I let the one I was sucking on pop out of my mouth. I guess I felt like taking it easy on her. Magnanimous Quinn Fabray—that's what history will say about me. In regards to that night anyway.

We shared wet kisses while I squeezed her breasts; avoiding her nipples entirely. Then my palms slid down the taut skin of her stomach. It must've slightly tickled her because she gasped, and wiggled under me.

I popped the button on her shorts and pulled them down, with a few firm tugs. Then I tossed them left.

I don't know why having her in just her panties makes me so wet. I guess it symbolizes the last vestige of her innocence. I guess I'm sick like that. Anyway, I cupped my hand over her—the distinct feeling of cotton soaked in girl-cum warming my palm.

Her blunt nails dug into my shoulders and I kissed a line down her stomach, starting at her sternum.

Later there'd be little half-moons dug into the skin of my shoulder-blades, but now I just basked in the way it felt—the menacing burn.

I tucked my face between her thighs—facing where she ached from. The fabric was translucent pink now, and showed her slit. I grinned at it.

"Were you touching yourself before I came?"

I looked up, and she bit her lip at the question. Bit her lip to hide a smile.

Pretty adorable. And great news too—I love to hear about her masturbating.

"You kinda look like you were…" I had a pretty possessive grip on her mound, and squeezed when the impulse hit me, "I mean…you're pretty wet in your panties. And we weren't kissing for long, so I'm betting you did. I bet you touched yourself—maybe right before you texted. And maybe you texted at least in part to see if I was up for this—because your little fingers just weren't enough to land you those big orgasms."

She was moaning, and jerking up into my palm.

I gave her plenty of pressure, "Did you come into your panties, or did you take them off to do it?"

She breathed deep, in short intervals, "I played with myself outside of them, and got wet but didn't come. I texted you then."

"So you didn't even bother trying, huh?" I bunched the fabric in my fist and tugged it up so it slid against her, "Pretty smart move, actually, I think."

Her legs were spread so wide that her knees almost touched her shoulders. She looked so nice—even just through her panties. I pulled them off, impatient now.

She shifted promptly back into position after I chucked them behind me. I hovered over her, breathing sort of labored. My hands gripped the insides of her thighs as I kissed my way down them. I love watching her shiver.

Her hands clutched desperately at my shoulders. This is how I know I've got her full attention. Every part of my body she holds, she does so with such devout adoration—but much more so when I'm going down on her.

At my first open-mouthed kiss to her pussy, her nails dug in and raked their way down to my biceps. I'll be admiring the marks in the morning like some sort of sad sexual narcissist.

I do love that I can do this to her (and I know that I'm the only one that can…why else is it so hard for her to cut me off?—she doesn't want to cut herself off).

With the barest graze of my lips, my teeth, my tongue (which twisted eccentrically over her clit, before my mouth encircled it fully and I began to suck), she was gasping—her face and chest turning pink.

It really heightened her beauty. I could feel my heart sink.

I opened my mouth to show her my tongue as I flicked it over her.

Her almost breathless "You're so pretty," I nearly didn't hear. I frowned while my mind tried to put the small gasp together into a working sentence. Then, getting it, I felt myself blush and nuzzled my face deeper into her; sucked her harder, and closed my eyes.

"Quinn, please," she moaned out, high-pitched and whiny, humping desperately into my mouth, "Look at me."

I did, and she cradled my face up—rubbing a thumb over it as her lovely, glowing thighs shook.

3

Out of her short coma, she stared at me for seconds through black lashes and eyes like soil in Autumn.

"Come here," she told me, "I want to suck you off."

My heart skipped beats. My clothes soon were history.

And then she was hands-and-knees on the bed, over me; her pretty face hovering near my lap.

I loved how wide her mouth had to go to fit the circumference of the dildo I had strapped on. I grunted. The image was so satisfying. I loved the way I could thrust my hips at her, impale my cock all the way down her throat—and when I finally made her gag; I loved the way that sense of accomplishment washed, warm, over me.

My head fell back, and I found bliss. This is the meaning of bliss.

"You like sucking my dick?" It came out less aggressive than I aimed for—more quivering neediness injected in it than I'd intended. Oh well.

The question was the opposite of rhetorical. It absolutely needed the answer we all knew anyway.

"Mmn hmm," she managed, around a mouthful of my cock (the enthusiasm more than made up for the lack of enunciation).

At that point it was just about the way she looked with her mouth sucking on my toy. I grabbed it at the base—turned it sharply left to stretch out her cheek and ran my thumb over its imprint.

Then, I pulled it all out.

I marveled for a second at how wet with her saliva it was, then swiped the underside over Rachel's entire face—using it like a brush to paint the slobber.

I felt my whole body hum at what I was doing—I was practically feverish. Sweat leaked down the bridge of my nose; some stung my eyes.

My hand tugged at the back of her head (fingers laced in her hair); pulling her back onto me swiftly.

She purred and I felt it ripple all through me.

My hips started to shake pretty bad, and I could tell they'd be slamming hard into her face in a bit.

I wanna feel bad about it, but whenever I stopped thrusting my hips she'd choke herself on it.

"Fuck."

I leaned back; rode Rachel's happy face full-throttle into a draining release.

My last thought was—Oh god.

I maybe did or maybe didn't express it.

I was, by that point, far away.

4

She lied down for me—open, and vulnerable.

We fell into that missionary position that we don't often do. Her blunt nails ran down the planes of my back—my dick in her squelching pussy. She tried to cover her face in the crook of my neck but I tugged her up by the hair.

I wanted our eyes to stay locked.

I didn't mind listening to the things she whispered about. Or catching the moments when her eyes rolled back.

My heartbeats felt so faint and far away.

"After you get married Rachel…where will you go—when you need to feel like a dirty little whore again?"

It just slipped out. I know it shouldn't have. Even my pace (which I'd been keeping up with splendidly) faltered for a beat.

She groaned in complaint and rolled her hips harder up at me, "Don't stop!"

My palms slid down and squeezed her waist. I thrust hard into her; petulantly, "Hmm? What's gonna happen when you want a pussy full of my cock again?"

"Fuck!" she threw her head back, and from the way her body shook and the way she clawed (with no fucks) all over the skin of my back, I could tell she was coming soon.

I stalled my hips and she sobbed—trying desperately to hump back into me; get me to start, "What're you doing!?"

My lips slid up her jaw and captured her ear, "Tell me."

"I'll beg you!" she gasped it out, and I responded with deeper and harder (fueled by the ego-stroking) thrusts.

She kept on, almost hiccupping, "I'll beg you, and manipulate you, and do anything to get you—inside me again! I won't give you up or let you go!"

Her legs were wrapped all the way around my waist, and I could feel her thighs as they flexed—I could feel the way her whole body coiled over the tension before it was released.

I shut my eyes, and went with her.

5

The sun was up for a few hours before we stopped.

She tried to get me to stay.

No way was I lying on that bed to sleep though.

It all seemed like an awful idea once we were spent.

After her eighth "why not?" she walked me to her door. I could tell I'd legitimately ruined her mood. I could tell she really was mad at me.

"You come over at five am, after ditching me to spend all of Saturday with your "homegirls," and we can fuck for hours but you won't spend part of a Sunday morning with me? You're—really an ass. You really know how to make me feel worthless."

I sighed—so dramatic.

"I don't have any of my stuff."

Her eyes rolled, "On purpose you don't—whatever, I'm too tired for this. Goodnight Quinn! We'll resume our purely sexual affiliation at a later date."

The door slammed in my face.

I could feel my brows peak.

It's not even my fault. Once sex ceases to be a feasible, physical option then what are we? Thinly-veiled girlfriends. And only one of us was dying over it.

Either way, I bet tomorrow she texts me again.

6

Quinn read it over after finishing it. Somewhere these had stopped being simple semi-anonymous sexual play-by-plays, and started being pretty indicative of her feelings.

If one was perceptive enough.

She thought back to the last few entries of Volume I, and blushed. She thought about it in Brittany's hands.

She slumped in her chair.

"Why am I always fucked from all ways, man?"