Title: So Pretty in your Pain.
Author:
Rating: M/NC-18
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warnings: Statutory rape, violence, angst.
Summary: When Santana Lopez accuses William Schuester of rape, she splits the Glee club in half. Only the two people involved know what really happened that night. But what happens when Santana can't quite recall the incidents that occurred on the night she decided to visit that bar? Who's side would you choose? Prompt Fill.
Notes: I cannot find the prompt, but when I do I will post it. I will put this in a few chapters, thought I'd split it up instead of posting it in its entirety. The prompt I am filling involves Santana being sexually assaulted by Will, and the reactions and beliefs of a Glee club divided.
Please Review.
The bar was a haze of cigarette smoke and pissy cologne. There were dozens of people crowded around on barstools, men and women casually flirting with the object of their drunken affections. She maneuvered like a regular, walking up to the end of the bar and stealing a seat from the unsteady blonde making her way to the bathroom. She threw a curt nod at the bartender, the muscle head grinning at her before asking for I.D. She smirked, handing over the fake she'd bought from one of the delinquents near the Seven Eleven. The bartender threw it back at her, and poured her a quick shot of tequila. She pounded a fifty on the tabletop and waved for him to keep it coming.
Fuck the world. Fuck Earth, fuck the inhabitants; fuck every single asshole in it. Fuck Puck for wanting to mate with that humpback whale Lauren, fuck Sam and his Navi speaking bullshit, fuck Artie and his pitiful nonfunctioning legs.
She took another shot, swallowing the taste with the burn.
She was the hottest piece of action in all of Lima, Ohio. And she couldn't even keep a dork like Sam Evans interested. If the last few weeks of her life were any indicator of how much fail she would experience, the next few would be the death of her. The geek dumped her via text message, bitching and moaning about being done with the lip jokes. It was the last straw and she was so over each and every one of those fuckers. Those losers. She was above all of them. She didn't need any of them.
She needed to pick up someone who would appreciate her.
Some sexy old man who can admire her for all that she is. Some rich older guy who's still kind of sexy and who would value her body; no questions asked. None of those stupid feelings Brittany tried to get her to talk about.
She took another shot.
Brittany. Brittany S. Pierce. Fuck her too. Fuck her and fuck being gay; fuck it all. She was crying now. Quietly, the bartender left the bottle next to her shot glass. She slapped her last fifty onto the bar top, throwing back the bottle and gulping a couple of mouthfuls.
Fuck money. How she got home would be someone else's problem tonight.
She sniffed. Fuck it all.
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He walked to the bar. He walked the four blocks from his apartment complex to the hole in the wall on the main street of his neighborhood; with a pocket full of cash and a little bit of hope. He needed to get out of his head for a while. Holly Holiday had blew through his life like a tornado. She led him on and teased him all the way to the breakup they had earlier that day. She called him when he was sitting at his desk before school, and told him that she was heading to Columbus. The quick, "It was fun" didn't register until his third period class. He sulked for the rest of the day, the bitter pull in his chest only hurting when he came across something that reminded him of her.
He told himself to cheer up by the time he got home from school. He convinced himself that he'd find someone and tried to smile through his microwave dinner and episode of Seinfeld. When Emma called after the third commercial, he was shocked. She called to talk about her problems, and came to the conclusion that she would fix her marriage. That was the punch to his gut. After riding around in his car, listening to alternative rock, he pulled back into his space, and decided to go have a little fun.
Maybe he'd bring someone home.
The bar was crowded for a Thursday night, but then again—he didn't frequent this bar enough to know that. He walked up to the bartender at the front of the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey and a bottle of Pilsner. He downed his shot and let the buzzing hum of the crowd lull his nerves.
Screw this. He was the good guy and he constantly got played. They strung him along and lied to him. He was done with the nice guy attitude. He was going to be a 'hit it and quit it' type of guy from now on. Find some hot little spring breaker looking for a quick fling. He never had the chance in his life to live like a bachelor.
He ordered another shot.
There was a commotion coming from the other end of the bar. A throng of people were catcalling and hooting at a couple making out. He leaned on his heels to catch a glimpse. At least someone was getting laid tonight. He smirked at the couple at the other end of the bar, the girl with the jet black hair seeming oddly familiar. He slowly approached the scene, realizing almost immediately who the girl was.
"Santana?"
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How she heard her name over the group of people in the noisy bar, she'll never know. But she pushed away the freakishly muscular and hairy guy she'd been kissing to see who was addressing her. She swiveled around on her stool, almost cackling when she came face to face with her Spanish teacher.
"Shue! Que pasa!"
She slapped the tops of her thighs and stood drunkenly from her seat. He put his hand on the small of her back and maneuvered her toward the bathroom.
"No me toques—"she shrugged away from him, straightening her jean jacket. ""-gosh, no need to get handsy!"
He closed the bathroom door behind them.
"Santana, what are you doing here?"
She was trying to shoulder her small purse, her low eyes adjusting to take in his stance.
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
He rolled his eyes.
"Something illegal, I bet. How'd you get past the bartender?"
She smirked at him.
"You don't have to worry about that…Will. Let me go back to what I was doing…minding my own business."
She started to wobble away, but was abruptly stopped by his firm grip on her elbow.
"I'm not letting you stay here Santana. You're underage. And we had a pact, you signed a contract."
She laughed.
"What are you going to do? Sue me?"
"No—I'm taking you home."
She scoffed.
"Whatever. I didn't call your wino taxi service, now move outs my way."
She stared at him for a moment, before he spoke again.
"Santana I will seriously call the police. Now do you want to get everyone in here fined and you written up? I'm sure you would rather your parents didn't find out about this."
He stared at her for that extra second too long, before she finally crossed her arms and huffed her way to the exit. He followed her to the parking lot.
"Well, where's your car?"
"I didn't drive." He slurred for the first time that night.
The cold air disoriented him momentarily. He straightened his jacket and stood straighter.
"Are you drunk? Psst. It figures."
She held out her empty palm, nodding toward him.
" Well. Call me a cab. I'm out of cash."
He smirked at her, rolling his eyes and pushing his jacket behind him; reaching for his wallet. He fingered the small bills, remembering that Santana would probably have to ride all the way out to Lima Heights. He didn't bring out as much as he thought he did.
"I don't have that much on me…come on, you can sleep it off at my place. It's only a few blocks down. I'll drop you off at school tomorrow?"
She rolled her eyes.
"I'm not coming to your place; that's lame. I'll just go back inside. I'll find my way home. Trust."
She swiveled on her heel before getting tossed over a shoulder.
"You're not going back inside. And don't throw up down my back."
She crossed her arms and let him march her down four dark blocks to his apartment. By the time he set her down on his couch she was dizzy enough to just sit still and pass out. When he was sure she was sleeping, he picked up her purse and rooted through it, tucking her fake I.D. into his back pocket.
He left her there. On his couch. And went back to the bar.
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He walked home alone from the bar. The woman he had talked to for the last three hours wound up going home with some random biker; a belly full of beer in her stomach that he paid for. He took his time dragging his legs to his apartment complex, throwing his keys on the table by the door and kicking off his shoes. He went right to the refrigerator, fingered a six pack and went to sit on the couch. The living room was empty. He knocked back his first beer, guessing that Santana went home.
The night out hadn't done anything for his sour mood. He was tired of playing it straight all the time and getting burned the most. He was tired of being the guy everyone came to for all their problems. He wanted to be the guy who got the girl; what was wrong with him? He was trashed now. The last beer sent him tumbling further into inebriation. He was angry. He was fed up. He was done with all of it. He was finished feeling like he was worthless, he was tired of being used and played with.
He put the empty bottle on the table.
The toilet flushed. A flustered Santana wandered out of the bathroom, tugging the edges of her skin tight striped dress. She plopped down on his couch next to him, snatching one of the beers from the box in front of her. She put her bare feet on his coffee table and twisted off the cap- chugging back one of his beers. He snatched it from her.
"Didn't you have enough already?"
She snatched the beer bottle back, smiling around the rim, swallowing good amounts of brew before speaking. "Says who?" He snatched at the bottle again, missing at first before grabbing it out of her hand. He stood on shaky legs, his expression serious. "The law, Santana! You're not allowed to drink. And besides, what happened to our pact, no drinking til after Nationals." He was slurring slightly, the sounds his words were mocking the serious tone he was trying to set. She was walking toward where he was standing, circling the small space around the coffee table. She came behind him and plucked the beer from his hand. "Don't give me the crap, Mr. Schue. And didn't you agree to that same shit? You're just as wrong as I am-"
She puckered her lips around the opening of the bottle and took another hefty swig. He walked around the coffee table with as much agility he could muster. He dragged the bottle from her hand and pushed it as far as he could behind their bodies. "You're sixteen, Santana, that's why it's wrong. You don't know what could've happened in that bar!" She rolled her eyes lazily, moving to grab at the box on the table. He picked it up quickly, tossing it to the other side of the room; the crash a cacophony of tension as she squared her shoulders and crossed her arms.
She wasn't smiling anymore. And he was suddenly sober; and furious.
"Oh whatever. I'm not a little kid, Schue." He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in erratic rhythms. She edged backwards, standing firm in her spot in front of the couch. They were separated by the girth of the coffee table, both of their upper halves leaning over it. "You could have gotten raped, Santana! Anything could have happened!" Santana scoffed. "Oh like what? Some pervy old man would have had his way with me?" He rolled his eyes at her. His fists were balled at his sides now, tight and red against his anger. "Well I'm sure it would've been easy the way you were throwing yourself around!"
She leaned forward to point her index finger into his chest.
"Oh Please, Schue. You came there looking to catch exactly what I was throwing around! I'm a pro. I mean look- I wound up in some pervy old guys apartment anyway."
He pushed her away violently; she stumbled and fell onto the couch, half-frowning at him. She stood again, making sure not to get too close to him. "I. Was. Not. And besides, Santana; you're sixteen! You're still a kid!" She smirked at him. "You're so full of shit! You parade around like you're holier than thou! I see how you look at me; you definitely don't look at me like I'm a kid!"
She was punctuating her sentences with her finger, digging it annoyingly into his chest.
"Why are you only concerned with what people think of your body, Santana? I'm sure there is so much more to you than that." He wasn't slurring as much, but there was still a lisp in his voice. His chest was rising and falling in roars, and he was grinding his teeth. Why didn't she get it? Why was she laughing in his face when he was only trying to help her? His anger was building, he'd been slightly annoyed before; but she was pushing him closer and closer to his breaking point. She was just like the others. She stopped poking him in the chest long enough to back out of his personal space.
"You're so stupid for a grown-up. I like sex, Schue, there's nothing wrong with that. Stop making everything so after school special. I can handle myself with any man—" "Why are you such a whore, Santana? Most importantly—what happened to you that made you such a… a bitch?" She took a step back, bumping into the couch behind her; affronted. The hurt on her face was like a flash across her features, he could see her slowly build back her bravado. He almost felt sorry for saying what he said, he reached out, his head shaking in hesitant regret. She recoiled. "Don't touch me! Are you really that dense? You must be since you're actively pursuing the virgin bride." He whipped his hand back to his side, the concern gone from his face. This was what he was talking about. He was tired of getting all of the bullshit thrown in his face. He was tired of being criticized, he was sick of being called a joke. He was so done with going out of his way for women- only to have every little thing picked at. He was breathing erratically all of a sudden, and his words were crisp. "Take that back, Santana."
She straightened her shoulders.
"Whatever, Schue, I'm tired of you playing therapist when your life is so shitty. I mean you couldn't even get laid by Holly Holiday. Like that's hilarious. She's a grade A slut, and you couldn't even seal the deal…" He was clenching his fists at his sides, his mouth tight around his stressed jaw. "Shut up!" She flinched, but she didn't back down. He felt the alcohol coursing through his veins like blood, pumping his anger like adrenaline.
"What is it? Couldn't get it up? Is it little? Is that why you couldn't get your wife pregnant? Quinn told me how she was going to sell her baby to Terri…" She was gritting through her teeth, her jaw set like she'd settled on saying the words even though she knew she should bite her tongue. She was mocking him from every possible angle. He could only see red, his hand reaching out fast to backhand her across the face.
"I said shut up."
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