Author's Note: I am sure I have gone certifiably insane. If anybody sees my sanity, please let me know.
Anyways... I wanted to do a Finchel fiction... and out of the insane depths of my imagination, this is what happened. Please bear with me through this chapter-it was so fun to write but I'm not sure what your reception will be, so please let me know.
Also, I really hate the title. And I don't know what to do with it, so if you have any suggestions, please let me know.
Summary: All Rachel wants to do is survive college and become a star, but now she's living in a messed up fairy tale with seven, socially inept boys, who are proving to be quite the distraction. Finchel, Klaine AU
Warnings: sexual content, language, possible self-harm, abuse, attempted rape
Rating: M (to be safe)
Genre: Romance/Humor/Drama
Pairings: Finn/Rachel (Finchel), Kurt/Blaine (Klaine), Tina/Mike (Tike), Quinn/Puck (Quick), and so on and so forth as my wicked mind plots away
Crackedly Ever After
(as I have mentioned above, I absolutely hate this title, so please let me know if you have any suggestions)
Chapter One
of inconsiderate roommates and sympathetic gay friends
Rachel Berry is having an incredibly bad day.
It starts out with the incredibly loud pounding and moaning that wakes her up from her much-needed beauty sleep. Classes are just about to start, and Rachel needs to rest up as much as possible before the start of the caffeine-induced all-nighters to finish term papers and to cram for tests. Plus, who on earth is so inconsiderate to wake her up and disturb her sleep to have sex at freaking six in the morning? Did they even sleepat all? Can't they just cool their hormones for one second rather than working themselves into some crazy, sex-filled frenzy at ungodly, truly unreasonable hours?
Rachel harmuphs into her sheets, burying her small face underneath her pillow, her glossy brown hair flying up around her, as she tries as hard to ignore the pounding from the room next to her.
Thud.
"Oh, God, yes!"
Thud
"More, more, please!"
Thud
"Harder!"
The yelps and moans and screams are punctuated with thuds of the bedpost meeting the wall. Rachel curls up in disgust, under her sheets. She puts up with the moans for thirty more seconds until there's a rather throaty shriek, and she has had it.
"Santana!" Rachel screams, jumping up from her bed. "Santana!" She knocks, hard, on her stupid, inconsiderate (and perpetually hormonal) roommate's closed door (that has a lacy bra on the doorknob, a request for privacy, of course, though Rachel has always thought that people generally use a hat or a sock. Oh well, Santana, has always been an exception).
There's quiet for about five seconds, and Rachel breathes out a sigh of relief, readying herself to return to her room and sleep for another few, much-desired hours. Maybe they're going to stop.
Thud
Oh hell no.
"Santana Lopez!" Rachel's shriek is shrilly and indignant. "Santana Lopez, you get out of there right now! I saw that boy of yours and there is no way he has that much stamina!"
Silence again.
Rachel readies herself for another thud, gearing herself up to kick in Santana's door if that's what it takes (though she hopes to God that that's not what it takes because she's not sure she's strong enough to accomplish such a feat without breaking her own foot). But there are no more sex noises and no more thuds so Rachel walks, indignantly, back to her bedroom and crawls back under the covers. Several minutes later, she's about to drift back into her much-desired slumber, when—
Thud.
Oh yes, this morning is far from peachy.
Three hours later, Rachel rouses her sore, fatigued body from under the sheets. She contemplates, for several seconds, just spending the rest of the year hiding under her covers and never emerging. Maybe she can become a hermit. Or maybe, instead of Broadway, she can earn her fame in the Guinness World Record Book as the girl who has lived in her own bed, refusing to move, for one hundred years.
These aspirations are short-lived and her day dreams are burst by several realizations: a) she has to pee so badly, she's pretty sure if she doesn't move, her bladder will burst, b) her stomach is growling, and she's hungry, and she's not sure who would feed her if she made her bed her permanent residence, c) she truly loves Broadway too much to give it up—even for the comfort of her bed, d) who on Earth will ever consider marrying her if she becomes a hermit and grows bushes of armpit and leg hair and never brushes her teeth?, and e) the thudding has stopped, so perhaps it is a good idea to get the hell out of her apartment before it starts up again.
Rachel decides to take care of first things first, and runs to the bathroom. After she's done using the toilet, she looks at herself in the mirror, studying her reflection. Big, brown eyes framed by long lashes, shiny chocolate hair, a rather big nose, but full lips. Yes, she is a rising star, alright (forget the fact that her pajamas are candy pink and there are white and lime green kittens patterned all over them). One day her name is going to be in the lights and all over New York and she will have her own glorious, upscale apartment without any selfish, horny roommates.
She ties her hair up into a ponytail and begins her morning routine with washing her face. Generally, this step is followed by her brushing her teeth and applying her makeup and practicing breathing exercises, but those steps are completely forgotten when she hears—oh God, is that panting?—coming from behind the shower curtain.
They're still at it? And in the shower that Santana and Rachel share?
This is not okay.
She stands in the bathroom, thinking through several courses of actions: a) she can just leave and wait until Santana and her boy toy finish, b) she can start screaming and throwing a tantrum like a five-year old, c) she can start crying and bemoaning her terrible, horrible misfortune, or d) she can maturely and calmly tell them to stop.
What actually happens is none of these things. What Rachel is planning to do is to go with plan d, but as she walks over to the shower curtain to say, clearly and firmly (as her two gay dads have taught her to speak when she's going into battle), "Santana, I would appreciate it if you would stop now," she slips on some water that has leaked out of the bathtub. Naturally, Rachel branches out her hand to break her fall, but this only results in her grabbing the shower curtain and slipping to land right on her ass. To add to the humiliation of her fall, her drenched pajama bottoms on the cold bathroom tile, the shower curtain rips to reveal a very pissed off, wet, and naked Santana Lopez and Boy-Whose-Name-Rachel-Can't-Remember in the middle of a very, graphic act that would not be appropriate for children of any age.
"Berry! What the hell is your problem?" comes Santana's bitch hiss, and though Rachel is not the one who is wrong, inconsiderate, and sex-crazed in this certain situation by any means, the way Santana's boy is glaring at her is unnerving and makes her uncomfortable.
Rachel chooses not to answer her sadistic roommate's question (besides, the question was most likely rhetorical, anyways), and instead, lets go of the shower curtain, stands up (and almost slipping again in the process), and scraps up the remains of her dignity to leave the restroom.
Well, as much dignity as a girl wearing a matching set of pink pajamas covered with cats can muster.
Rachel sits, fully dressed and prepared to start the day, at the kitchen table. She knows she has a breakfast date with Kurt at Starbucks in half an hour, but some pressing matters have arisen in the last four hours that she feels the need to address.
About fifteen minutes later, Santana flounces out, looking like the epitome of sex, and wearing nothing but a lacy, black bra and a pair of sweatpants. Her hair is dripping from her shower, and she kisses Boy-Whose-Name-Rachel-Can't-Remember (whose hair is also dripping) on the lips and wave, sending him out of the apartment with a wink. It's only after the boy has left and she's closed the door that Santana turns on Rachel, eyes venomous.
"Berry! What the fuck was that?" Santana's lips are pursed, her eyebrows curved downward, her eyes threatening.
Every single protest and argument Rachel had plotted out and planned in her mind dies out, right there, in her throat as she looks at her roommate—and her ex-best friend—in fear. Her lips fail to utter her rational, composed reply of, "Santana, in our roommate contract, we agreed to be civil and respectful of one another's privacy, space, and work. We agreed to let each other know when we would be bringing guests over. And I know that we are friends and I understand you have your urges, and I think as a friend, you should understand that I need sleep and it would only be reasonable to go to his place if you're going to have sex all night long," and instead, she just manages to squeak, "Santana, I don't think there's any need for coarse language."
"Fuck you," Santana snaps, flipping her wet hair behind her back. She crosses her arms across her lace-clad boobs. "Rachel, just calm your tits, okay?"
Rachel isn't quite sure what that expression has to do with anything, and if anyone has a right to not be calm, it's her, but she shuts her mouth because she doesn't want to piss off Santana any more than necessary. Though she's never seen them, the word on the street is that Santana keeps razor blades in her hair, and Rachel would rather not be the first person to find out if this rumor bears any truth.
Santana sits down now, in the chair across from Rachel, her lips pursed before she sighs exasperatedly, eyes softening, and lays a hand on top of Rachel's.
"Look, Rach," she starts, "I know we're friends and all, but... I don't think this roommate thing is working out."
Rachel can hardly breathe. She can't believe her good luck. Santana is on the same page! They can't destroy their friendship over some stupid boy and sex, and Santana understands so she's going to offer to move out and Rachel will find some new, sweet roommate who doesn't have sex at obscene hours and who is considerate and will understand Rachel's need for an audience and appreciation and constant compliments to build her self-esteem and self-worth for her rise to stardom! But wait, Santana's still talking and it doesn't seem that she's saying what Rachel thought she was—
"Rachel, I think you and I both know what this means. You need to move out."
Wait. This is not what Rachel was thinking at all.
Which brings her to now.
Currently, Rachel is sitting across from her sympathetic best friend—well gay best friend—Kurt Hummel, her voice still shrilly and disgruntled.
"Can you believe the audacity of that girl?" Rachel asks, her eyes searching for sympathy, as she waves her hands frantically around in the air. The waving doesn't really do anything, but it makes her feel better.
"Rachel, she's your best friend," Kurt says calmly, after taking a sip of his coffee. He breaks part of his biscotti and dips it into his coffee before popping it into his mouth, and studies Rachel with his clear green-blue eyes.
"Not anymore!" Rachel spits out, obviously still bitter about the unfortunate circumstances that graced her this morning. "Best friends do not bring stinky, sweaty boys home to have sex with them for hours at a time without any consideration for their best friend; best friends do not ignore their best friends' feelings and requests for just a minute of silence, and best friends do not tell their best friends to move out and find a place for themselves." She rips a piece off of her croissant and shoves it into her mouth angrily, her eyes still shining venomously.
"Rachel, you knew things were going to change once she got her boob job," Kurt says practically, running his hand through his chestnut-colored hair, "the things are watermelons popping out of her shirt! With her rack, she practically rivals Katy Perry and I've heard that Victoria's Secret tried to scout her as a model—you can't blame the boys for noticing and for her liking the attention. Just because you don't have the same goods," he gestures at Rachel's small darts of breasts which are covered by a grey sweater with a black cat wearing a white bow, "doesn't mean that Santana is going to slow down to wait for you to catch up."
This conversation is not going the way Rachel wants it to at all.
"Kurt!" she whines sharply, slamming her coffee cup down on the table. Some drips dribble out of the lid as she crosses her arms protectively against her small chest. "Can't you just be a good friend and pretend you sympathize with me and my plight in the slightest?"
"Well, I actually do," Kurt studies his fingernails before meeting Rachel's eyes. "I understand your desolation and your dire circumstances. Blaine and I have had roommate problems as well."
"I thought you were getting a house?" Rachel asks, her eyebrows lifting skeptically. "Don't you already have all the guys you're living with?"
"Wes—you know him, Blaine's friend, the Asian guy with the short hair—cancelled on us. Very last minute." Kurt hums in disapproval, shaking his head. "So now we're one boarder short and if we don't get another one, everybody's fee is going to increase by two hundred and they're not going to be happy about it, which means that I'll have to hear about it and Blaine will be even more stressed and upset than usual."
Rachel's eyes soften in pity and she bites her lip slightly. "Can't you just put up an ad somewhere?"
"Oh, if only," Kurt answers wistfully, "that would be so easy. But we can't just do that because I go through an extensive interview process with all of my prospective housemates; we can't just choose anybody. It's very important to Blaine, and to me, that our housemates are supporters. You know how the world is not full of people who are willing to see two boys kiss and not visibly flinch like they're seeing a kitten being strangled."
Rachel contemplates this last fact. Kurt's right, she knows. Having two fathers herself, she knows about the prejudices and injustice of the world (on a much larger scale than her skank of a roommate/best friend, no make that ex-best friend).
"But every one else?" she says, trying to lighten the mood. "You have every one else?"
"Yes," Kurt says, "seven of us have signed on, but we need one more to make it an even eight people to fill the house. And since Wes bailed on us, we don't have eight and the company won't let us sign the lease—unless we're willing to all pay more, but we're not. Ugh," he mutters, "things are so complicated."
"...And the alternative of this house is?" Rachel asks carefully, knowing that she's treading on dangerous territory.
"The alternative to getting this house is to live in regular college housing with homophobic jocks who will make my life—and Blaine's—a living hell," Kurt wails miserably, now kneading his head with his hands. His face visibly pales at the thought, "you saw how it was last year!"
"Kurt," Rachel replies calmly, "I am quite sure that the fact that you were placed with that big hairy Neanderthal, Karofsky, and the fact that Blaine was placed with that ultra-conservative Christian who blatantly tried to convince Blaine that he was straight all year was just a fluke and I am certain that after all of the conflicts you and Blaine caused and the complaints that you two filed will ensure that the college will not room you two with incompatible people again."
"But you don't know that!" Kurt looks visibly sicker by the second, and Rachel is beginning to wonder if there was something bad in his coffee. He looks like he's about to vomit. "You should have seen the application process that I made the boys go through. A quarter of the question list on cleanliness, sleeping habits, the regular college stuff, and then three quarters of it were on how they would react to two boys holding hands, kissing, making out, engaging in sexual inter—"
"Please stop," Rachel interrupts, "I get the idea, Kurt. I do not need to visually picture you and your boyfriend surrendering to your hormones."
"Ngh." Kurt makes an indistinguishable noise and nearly starts banging his head on the coffee table.
Rachel fights the urge to roll her eyes. And they say she's over-dramatic.
Rachel taps her fingers against the table. "Well you only have to find one more boy. And if you've found seven, I'm sure it won't be a problem. At least you have a decent place to live! If I'm trying to find a place this late, since Santana decided she wanted to use our apartment as a playpen to fulfill all of her sexual fantasies, I don't even know where to start looking and I'll probably have to live somewhere very far off-campus and I'll get mugged some dark night walking back," she sighs, just picturing her dark fate. She then proceeds to make a noise very similar to Kurt's noise and hides her face in her hands.
There's a silence as the two friends sit with woe is me expressions filling their faces. The coffee barista looks a little concerned.
"Wait!" Kurt's voice suddenly breaks the quiet, and Rachel looks up at him. His blue eyes are bright with a new vitality and his face has lit up like a lightbulb has gone off. "I have an idea!"
Rachel doesn't think she likes the idea of where this is going. She starts processing the many, wild ideas that Kurt could possibly have and her mind lands on one. Oh no...
But her wicked friend continues, delight riding every one of his features.
"Rachel, how would you like to play Snow White?"
Author's Note: And end. I hope you understand where this story is going. I decided to make Santana and Rachel-a very unlikely pair-best friends and roommates, so opinions on that? And Kurtchel friendship is too cute to deny! Anyway, if you would like this to be updated and the introduction of the boys and Finchel fluff and Klaine hysteria, please kindly leave me a review and your opinions.
By the way, these are some of the titles for this story I entertained-
Crappily Ever After
Rachel Berry and the Seven, Socially Inept College Boys (yes, I know... not good)
Ho White and the Seven Whores (but then I just realized I was being clever and not relating to the story in the slightest... because if the boys are socially retarded, how can they be whores and how can Rachel be a ho if she wears kitty cat sweaters?)
But anyways, this story is going to be an extremely cracked up version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Honestly, I should get more sleep.
Review please?
-strawberryfinn
