Being the overexcited person I am, I uploaded the unedited chapter to make haste on my update. Shame on me. Here is this corrected chapter.
Jessica.
Author's Notes: Graphic scenes in this chapter, if you're not mature enough to read it—don't. This is also a Romance, so please excuse my sappiness. There are also violent depictions of abuse in this chapter. SKIP if this disturbs you. I am editing these chapters to include the insight to Jewish culture and mistakes that have been brought to my attention. I will most likely upload these chapters over after I finish this story.
Rated: M
He was suddenly hot. His sheets tangling around his torso as he settles on his back, arms outstretched behind his head. He couldn't sleep. He knew why. Berry. She invaded his private thoughts on a regular basis. It started sometime after their quick week together. She was so…magnetic. He listened to her talk just to spend more time around her. He'd go up to her at Temple and just carry out conversations about absolutely nothing just to hear her nervous giggle. Her smile, her lips; that hair…those eyes—were all so alluring without the tiniest ounce of effort. His left hand deftly trailed to the opening of his boxer shorts. He started pulling, tugging at his groin smirking at the irony of only wearing boxers to sleep.
He cleared his throat.
Rachel. Rachel Berry (*). She was the embodiment of innocent modesty; insecure confidence. So determined, he started listening to what she had to say. He found himself staring casually in her direction and he started noticing when she wasn't there…especially when he knew she should have been. He had one other crush ever, Quinn, and he'd taken the biggest risk of his life just for a shot of being with someone he was actually interested in.
Women were a sport, at first. Jackie, by the pool; she liked her dress tucked up around her waist when he took her from behind. Miss Patrice liked him to bite her every where, she loved it when he broke skin.
He is stroking the length of himself in rehearsed rhythm. He squeezes the head of his penis, rotating his wrist and falling back down to the base of his shaft. Relax, repeat, redo.
Mrs. Thompson liked to ride him. She'd grind her hips down in little circles, rising on her knees and squeezing while she slid down his erection, to the hilt. She would tease him to the brink of orgasm and stop. If he orgasms, she'd slap him. They'd start again. Mrs. Karofsky liked to be pampered. She was a tiny woman in a house full of men. They never just fucked; he'd take his time with her.
He was rounding his orgasm, his train of thought returning to course. He slowed his expert hand to a steady stroke, light—teasing.
When Quinn called him that night, he almost talked himself out of it. It was code. Never mess with a Bro's girl—period. He was head over heels for Quinn since fourth grade. She was so sincere then. He liked to make her laugh and spend time with her. Then they went to junior high. He was the badass, the rebel. She was the goodie-too-shoes; the cheerleader. They never crossed paths. Finn didn't even know that he'd liked her when they got to high school. So when she called him that night drunk, he hoped she remembered what they used to be like. Back when he didn't have a reputation to uphold. He thought it would be special. It was a mistake.
He stops his ministrations, resting his palm on the flat of his abdomen.
She made him feel so guilty afterward, and things went the way they always did in his life. He was angry, he was hurt. And he went back to playing games and meaningless sex, because love was for pussies, and he was nopussy. And then, Rachel came. She was always lifting him up when he felt so…lost. People assumed so much of him, and never did they assume he could do something positive with his life, that he loved his family, and that he cared about the direction his life was taking. Rachel kept trying. She was persistent; relentless. She always looked at him like she knew what he was going through. That's when he started respecting her. He started looking out for her. She did so much for him. And she didn't even know it. So he kept up appearances. Stealing glances in her direction and hiding glimpses of key moments in his memory for later. He's been so enveloped in her world lately. It was driving him crazy. He smelled her scent when he sat on her bed. He always remembered the make out session they had there. On her bed, he sat her on the computer desk and stood between her legs, kissing her—those lips; she never let him left her shirt, though.
His hand suddenly returns to his erection, he spits, stroking it rigidly with the pads of his curled palms. He hadn't had sex in almost two months. He pinched his right nipple, rolling the bud between his fingertips, keeping rhythm, filling his bedroom with the sounds of his hand pounding moist flesh.
He had thought about her that way for a long time. She was so…untouched, it made him hot. He wanted to explore her sexuality with her. He knew she'd be so…intense. It's not the only thoughts he's had of her. He thought about cuddling up next to her and falling asleep in the side of her neck, his arm outstretched acutely under her head for support. He thought about the conversations they'd have after sex, waking up next to her in the morning. He was not a pussy-
He clears his thoughts.
He always wanted to taste her. He didn't do that for just any girl…but he knew he'd enjoy it if she let him.
He licks his lips.
His hand is moving quickly. He uncurls his palm, pinpointing the middle of his shaft with his thumb and on the opposite side, his forefinger and pointer. He applies pressure at the tip, and furiously strokes to the bottom of his shaft. He's so close. He needs release—he tenses, closing his eyes tight as he pictures her mouth around his girth…swallowing him to the balls—and he orgasms; he tries to muffle the name that escapes as wipes away his seamen with his boxer shorts.
He sleeps.
TOMORROW
She was on edge. Alan had been so…nice lately that it was making her nervous that he would lash out on her at any moment. Daddy had been gone for three days. They'd been in the house all day together, it was Saturday. He dropped her off to school on Thursday morning, took her to a play Friday night and Saturday he treated her to breakfast. It was so normal, that she was sure something bad would happen soon. Noah came over at seven that night, claiming he had nothing better to do on a weekend, and started his homework at the dining room table. They ordered dinner that night, setting up pizza boxes and her vegetarian wrap on the opposite end of Noah's homework. She was terrified when Alan had invited him to stay over to eat, and she was even more uneasy than she had been.
"So, Noah, how does this catch up assignment work?"
Noah was trying hard to swallow his pizza. He pushed the bulk of it to one side to speak.
"Well, my teacher collects all the homework weekly. If you choose to get it marked and fix the problems that you got wrong, you'll get a half point for each whole point-you know, for effort. If you want to, you know, slack off and just turn it all in at the end of the quarter, she'll grade it as a packet but you'll get all the points deducted without getting a chance to correct them. And you got to show like all the work in the problem."
Alan nodded. Rachel chewed her wrap slowly, too wrapped up in her thoughts to really pay attention.
"Do most of the kids cheat?"
"Not really, most of the kids in the class don't do the homework early. The other ones just drop it in her mailbox, and she hands it back with the weekly test. So you really don't know who does the homework."
"I see. So how do you know Rachel does her homework?"
Noah smirked
"Who doesn't know Rachel does her homework early? She always talks about being prepared and all that."
Noah swallowed. Alan laughed, snapping Rachel out of her revere. She hadn't heard him laugh in a long time. She swallowed. The phone rang.
"Answer that, Ray."
She got up, picking the phone up and greeting whoever it was on the other line.
"Hello, Berry residence."
"Yes, is Alan in?"
"He is, may I ask who's speaking?"
"Tabitha Rhodes, I'm his gay conversion counselor."
"Oh. Hold please."
She took the wireless handset to her father.
"It's Tabitha, your conversion counselor?"
She furrowed her brow. Alan stared at the phone for what seemed like and hour. He stood, dried his hands, and abruptly snatched the phone from her, walking to the kitchen and speaking in hushed tones.
Noah stood then, wiping the grease from his pizza on the back of his hand. It was getting late. She was sure he felt the tension.
"Hey, I'm going to get going. Tomorrow, same time?"
She nodded her head, following him to the door after he'd gathered his homework. She watched him get in his truck, start the ignition, and pull out of the driveway. She locked the door, and went to clear off the table.
NOAH.
He drove around her neighborhood three times, trying to decide if he should call her cell phone. Was that the reason she was so quiet all the time now? Her dads must have been fighting a lot. That would explain it. It made sense that she wanted to get away, going to Temple when she had no where else to go. It was the reason he was there. He was tired of his mother being so sad, working so much. He went to Temple when he needed to think; when he needed to run away from her crying. Maybe that was it. She just needed someone to talk to.
He'd heard of gay conversion counselors. They zapped your brain with electrodes and showed you pictures of naked ladies so you'd be straight. Maybe her pops didn't want to be gay anymore. He could understand needing women. Maybe Rachel was just bummed that she'd have to be another kid in a single parent household. Her dads were an abnormal family-being gay and all- but they were a two parent household, an anomaly in itself.
He was only fifteen minutes away. But it was getting late. He pulled over and texted her. He waited impatiently for her reply
RACHEL.
She caught him whispering into the receiver about the audacity of calling his home number. He was irate. He hadn't noticed her in the kitchen until she was on her way out, her back turned to him.
"Rachel." She turned around, stone faced and quiet, waiting for words that she was sure would follow.
"…This is none of your business."
She nodded her head.
"I have no stake in this marriage." He fingered imaginary quotation marks around the last word.
He moved closer to her.
"I am going to move on with my life and I will have nothing. I gave up everything I had and every cent I've ever earned to this family. And I will not move on with my life with nothing, when I've worked so hard for so long to keep up these appearances."
He was inches away.
"So you're leaving Daddy?" Her voice was quiet, vulnerable.
"Are you judging me? Your Daddy left a long time ago. Your Daddy can do no wrong, can he? Because your Daddy is sooo perfect. You're Daddy didn't raise you, child—I did- while you're Daddy was off being a faggot!"
She slapped him. Before she could react and before she could apologize, the back of his hand met with her cheek and she recoiled, falling on elbows and heels as she scurried on the floor, backwards, toward the kitchen door.
He followed.
"Your Daddy, me—we don't make a family! Rachel, we can't make a family! I've never wanted this family. We were happy before you happened; we were perfectly fine before he wanted you!"
He kicked her. Hard.
"Do you know how it feels to know that you aren't good enough? To know that being gay won't hold you together? Do you know how it feels to waste your entire life on someone else? I'm not going to be gay anymore, Ray, you can have your Daddy."
The last word slipped off the tip of his tongue like venom. She felt him spit over her, stepping over her to grab her by her hair. He gripped it in knot, tugging her toward the steps, her hands coming to wrap around his wrists; she didn't want him to pull her hair out. She pushed up stairs as he wretched her up the staircase, her thigh rubbing the carpet as he dragged her upward, her hip, she was sure, darkening in color.
They made it to the top of the landing that way, and he gripped her up by her elbow, dragging her toward her bedroom. He pulled off her shirt, he was scratching at her sides, his fingernails digging like claws into her ribcage. He pushed her hands above her head, slapping her when she began thrashing from side to side. Her lip was bleeding. All she heard next was a belt buckle; a zipper.
"I was never your father, and I am not gay."
NOAH
He pulled up to her block twenty minutes later, finally deciding to make sure she was okay since his gut wouldn't leave him alone. He parked a few houses down and walked up to her door. Her lights were still on. It was only eleven, he thought. He backed into her driveway, looking for any shadows against her lit bedroom window. At first there were none.
And soon he saw flailing arms and bulky silhouettes. Then he heard it; a slap. He ran up to the front door, pushing against it without it budging. He turned the knob, hoping she hadn't locked it when he left. She did. He ran to the backyard, happy when the door opened without force.
He ran upstairs three steps at a time, arriving at her open bedroom door. He was on top of her, one of his dark hands cupping her mouth, muffling her sobs. The other held her wrists over her head, easily twisted in his massive palms.
His pants around his knees.
Noah lunged, snatching him away from her in fluid motion. Pummeling him as hard as he possibly could, punching so hard that his head began to bob against the thick of the floor. So consistent that Alan didn't have time to protect his soft spots; broken nose, split lip—black eye. He didn't stop. Someone was shaking his shoulders.
"Noah! He's unconscious. Noah stop!"
He turned to look at her. Her bruised lip, her skirt twisted backwards; her missing shirt and purple skin. He stood and cupped her swollen cheeks.
"Did he? Are you? Rachel?"
She shook her head no. He pulled off his short sleeved button up, wrapping it around her and buttoning it up to the top, her arms still cradling her bruised rib cage.
"Let's call he cops."
End of Chapter.
