This seemed to come out petty quickly. Must be you guys inspiring me ;) Thanks for that. Not a terribly long chapter but I'm hoping that you will get some enjoyment out it anyway :) My apologies if there are any errors.
The distant song that boomed from the upper deck of the yacht seeped down, baselessly, into the well-kept room – some technical, almost science-fiction-like, Dubstep track.
As Rachel parked herself at the foot of the large bed and waited for Quinn to stop whispering hushed profanities at the chair that she'd stubbed her toe on, she turned her lip up at what she could hear of the growling, gritty, constantly changing baseline.
She would never understand why her peers were into such music. It was sheer eardrum abuse. Chaos' signature sound.
Hopefully it wasn't a sign of things to come.
Nevertheless, she could and would ignore the offensive music, for there were more pressing matters at hand.
Her large doe eyes skated across the room to find a seemingly triumphant Quinn, who had just kicked over the chair that had offended her, and was now stood over it like a boss.
"What on God's green earth – you know what? It's fine. Just come and sit down please, Quinn."
The blonde folded her arms. Huffily. "I can talk from here," she mumbled.
Rachel snorted out a quiet bark of laughter. "I can assure you that I don't have anything contagious, save my sensible and glowing attitude. You are the one with the flu."
"If you wanna talk, talk!"
The aspiring Broadway star's smile slid down her face like oozing raw egg, replacing itself with a perplexed frown.
Upon walking into this room, had Quinn stepped into a different dimension?
"I never know which Quinn Fabray I'm going to get," Rachel confessed, lapping one of her legs over the other and dusting off her thigh. "I mean, granted you are intoxicated at the moment. But aside from that, it seems that you love to keep me guessing."
"It's because you get on my... you get on my nerves, all the time," Quinn quietly admitted, sniffing away the fog in her nose as she swayed on the spot.
"Besides the fact that I've often done my best to irritate you in the past, for the sake of my own personal amusement, why do I get on your nerves?"
"You're..." The cheerleader silenced herself; her mind flooded with all of the words that she could use to describe the shorter girl, each one less derogatory than the last, until finally the word came to mind. "You're strong... too strong, and I don't – it makes me feel – I don't like it."
A slow processing nod puppeteered Rachel's head, up and down. She clasped her hands in her lap. "Alright, so you think that I'm strong, and you don't like it," she clarified with herself, before regarding the blonde again. "Is that why you seem to think that you are attracted to me? – No, that's not what I mean entirely. What I'm asking is do you think that your sudden attraction to me stems from the old adage: if you can't beat them, then join them?"
It was a valid question, especially since the brunette knew the extent to which Quinn hated to be bested.
"No," Quinn drawled, continuously trying, and failing, to finger the hair that was tickling her cheek behind her ear.
Eventually she just sighed and let her hand flop back down to her side, enduring the tickle. "I do like that you're strong. It's – I like the challenge," she continued to slur wistfully. "But I don't like it too, 'cause it's not really a... a challenge; you hate me for real." She sighed one of those heavy drunken sighs. "And now I want another shot."
Rachel's eyebrows stooped in towards each other, conveying – along with the rest of her features – that she was immensely sympathetic. "I don't want you to think that. For the umpteenth time, I don't hate you," she gently stressed. "You have my word – and no more alcohol please."
"Ok," Quinn rather easily backed down.
Confusion tugged Rachel's eyebrows back up. "Ok?" she echoed, terribly unsure as to which part of her response the child-like blonde was agreeing to.
"Ok Rachel," Quinn corrected herself, clearing her throat.
Although a frown had taken to eating into her tan forehead, Rachel simply could not deny her insistent laughter; it lurched, full-lunged and reckless, from her throat, rolling through her chest and shoulders as she struggled to say: "That wasn't what I – I'm not a drill sergeant. You don't have to say my -"
"Yes Rachel!"
The tickled brunette tossed her arms up in the air, and then let them flop back down again, hopelessly mirthful.
What was she going to do with this girl?
As of that moment, she had adamantly made up her mind. She wanted a Drunk-Quinn action figure, complete with the blue bikini, and a string that one could pull in order to hear adorable side-splitting catchphrases.
Still chuckling to herself, the brunette began to tap her own chin, pondering the how and the when. Maybe she could get one manufactured once her Broadway career had taken off...
Either way, she just knew that she wanted to remember this random and ridiculously hilarious moment for as long as she lived, if not for anything else other than so that she could chortle at a catchphrase or two whenever she was feeling down.
She'd intended to ask the blonde about how she was coping with Finn's disappearance, but the energy that currently ruled the space between them didn't seem as though it would be conducive to such a serious and probing question.
"Stop laughing at me," Quinn suddenly huffed, dropping down to the floor like an empty suit of armor. She pulled both of her creamy knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, peering over her kneecaps at the brunette, who had now stood up to bat the wrinkles out of the silky duvet, for whatever reason.
For the very first time, somehow, Quinn noticed that something was different.
Scouring her mind, she went through a checklist; Rachel's hair was still brown, she was still the same height – still had that nose.
Then it occurred to her!
Rachel's calves were not visible, and with such a realization the aspiring Broadway star's ass seemed to protrude out against the tight black denim that held it captive; shapely, pert, and wondrously proportional.
Quinn swallowed. Hard.
She'd seen people in skinny jeans before, and had not so much as batted an eyelid. This should not have been any different.
But it was.
As a matter of fact, it was very different...
Now satisfied with the smooth state of the duvet, or rather now that her mild OCD was satisfied with the smooth state of the duvet, Rachel twirled on her heel and –
Her front suddenly collided with something firm, the mere shock of it catapulting her back onto the mattress, which rolled like the water beneath the yacht under the abrupt impact. "Quinn Fabray!" she shrieked up at the other girl, grasping her palpitating chest as though it had confessed that it had had enough, and was leaving her for someone who wasn't so easily shaken. "You cannot just – just materialize like that!"
"You look nice in jeans," Quinn muttered down at the panting brunette, as though that explained everything – including the secrets of the universe. "I was supposed to pick you up and throw you on the bed, l-like in the movies, but that..." She shook her head, ruffling her hand through her hair to the point that it spiked out in every which direction – a chaotic blonde firework. "It didn't work."
"Well thank Barbra for that! You would've dropped me! I mean it this time! This is the very last time that I am ever going to allow you to drink in my presence! We need to get you some food to soak up that alcohol, stat!" Rachel panted, letting her head fall back, limp, on the bed.
She closed her eyes, and just allowed herself to breathe her jarred spirit back into the parameters of her body.
Clearly they were not going to get anything of importance discussed today!
Little did the brunette know that the foolery was only just beginning...
The next few seconds saw a clumsy weight descend down upon the bed, and before she could crack an eye open, two knees had sunken in either side of her hips, bringing with them a purring sensuous warmth.
...
"Quinn?"
"Huh?" came the blonde's voice, spoken so casually.
Rachel sighed, though her eyelids remained fallen. "Please tell me that you are not straddling me in nothing but your bikini."
"I'm straddling you, in nothing but my bikini – and, and I'm gonna kiss you in a second, because you thought that the last one was fake."
The aspiring Broadway star slowly opened her eyes, peering up at the magnificence that was Quinn Fabray's toned body. Her reluctantly keen gaze swallowed in the barely covered breasts that hung, like perfect weighty spheres, just inches from her lips.
A thousand protests teetered at the tip of her tongue, but not one had escaped yet, stolen by the sheer magnitude of Quinn's physical perfection.
"You can touch me if you want," Quinn purred, sounding much more sober than she had just moments ago. She trailed a lone finger down the brunette's nose, soft as a whisper.
"N-No! No touching! No kissing! We must go outside and find you some food. Heavy foods!" Rachel stammered out, somehow feeling like she was speaking directly to the blonde's erect nipples.
She quickly averted her sight, which – typical – then chose to settle upon the chiseled abs that etched the expanse of Quinn's stomach.
Nevertheless.
"Come on, let's go and get you something to eat," she defiantly repeated, beginning to rise up on her elbows.
However, her continuous efforts to sit up proved fruitless, rendered futile thanks to the dominant pressure that Quinn had exerted down through her hips.
The two stared at one another; challenging, probing, requesting.
Comical.
"Quinn, I'll scream."
"Why? This is your thing. You like girls to sit on you – to bounce on top of you."
Well...
Rachel gulped, parting her lips only to bring them back together again. Conscious not to touch any part of the creamy toned body that had essentially trapped her, she considered her next few words very carefully.
And then she spoke: "Yes, that may very well be my thing, as you put it. But you are not of sound mind right now, and I am not going to lead you on. Now, come on – you can eat a couple of the snacks that are outside."
Quinn puffed her cheeks out, lifting a pale finger to prod at them. "Let's make a... a deal."
"No deals."
"Yes deals," the blonde insisted, slapping the bed petulantly.
"Dear Barbra, what have I done to deserve this?"
Apparently Barbra was otherwise engaged; as was Quinn, who had scooted all the way down Rachel's body, from where she quickly tugged up the hem of the shorter girl's sweater and stuffed the entirety of her head underneath it.
Simply exhausted at this point, Rachel glanced down, watching her sweater sort of rise and fall with each one of the cheerleader's breaths; feeling hot gushes waft out across her tensing stomach. "Alright Quinn!" she said, her words carrying an air of practicality as she tapped the fidgeting bulge, "propose this deal. What is it that I have to tell you in order to get you to go out there and eat some food? – And kisses are off the table!"
"Do dwarfs normally have abs?" came Quinn's muffled wheezy reply.
"At this point, I don't even posses the wherewithal to get offended. Now, about this deal..."
"If you want me to eat, I-I want a date – you have to give me a-a chance. I'm a really nice person," Quinn whispered, suddenly growing perfectly still as she squeezed her eyes shut within the dark shelter of Rachel's sweater.
She waited, just like that...
With the verbalization of such an outlandish request, images of the two arguing over who was going to open doors for who bombarded the uncomfortable brunette's mind's eye.
A romantic date?
With Quinn Fabray?
Chuckling gently, Rachel palmed her own forehead.
Surely this was on television and that idiot, Ashton Kutcher, was about to slither out from beneath the bed with a hand camera, exclaiming: "Surprise! You've been punked!"
Truthfully, she could not see herself ever dating the girl that had trapped her between her strong creamy thighs.
Quinn was a known cheat; possessive, impatient, and aggressive. It would appear that she also lacked the ability to effectively communicate her feelings, instead opting to keep them bottled up and primed to erupt at any given moment.
Then there was the fact that, for years, the cheerleader had made it her mission to bully the snot out of those that dared not to conform to her ideals.
The trust would never be there, Rachel gleaned.
Now, the sexual chemistry on the other hand. Maybe, she reluctantly concluded, rolling her eyes at her quiet kept yet lively teenage libido. But sex was hardly the most important staple in a relationship; at least it wasn't for the aspiring Broadway star...
"What's your – test's over! Pencils down!" Quinn demanded. "Do you have an answer?" she prompted, her tone thin due to the fact that she'd unconsciously taken to holding her breath. "And if you say the wrong answer, I'm gonna blow a-a raspberry on your stomach."
"I'll – yes, I'll..." Rachel sighed away the tension that had tautened her abs, and nodded. "Provided that you still wish to do this once you've sobered up, of course." She shrugged, grimacing slightly. "What's the harm in... one little date?" she asked, though she wasn't so sure that she wasn't trying to convince herself.
But when she felt Quinn gasp excitement against her stomach, a quiet smile eased the corners of her lips up, quelling her previous wince. "Come on then, let's go and find you something to eat."
Quinn slowly pulled her head out from beneath the sweater, as a result of the prompting. She merrily settled her chin on top of the brunette's navel, grinning victoriously as well as lopsided.
Rachel could not fathom that this was happening. She still hadn't accepted the idea of the blonde finding her attractive. It just – it all seemed so implausible. So science-fiction.
One thing was crystal clear though. Sober Quinn Fabray may not have been a match for Rachel Berry, but a drunken Quinn Fabray?
Well, the proof was in the pudding...
Mrs Anita Lopez grabbed her diary from the long pinewood dining table. She flipped the little black book open and swiftly flickered through the untidy scrawl that marred most of the pages.
Being a Cardiac Surgeon certainly had its pluses, but rushing around like a headless chicken during busy evening shifts such as this was not one of them. One was bound to forget things at home.
The short caramel-skinned woman adjusted her glasses about the bridge of her gradually crinkling nose, soundlessly mouthing dates and appointments to herself in the quiet of the Lopez lounge.
"Aha!" she whispered once she'd located the long sought after page.
Santana slammed the garage door, storming into the lounge through the kitchen. "Where's my damn baseball bat?" she grunted, hands on her hips. "Dad said he put it in the garage, but it's not in there. I just looked."
As she glanced up from her diary, Anita's shoulders slumped in her long white medical coat; she could repair the lives of strangers, but she hadn't been able to fix her daughter's bad temper since the sassy teenager had developed it at the age of five-years-old. "What do you need a baseball bat for at seven-thirty in the evening?"
The simple question seemed to linger on in the silence for much too long.
Anita's steely dark eyes probed her clearly het up daughter's. What they found spoke of malicious intent, and malicious intent only. "Don't make me call your abuela, since she's the only person that you seem to listen to around here. What have we told you? No more violence!" she emphasized. "The way that kismet works, your victims will probably end up on my operating table."
Santana rolled her eyes up at the ceiling, keeping her bored glare there as her mother went on, and on, and on…
She didn't care what her mother had to say, and she no longer cared about the stupid baseball bat. She had a score to settle. One that she would settle with her fists if necessary.
If she had anything to say about it, Noelle Hutchington-Chang was going to be in for a rough night...