Title: Achilles Heel
Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Just having a little fun.
Summary: You prefer control, but it's not that you have a constant need for it; it's more that, if you give up control, specifically to her, you know she'll destroy you, tortuously slow, because Rachel Berry is thorough, and there isn't an inch of you she isn't willing to explore.
Rachel hovers above you with an ardent smile that trembles before she parts her lips to say, "Please, Quinn," emphatically because she really wants this—you.
And you'd never in a million years admit this to her, but you'd give her the world if she just looked at you like this forever, like you're the only thing that exists. It's always been your weakness.
Your eyebrows draw in on themselves in hesitation at the thought of her touching your naked flesh for a prolonged period of time while you writhe underneath her. You prefer control, but it's not that you have a constant need for it; it's more that, if you give up control, specifically to her, you know she'll destroy you, tortuously slow, because Rachel Berry is thorough, and there isn't an inch of you she isn't willing to explore.
You don't want to appear weak in front of her, the cause of what will most probably be a devastating orgasm that'll sweep through you and leave you vulnerable in her arms, not for the first time, but it still makes you uncomfortable.
Rachel has always had an uncanny ability to see right through you and she leans down to kiss you softly when she senses your near palpable apprehension. "It's just me," she whispers against your lips.
But she's wrong.
She isn't just anyone. She's the girl turned young adult, NYADA undergrad student who turned your live upside down years ago. She's the first person since middle school, when you were Lucy Caboosey, to make you second guess yourself and it's always put you on edge. But like a moth to a flame, you could never stay away from her and her—you.
A slight obsession gave way to infatuation until something quite similar to love bloomed inside of your chest completely unexpected, and kind of unwanted at the time.
But here you lay two months after your first time on this very bed, Rachel's college-issued twin sized bed that, though small, still holds the two of you without issue.
And she just smiles, and you're her world. For the first time someone is looking at you with love that's completely unconditional, love that won't be held over your head when you do wrong, love that, for once, doesn't make you miserable. It gives you strength, it gives you courage, it makes you happy.
You nod your consent, letting her top you; you knew you were going to, and a dimple pockets itself into Rachel's cheek—your reward.
She kisses you slow, a thorough exploration of your mouth. It's languid, lacking in the need to dominate because unlike you, Rachel has always known you were hers. She never felt the need to overtly claim you at every turn, and you're starting to learn—by the way she just sinks into you sometimes as if there's nowhere she'd rather be—that she's been yours this entire time, even when she was Finn's.
Rachel moves lower, and you can feel her smile against your jawline right before she dips her tongue into the dimple in your chin. You smile reflexively, wickedly as you always do because Rachel's kinks amuse and arouse you.
She tongues your throat, and your head tips back, and it's submission; you know this, abstractly. But you aren't scared. Instead, your nipples tighten and when she gasps, you know she feels them, poking lewdly into her chest, begging her the way you won't allow your mouth to do just yet.
You grip the gray cotton sheets beneath you and hiss out a breath when her teeth scrape along your collarbone. Her lips, plump from kissing you, brush along your skin, painting love into your bones, and you twist the bed sheets in your grip that much tighter.
Vocally, Rachel is wonderful at expressing herself. It's one of the things you simultaneously admire and envy about her. But she can convey so much more when she's silent, when she's staring at you with warm brown eyes darkening in desire, when she grabs your hips in a silent plea for you not to move, for more, for you to come closer, bury yourself deeper inside of her. And when her lips press hard enough against you to bruise, to claim, or when they unassumingly press against you in an effort to just say I'm here.
She can convey just how deep her love is for you without even uttering a word, and you're already trembling by the time her warm breath washes over your tender nipple.
Rachel looks up at you. Her eyes are alert as they always are when she's in this position, which is infrequent, you admit. It doesn't take much to make you uncomfortable, and she's always checking back in with you, locking eyes to assure that you're okay and that you're ready for more.
You stare directly at her, chest expanding with uneven breaths, and arousal unfurls in the pit of your stomach, liquefying between your legs. Your thighs clench together under her, and she just smiles sweetly, obediently lowering her head. You cry out softly when she takes your nipple into her mouth, warm heat enveloping you right where it hurts so good. She groans against your breast when you arch underneath her, and her eyes slip shut.
She receives so much pleasure just from pleasing you, and you've never met anyone like her before. It's as if she could make love to you for the rest of her life and die happy. The devotion scares you, excites you, compels you to love her just the same.
"Quinn," she sighs, right against your heart, and your fingers slide through her hair affectionately. A slow burn pulses between your legs that's only amplified by the way she says your name, a reverent whisper.
Her hands are fixated on your chest, thumbs rotating on your stiff nipples as her lips brush softly against the part of you that brings you the most insecurity: your stomach. Rationally, you know that you're back in shape. Your stomach is flat and toned, but that doesn't stop the irrational side that still sees stretch marks even though you had spent hundreds on cream to turn them into near silver slivers of skin, barely visible to the naked eye, only visible to you because you actively search for them, and Rachel because you made her search for them, made her understand that she was getting damaged goods.
Rachel's lips suck just under your belly button and you whimper. "Come on," you plead through a moan, because she's already so close and so are you.
She bites you, right on your hip and the sharp pinch makes you thrust into her. Her sudden intensity is indicative of just how much you affect her, how much control she's losing, and you sigh shakily when she settles between your legs to suck a bruise into your inner thigh.
Her fingers are warm, but your flesh, swollen and wet, is so hot that you shiver when she runs them through your length. Then she dips them inside of you, slowly, without warning because you're more than ready for her and you both know it.
You whine her name and, this time, Rachel doesn't smile. Her eyebrows draw together and she whimpers in need as she watches her own fingers slide into you with ease.
She settles onto her stomach, and you somehow still manage to gaze sharply down at her even though you're the one being had. Her lips brush against you, painting you again, this time with her tongue—a broad stroke through you, continuous, ravenous, a starved kitten lapping at you in earnest.
When you stiffen, she's there, and you curl into her, your arm finding her waist, your face burrowing into her neck, as she presses her lips to your ear and breathes, "I've got you," over and over again, and you just know she's trying to make you cry.
You almost do, but you don't, though your eyes have grown a little red.
Your whole world bottoms out and it feels like you're falling with nothing to catch you, your biggest fear, but Rachel presses her chest tightly against yours, the entire length of her body against you, and you remember where you are, what you're doing, the tingling between your legs that fans out through your entire body, and you throw your head back with a deep, all-consuming moan as you shudder through your climax.
It's all still new for you: sex, orgasms. You and Rachel live miles apart away from each other with homework between you, so physical contact isn't as frequent as one would think. The feeling of completely letting go during an orgasm is still new, and it still sometimes feels like someone pushed you out of a plane with no parachute in sight, or, something even more relatable, out of your house with no way to provide for yourself. But when you feel Rachel there, you remember what you're doing, what she's done, and the pleasure comes back with vengeance, like a wave, and completely obliterates you.
Rachel brings you down from the aftershocks by brushing ever-growing blonde hair away from your face and kissing your forehead. "You're so beautiful," she sighs against you.
Your hair is clinging to your neck while you cling to her, and a shrinking part of you is still uncomfortable with just how defenseless you feel, but a growing part of you just wants to be closer, so you push her to lie down on her side while you quickly intertwine your legs and just breathe.
She trembles when your fingers brush along her chest, but she's strong enough to wait her turn, and that more than anything gives you the energy to rise on wobbly arms and climb over her, because, while you've been known to tease, you've never left her unsatisfied and you don't plan to start now.
Rachel cups the side of your neck while you settle warm weight on top of her, and something shifts in her gaze. She's content, when the two of you are like this, safe when you're on top of her.
And you're starting to be able to admit to yourself that you feel safe when she's on top of you. She brings out your weakness; she's your Achilles Heel, your one and only weakness. But through exposing parts of you that you wished to keep locked away, Rachel only seems to make you stronger.