![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficTitle: A (Tasteful) Story In Which Quinn Has A Spanking Fetish
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,160
Characters/Pairings: Rachel/Quinn, Quinn/Rachel/Brittany/Santana
Author’s notes:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
susurrusnight betaed this for me, because she's awesome.
Spoilers: Not really.
Previously: The Skeletons In My Closet (Are Hardcore Porking).
Summary: The most anticipated threequel since Highlander III: The Final Dimension! Will Quinn join in Rachel, Brittany, and Santana's sex-nanigans? No, don't look at the list of pairings! Great, you spoiled it.
Not being part of the lesbian pile-up turned out to be harder than Quinn expected. It seemed like every minute, she would turn around to find one of the threesome returning from an illicit rendezvous, face flushed, hair a mess, lips molded into a stupid smile. One afternoon she saw the entire cheerleading squad, led by Santana, coming in through the double doors. They were sweaty, giggly, and Brittany was hanging off Santana like a purse.
“Sluts!” Quinn exclaimed, pointing at them.
As it turned out, Sue Sylvester had just ordered that the Cheerios do a few laps around the school.
At church, Quinn prayed about it and prayed about it and had a dream where Rachel was dressed up like a nun. Or possibly a nun-themed stripper, dreams were confusing that way.
Of course, Rachel was alright. She didn’t shove her lifestyle choice in Quinn’s face, she just said “Hey, the Cheerios and I bought a tub of strawberry ice cream, wanna come over?” It was entirely possible she meant that they would eat it out of bowls.
Santana and Brittany were different. They were the biggest argument for promiscuity since Mick Jagger. Quinn couldn’t turn a corner without seeing them doing something out of The Lesbian Kama Sutra or an episode of Xena. It was just unfair for a homophobe to be stalked by barely legal cheerleaders.
Finally, Quinn decided to take matters into her own hands. With a cucumber. It was a sin, but on a scale of 1 to Puck, it was practically tithing. She really tried hard to think of something Godly, like Kirk Cameron, but as she came, all she could picture was Rachel Berry singing “I Touch Myself” with the Cheerios on guitar and drums.
It was obvious what had happened. Rachel, Brittany, and Santana had turned her gay. Possibly with Wicca magic.
The next day, she went over to Rachel’s house.
“Hey, Quinn, it’s so good to see you! We just got some honey from the grocery store.”
Quinn felt her loins go all loin-y.
“We can put it in our tea! Jewel swears by it, and although I personally feel her current image leaves something to be desired, her talent is undeniable.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Five minutes later they were upstairs, drinking tea with honey in it. Lesbian-wise, it seemed very anticlimactic. (In her head, Quinn congratulated herself on the pun.)
“Rachel, there’s no use denying it anymore. I’m a lesbian. A big, well-proportioned dyke. And I’m interested in intercourse with you.”
“Okay.” Rachel looked at her cup. “Can I finish my tea?”
“Yes.” Quinn watched Rachel’s lips meet the tea cup. “It’s just that I’ve never been with a woman before and I’m a little nervous.”
“What about with that Katy Perry song?”
“That doesn’t count, we were practicing a routine.”
“You put your hand in my—“
“Doesn’t. Count.”
“Okay.” Rachel set her cup down. “If you’re not going to finish your tea, can I have it? I think I’ve become addicted to honeyed tea.” Rachel looked uber-pleased at her musicianly addiction. It was working out much better than her addiction to toothpaste or water, for which not one of the Glee Club had staged an intervention for yet.
“Rachel, I’ve always had this fantasy. Involving you.”
“Aww, that is so sweet!”
“I bend you over my lap and spank you with a paddleball paddle until you beg.”
“Okay.”
“The good news is, I brought a paddle with the ball already cut off, so we don’t have to ruin yours.”
Rachel smoothed out her skirt. “Quinn, I would love to help you, but a singer’s H-note originates in his or her butt. I can’t risk damage to that.”
“What’s an H-note?”
“We singers don’t talk about it with normal people, sorry.”
“I understand.” Quinn stood up. “I’m probably not a lesbian anyway. Now if you’ll excuse me, I saw a magazine cover with Megan Fox in your living room, so I have to pick up some steel wool on my way home.”
Quinn went to the door.
“Quinn, wait!” Rachel ran in front of her, blocking the exit. “I have… maybe… been feeling a bit naughty?”
Quinn took a paddle out of her purse. “Like you need to be punished?”
“Well, I was thinking more pun-ished, where someone just says an awful pun and I groan, but yes, I suppose spanking works too.”
Quinn smacked the paddle against her free hand as Rachel locked the door.
***
“On the bright side, I can still hit H-notes,” Rachel mused as she limped into her clubhouse, the Wild Things Room. It had once been the shack for the school’s gardener, but then he had stepped on an unexploded WWII landmine. It had confused everyone greatly.
Since his hospitalization, they’d fixed up the place, thrown away the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issues so they wouldn’t have to explain their stickiness to Brittany, put in a stereo that played Melissa Etheridge whenever Rachel wanted to ‘show solidarity’ and Vampire Weekend most of the time, and let Brittany paint Disney characters on the walls, except for the room with the mattress. There, they had compromised and just put in the Little Mermaid, who Santana didn’t mind watching her come.
Speaking of Santana, she and Brittany were fighting over how to sit on one bucket of ice, which wasn’t big enough for both of them despite Santana’s low-carb diet and the day Brittany had only had a crayon for lunch.
“Rachel, what happened?” Santana asked. Then she saw what Rachel was rubbing. “Mexican food?”
“No. Quinn Fabray.” Rachel collapsed facedown onto the mattress, pulling her skirt up to let air sooth the burn. “On the bright side, I think she’s come to terms with her sexuality. I heard her humming t.A.T.u. as she left.”
“That’s cool, I think I only turned her halfway gay,” Brittany said. “After she spanked me, she was humming Mick Jagger.”
“That doesn’t count, Mick Jagger is Mick Jagger,” Rachel said.
“Guys?” Santana stood up, leaving the ice bucket to Brittany’s ass. “Quinn took my anal virginity. And she hummed Indigo Girls afterward.”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “That skank! She was a lesbian all along! She spanked us under false pretenses!”
“Yeah…” Santana looked around furtively. “Spanked…”
***
The next day, after Glee Club (Finn led a spirited debate that the lyric went “I ain’t talking ‘bout the linen,” instead of “I ain’t talking ‘bout moving in”), they cornered Quinn in the lunch room. She seemed ineffably smug. More than usual, as a matter of fact.
“Sore about something, Berry?” she asked, tossing her hair.
Rachel was so mad she could only express it through interpretive dance, but words would just have to do! “You spanked us like a new mom on Wife Swap!”
“Yeah, not to mention that other thing,” Santana added, eyes lighting up just a little. “Perv.”
“I only did that because you asked me to. You came!”
“How many times I came is not the question here!”
“I didn’t come,” Brittany pouted. “Even when Santana kissed it better.”
Rachel petted her hair sympathetically.
“Well, I did,” Quinn declared smugly. “That’s what you wanted, right? Me to play in all your perverted reindeer games?”
“There aren’t any reindeer,” Brittany pouted again, even more depressed.
Santana joined Rachel in petting Brittany’s hair.
“Why do you always have to do this, Quinn!” Santana’s fingers clawed through Brittany’s hair. “You always have to be queen bitch of the universe. Just once, can’t you be a friend?”
“The dictionary definition of friends is not ‘someone whose vagina you put your tongue in’,” Quinn returned.
Rachel took both the Cheerios’ hands as she stared Quinn down. “Then I guess that makes us friends.”
As one, they turned and walked away.
***
As loathe as Quinn was to admit it, there was a possibility that the threesome’s tempting of her was mostly in Quinn’s head. She was forced to own up to it when they started tempting her for real. There was the casual nudity in the locker room, so many bare breasts that you’d think a ragtag bunch of misfits from an 80s sex comedy were spying on them. There was the way Santana (who was a genius-level computer hacker. It rarely came up) sent snippets of sex tape to Quinn’s iPhone that deleted themselves after five seconds, forcing Quinn to either watch them when she received them or never know what Brittany intended to do with a popsicle and an inflatable penguin. And Rachel sang torch songs practically on (and into) Quinn’s lap. It was like being a twelve-year-old boy: torture.
It was when she caught herself adding a dozen cucumbers to the shopping list that she realized she was going to have to fold.
For all her nightmares (and cucumber fantasies) about what the trio was up to, going to Brittany’s house and finding Rachel and Santana curled up on the couch with Brittany across their laps, watching The Little Mermaid, struck her as a little disappointing. They weren’t even having a pillow fight. It was like they’d never even read Maxim.
“She has such a great voice,” Rachel said, staring at Ariel.
“How does she sing underwater?” Santana asked.
“Telepathy,” Brittany replied. “Like Aquaman.”
“Aquaman’s gay.”
“You’re gay.”
“No, you’re gay.”
“Shh! She’s still singing!” Rachel interrupted.
The song ended and Quinn stepped forward. “Hi guys. Your dad let me in.”
“Oh.” Rachel turned back to the TV. “The couch is full.”
Quinn sat down on a love seat. “So, whacha watching?”
“The Little Mermaid. Duh,” Santana replied.
Brittany pointed at the screen. “See, she’s a mermaid, but she’s little by merperson standards.”
“Uh-huh.” Quinn stared at the screen for a while. “I’m sorry about trying to be the queen bitch of everything.”
The others made various noises of whatever.
“If it helps any, it’s probably because I’m deeply pathetic and shallow and my boyfriend left me for this other girl who my other boyfriend already left me for… I’ll stop before I confuse Brittany.”
“I wasn’t listening,” Brittany said proudly.
Quinn stood up. She suddenly felt like crying. “So, just so you know… deeply pathetic, shallow… me.”
By the time she got outside, Quinn’s need to cry was truly surprising her. She grabbed some leaves off the tree in the lawn and blotted her eyes. It took a melodic cough for her to realize Rachel was behind her. She turned, not caring that her mascara was running. “What?!”
Rachel held out a box of Kleenex. “You looked vulnerable, like an American Idol contestant who’s going home but has to act happy for her friends.”
Quinn blew her nose. “I’m super happy for you.”
Rachel hugged herself against the sarcasm. “Can I tell you a story?”
“No.”
“When I first discovered I was a triple threat – not just a classical beauty, but a talented singer and emotionist –- that’s someone who can emote on a level greater than the rest of humanity – I was worried people might be scared of my skillset, or jealous. I considered wearing a mask to protect my identity, so the agents of hate and fear couldn’t retaliate against my family.”
“You thought your voice made you a superhero?”
Rachel joined Quinn in laughter. “I was six. Don’t be nasty.”
“No, it’s cute. I can just picture you in form-fitting spandex.”
“You wish.” To Rachel, this seemed like a good time for physical contact, and not one of those times people would scream ‘get off me, you crazy bitch.’ She put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “My point is, you’re really good at kissing girls, and maybe that scares you, but it shouldn’t, because… you’re really good at kissing girls. But I understand if you are. Scared, I mean.”
“You askin’ me to be your sidekick, Broadway Girl?”
“How did you know my secret iden--oh, you meant in bed. That would be very acceptable, yes.”
Quinn gave her a hug.
“Brittana will be so pleased. Despite my emotionist skills, I was unable to portray you three-dimensionally and the blonde wig was itchy.”
Quinn frowned atop Rachel’s shoulder. “I pick ‘Brittana’ to be confused over.”
“I made up celebrity couple names for all of us. You and I will be ‘Rainn,” like the precipitation.”
“I can live with that.”
Brittana was waiting for them in the doorway. “We ordered pizza,” Brittany said. “You can have my breadsticks, I don’t want to get a yeast infection.”
Quinn gave them both hugs. As she embraced Santana, Santana whispered “I hope we weren’t too naughty with you. If we were, we’ll make it up to you however we can.”
Quinn gave her an extra squeeze and they all went inside to watch The Little Mermaid.
***
“Why does Ariel wear a bra?” Brittany asked. “I don’t think she would need support underwater.”
“It completes the ensemble,” Santana said.
“She is hot, though,” Quinn said.
“She has a great singing voice,” Rachel agreed.
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,160
Characters/Pairings: Rachel/Quinn, Quinn/Rachel/Brittany/Santana
Author’s notes:
susurrusnight betaed this for me, because she's awesome.Spoilers: Not really.
Previously: The Skeletons In My Closet (Are Hardcore Porking).
Summary: The most anticipated threequel since Highlander III: The Final Dimension! Will Quinn join in Rachel, Brittany, and Santana's sex-nanigans? No, don't look at the list of pairings! Great, you spoiled it.
Not being part of the lesbian pile-up turned out to be harder than Quinn expected. It seemed like every minute, she would turn around to find one of the threesome returning from an illicit rendezvous, face flushed, hair a mess, lips molded into a stupid smile. One afternoon she saw the entire cheerleading squad, led by Santana, coming in through the double doors. They were sweaty, giggly, and Brittany was hanging off Santana like a purse.
“Sluts!” Quinn exclaimed, pointing at them.
As it turned out, Sue Sylvester had just ordered that the Cheerios do a few laps around the school.
At church, Quinn prayed about it and prayed about it and had a dream where Rachel was dressed up like a nun. Or possibly a nun-themed stripper, dreams were confusing that way.
Of course, Rachel was alright. She didn’t shove her lifestyle choice in Quinn’s face, she just said “Hey, the Cheerios and I bought a tub of strawberry ice cream, wanna come over?” It was entirely possible she meant that they would eat it out of bowls.
Santana and Brittany were different. They were the biggest argument for promiscuity since Mick Jagger. Quinn couldn’t turn a corner without seeing them doing something out of The Lesbian Kama Sutra or an episode of Xena. It was just unfair for a homophobe to be stalked by barely legal cheerleaders.
Finally, Quinn decided to take matters into her own hands. With a cucumber. It was a sin, but on a scale of 1 to Puck, it was practically tithing. She really tried hard to think of something Godly, like Kirk Cameron, but as she came, all she could picture was Rachel Berry singing “I Touch Myself” with the Cheerios on guitar and drums.
It was obvious what had happened. Rachel, Brittany, and Santana had turned her gay. Possibly with Wicca magic.
The next day, she went over to Rachel’s house.
“Hey, Quinn, it’s so good to see you! We just got some honey from the grocery store.”
Quinn felt her loins go all loin-y.
“We can put it in our tea! Jewel swears by it, and although I personally feel her current image leaves something to be desired, her talent is undeniable.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Five minutes later they were upstairs, drinking tea with honey in it. Lesbian-wise, it seemed very anticlimactic. (In her head, Quinn congratulated herself on the pun.)
“Rachel, there’s no use denying it anymore. I’m a lesbian. A big, well-proportioned dyke. And I’m interested in intercourse with you.”
“Okay.” Rachel looked at her cup. “Can I finish my tea?”
“Yes.” Quinn watched Rachel’s lips meet the tea cup. “It’s just that I’ve never been with a woman before and I’m a little nervous.”
“What about with that Katy Perry song?”
“That doesn’t count, we were practicing a routine.”
“You put your hand in my—“
“Doesn’t. Count.”
“Okay.” Rachel set her cup down. “If you’re not going to finish your tea, can I have it? I think I’ve become addicted to honeyed tea.” Rachel looked uber-pleased at her musicianly addiction. It was working out much better than her addiction to toothpaste or water, for which not one of the Glee Club had staged an intervention for yet.
“Rachel, I’ve always had this fantasy. Involving you.”
“Aww, that is so sweet!”
“I bend you over my lap and spank you with a paddleball paddle until you beg.”
“Okay.”
“The good news is, I brought a paddle with the ball already cut off, so we don’t have to ruin yours.”
Rachel smoothed out her skirt. “Quinn, I would love to help you, but a singer’s H-note originates in his or her butt. I can’t risk damage to that.”
“What’s an H-note?”
“We singers don’t talk about it with normal people, sorry.”
“I understand.” Quinn stood up. “I’m probably not a lesbian anyway. Now if you’ll excuse me, I saw a magazine cover with Megan Fox in your living room, so I have to pick up some steel wool on my way home.”
Quinn went to the door.
“Quinn, wait!” Rachel ran in front of her, blocking the exit. “I have… maybe… been feeling a bit naughty?”
Quinn took a paddle out of her purse. “Like you need to be punished?”
“Well, I was thinking more pun-ished, where someone just says an awful pun and I groan, but yes, I suppose spanking works too.”
Quinn smacked the paddle against her free hand as Rachel locked the door.
***
“On the bright side, I can still hit H-notes,” Rachel mused as she limped into her clubhouse, the Wild Things Room. It had once been the shack for the school’s gardener, but then he had stepped on an unexploded WWII landmine. It had confused everyone greatly.
Since his hospitalization, they’d fixed up the place, thrown away the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issues so they wouldn’t have to explain their stickiness to Brittany, put in a stereo that played Melissa Etheridge whenever Rachel wanted to ‘show solidarity’ and Vampire Weekend most of the time, and let Brittany paint Disney characters on the walls, except for the room with the mattress. There, they had compromised and just put in the Little Mermaid, who Santana didn’t mind watching her come.
Speaking of Santana, she and Brittany were fighting over how to sit on one bucket of ice, which wasn’t big enough for both of them despite Santana’s low-carb diet and the day Brittany had only had a crayon for lunch.
“Rachel, what happened?” Santana asked. Then she saw what Rachel was rubbing. “Mexican food?”
“No. Quinn Fabray.” Rachel collapsed facedown onto the mattress, pulling her skirt up to let air sooth the burn. “On the bright side, I think she’s come to terms with her sexuality. I heard her humming t.A.T.u. as she left.”
“That’s cool, I think I only turned her halfway gay,” Brittany said. “After she spanked me, she was humming Mick Jagger.”
“That doesn’t count, Mick Jagger is Mick Jagger,” Rachel said.
“Guys?” Santana stood up, leaving the ice bucket to Brittany’s ass. “Quinn took my anal virginity. And she hummed Indigo Girls afterward.”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “That skank! She was a lesbian all along! She spanked us under false pretenses!”
“Yeah…” Santana looked around furtively. “Spanked…”
***
The next day, after Glee Club (Finn led a spirited debate that the lyric went “I ain’t talking ‘bout the linen,” instead of “I ain’t talking ‘bout moving in”), they cornered Quinn in the lunch room. She seemed ineffably smug. More than usual, as a matter of fact.
“Sore about something, Berry?” she asked, tossing her hair.
Rachel was so mad she could only express it through interpretive dance, but words would just have to do! “You spanked us like a new mom on Wife Swap!”
“Yeah, not to mention that other thing,” Santana added, eyes lighting up just a little. “Perv.”
“I only did that because you asked me to. You came!”
“How many times I came is not the question here!”
“I didn’t come,” Brittany pouted. “Even when Santana kissed it better.”
Rachel petted her hair sympathetically.
“Well, I did,” Quinn declared smugly. “That’s what you wanted, right? Me to play in all your perverted reindeer games?”
“There aren’t any reindeer,” Brittany pouted again, even more depressed.
Santana joined Rachel in petting Brittany’s hair.
“Why do you always have to do this, Quinn!” Santana’s fingers clawed through Brittany’s hair. “You always have to be queen bitch of the universe. Just once, can’t you be a friend?”
“The dictionary definition of friends is not ‘someone whose vagina you put your tongue in’,” Quinn returned.
Rachel took both the Cheerios’ hands as she stared Quinn down. “Then I guess that makes us friends.”
As one, they turned and walked away.
***
As loathe as Quinn was to admit it, there was a possibility that the threesome’s tempting of her was mostly in Quinn’s head. She was forced to own up to it when they started tempting her for real. There was the casual nudity in the locker room, so many bare breasts that you’d think a ragtag bunch of misfits from an 80s sex comedy were spying on them. There was the way Santana (who was a genius-level computer hacker. It rarely came up) sent snippets of sex tape to Quinn’s iPhone that deleted themselves after five seconds, forcing Quinn to either watch them when she received them or never know what Brittany intended to do with a popsicle and an inflatable penguin. And Rachel sang torch songs practically on (and into) Quinn’s lap. It was like being a twelve-year-old boy: torture.
It was when she caught herself adding a dozen cucumbers to the shopping list that she realized she was going to have to fold.
For all her nightmares (and cucumber fantasies) about what the trio was up to, going to Brittany’s house and finding Rachel and Santana curled up on the couch with Brittany across their laps, watching The Little Mermaid, struck her as a little disappointing. They weren’t even having a pillow fight. It was like they’d never even read Maxim.
“She has such a great voice,” Rachel said, staring at Ariel.
“How does she sing underwater?” Santana asked.
“Telepathy,” Brittany replied. “Like Aquaman.”
“Aquaman’s gay.”
“You’re gay.”
“No, you’re gay.”
“Shh! She’s still singing!” Rachel interrupted.
The song ended and Quinn stepped forward. “Hi guys. Your dad let me in.”
“Oh.” Rachel turned back to the TV. “The couch is full.”
Quinn sat down on a love seat. “So, whacha watching?”
“The Little Mermaid. Duh,” Santana replied.
Brittany pointed at the screen. “See, she’s a mermaid, but she’s little by merperson standards.”
“Uh-huh.” Quinn stared at the screen for a while. “I’m sorry about trying to be the queen bitch of everything.”
The others made various noises of whatever.
“If it helps any, it’s probably because I’m deeply pathetic and shallow and my boyfriend left me for this other girl who my other boyfriend already left me for… I’ll stop before I confuse Brittany.”
“I wasn’t listening,” Brittany said proudly.
Quinn stood up. She suddenly felt like crying. “So, just so you know… deeply pathetic, shallow… me.”
By the time she got outside, Quinn’s need to cry was truly surprising her. She grabbed some leaves off the tree in the lawn and blotted her eyes. It took a melodic cough for her to realize Rachel was behind her. She turned, not caring that her mascara was running. “What?!”
Rachel held out a box of Kleenex. “You looked vulnerable, like an American Idol contestant who’s going home but has to act happy for her friends.”
Quinn blew her nose. “I’m super happy for you.”
Rachel hugged herself against the sarcasm. “Can I tell you a story?”
“No.”
“When I first discovered I was a triple threat – not just a classical beauty, but a talented singer and emotionist –- that’s someone who can emote on a level greater than the rest of humanity – I was worried people might be scared of my skillset, or jealous. I considered wearing a mask to protect my identity, so the agents of hate and fear couldn’t retaliate against my family.”
“You thought your voice made you a superhero?”
Rachel joined Quinn in laughter. “I was six. Don’t be nasty.”
“No, it’s cute. I can just picture you in form-fitting spandex.”
“You wish.” To Rachel, this seemed like a good time for physical contact, and not one of those times people would scream ‘get off me, you crazy bitch.’ She put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “My point is, you’re really good at kissing girls, and maybe that scares you, but it shouldn’t, because… you’re really good at kissing girls. But I understand if you are. Scared, I mean.”
“You askin’ me to be your sidekick, Broadway Girl?”
“How did you know my secret iden--oh, you meant in bed. That would be very acceptable, yes.”
Quinn gave her a hug.
“Brittana will be so pleased. Despite my emotionist skills, I was unable to portray you three-dimensionally and the blonde wig was itchy.”
Quinn frowned atop Rachel’s shoulder. “I pick ‘Brittana’ to be confused over.”
“I made up celebrity couple names for all of us. You and I will be ‘Rainn,” like the precipitation.”
“I can live with that.”
Brittana was waiting for them in the doorway. “We ordered pizza,” Brittany said. “You can have my breadsticks, I don’t want to get a yeast infection.”
Quinn gave them both hugs. As she embraced Santana, Santana whispered “I hope we weren’t too naughty with you. If we were, we’ll make it up to you however we can.”
Quinn gave her an extra squeeze and they all went inside to watch The Little Mermaid.
***
“Why does Ariel wear a bra?” Brittany asked. “I don’t think she would need support underwater.”
“It completes the ensemble,” Santana said.
“She is hot, though,” Quinn said.
“She has a great singing voice,” Rachel agreed.
