Fic: Dance within the flame (Emma/Terri)
Apr. 21st, 2010 11:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thegirl20TITLE: Dance within the flame
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
the_girl_20
FANDOM: Glee
PAIRING: Terri/Emma, mentions of Emma/Will
SUMMARY: What if Emma ran to Terri?
RATING: NC-17
WORD COUNT: ~2,200
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. They're Ryan Murphy's.
SPOILERS: For The Power of Madonna (Episode 1.15)
AUTHORS' NOTES: This is a sequel to We go one more round
When you left his apartment, you didn’t consciously head in this direction. You didn’t leave there to come here. Leave him to come to her. But here you are, standing outside her door in bare feet and a nightgown. Thankfully you had enough presence of mind to grab your coat as you sprinted out. You haven’t knocked yet. You could still walk away. You are in charge of that decision.
You lift your hand and knock sharply, pulling your coat more tightly closed afterwards. It takes a few moments, but the door opens to reveal her. She obviously checked through the peephole, because she’s wearing that smirk. The one you hate. The one that makes you want to slap her. She lets her eyes drift down your body. When they land on your bare feet, you think you see concern fleet across her features. You must have imagined it, because when she looks up at you, it’s with a sneer.
“I thought you knew, I operate a strict ‘No shoes, no service’ policy,” she says.
You have no desire to listen to her sarcasm tonight and you move forward, pushing past her into the apartment. She moves aside, mostly out of surprise by the look of it. She closes the door and turns to face you.
“I didn’t invite you in,” she says, her voice low and dangerous.
You don’t answer her. Instead, you unbutton your coat and let it slide off your shoulders. You hang it on her coat rack and turn to find her looking at you with dark eyes.
“Well,” she says, moving closer to you, her hand coming to toy with the ties at your chest. “You don’t usually get all dressed up for me, honey.”
You push her hand away.
“I didn’t. I got dressed up for your husband.”
The jibe feels good in your mouth but it doesn’t have the desired impact. Terri just smiles.
“Well, Emma,” she drawls, her hand running up your arm. “The fact that you’re standing in my hallway would suggest to me that your evening didn’t go to plan.”
You pull away from her touch and walk into the living room, your arms around yourself, keeping a barrier between you and everything else, everything that she represents. You hate this. You hate that you keep coming to her, seeking her out. You hate that you need to.
“Why can’t I let him touch me?” you ask out loud in a second of weakness.
You regret the words immediately. You’ve just handed her a loaded gun. And she’s a crack shot. When you risk a glance at her, she actually looks like she’s considering the question. She sits down on the arm of the couch and stares at you.
“I already told you, honey, you don’t want him to touch you,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh but I do,” you hear yourself say. “I want it more than anything. I want it to be him I want. I want it to be him I think about all the time. I want to kiss him without thinking about you.”
The last sentence is a hiss and you cover your mouth, turning away from her. You fully expect her to gloat. To press the advantage. Not that you’ve ever had it, it’s always been in her court. She’s always called the shots.
“Look, if you came here to talk about your feelings, you can go on back to Will,” she says, her voice strange to your ears. “He’s better at that than I am.”
Your hand drops from your mouth and you look at the ceiling in an attempt to keep your tears from falling.
“Yes, he is. God...he’s such a good man,” you say. “Why can I just...”
You don’t finish the thought. You’ve embarrassed yourself enough in front of her tonight.
“Maybe if you spliced the two of us together you’d get what you want, huh?” Terri suggests and you turn, surprised.
The thought has occurred to you once or twice.
“What are you talking about?” you ask, keeping your defences up.
“Will’s personality in my body,” she explains. “Because I get you hot, Emma, you can’t deny that.”
You feel your body react to the words and you close your eyes, willing the flush not to spread across your face. You know you won’t be able to stop it. You feel her move to stand beside you. You expect to feel her hands on you, pushing her point home. What you don’t expect is one of her hands to sweep some hair off your brow. You open your eyes and find yourself looking into hers.
“But,” she continues. “Something tells me that you’d miss my winning personality too.”
You laugh, humourlessly.
“Oh yeah. I’d really miss you humiliating me and degrading me every chance you get,” you spit.
Terri's face grows hard at this and you almost take it back. She backs away and crosses her arms over her chest.
“I never once forced you to do anything. I never forced you to come or to stay. You could have walked away, every time. But you didn’t,” her voice is thick and it stirs something in you that feels like a protective instinct.
It’s true what she says. You keep coming back for more. She doesn’t force you or make you do anything. But it always felt like she did. That’s about to change.
You walk over to her. Both barefoot, you have a good couple of inches on her and it makes you feel more powerful than you should in this situation. You move so that you are pressed against her, forcing her backwards even though she tries not to let you move her. You get to the couch and she falls back, landing with a grunt and scowling up at you.
You hitch your nightgown up and lower yourself onto her lap, straddling her thighs. Her hands go to your hips on reflex but you catch them and lift them up, holding them against the back of the couch. You lean down so that your face is close to hers.
"This is on my terms tonight."
Then you kiss her. It’s not a hard kiss of dominance, like the kind she gives you. It’s just a kiss. She pushes against your grip on her wrists. She’s strong, so you let her, but you bring her arms to wrap around your waist, not letting go until you feel them tighten around you. Your hands go to her face and you realise this is the first time you’ve touched it. Your fingers map the smooth surface of her cheeks before sliding into her hair, deepening the kiss.
You turn your body, pushing her down onto the couch, draping yourself on top of her. She wrenches her mouth away and looks up at you in confusion, but you just lean back in and kiss her jawbone, her cheekbone, her nose.
“Emma...I...”
“Shhhh, no talking,” you say quietly.
This won’t work if you start thinking about it too much. It needs to just happen. You tug on her shirt and she shakes her head. She never removes her clothing. She very rarely removes yours, just pushes it aside or bunches it up. But it’s not up to her. You push her shirt up, slipping your hand underneath and spreading your palm over her abdomen. You feel the muscles tremble in tandem with the gasp of air she takes in.
Increasing in confidence, your hand slides further up, cupping her breast experimentally. Testing how it feels in your hand, squeezing gently, your thumb flicking past an erect nipple. She whimpers at that and you understand what she got out of fucking you senseless all those times. There’s something intoxicating about having someone’s pleasure literally in your hands.
“Take it off,” you say.
You nearly said please, nearly made it a request. But she would have refused, you’re sure of it. As it is, she pushes you off her a little, sitting up as best she can and pulls the shirt over her head. Your senses are almost overcome with all of the skin suddenly at your disposal. You lean in and press your nose into the valley between her breasts, inhaling deeply. Her hands come up to cradle the back of your head. You turn slightly to press a kiss against the top of her breast and she guides you down until your mouth is on her nipple, through the fabric of her bra. She pulls the cup down herself to expose even more skin to you and you welcome the hard softness into your mouth, sucking gently, then harder, running the flat of your tongue over the swollen skin.
“Jesus,” you hear from somewhere above you, accompanied by a sharp hiss as you scrape your teeth over the sensitive flesh.
While your mind is taken up with the new sensations of your current task, you allow your hand to inch back down over her stomach, under the waistband of her sweatpants. But you stop when your fingers touch lace. You lift your head and look at her. She’s breathing heavily and her eyes are unfocussed. But she reaches out and takes your wrist, guiding you into her panties and down, until you’re pressed against her.
The wet heat almost feels scalding on your hand. You feel yourself inhale, because this is the first indication you’ve had that she’s as affected by you as you are by her.
You move your fingers, sliding deeper and she arches up into you, rolling her hips and sighing. You set the pace and she matches you, thrust for thrust and before long she’s squeezing her eyes closed and pressing her head back into the cushion. You watch, amazed that you are doing this, you are causing these reactions.
“Emma...I...you need to...”
Instinctively you lower your head back to her breasts, feeling her buck erratically under you as you tongue her nipple. She goes rigid in your hands, rising up off the couch before falling back again, a low keening sound coming from her throat. You look down at her. She’s sweating and out of breath and she’s never looked more beautiful to you. You made her look like that.
She opens her eyes and looks at you, unreadable. You’ve never been able to read her. You never know what she’s thinking. She reaches up with a shaky hand and strokes your cheek. It’s the first time her touch has made you feel attractive, instead of cheap.
“Is that why you came here, huh? To show me who’s boss?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You shake your head.
“Maybe to show myself who’s boss?” you say.
You can’t verbalise the real reason you came. The reason you always come to her. It’s because you want to. For all you tell yourself that you hate her, you know that you don’t. And now, maybe you know that she doesn’t hate you either.
Suddenly overcome with shyness, you push yourself up off her and stand up, straightening out your nightgown and heading for the door. She follows, catching your elbow and turning you back to face her.
“What is this? You come here to get your hands dirty then head on back to Will for tea and snuggling?” she demands. “That’s not how it works, sweetheart.”
You can see she’s trying to be sarcastic, but there’s hurt in her voice too. As clear as day. It makes you smile.
“No, how it works is that you sully me so that he won’t want me, right?” you say, challenging her. “You get me to a point where I can’t think of anything except you so that I don’t want him? Am I close, Terri?”
She takes a step back and you advance.
“Well, you got what you wanted. I can’t let him touch me and all I think about is you,”
You’re amazed at your candour, and that your voice is even as you tell her all of this. Her face is solemn. Not a hint of the triumphant smirk you expected to see.
“So, make your move on him. Do whatever you like, Terri, I won’t stand in your way.”
You turn again to leave. This time you’re halted by her voice rather than her touch.
“Emma...”
“What?” You’re still facing the door.
“I...let me give you a pair of shoes.”
You hear her move but you stand stock still, trying to keep your emotions in check. She comes back into the room and walks around you, holding out a pair of flats. You take them and slip them on.
“Thank you.”
You walk into the hallway and put your coat on, fastening the buttons and tightening the belt. She comes and stands in the doorway, watching you in silence. You move to the door and open it, without looking back. You hear it close after you as you walk down the stairs.
You feel a strange sense of empowerment wash over you. You smile.
AUTHOR:
the_girl_20FANDOM: Glee
PAIRING: Terri/Emma, mentions of Emma/Will
SUMMARY: What if Emma ran to Terri?
RATING: NC-17
WORD COUNT: ~2,200
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. They're Ryan Murphy's.
SPOILERS: For The Power of Madonna (Episode 1.15)
AUTHORS' NOTES: This is a sequel to We go one more round
When you left his apartment, you didn’t consciously head in this direction. You didn’t leave there to come here. Leave him to come to her. But here you are, standing outside her door in bare feet and a nightgown. Thankfully you had enough presence of mind to grab your coat as you sprinted out. You haven’t knocked yet. You could still walk away. You are in charge of that decision.
You lift your hand and knock sharply, pulling your coat more tightly closed afterwards. It takes a few moments, but the door opens to reveal her. She obviously checked through the peephole, because she’s wearing that smirk. The one you hate. The one that makes you want to slap her. She lets her eyes drift down your body. When they land on your bare feet, you think you see concern fleet across her features. You must have imagined it, because when she looks up at you, it’s with a sneer.
“I thought you knew, I operate a strict ‘No shoes, no service’ policy,” she says.
You have no desire to listen to her sarcasm tonight and you move forward, pushing past her into the apartment. She moves aside, mostly out of surprise by the look of it. She closes the door and turns to face you.
“I didn’t invite you in,” she says, her voice low and dangerous.
You don’t answer her. Instead, you unbutton your coat and let it slide off your shoulders. You hang it on her coat rack and turn to find her looking at you with dark eyes.
“Well,” she says, moving closer to you, her hand coming to toy with the ties at your chest. “You don’t usually get all dressed up for me, honey.”
You push her hand away.
“I didn’t. I got dressed up for your husband.”
The jibe feels good in your mouth but it doesn’t have the desired impact. Terri just smiles.
“Well, Emma,” she drawls, her hand running up your arm. “The fact that you’re standing in my hallway would suggest to me that your evening didn’t go to plan.”
You pull away from her touch and walk into the living room, your arms around yourself, keeping a barrier between you and everything else, everything that she represents. You hate this. You hate that you keep coming to her, seeking her out. You hate that you need to.
“Why can’t I let him touch me?” you ask out loud in a second of weakness.
You regret the words immediately. You’ve just handed her a loaded gun. And she’s a crack shot. When you risk a glance at her, she actually looks like she’s considering the question. She sits down on the arm of the couch and stares at you.
“I already told you, honey, you don’t want him to touch you,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh but I do,” you hear yourself say. “I want it more than anything. I want it to be him I want. I want it to be him I think about all the time. I want to kiss him without thinking about you.”
The last sentence is a hiss and you cover your mouth, turning away from her. You fully expect her to gloat. To press the advantage. Not that you’ve ever had it, it’s always been in her court. She’s always called the shots.
“Look, if you came here to talk about your feelings, you can go on back to Will,” she says, her voice strange to your ears. “He’s better at that than I am.”
Your hand drops from your mouth and you look at the ceiling in an attempt to keep your tears from falling.
“Yes, he is. God...he’s such a good man,” you say. “Why can I just...”
You don’t finish the thought. You’ve embarrassed yourself enough in front of her tonight.
“Maybe if you spliced the two of us together you’d get what you want, huh?” Terri suggests and you turn, surprised.
The thought has occurred to you once or twice.
“What are you talking about?” you ask, keeping your defences up.
“Will’s personality in my body,” she explains. “Because I get you hot, Emma, you can’t deny that.”
You feel your body react to the words and you close your eyes, willing the flush not to spread across your face. You know you won’t be able to stop it. You feel her move to stand beside you. You expect to feel her hands on you, pushing her point home. What you don’t expect is one of her hands to sweep some hair off your brow. You open your eyes and find yourself looking into hers.
“But,” she continues. “Something tells me that you’d miss my winning personality too.”
You laugh, humourlessly.
“Oh yeah. I’d really miss you humiliating me and degrading me every chance you get,” you spit.
Terri's face grows hard at this and you almost take it back. She backs away and crosses her arms over her chest.
“I never once forced you to do anything. I never forced you to come or to stay. You could have walked away, every time. But you didn’t,” her voice is thick and it stirs something in you that feels like a protective instinct.
It’s true what she says. You keep coming back for more. She doesn’t force you or make you do anything. But it always felt like she did. That’s about to change.
You walk over to her. Both barefoot, you have a good couple of inches on her and it makes you feel more powerful than you should in this situation. You move so that you are pressed against her, forcing her backwards even though she tries not to let you move her. You get to the couch and she falls back, landing with a grunt and scowling up at you.
You hitch your nightgown up and lower yourself onto her lap, straddling her thighs. Her hands go to your hips on reflex but you catch them and lift them up, holding them against the back of the couch. You lean down so that your face is close to hers.
"This is on my terms tonight."
Then you kiss her. It’s not a hard kiss of dominance, like the kind she gives you. It’s just a kiss. She pushes against your grip on her wrists. She’s strong, so you let her, but you bring her arms to wrap around your waist, not letting go until you feel them tighten around you. Your hands go to her face and you realise this is the first time you’ve touched it. Your fingers map the smooth surface of her cheeks before sliding into her hair, deepening the kiss.
You turn your body, pushing her down onto the couch, draping yourself on top of her. She wrenches her mouth away and looks up at you in confusion, but you just lean back in and kiss her jawbone, her cheekbone, her nose.
“Emma...I...”
“Shhhh, no talking,” you say quietly.
This won’t work if you start thinking about it too much. It needs to just happen. You tug on her shirt and she shakes her head. She never removes her clothing. She very rarely removes yours, just pushes it aside or bunches it up. But it’s not up to her. You push her shirt up, slipping your hand underneath and spreading your palm over her abdomen. You feel the muscles tremble in tandem with the gasp of air she takes in.
Increasing in confidence, your hand slides further up, cupping her breast experimentally. Testing how it feels in your hand, squeezing gently, your thumb flicking past an erect nipple. She whimpers at that and you understand what she got out of fucking you senseless all those times. There’s something intoxicating about having someone’s pleasure literally in your hands.
“Take it off,” you say.
You nearly said please, nearly made it a request. But she would have refused, you’re sure of it. As it is, she pushes you off her a little, sitting up as best she can and pulls the shirt over her head. Your senses are almost overcome with all of the skin suddenly at your disposal. You lean in and press your nose into the valley between her breasts, inhaling deeply. Her hands come up to cradle the back of your head. You turn slightly to press a kiss against the top of her breast and she guides you down until your mouth is on her nipple, through the fabric of her bra. She pulls the cup down herself to expose even more skin to you and you welcome the hard softness into your mouth, sucking gently, then harder, running the flat of your tongue over the swollen skin.
“Jesus,” you hear from somewhere above you, accompanied by a sharp hiss as you scrape your teeth over the sensitive flesh.
While your mind is taken up with the new sensations of your current task, you allow your hand to inch back down over her stomach, under the waistband of her sweatpants. But you stop when your fingers touch lace. You lift your head and look at her. She’s breathing heavily and her eyes are unfocussed. But she reaches out and takes your wrist, guiding you into her panties and down, until you’re pressed against her.
The wet heat almost feels scalding on your hand. You feel yourself inhale, because this is the first indication you’ve had that she’s as affected by you as you are by her.
You move your fingers, sliding deeper and she arches up into you, rolling her hips and sighing. You set the pace and she matches you, thrust for thrust and before long she’s squeezing her eyes closed and pressing her head back into the cushion. You watch, amazed that you are doing this, you are causing these reactions.
“Emma...I...you need to...”
Instinctively you lower your head back to her breasts, feeling her buck erratically under you as you tongue her nipple. She goes rigid in your hands, rising up off the couch before falling back again, a low keening sound coming from her throat. You look down at her. She’s sweating and out of breath and she’s never looked more beautiful to you. You made her look like that.
She opens her eyes and looks at you, unreadable. You’ve never been able to read her. You never know what she’s thinking. She reaches up with a shaky hand and strokes your cheek. It’s the first time her touch has made you feel attractive, instead of cheap.
“Is that why you came here, huh? To show me who’s boss?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You shake your head.
“Maybe to show myself who’s boss?” you say.
You can’t verbalise the real reason you came. The reason you always come to her. It’s because you want to. For all you tell yourself that you hate her, you know that you don’t. And now, maybe you know that she doesn’t hate you either.
Suddenly overcome with shyness, you push yourself up off her and stand up, straightening out your nightgown and heading for the door. She follows, catching your elbow and turning you back to face her.
“What is this? You come here to get your hands dirty then head on back to Will for tea and snuggling?” she demands. “That’s not how it works, sweetheart.”
You can see she’s trying to be sarcastic, but there’s hurt in her voice too. As clear as day. It makes you smile.
“No, how it works is that you sully me so that he won’t want me, right?” you say, challenging her. “You get me to a point where I can’t think of anything except you so that I don’t want him? Am I close, Terri?”
She takes a step back and you advance.
“Well, you got what you wanted. I can’t let him touch me and all I think about is you,”
You’re amazed at your candour, and that your voice is even as you tell her all of this. Her face is solemn. Not a hint of the triumphant smirk you expected to see.
“So, make your move on him. Do whatever you like, Terri, I won’t stand in your way.”
You turn again to leave. This time you’re halted by her voice rather than her touch.
“Emma...”
“What?” You’re still facing the door.
“I...let me give you a pair of shoes.”
You hear her move but you stand stock still, trying to keep your emotions in check. She comes back into the room and walks around you, holding out a pair of flats. You take them and slip them on.
“Thank you.”
You walk into the hallway and put your coat on, fastening the buttons and tightening the belt. She comes and stands in the doorway, watching you in silence. You move to the door and open it, without looking back. You hear it close after you as you walk down the stairs.
You feel a strange sense of empowerment wash over you. You smile.