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elsvenus · 17 days ago

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𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐍 ✷ 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐘

𝐬𝐤𝐚𝐧𝐤!𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐱 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ✷ character study draft on quinn fabray at her skank era with compulsory heterosexuality, religious trauma and lesbianism loosely inspired by the song limerence by lucy dacus ✷ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.5k ✷ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: religious imagery, internalized homophobia, sexual content (?) and angst

your first reaction is a twist of the face—weed hits your senses first, bold and unapologetic, a slap to the air between you. you’ve smoked with quinn twice before: cigarettes first, her cough sharp and ungraceful as the smoke tangled in her throat. she’d spend days masking the scent off her hair with rose scented shampoo, the kind that lingered long after the smoke had gone. and herbs last—chamomile, lavender, a delicate rebellion crafted by cheerleaders who wanted to be bold without crossing a line. quinn wouldn’t touch anything stronger; it was her limit, her rule, carved into your understanding of her.

but this girl standing in front of you—she reeked of marijuana at seven thirty in the morning, amidst a high school hallway.

the pink hair caught you next, brash and unapologetic, leading her image like a challenge to the world. it looked sloppy at first glance, as if someone had botched the job, but you couldn’t look away, until you did, and it clicked—the tilt of her mouth, the sharpness in her gaze under smudged eyeliner—you used to write about those sea green eyes in your diary, call them a mirage, quote vita sackville-west, you’d recognize them anywhere, even under layers of black pencil. your quinn fabray, remade, defiant, and dragging you under like a riptide.

she doesn’t greet you, but her gaze does, dragging over you, unhurried and unrelenting, like a tide claiming the shore. those pretty intimate eyes catch on the familiar lines of your cheerleading uniform, and latch onto the heaving of your chest and its performance on breathing under her stare. then, lower, to the strip of skin left bare through movement between your skirt and top, where you feel her attention like a touch. her new shadow appears—a girl with hair as recklessly outrageous as hers, someone you don’t know but already resent—and presses forward, the blunt in her hand an ember threatening your seams.

it happens too fast: a spark, a flicker, a hiss—and then a shriek, sharp enough to pierce the thick, sodden air. she’s burned her way through your clothes, unprovoked, while quinn stands and smiles.

her grin used to melt on you like sugar cookies on the tongue. now it metamorphosed into a brick wall, cold and unyielding. the change is a violence you feel in your body, the bile crawling up your throat from whiplash, the bitter taste of something lost and unrecognizable.

when santana finds you, you’re out of breath. her hand grips your shoulder like a lifeline and she’s throwing insults like curses towards the once-blonde that ricochet right off her grunge outerwear. quinn was always stoic, you thought, and in that moment it seemed like it to a fault.

“let’s go” santana demands, sharp and certain, pulling you out of the moment like a hand yanking you from quicksand. she steers you into a bathroom stall for a change of clothes and a breather, her movements brisk but protective. you hallucinate the rose shampoo smell when the latina bumps into quinn on your way out, peeking through the pot. you don’t notice the way her jaw tightens at the sight of santana’s hand on you—a newfound proximity to her old teammate—or how she grinds her perfect colgate teeth so hard she figures they might shatter onto themselves and dissolve in a thick paste of white dust over her gums. you don’t see her nails biting into the soft flesh of her palms, tiny crescents carved into her skin like some kind of self-inflicted penance. there’s a catholic upbringing still ingrained in the girl despite her changed exterior and it begs for condemnation at the perversion of her thoughts, you-shaped.

“well, she’s gone full psycho on us now,” santana quips, breaking the silence with a sharp edge of irony. her back is to you as you peel off the burned shirt, replacing it with one of hers—soft polyester, recently dry-cleaned, the scent minty and foreign against your skin. your fingers ghost over the reddened patch where the fabric scorched you, but something else hurts entirely. a hollow ache finds itself lodged in your chest, threatening to rise and choke you.

santana senses it—because of course she does—and keeps her voice moving, filling the quiet with a relentless stream of noise, as if the words could bury your unshed tears. “don’t even worry about it,” she says, tone breezy, though her eyes narrow when she glances over her shoulder. “britt and i will get her some decent hair dye and a captain role proposal tomorrow—trust me, she’ll cave. quinn’s always been a drama queen. it’s just another one of her crippling, depressive, teenage-baby-mama-cautionary-tale antics.”

her words tumble out fast and biting, meant to soothe you with their sharpness, to redirect the hurt. but they don’t quite land right, not when the ghost of quinn’s smile still lingers, cruel and carved into your memory.

she’s not at glee practice, and the absence feels heavier than it should, a weight that settles on your chest and refuses to lift. you’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this—her spot on the risers vacant, the energy in the room a few shades duller. it’s as though you’re being haunted by a ghost, the spirit trailing you through the period with an uncanny familiarity.

you can almost feel her—blonde hair swishing in a neat ponytail, strands brushing your skin in phantom movements, like the first time you choreographed together. sing a little prayer floods your thoughts. quinn standing just inches away, mirroring your every step with precision and poise, her concentration softening into a smile when she got it right. her laughter—melodious, unguarded—had filled the space between you like sunlight breaking through clouds. you’d taught her what brittany had shown you just hours earlier, the steps clumsy on your own feet but effortless when quinn picked them up.

practice goes on without her. voices rise in harmony, but your own feels caught in your throat. every time you close your eyes, she’s there—remade and unreachable.

you know she’s there when you’re walking toward your car because you know the intensity of her gaze on you like you know the frequency of your favorite radio station—familiar, tuned perfectly to you. you wonder if she’s bathed or if the outside air is just muffling the smoke from your senses. you wonder if she’s accompanied this time, again.

when your hand reaches for the door handle, she closes it from behind you, her palm pressing over yours against the cold metal. her touch is firm, unyielding, and her breath is on your neck, warm and intense, sending a jolt straight down your spine.

you’re brave now that you can’t see her straight on, you think, so you say “what the fuck do you want quinn?”

the answer is simple, really, but it never slips past the tight grasp of her self-forged cilice belt—her punishment, her restraint. and does anything ever? you’ve never been harsh to her before, so the words land like spit. and oh, they land where they shouldn’t, but she doesn’t flinch. she’d swallow anything you threw at her, though you don’t know it yet, the hidden truth of it—that she’d take it all, every barb and every wound, just to stay close. that she’d cause it too, because maybe being your scar was a good thing, meant you’d keep her memory around.

your hand stays frozen on the handle, hers still pressing over it. it isn’t harsh or cruel, but the weight of her palm traps you there, stalling your escape. “what do i want?” she repeats, low, almost mocking, like the answer should already be obvious. her voice is still a cherry blossom, no rebel costume changed it.

“yeah,” you say, turning your head just enough to catch her in the corner of your eye. her hair, pink and uneven, falls forward, brushing against your shoulder. you notice then, for the first time too, a sparkling glint by her nose that would later come into focus as a nose ring. “what the fuck do you want from me? another one of your friends is gonna jump me now?”

her lips twitch, almost like she’s trying not to smile, but it’s not the kind of smile you remember—not the princess one from last semester, not the cruel one from earlier either. something sadder. “i don’t know,” she says finally, her voice quieter now, almost introspective. “what do you think i want?”

her eyes meet yours fully then, and the look in them—sharp, unapologetic, something like hunger—makes your stomach twist. she wants you to say it so it’s only half a sin, then. half your fault, you, this full temptation. she thinks to herself if this perversion—lovesick lustful virus—would find its way to infecting you too, she’ll pinpoint its spread and keep it from possessing her. “quinn, just stop,” you say, your voice breaking.

but she doesn’t stop. she leans in, just enough for you to feel her presence in every inch of your body, her hand now covering the spot on your waist you watched her scrutinize earlier. “i think,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “you already know.”

her words settle over you like a weight, impossible to ignore, harder even to deny. and for a fleeting moment, overwhelmed by her lingering, you wonder if she’s right.

you pull away. it’s instinctual, automatic, the only defense you have against the weight of her hand and the look in her eyes that makes you feel like she could split you open with just a glance, and the air between you snaps like a rubber band, taut and stinging.

“fuck off, quinn,” you mutter, harsher than you intended, but it’s the only way you know how to breathe again. you shove her hand off your body and slide inside, slamming it shut between you. her face remains unchanged, a lifelong practice of being yelled at and ridiculed, first by her ‘lucy caboosey’ peers, later by her parents after the teenage pregnancy fiasco, constantly by coach sylvester... there’s no flinch, no anger—just that infuriating stillness, like she expected this all along.

you sit there for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles turn white. through the windshield, you can see her reflection in the rearview mirror. the engine growls to life, but you don’t pull out the parking lot right away. you can’t—not when she’s still there, pink hair catching the dim light like a warning flare.

“fuck! just leave,” you whisper to yourself, a command more than a thought. but you don’t move.

and then, as if sensing the crack in your resolve, she steps forward. the sharp rap of her fist on the glass makes you jump. you roll the window down an inch, just enough for her voice to reach you, the coward you were.

“you want me to stop?” she asks, her tone softer now, the edges sanded down just enough to make it hurt differently. “are you completely sure about that?” and you hate her for it—the way she can turn her voice into a weapon, disarming and cutting all at once. handcrafted knife just for your plunging.

“go home, quinn,” you say, but the words lack conviction.

she leans down, close enough for you to see the smudge of eyeliner beneath her lashes, the faint shadow of freckles on her cheeks that no amount of rebellion could erase.

“i can’t,” she says simply, and it feels like both an admission and an accusation, her words sinking their claws into the air between you. the weight of her gaze is suffocating, and this time, you don’t look away. “this is all your fault,” she breathes, low and cutting, like the words have been festering for too long to come out clean. “everything. i can’t fucking breathe. the perfect girl, with the perfect grades, the perfect cheerleading captain, with a dazzling future as prom queen—everything neat and pretty and laid out for me—until you.” quinn’s voice breaks, sharp and jagged, and it feels like the ground is shifting beneath you.

“you come crashing onto the scene, and it’s like you’ve got your hands around my throat, suffocating me. i tried finn, i tried puck, i tried burying it so deep i’d forget my own fucking name. and there you were, always there, knocking the air out of my lungs like some kind of goddamn traitor.” she continued, her words hitting like punches, each one landing harder than the last, every syllable dragging up pieces of her you didn’t even know were there.

“you’re moping around glee club, and the hallways, and trailing after santana like some lost puppy about how poor you, your best friend quinn fabray has changed.” she spits the words like venom, like she’s been waiting to say them all her life. “newsflash: we were never friends. never.”

her voice drops then, quieter, almost bitter with disbelief. “i was your hostage. from the moment you smiled at me, i was fucking doomed.”

she almost wants to talk about beth. almost. but the thought of it feels like swallowing glass. it sticks in her throat, sharp and jagged, tearing at her resolve. still, she considers it, turning the words over in her mind, bitter and unspoken: did you know i slept with puck the day after you slept over for the first time? a stupid, desperate attempt to erase the way my skin burned from the brush of your arm against my side in your sleep. did you know i still feel it there, like you’ve branded me, and no shower, no scrubbing, no fucking absolution can rid me of the trace of you?

quinn’s fingers twitch, restless, aching to grasp something solid, something real, but instead, she clenches them into fists to keep herself steady.

did you know i watched your thighs flush against those stupid pink pajamas? watched the way the fabric clung to your skin, the way it outlined every inch of you? did you know i traced it all out in my mind—mapped where i’d leave my teeth, where i’d bite down, where i’d bruise you, places no one would ever see because the cheerios uniform would keep it hidden?

don't you remember when we kissed at that party? the words buzz beneath her skin, electric, unsaid but too loud to ignore. when it was just a game, a performance, because we're pretty girls, and that's what pretty straight girls do when they're playing attention whores for teenage boys. only then is it okay. only then does it mean nothing. don't you remember how i tasted? strawberry lip gloss, even though i always wear cherry. you hated cherry, and i knew that. doesn't my taste keep you up at night, the way yours keeps me awake, haunting my tongue like a phantom i can't escape?

quinn bites the inside of her cheek, the copper tang of blood grounding her, keeping her from letting the words spill out. because if you admit it—if you dare to nod, to confirm that the memory burns you like it burns her-it will ruin her. and yet, some sick, desperate part of her wants you to. she wants to ask: doesn’t my taste haunt you too?

the confession festers, clawing at the walls of her ribcage, begging to escape. but she swallows it down, presses it into the hollow space between who she is and who she pretends to be, the weight of it a familiar ache. instead, she stays silent, biting back the truth until her jaw aches.

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elsvenus · 5 days ago

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𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 (𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘) ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ✷ ㅤ𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐘

𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐱 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ✷ prequel to im thinking about breaking your heart someday soon character study draft on lesbian compulsory heterosexuality sophmore quinn fabray. if you read the previous one—here’s the sleepover yearning scene you wanted fleshed out! now loosely inspired by the song ankles by lucy dacus ✷ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7k ✷ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: religious imagery, internalized homophobia, sexual content (?) and angst

the faint outline of a tattoo emerges just above your ankle, fine-lined and inconspicuous, the kind of whimsy easily hidden by socks. it explains why quinn hadn’t noticed it before—until now, as her gaze catches on the way your feet tangle together in a quiet symphony of childish giggles, smudging the pristine polish of your newly painted nails. her breath hitches, an unguarded gasp, and before you can react, her hand darts out, grasping your leg with the easy authority of someone rearranging a doll—you’re a limbless sock puppet, bending at her will.

“what is this?” she demands, the words slipping out sharp, like she’s caught you in a confession. her fingers tighten just slightly, her touch half-command, half-curiosity.

you glance down, sheepish now, a flush rising to your cheeks at the sudden spotlight, improper in front of a seraphim incarnate. “it’s just… a lily pad,” you admit, your voice soft, hesitant. “something stupid. from a vacation. i thought it’d fade by now.”

her thumb brushes over the ink as if testing its permanence, as though it might flake away under her touch, revealing a cleaner, more polished version of you. but it doesn’t—it stays stubbornly etched into your skin, a quiet rebellion against perfection, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how her hand lingers, how her eyes trace the ink like a secret she’s just been allowed to see.

she says nothing at first, but her grip loosens, her fingertips ghosting over the edge of the tattoo in something that feels closer to reverence than judgment. for a fleeting moment, the silence between you seems to hum with unspoken truths, as though that tiny imperfection has opened a door.

“it kind of looks like a q,” she finally murmurs, her voice softer now, an olive branch extended through observation. the words hang in the air between you, unexpected and strangely tender, and you feel yourself bloom under the weight of them.

“right,” you reply, a playful lilt in your voice as you meet her gaze, your smile soft but mischievous. “must’ve been god fating my way to you.” the words are light, almost teasing—it’s a joke after all, just something to make her roll her eyes, but the way quinn freezes—hand still resting on your ankle—gives you pause. for a second, she looks like she might say something, but it never comes. instead, her fingers loosen, brushing against your skin as she pulls away, her gaze dropping like a curtain.

she’s never been this quiet. her nose curls up when she thinks this deeply, crinkles at the top. you find it endearing, fight the urge to smooth it over as you would her deep thought, ushering it away.

“seriously, though,” she says, voice slipping back into its familiar coolness, though with something sharper now, “i don’t understand why you’d get something… like this.”

you smile, the words softening the tension, but there’s an unexpected warmth blooming in your chest, a quiet shift beneath the surface of the playful exchange. “it’s just a vacation thing, okay?” you murmur, trying to make it sound light, to keep the air between you unbroken. “not everything has to make sense.”

quinn’s breath catches in a short, amused snort, and her eyebrow arches, that familiar spark of mischief flashing in her eyes. “yeah, well, i’d expect nothing less from you.” she glances down at the ink on your ankle, her gaze lingering there for just a moment, as if deciding whether to push this further or let it fade into the quiet space between you. when she speaks again, her grin doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but there’s a softness there you can’t quite place. “guess it’s not all bad, though. kinda suits you—chaotic, in a way.”

you laugh—half offended—but it feels a little different this time, a little deeper, more honest. “it’s a lily pad, not a metaphor for my life,” you tease, the words a shield for something you don’t want to name.

quinn rises gracefully, all swift movements and cool detachment, as if the moment itself had never existed at all. “you really should’ve found a better tattoo artist,” she says, voice shifting back into its usual playful smirk, before turning toward the door. “but hey, whatever keeps you entertained.”

you watch her go, the space between you suddenly too wide. the playful mask is back in place, but you can feel it now—how fragile it is, how much she’s holding back. it’s in the way her jaw tightens just before she leaves, in the way she avoids your gaze, as if looking at you might reveal something too painful to face and doesn’t want you to see, locked in the unsaid.

for now, you let it stay that way, letting the quiet settle into the room like a song in the background that needn’t be played again, mustn’t be put into focus.

her mother looks just like her, in a way that hollows your chest with something nameless. quinn without the fire—an ocean-eyed blonde with a different kind of sad smile. you’ve spent over a year catching glimpses of quinn that mirror her mother too perfectly: the grin that doesn’t reach her eyes, the way light bounces off her irises past her lashes, impenetrable. you’ve tried to pinpoint the cause, as though finding it could save her, keep the diamond twinkle you long for buried deep within the weight of her gaze. but every attempt has left you empty-handed, powerless.

when mrs. fabray opens the door, even she seems startled by the reflection. for a fleeting moment, she sees herself in her daughter who is across the room in incoherent easy closeness with her best friend, and something unspoken passes over her face. that lifeless smile of predator shark teeth appears again, even startles you, before she speaks.

“quinnie,” she calls out to her daughter like a threat, as though you’re not even there “it’s getting late—maybe it’s time you girls go to sleep.”

quinn isn’t a fighter at home, she’s compliant and soft around the edges, so she doesn’t speak, just nods, her movements quick and quiet as she shrinks into herself, like she’s a different person when she’s home. you turn, not wanting to add any more weight to the air, but the sudden distance between you two feels thick, suffocating. the soft creak of the bed under quinn’s weight reminds you she’s still there, and her silence weighs heavier than any words.

you unbutton your jeans slowly, methodical, the motion almost like a private ritual. you strip off the fabric, the cool air of the room kissing your skin as you slip into your soft pink pajamas, the kind that make you feel more like a child than a teenager, but it’s easy to wear the comfort when the space feels so fragile.

behind you, you can feel quinn’s eyes burning into your back like a heatwave. the air shifts—her gaze is a silent thing, lingering. you know she wants to look. you can feel it in the way the room holds its breath, in the way quinn’s shoulders tense like she’s holding herself back, her fingers curling slightly as if she could reach through the space and pull you back toward her. It’s a silent, aching yearning.

there’s a moment where you want to turn, catch her in the act of wanting, of needing—but you don’t. you keep your back to her, the soft fabric of your pajamas rustling as you move. the desire in her gaze is too real, too sharp, and you’re afraid if you look back, you might fall apart from the weight of it.

your pajamas are rosey like the mattress, a quiet merging of body and backdrop. when you lay down, it’s almost seamless—your figure fading softly into the blush fabric like you’re meant to be part of it, some delicate offering to the room. quinn’s gaze flickers, betraying her careful restraint, and she wonders how much audacity it might demand to feign an accident, to reach for you in the guise of thoughtlessness.

she imagines her fingers brushing against your skin as if by mistake, the fabric of your shorts riding snugly up your thighs in the process, revealing more of you than she should allow herself to see. the thought alone ignites a quiet war inside her chest, an ache she can’t quell. she shifts against the mattress, her hand twitching at her side as though the weight of her yearning might spill over, ruin everything. so she talks about boys instead.

“the new boy, sam…” she begins, the words hesitant and uneven, like stepping barefoot over glass. your closeness in the unlit room weighing heavy, unbearable, your warm breath mingling over each other’s faces like a blanket touch “he looks like your type, doesn’t he?”

“you think i’m into blondes?” you ask, your voice soft but teasing, a quiet question laced with light amusement, and her cheeks are immediately shaded like the mattress, pajamas, peonies, blush.

she’s hoping so, suddenly, having not thought it through before. quinn hadn’t prepared for this sudden pivot in her own heart, curses herself stupid for the topic. but now the hope takes root, fierce and unruly, so ardent and consuming that she’s afraid that god himself might strike her down for it, might take it away, might cast her brunette again just to prove a point.

“i don’t know.” quinn’s words come out defeated, in a single dying breath that melts halfway through the air until she composes herself once more. your toes are touching again, and it’s enough to set her nerves alight. she wants to take a bite out of you and keep it beneath her tongue—her brain decides abruptly. the violent imagery of this, in its raw honesty, makes it known she would not be sleeping tonight.

“is your type finn?” you ask then to break the silence but genuinely curious, “the gentle giant, never-as-smart-as-you kind of guy?”

quinn snorts softly, the sound a mix of amusement and frustration as she pushes herself up on one elbow to look at you. “not even close,” she mutters, though her gaze doesn’t quite meet yours. she knows the question is harmless, but it lands somewhere deep inside her, unsettling.

your eyes narrow playfully. “oh, come on, fabray. don’t act like you’re above the high school sweethearts trope, you love it, i know you do! you’ll end up marrying him, even if it ends in hoping at doctor’s offices that the babies get everything from you and nothing from him.”

she shifts uncomfortably, her fingers toying with the edge of the comforter at your future predictions, everything her family could ever want from her. maybe she has been a better actress than she thought, even in your company. “please” she deflects. “you think you could handle someone like finn your whole life? all charm and no brain?”

you laugh, soft and warm, and the sound curls around her chest like a ribbon. “no way. i’d eat him alive.”

“…but maybe he’s good for practice, i guess,” you say suddenly, sending quinn into a spiral.

at first she hums in response, noncommittal, her mind racing. she’s desperate to say the right thing that will steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground, but her thoughts betray her. every word she might say feels too close to revealing the truth—the way her chest tightens when you smile, the way her gaze lingers too long on the curve of your lips.

she blinks after a moment, like a softer clearing of the throat. “practice?”

you shrug, your cheeks flushing faintly as you avoid her gaze. “you know… for when it matters, when it’s a guy i really care about. so i don’t mess it up. i need someone like that.”

quinn stands there, frozen in the quiet aftermath of your words, the weight of them pressing on her chest like a stone. practice. it’s such an innocuous word to you, so simple, you practically spit it out. but to quinn, it lands with the intensity of a sermon preached in a forgotten cathedral, all holy desperation wrapped in the scent of incense. her jaw tightens, the muscles working beneath the skin, a silent struggle etched in the tense line of her neck.

she looks down, avoiding your gaze, as if the truth in her eyes could betray everything she’s been holding back. a moment passes before she speaks, her voice low, deliberate, she feels burdened with sin cursing through her veins and at any given moment she’ll choke on the blood of her pretend nonchalant.

“i could help you,” she says, the words slipping out almost effortlessly, but with a rawness that catches in the air between you. “doesn’t matter to me.”

the casualness of her tone might fool someone else. might make them believe it’s just another one of quinn’s usual deadpan, indifferent comments. but you can hear the crack beneath the surface, the desperate strain she’s working so hard to hide. her gaze flickers briefly to your lips, and for the briefest second, it’s like she can’t tear her eyes away and your heart stutters in your chest. her voice lingers in your ears, a cold whisper that feels like a heavy cloak being draped over your shoulders, shrouding you in her quiet torment.

“quinn—”

but you don’t get to finish.

in one fluid, predatory motion, quinn leans in, her presence a magnetic force you can't escape. her hand moves with purpose, fingers brushing the side of your face so delicately at first that for a moment, you wonder if it's just a figment of your imagination. but when her lips find yours the world shifts like a sudden storm breaking through a quiet sky. the vague taste of mint toothpaste and cherry lipgloss remnants fills your senses, and though you've never cared for cherries, it feels like the sweetest thing you've ever tasted. your hands, moving of their own accord, find her waist, but by then she's already holding your chin prisoner with an unrelenting grip, a quiet command in her touch. her tongue meets yours, urgent, hungry, like a race to reach some destination you can't name, and by the time you register the way your body feels weightless—like you might collapse into the kiss itself—it’s already too late. your breath comes in shallow, desperate bursts as she consumes you entirely.

you think to yourself you ought to make practice count so you grab a handful of golden hair and tug it gently, her mouth agape from the gasp, tension setting you free to roam her throat in wet trails. you don’t know when her leg found itself lodged between your thighs but it makes itself known with the way her knee arches against your center and everything everywhere aches desperately.

“stop,” she whispers, but it’s more for her sake than yours, a command that echos like a plea. her breath catches, heavy and shallow, like she’s drowning and doesn’t know how to come up for air. she’s not supposed to care like this. she’s not supposed to feel like this. she’s supposed to be your friend. but the sight of you, so close, so oblivious to the storm inside her, makes everything inside her crack.

she breaks everything up just as suddenly as the kiss started, just as violently, stepping back with the same cold mask she’s always worn. her breathing is uneven, ragged.

“guess that’s enough practice for tonight,” she mutters, the words laced with a bitterness she’s only just beginning to taste. quinn turns away from you, her back to you like a door slamming shut, the heavy weight of her unspoken emotions too much to carry in the light of day.

the silence stretches between you, and you’re left standing there, heart pounding in your chest, trying to make sense of everything that just happened. she will never let you in. she’ll never voice what’s breaking her inside. she’ll just keep hiding it all beneath the veneer of indifference, the weight of her love buried deep in the shadows where you can’t see.

the next day quinn fabray fucks noah puckerman searching for one ounce of what you made her feel and with her virginity goes her hope of being normal, too. she whispers the word lesbian in front of the mirror for the first time afterwards, like someone trying on clothes and is desperate over the fact it fits.

she cries herself to sleep.

requested by @caitviers and written motivated by the very lovely @willowcried and @chapqellroan i hope you like this part too !

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