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elsvenus · 6 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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