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True Colors

Rated T, 1.4k words.

In short: Quinn dyes her hair. Or, a look into Quinn's head as she travels down the path to skank-dom the summer before senior year.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and Quinn stood in the drug store aisle, swinging her car keys around her finger, making a repetitive clink every time they hit her palm.

She stared at the rows of boxes on the shelf, featuring photos of serene-looking white women showing off smooth hair in varying natural shades. Her eyes tripped over the box displaying a woman with jet-black hair - but no, that wasn’t quite what she wanted. At the end of the row, the design of the boxes shifted, turning into bold designs and expressive models, men and women with mohawks and undercuts and teased curls in various neon colors.

She brushed her fingers over the purple, the blue, the firetruck red dyes. Then she paused at the pink box.

It wasn’t aggressive like the red - taken out of context, the shade itself was almost gentle, feminine. It reminded her of the blanket the nurses had swaddled Beth in, just after she’d been born.

Quinn plucked the box from the shelf, then leaned down to get a bottle of peroxide, just in case. She headed for the checkout at the front of the store.

When a pre-teen Quinn had first requested to change her hair color, in the brief gap between middle schools, her mother easily agreed. Mrs. Fabray drove them to her regular salon, where a woman with manicured nails washed Quinn’s hair and then lightened it several shades. Quinn sat there as the hairdresser gossiped with her mother, staring at her reflection. Her hair was wrapped in foil, making her look like some sort of odd sci-fi creature. An egg timer on the hairdresser’s counter slowly marked the seconds that Quinn had to wait until her hair could be rinsed, and with each passing moment her scalp got hotter and more painful.

She was near tears by the time the timer dinged, but once her hair was rinsed and blowdried, she was amazed by her reflection. She was blonde, and pretty, and nearly unrecognizable.

Beauty took time, she learned, and it could be painful. But back then, and for so long after, she felt it was worth it. She’d returned to that salon on a regular basis for years to maintain her blonde hair.

The cashier at the drug store was a slight man, maybe a decade older than her. When she dropped her hair-dyeing supplies on the conveyer belt, she saw him eye her over. But it wasn’t salacious, a pervy old man checking out her body - even though she had plenty of skin on display, with her thrift-store t-shirt and ratty cut-off shorts. His expression seemed more wary, as though he was afraid she was up to no good. She flared her nostrils, feeling the shift of the still-tender piercing in her nose. The man startled, then reached to start scanning her items.

“Do you have any American Spirits?” she asked as he rang her up.

He glanced at her. “I’ll have to see your ID.”

She bit her lower lip. “Of course,” she said. “Let me find it.”

She lifted her bag off her shoulder in an exaggerated motion, hoping that if her shirt rode up and exposed her midriff, maybe the guy would give her a pass. She was still several months away from turning eighteen, and didn’t have a fake. It felt ridiculous - she’d been disowned by her family, she’d created a human life, she’d had to make mature decisions about the future of her daughter, and yet she didn’t have the right to smoke, if she wanted? What the hell had this pasty cashier done in his sad little life that qualified him to pass judgment on her for being too young?

She made a charade of searching her purse and coming up empty. She tried to wheedle him, but he wouldn’t budge. “Sorry, miss,” he said, which somehow pissed her off even more. “You’ll have to come back with ID.”

When she walked out of the store into the humid night air, the parking lot sparsely illuminated by flickering street lights, she didn’t have any cigarettes. But her argument with the cashier had provided enough of a distraction for Ronnie to sneak past with several cans of PBR shoved down her pants, so overall the trip was a win.

They hopped back into Quinn’s car, Ronnie carefully stashing the beer under the passenger seat. Quinn tossed the bag of her purchases at Ronnie’s feet, and as she began to pull out of the parking lot, Ronnie picked up the box of dye.

“Pink?” she said, skeptical. “Isn’t that a little preppy?”

Quinn glanced momentarily in her direction, raising an eyebrow. “No,” she said simply. “It’s gonna look punk as hell.”

Ronnie lived in a cramped apartment, in a development called “Creekside Pines,” which was notably devoid of a creek or any pines. Her mom didn’t care if they drank or smoked, so the beige, damp apartment became the setting for much of Quinn’s social life over the summer. Ronnie’s mom shouted at them not to lose the security deposit by getting dye all over the bathroom, and then retreated into her room to watch the Bachelor.

Quinn sat on top of the toilet and watched Ronnie squeeze the dye out into a tupperware container. “You ever done this before?” Quinn asked.

“No,” Ronnie replied. “You?”

Quinn tapped her chipped fingernails on the tiled counter. “Not at home.”

It was time for a change. It was time for so very many changes. Quinn was tired of trying to be perfect, of reaching for some impossible standard. She was tired of disappointing herself and everyone around her. So she was going to become someone else entirely, to stop having any expectations, so she could be free.

She felt she was making decent progress so far.

As Ronnie combed dye through her hair, Quinn texted Puck. Could you hook me up with cigs, or a fake so I can buy my own?

His reply was fast, and unsurprisingly inarticulate. Since wen do u smoke???

Can you help me or not? she sent. She rotated so Ronnie could reach the back of her head.

My id guy moved. Could mybe get u a few packs tho

Cool, she replied. I’ll pay you back.

“Who’re you texting?” Ronnie asked.

“Puckerman.”

Ronnie laughed. “You still hung up on him?”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “No. But he can be useful.”

Her hair felt heavy and odd, halfway coated with thick dye. There was something almost soothing about having Ronnie’s fingers run through her hair, grazing her scalp. Ronnie asked, with a doubtful tone, “was he even good in bed?”

Quinn stared at the wall she was facing, at the yellowed wallpaper and the stripe of dust along the baseboard. “I wouldn’t really know,” she finally said.

The Skanks were a different brand of outsiders than the New Directions. Instead of wanting attention all the fucking time, the Skanks mostly just wanted to be left alone. They didn’t care about maintaining a reputation or winning competitions or proving themselves. Quinn was pretty sure they didn’t even care that much about each other. There was no treacly sentimentality or high-stakes drama among them. They were united only by convenience, by their shared desire to do whatever the hell they wanted and not take flack from anyone.

When Ronnie finished, they opened up the beers and sat on the edge of the tub to drink them. They were lukewarm and far from palatable, but Quinn was willing to suffer a little for the fun and freedom of a light buzz. She sort of wished that Ronnie had stolen liquor, though, so at least they could get drunk faster.

She rinsed the dye out in the tub, sticking her head under the faucet and blinking water out of her eyes as she watched the bubblegum-colored dye swirl down the drain.

As she toweled her hair dry she could feel the alcohol in her blood stream, just the slightest sensation of warmth and incoordination hitting her limbs. She stood in front of the mirror and faced her new reflection.

“Damn, you were right,” Ronnie said. “It does look good.”

Her already-choppy hair was now a burst of rebellious color, unnatural and eye-catching and bright. She didn’t look like Lucy Fabray, and she didn’t look like perfect little Quinn either. She didn’t even seem like the Quinn she’d been at the end of the school year, battered and changed by the disaster of the past two years. No, she looked like someone else entirely.

Maybe this was the real Quinn, her true self. She wasn’t sure yet. But she smiled at her reflection - pink hair and ratty clothes and eyes bright with the sheen of intoxication - because she was free, and she was excited to figure out who the hell this new self was.

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The Quarterback

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i genuinely want to write a story involving kurt's cloaca and i'm not even kidding i miss the old days of popslash when we'd write stuff like this with zero sense of cringe

i have 47 bombs strapped onto my chest at all times

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gleesource get to know event | fave duet by votes

#2 (Tied) – Smooth Criminal (25 votes)

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what the FUCK is up WHERE’S MY MIKE/KURT SHIPPERS >:0

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GLEE S05E07 Puppet Master

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ONE WEEK UNTIL THE FIRST PROMPT DROPS! READY?!

Welcome to the 10th annual Klaine Valentine’s Challenge! The library will post a song prompt, complete with lyrics and video (if available), at midnight EST starting on February 1 and every single day through February 14th.

The challenge is to inspire new Klaine fanfiction, Klaine fan art, Klaine gif sets, or Klaine fan videos. All with the theme of LOVE. 💗

You're welcome to do whatever your muse tells you. Either write a 14 chapter story (we'd prefer 14 chapter stories), or 14 separate one shots, or you can create art/gif sets/videos. However you interpret the song is up to you. Perhaps the title moves you, the lyrics, just one line in the lyrics - it’s totally up to you. And the more words, the better!

Use the tags #Klaine Fanfiction, #Klaine Fan Art, #Klaine Fan Video depending on what you’re posting, and always include #KlaineValentines2025.

We created an AO3 Collection so all the works can be grouped together.

The library will reblog each entry every day, and upon completion, we will create a masterpost of all the entries.

Please message the library and let us know if you’re participating so we can keep a look out for your daily entry. If you're on Tumblr, don't forget to tag your entry #KlaineValentines2025. If you're not on Tumblr, please let us know you're participating via an ask so we'll watch your AO3 account for updates and we'll share your entries on Tumblr.

Please reblog and spread the word!

Thank you!

~The Library Team

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Countdown to “100” | 9 Quotes [6/9]

…and that’s what I love about us.

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this girl went and demanded an encore

CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE THIS HAPPENED TO HER TWICE 😭

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they'd have a torrid affair and then ava would dump sue for roz washington. and then dump roz for backstage tickets to doechii

sue sylvester x ava coleman

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There was something about you that now I can't remember It's the same damn thing that made my heart surrender

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hey baby let’s get domestic and watch house of cards in our pjs and eat shitty takeout and fuck with the lights on, still wet from the shower, and wake up together and bake muffins with too-crispy tops and adopt a cat, for as long as we both shall live