Jane’s been a New Yorker for so long that her neighbors think she’s a native (Daria never fails to mock her about this over Four Square) . She can get anywhere from any point in the city, all while avoiding pretzel carts and finding the best buskers. When Quinn showed up in town without a dime and a box of oil paints rescued from the Salvation Army, she gravitated toward Jane – it was far less embarrassing to ask her for advice versus her sister, who never failed to have a deadpan quip.
“It’s easier to tell when you’re being mean to me,” Quinn declared by way of explanation, after moving into the cold-water apartment beside Jane’s.
“Really? My patrician expression must betray my deep love for your droning ways.”
But, as always, Quinn had all of the luck. She landed her first gallery showing within months of being discovered. She comes to Jane asking for help twelve months later, because she’s got a showing at the gallery and oh god she’s going to just DIE if she doesn’t completely understand Cubism. Jane loaned her a book and then gave her a detailed lecture, but it wasn’t enough.
“I think I’d get it better if you painted it on my skin,” Quinn said.
That sat Jane still. “What?”
“On my skin – it’s easier to learn from,” she smiled, and fecklessly pulled off her shirt.
Jane sighed. “All right. You start this way…” She drew a series of figures on Quinn’s stomach, and the younger girl watched with mild interest. Then she smiled as Jane ran out of room. “You can totally write on my boobs – it
So Jane did – drawing patterns and semi-circles, highlighting Quinn’s natural beauty. The redhead sat back, smiling, enjoying the tickle of the pen.
“Do you think you could, like, write it lower?” she asked.
“I’ll forget everything if I can’t SEE it, Jane,” she insisted.
“Ohhh kay…” she started scribbling on Quinn’s bare thighs out of sheer interest of avoiding her sex – as lovely and tempted as that would be to touch.
“Hmmm….” Quinn spread her thighs. “Did I ever tell you Stacey had a crush on you?”
Jane stared blankly at the crotch of her panties before pulling her eyes up to Quinn’s face. “The little redheaded girl, your friend?”
“She was more of a brownette,” Quinn corrected Jane.
“Right. Brownette,” she muttered.
“She used to dare me to run up and kiss you,” she chuckled. “Can you imagine how much that would’ve freaked out Daria?”
“Oh, I think I can.” She rolled her eyes. “Just a tidge.”
“I guess I wanted to be like you for awhile. When I didn’t want to be Vendela,” she added.
Jane – whose tolerance for bullshit was very small – finally burst forth with the truth. “Let me guess ‘Stacey’ is shorthand for ‘you’.”
Stacey blinked at her. “Wow. You really are a brain.”
Jane shrugged and leaned over her on the couch. “And I kiss like a stud.” With that, she and Quinn kissed, at first tentatively, tongues barely touching, then impassionedly, with Quinn crawling into Jane’s lap. Without thinking, she caressed the tips of Quinn’s nipples, making her moan and throw her legs about Jane’s waist.
And then Jane scrambled off the couch, leaving Quinn confused and panting at the center. “What happened?” she moaned.
But Jane had simply taken a few moments to arm herself. “Hold still, Cinderella,” Jane requested, one eyebrow rising as she held up an intimidatingly large-looking vibrator, hooking it into the harness she’d donned. “You’ll break my crystal balls.”
Quinn flicked a sweaty lock of red hair out of her eyes. “Your puns are worse than Daria’s!”
Jane just smirked and pushed the girl backward onto the couch.