Work Text:
Walking up to the edge and jumping in...
- "Fire Door," Ani Difranco
This isn't who she was supposed to become.
After all, good Christian girls don't do that. Sometimes, this new obsession feels like something that happened to her, like an affliction, or when your Dad loses his job and dinners aren't as fancy for a while. Something temporary. Something that goes away.
But it hasn't.
And god knows she'll never admit to it, not to anyone, unless she wants to become even more of a freak than she already is. Santana could have a field day with this information. Finn would just be really, really confused. Coach would use every euphemism in the book to never let her hear the end of it. (She'd use that phrase, too—something with end in it.) And Rachel...god, anything from a health and safety PowerPoint to a full-on intervention. Maybe scheduling a dinner with her dads so they can swap tips.
Christ.
No, this stays hers. Quinn knows she'll never be able to restore her image, not really, and some days she convinces herself she doesn't care about that anymore. It's a lie, but it's an easy lie. So is maintaining her status as the Total Prude Except For That One Time.
But it hasn't been Just That One Time. Her life has steadily unraveled, one shitstorm after another, and junior year ending didn't help. She fell back into Puck like a bad habit, predictably turning up on his doorstep when she needed an escape, when she needed to feel in control of something, or someone. They'd lie on his bed watching something mindless, and he'd drink a beer and she'd stare at the spot on the side wall just above the TV, thinking about how nice it was to not have to think about anything at all.
**************
She has better places to be on a Saturday afternoon. Or, at least, she thinks she does.
She wishes she did.
Quinn doesn't tell her mom where she's going when she leaves anymore. She carves her own path, fills her own day, writes her own rules. She makes her own game.
She read somewhere that when you're lost, the best thing to do is retrace your steps until you see something familiar. Her father always told her, no, sit still until someone finds you. Quinn Fabray doesn't know how to sit still, and no one is coming to look for her. Not anymore.
So, she retraced her steps, back to the moment her life fell apart, and now she has a new game. Sometimes, she lets him hold her. He plays by the rules.
They both know better now.
Puck chose Transformers and she really couldn't care any less, except now the Megan Fox scenes seem to be having...an effect on his trousers.
Typical.
Quinn considers her options as the little spoon, and, in a surprising act of devil-may-care, pushes back against him—subtly at first, then with increasing purpose.
She's not supposed to. She really shouldn't.
But, whatever. This movie is stupid. She's bored, and he's vulnerable.
A few minutes pass. "Thought you said that was a one-time thing." Puck's voice is thin, like he's holding in a breath and clearly struggling to keep his shit together.
Quinn doesn't stop moving. "Does it matter?" she asks absently.
Puck gulps and closes his eyes. "Nope." He meets her halfway now, grinding strongly against her ass and snaking a hand around her stomach. She flinches a bit at the gesture but knows he was only going where she led. He hasn't crossed a line (yet), but then, Quinn doesn't even know where the line is anymore.
You can't break the rules if you don't know what they are.
She reaches back and fumbles at his belt one-handed, still facing what appears to be a festival of overly gratuitous CGI explosions. (She can relate, strangely, to both the fire and the lack of genuine emotion behind it.) Puck gets the hint and quickly takes over the task, yanking his pants down awkwardly, as if Quinn will disappear into thin air if he takes more than five seconds.
Quinn slides her panties off from beneath her blue babydoll dress, exposing nothing, and settles back in, as if the event were tedious and commonplace. They had a kid together, and now they're a loveless married couple. It'd be funny, if she wasn't so scared. People do this all the time, right? People like him, people like her. Her heart is pounding, but she can't let him know that. Thank god for this shitty movie. With Puck behind her, she can keep her secrets with eyes forward and picture the rest if she wants to, which she doesn't.
This isn't about Puck, and it isn't even about sex, not really. Well, it is and it isn't. She just wants to feel something. Something strong, different. To be in control of something crazy. And for it to be on her terms.
She lost Beth. She lost her father. She lost her status. She lost Nationals. She lost Finn. And in the process of that, she lost Rachel. (Not that it's the same, because it's not, it's just...whatever.)
It's time for a new side of Quinn Fabray. A Quinn who isn't afraid of the things that fucked her up before, starting with the one thing that put her on this whole downward spiral in the first place. But she isn't about to make the same mistakes and be that Quinn.
Not ever again.
Shaking off the flashes of painful memories, she refocuses on the stupid wallpaper with a steadying, shallow breath.
Right on cue, Quinn hears what sounds like the quick unwrapping of a condom. (At least someone has learned his lesson. Though, where had that been, his back pocket? Optimistic, much?) Soon, a hand is sliding up her thigh under her dress, finding safe ground and pulling her closer.
Quinn tenses against the touch and tries to decide what the hell she's doing here.
It still feels too familiar, too reminiscent. She lost her virginity in the safety of her own bedroom, the safety of her old life, back when her parents—and all of McKinley—still pretended to love her. She was held accountable in that room, in that life. But here, in Puck's gross, stupid man-cave, she could be anyone, anything she wanted. She's outside her own jurisdiction now.
Her life wouldn't know where to come looking for her.
And not being Quinn Fabray for a few minutes sounds really fucking good.
As she feels him adjust his body into position, running a hand toward her center, she turns her head sharply. "No."
It isn't forceful or fearful—uncertain, if anything. Distant, like she's lost in thought miles away. Slipping out of her own skin and trying someone else on, but needing to look in the mirror first to see if it fits.
She's changing.
Puck freezes and drops his hand from her hot skin with a huff. "Seriously." A frustrated pause. "I got a condom."
She shakes off his misunderstanding. "No..." Quinn's eyes close, still in profile. To be in charge, you have to give orders. She knows that—it's who she is. But how do you ask for this? "...not there."
Puck still doesn't move. "Not there," he repeats, as if that will help him translate girl-speak.
Quinn glares over her shoulder, catching him only in her periphery. The less real he is to her right now, the better. "Figure it out."
A few seconds pass, then Puck flips 180 degrees in a mad rush for something in his nightstand drawer. Quinn hears a plastic bottle pop open and wonders if she should bother turning off the movie before creating a permanent association, if it's not already too late. But then, maybe this is the start of a transformation of her own. She just...doesn't know into what.
It's strangely appealing.
Puck lifts the back of her dress and repositions himself, higher up this time, so his face is close behind her neck. He moves his hand to rest gently on her ass, testing the waters. "You're sure, right?"
Like Quinn hadn't initiated this whole thing herself. She hates being treated like some fragile, stupid girl who doesn't know what she's doing. Yeah, two years ago, she was that girl, and Puck hadn't given a shit about consequences. (...Outside the jurisdiction...) They'd both paid the price, but things were different now—he knows that, right? This time, she's calling the shots.
This is her choice.
"Are we doing this or not?" she spits impatiently.
No turning back now.
Fortunately, Puck's smart enough not to say anything in response. Instead, Quinn feels the hand on her ass squeeze firmly and what has to be Puck's six inches sliding along the divide.
But then suddenly a cold, wet finger is rubbing, well, there. It feels the furthest thing from sexual—clinical, if anything, like a doctor's appointment gone terribly wrong, and Quinn starts to wonder what she has gotten herself into. A moment later, it's replaced by much greater mass and much stronger pressure, and Quinn's brain floods with warning signs and her mother's face and her father's voice and the last remaining threads of the good girl she's supposed to be.
Fuck that.
"Just...go slow."
Quinn Fabray survived a pregnancy. Unlike most girls her age, she is all too familiar with carrying something foreign inside her, how it makes you feel like you don't know your own body anymore. But this new invasion is sending all kinds of mixed signals that she can't begin to separate cleanly.
First and foremost, the strangeness of something trying to go in where things only go out. It's so simple, yet so complicated. For all the Cheerios practices and Glee rehearsals that have pushed her body to its limits, this is new and unknown and terrifying. An unexplored part of herself just laying in wait until right here, right now.
Puck presses firmly for entry, gaining his first bit of ground, and, yeah. She is really doing this.
But everything inside her is screaming in protest, and her muscles clench defensively against the intrusion. She's Ivy-bound; she knows the biology of this. Puck isn't doing any damage. Entire subcultures thrive on this act and have for thousands of years. But all that's real to Quinn is the stinging and stretching and force, and she's never felt more vulnerable.
I want this.
I asked for this.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She takes a breath as Puck pulls against her hip.
I can do this.
And then, just for a moment, she lets herself drift away from everything—from her shitty summer job, from the guilt-ridden mother waiting at home, the child she gave away, the fears of senior year failure that she doesn't dare confess. And for one brief moment, Quinn Fabray lets go.
With an exhale, Puck's widest point enters her fully, and Quinn gasps at how her body compensates and takes him in. She constricts instinctively, but it only makes Puck's progress more painful, so she quickly relents and holds her breath again, waiting for it to be awful. Waiting for it to be objectifying and empty. Waiting for it to hurt in every way possible.
Because that's what sex is.
And yet, the further he progresses, the more sensation Quinn feels. All the nerve endings waking, coming alive, as if activated for the very first time. And maybe that's the most confusing part—it hurts, but not as much as she expected...and it feels good. The first time with Puck felt like a knife in her gut, cutting, stabbing, and she'd gotten no real pleasure from it. She was supposed to, she knows, but didn't. It was as simple as that.
The fact that she's not supposed to like this but does makes Quinn like it all the more.
She doesn't even know how long Puck has been gradually making his way inside. Everything is happening in slow motion and all at once. She's hyper-aware of the heat and the pressure, the lack of lubrication (despite his efforts) and the growing wetness elsewhere.
Her muscles twitch as she tests the boundaries of her position, adjusting around him as he cautiously slides an inch at a time. The levels of pain balanced with pleasure are rising steadily—the screams in her mind are almost deafening—and Quinn knows he's got to be almost completely in by now.
Through the din, her mind clears for a moment and refocuses.
Her body, her terms.
Biting her lip, she flexes her muscles out against him, not to reject his advance, but to welcome it, and the slow-motion snaps back to real time in sharp color. Puck slides the final two inches in easily, groaning against her ear, and Quinn lets herself echo the sound, relishing the feeling of being so full inside, so pushed to her limit, and so very goddamn naughty.
Call it a moment of acceptance. Everything is wrong, and it feels so right.
"Okay?" he asks one more time, body frozen still.
He's a good guy.
Quinn gathers all her strength, wanting her voice to be as collected and firm as possible. "Yes." She thinks she's shaking, but that could just be from the cold of the room.
In July.
Puck pulls back for the first time, not going far or even anywhere at all, then moves in deeper. He goes slowly, as requested, seemingly enjoying the tight friction and probably thinking Quinn is going to change her mind any second. But with every stuttered drag in and out, she opens herself up more to him, then arches her back, reaching up to wrap long fingers around his shaved head and pull him closer. A few more thrusts and Puck falls into a steady rhythm, having received her blessing for more, and he angles his body slightly on top of Quinn's for leverage as he works. Quinn braces herself against the mattress to support both of their weight.
So much of her life is spent waiting for things to be over. If memory serves, this won't take long. But right now, Quinn isn't quite sure just how long she can last, herself.
She lets her eyes drop closed as her mouth hangs open, gasping for breath against the continuous overstimulation. This is nothing like she expected; she had no idea these nerves inside her could generate such intensity. The arousing joy of Puck's up-thrust mirrors the burning rub of the pull-back beautifully, and Quinn shuts her eyes tight to keep the tears in.
This was supposed to just be an act of rebellion, of escaping herself, but she inadvertently discovered a form of sex that fits the jagged lines of her fucked-up life. Something that matches her complexity. Something dangerous (but not really), something judged yet misunderstood, something the world rejects because it doesn't meet its expectations. Something that doesn't feel how it looks, doesn't look how it feels.
Something that makes her feel punished in the way she thinks she deserves.
Not like before, where she served a nine-month sentence for a five-minute mistake. Here, the only consequences are her own mental cage and battle wounds, both of which she can handle. She has earned this pleasure, and she deserves this pain, and it's equal and immediate and intoxicating.
"Harder."
He's moving easier now, as the aiding moisture has spread evenly, mixed in with sweat and the want of Quinn's body for more. The slapping noise of their bodies punctuates the movie's final fight as they move, Puck going faster, Quinn holding tightly to not fall off the bed.
She's not shying away this time. She wants all of it. She wants to have trouble walking to her car. She wants to flinch when she sits down to dinner with her mother. For the first time in her life, she's enjoying sex, and she's in control.
But it's quickly becoming too much, and Quinn feels the balance of the scales tipping away from her as the first tears escape down her cheek.
"Do it," she says, loudly enough that she won't have to repeat herself, and grabs what she can of Puck's mohawk. "Come inside me."
He buries his face in her neck and groans, struggling, pumping harder and not slowing. Quinn grimaces against the increased friction and tries not to cry out. The cloud of chemicals in her brain thins to sharpened clarity as the pain intensifies, and she knows she'll lose everything she's gained if she doesn't reclaim it. Now.
"NOW."
Puck lets out a long, low moan against Quinn's shoulder blades, pulling tightly around her stomach as he holds himself inside, body clenched. And at once, he falls away, exhaling and sweaty and blinking against the light.
"Fuck."
He always could be counted on to neatly summarize a situation.
Quinn slips off the bed and cleans up quickly, dressing without so much as a look behind her. But then she pauses and considers her words and the power she might be transferring. Power she's determined to keep.
"Let me be clear," she says calmly, still not meeting his eyes. "If one word—"
"I got it, BabyMama." He sounds sincere, but adds for good measure, "You know I can keep a secret when it counts."
That will have to do for now.
She slides out the door as the credits begin to roll in the stale, small room, leaving Puck with jeans to his knees and his shirt still on in the middle of the bed.
Her raw skin stings with each painful step in the fresh evening air, burning and spent and reminding her what a very bad, bad girl she is.
Quinn Fabray opens the red VW door, flinches hard as she lands on the seat, and smiles.
**************
Three days later, she finds herself at Puck's door again.
He grins slyly, seeing who's come knocking, and leans against the door frame in an attempt to be smooth. "Knew you couldn't stay away."
Quinn rolls her eyes and scoffs, turning instantly and walking away. This was a bad idea. Of course it was a bad idea. It's Puck, and it's sex. What the hell did she think would happen?
"Hey, wait!" he calls, but it's too late. She's halfway down the sidewalk. "Look, just, come inside. I made chicken nuggets."
Wow. How did I ever turn this guy down?
Quinn stops and slowly turns around, eyebrow raised in her typical unimpressed expression. "You're an idiot."
He smiles. "You know it."
She sets her purse down on the table in his bedroom, right by the door, in case she needs to make a quick exit. It feels desperate, being there. She should be reading a book or getting some sun or exercising or, hell, anything other than this. And yet, here she is.
Because she can't stop thinking about it.
Puck's licking ketchup and crumbs off his fingers, telling her about this "sweet new game" he picked up, and she just wants him to shut up and get on the bed already so she can figure all this out. It's tough to be scientific about sex, but she's trying. Because this really, really isn't about Puck, but it must be about something. There has to be a reason she's been craving those wicked sensations since the moment she walked out that door.
Part of her doesn't want to think about it anymore. Just rewind seventy-two hours and not go down this path in the first place so she wouldn't have to deal with any of this. Her life was so much simpler.
But then there's this other part of her. The part that needs to be bad. The part that needs to get so far outside of being Quinn Fabray that she doesn't recognize herself anymore. It's that part that terrifies her—and excites her—most of all.
It's the part that's winning.
"I just swiped a copy of The Hangover from Wal-Mart," Puck starts, "if you want—"
"Take off your pants."
It's a command, but it doesn't sound like one. Quinn's voice is soft but clear, and Puck stops mid-step and turns to see if he heard her correctly.
He did.
He unbuckles his belt where he stands, next to the bed, without missing a beat, and his jeans fall to his ankles, heavy with the weight of his chain wallet. He just stares, eyebrows a little raised, in his red plaid boxers.
Quinn's leaning gently against the drawers at the foot of the bed, not knowing if Puck is going to take the lead or wait to see where this is going. An awkward silence—too awkward—answers her question. She takes a deep breath and swallows back her embarrassment before saying, "Sit down" in a more annoyed tone than she means.
Puck sits where he is, on the far side of the bed, and now Quinn does roll her eyes again with a huff. Fortunately, he catches on and moves around to where she's standing, repositioning himself right in front of her.
Quinn doesn't move. She's not used to making the first move. If anything, her teenage life has been an endless stream of brushing them off. And she doesn't want this to be on Puck's terms, or for her to become an actress in some fucked up cheerleader fantasy he's been working on since freshman year.
She's running out of time.
"Now wh—"
"Don't talk," she says firmly. It's familiar, letting the haughty tone hide her fear, and it gives her the sense of power she needs right now to keep going. She notices the longer she stares at Puck, like he's some bug she could squash under her shoe, the more his cotton shorts are moving.
Good. Less work for her.
"Off," she says, and within seconds, he's scrambling to peel the last layer off his lower half, this time having the sense to take his shoes and pants with them. His blue V-neck shirt is still on, which she's oddly grateful for, but he probably doesn't even notice.
Slowly, Quinn turns away from him and reaches back to unzip her dress, letting it droop down and off her shoulder to silently fall to a heap on the carpet. Her light pink bra and panties match, but it's not like she is trying hard. Not for Puck.
She turns her head slightly, keeping them both out of the other's view, at least anything worth seeing. She already knows what this is doing for him, now that he's exposed and only an arm's length from her ass.
"Get the stuff," she says quietly.
It doesn't take him long—the squeaky drawer shutting loudly, the rummaging through god knows what else is in there—and he's back in his assigned seat. He tears open a wrapper hurriedly and pops the bottle cap closed after an unpleasant squirting sound.
"Ready," he says proudly.
Quinn holds up a hand and grimaces, trying not to let his voice pull her out of her mental state.
She needs something inside her, now. She woke up this morning and did as she was told. Bought groceries for her mother, helped pick out new drapes for the dining room, folded her laundry like a dutiful daughter. She can be both of these people. She can be Mother's Little Angel and a sexual deviant. Secrets make people feel alive.
They give you something to live for.
She tucks her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and slides them all the way down without bending her knees.
Puck makes a noise as she leans over, and they both silently thank years of cheerleading practice.
"Lie back," she says, loudly enough that he can hear with her still facing away. When his body hits the blanket, she carefully steps back until she's standing between his legs. She pushes them wide and braces against his thighs as she lowers herself. It's difficult to find the right angle when she can't see what she's doing, and she's careful to stay as far forward as she can to keep her intentions clear. But then she uses one hand to guide him toward the back entrance, still sore from their previous excursion, and she reclaims her leverage before slowly guiding her weight down onto him.
Yet again, it's not what she expects—the burning sting of slow, forced intrusion and the well-deserved tears. No, this time there's the cautious start and then a sudden pop feeling as he slides right into her, guided by gravity, and it's all Quinn can do to control the speed of her descent. Her biceps quiver weakly as her focus is elsewhere, and her concentration wavers as she's holding so much of her body tight while trying so hard to relax against him.
With a gasp, her ass meets his hips, and she pauses, mouth hanging open, to process the reality of her situation. She feels full, her body thick with arousal, pushed to her limit but not broken. The pain is noticeably less this time but still ever present, and it seems to be radiating through her in waves just as much as the jolts in her pulsing clit. It feels primal and transcendent.
Quinn Fabray is alive.
For a moment, no one else is there. No one under her, no one in her mind, no one telling her how wrong this is or what a good girl she's supposed to be. She straightens her back, moving her hands to the bed on either side of his hips, and feels the intoxicating shift of her body inside as new nerves are triggered. Tilting her head back, she feels even more, and a groan escapes her open mouth as she squeezes hard against him, relishing the presence.
She rolls her hips forward slightly, just to see, and he indeed moves with her—not really enough for Quinn to feel, and not nearly enough to lose him, so it's a start. She moves them back and forth slowly and smiles at how she's doing this—she's having sex—and she's the one making the moves. Her muscles have expanded enough to not fight back, and she alternates between the delicious control of applying pressure against him and the soothing reflexive release.
The more the pain dulls, the more she wants it.
Hell, she wants everything. She wants to feel.
But she can't feel shame if there isn't someone judging her.
Quinn's eyes close as she falls forward, hands returning to his thighs as she continues to rock. Her mind is racing in a blur as flashes of color burst through the darkness of her mind.
And then, without equivocation, there is Rachel.
Rachel Berry, storming in with wet eyes, pleading for her not to do this, not to make this mistake again, not with Puck.
Rachel, crying because this isn't Quinn, not the Quinn she knows, the Quinn she loves, the Quinn she wants.
Rachel, on her knees in front of Quinn, begging, not looking away, not backing down.
Rachel, taking Quinn's hand and sliding it between her legs to prove herself, to prove her wanting.
Rachel, bent over the edge of the bed, Quinn's fingers lost in her hair, pulling hard, as their bodies slide together with increasing heat.
Rachel, whimpering into the sheets as Quinn penetrates her over and over and over again.
Fuck.
Quinn freezes.
She slowly lifts her body, careful not to go too far, and then lowers herself again. Eyes closed, she repeats the action, a little faster this time, pushing against the floor to move with precision. Like a machine. She feels the burn in her toned thighs as she works, hovering over him, and she won't be able to keep this up for long, but each stroke in and out of her is another push deeper inside her mental vision of Rachel.
"Fuck yeah, ride my dick," Puck groans.
Quinn instantly snaps, "Shut up! This is NOT about you!"
She fights to lose herself in the motion again, eyes shut and arms braced as her imagination runs wild. She shudders at the thought of Rachel's moans, at how it would feel to have those tight muscles clenched around her, any part of her, and Quinn's knees give out.
She falls against Puck and curses, panting hard and not wanting it to be over. Not when she's just gotten started.
He sits up and holds on to Quinn to help support her weight as they stand up together, never exiting her. He guides her hands forward to hold the dresser drawers, and she leans at a 45-degree angle, knees locked and ass pressed firmly against him. Puck holds her hips and starts to fuck her again at the same pace, gradually increasing as she relaxes around him, surrendering to the pain and letting her mind drift far away.
Quinn's eyes roll back in her head as her focus splits between the life-and-death task of clinging to the varnished wood, the body-splitting pounds of Puck behind her, and the fantastic sound of Rachel screaming with pleasure as Quinn fucks her senseless.
Puck isn't slowing down, so neither will Quinn, and she's burning from the inside out, but she can't stop now. The dresser is bumping the wall as Puck's body slams into her, and the neighbors can probably hear the commotion over her high-pitched noises and his stifled grunts, but none of that matters now.
Quinn pulls Puck a step forward with her, braces her forearm against the edge of the dresser, and plants her forehead down. It's less leverage and hardly comfortable, but if she doesn't touch herself—or Rachel—she's going to die.
As her fingers find her wet clit, Quinn blocks out the sound of Puck to focus again on Rachel, bouncing against her body in perfect rhythm.
Rachel, voice caught somewhere between a song and a scream, pitch rising as she nears the brink.
Rachel, hot and wet against Quinn's fingers as they thrust deeper and deeper inside.
Rachel's body tensing and locking around Quinn, back arched and crying as she comes.
Puck slams full force into Quinn, and her world collapses.
When she regains coherent thought (and use of her arms, and legs, and sight, and hearing), she's still leaning against the drawers. Her cheeks are cold with tear trails, and the overhead light seems suddenly very bright.
Puck is walking back from the trash can, half-naked and soft, and starts to pull his jeans back on. Quinn would ask why his boxers are still on the floor, but she doesn't care, and she still can't speak.
All she can think is, Rachel.
And that her ass really, really hurts.
But the first thought is too confusing, especially now, so instead she focuses on the second. She straightens upright, flinching at the pain, and uses her toes to lift her panties within fingers' reach. Dressing discreetly, or as much as she can, she has one shoe on when Puck breaks the silence.
"So, that's interesting."
God, she really doesn't want to dissect her new-found love of anal sex. Not right now, and not ever, not with him. She tugs on her other shoe, wincing again at her tender skin and thinking that it's a strange trophy to carry for Becoming Your Own Person, but whatever. It's hers. No one can take it away from her.
Puck continues. "You said 'Rachel.'"
That gets Quinn's attention.
She reaches for her bag. "No, I didn't."
"Uh, yeah, you did."
She doesn't know how to respond to that.
"You came, right?" He honestly isn't sure. "You kind of screamed 'Rachel' and fell over and were shaking and stuff. I've never actually seen a girl come before, so I thought maybe you were having a seizure or something, but you were talking so I figured you're okay. Apparently girls are just scary cummers. Who knew." He waits for her to confirm his suspicions. She doesn't. "You didn't make a mess on the carpet or whatever, so it's cool."
She needs to get out of there. Looking around quickly, Quinn makes sure she has all of her belongings so she doesn't have to come back any time soon.
"I won't tell," he says, more strongly.
Quinn dares to catch his eye, and it looks like he means it. "You tell anyone what we're doing..." But she doesn't know what she'd do. She has no real power here, not anymore. Not when their clothes are back on.
She hadn't considered that part.
"Scout's honor," he promises. She reaches for the doorknob and stops when he adds, "but that's not what I meant."
Quinn turns, unable to hide the fear in her eyes. Her superpower might be turning 'scared' into 'scary,' but this is cutting too deep. He knows too much. He has too many ways to hurt her now.
This was supposed to be easy. Dirty, painful, and easy.
Maybe two out of three is the best she can do.
Quinn swallows against her dry throat and says, "Whatever," with a shaky voice before hurrying out the door, step by painful step, leaving red plaid shorts and her darkest secret on Puck's bedroom floor.
**************
Later that night, she finds light pink traces on the soft tissue paper as she completes her evening routine. She pauses, considering their source—it's not the typical visitor.
No, this is self-inflicted.
She stares and turns the paper over in her hand. She wonders if there should be more blood, or less. She wonders how just much of it there may have been at all, if this is only what managed to escape her body and the violence of the afternoon, standing as a testament of what she has chosen to do to herself. Not just once, but repeatedly now. Scratching at a cut that won't heal. Clawing at an open wound.
Maybe Puck isn't telling her how bad it really is. Maybe there's blood, or worse—the color wheel slid from red to brown.
Maybe she actually is as filthy on the inside as she feels.
But, no, she's been careful, intentional. She doesn't want to ruin this. But she's still not ready to admit just how much she likes it. Still not ready to admit what she's running away from.
Quinn flexes her tender muscles one more time and pushes away fleeting images of Rachel's face. She wonders if all the parts of her that bleed have healed, or if they even can.
She wonders if she should feel more, or less, of anything.
**************
She avoids Puck for a week.
It was mildly impressive that he managed to send one "u ok?" text, but she ignores him all the same.
She avoids Rachel, too, but for different reasons. And they haven't spoken all summer, anyway.
Wednesday afternoon, Puck comes home from his 2-6 shift to find Quinn on all fours in the center of his bed.
Her black bra is still fastened, but that's all she's wearing, and her forehead low against the blanket accentuates her ass high in the air, skin glistening and begging to be fucked.
He doesn't ask how the hell she got into his house or how long she's been here. He doesn't actually say anything at all.
She doesn't look at him. She doesn't say a word. She doesn't need to.
All she needs is the burn and the guilt and the image of Rachel's face asking what became of the girl she once knew.
Funny how she can be here like this, naked and exposed but not vulnerable anymore. Not really. Not with him. Not with anyone but her.
Quinn breathes open-mouthed against the comforter as Puck climbs onto her and pushes in. It doesn't take much now. Her body is altered, and she has created a routine, of all things, to get regularly fucked by a boy she could never love.
She flexes her muscles out against him and tries to remind herself that he's the one being used. The screaming pain of friction tells her otherwise, but she deserves it. She deserves everything that's fucked up about this.
And Rachel deserves so much better than her.
Quinn bites into the blanket as she breathes, "Harder."
**************
Puck finds her waiting five times in the next two weeks.
She doesn't ask him to start slowly anymore. She doesn't have to tell him what she wants.
Now, she pushes her ass hard against him, grinding back as he fucks her, before moving the skilled fingers between her own legs.
Now, she cries into the bed and grabs fistfuls of the blanket as she moves her body harder in time with his.
She doesn't even notice if he comes anymore. If he stops before she finishes, then fine. All she thinks about is Rachel, and the pain. She thinks about the emptiness inside her that now feels full, if only temporarily, rapidly fleeting in and back out of her before she knows it's gone.
He keeps pumping. Quinn screams louder.
**************
"Not that I'm complaining," Puck says on the seventh day of coming home to find her there. Again. "But this is starting to feel like a date, and you know that's not my thing."
"Don't be stupid," Quinn says into the comforter, not meeting his eyes.
A pause. "If you want Rachel, you should just talk to her."
She grunts in frustration and pushes herself up and off the bed, reaching for her neat pile of folded clothes on the floor.
"Look, I know I'm not what you want—"
She slips on her navy panties. "You have no idea what I want." He might believe that, if only because he wants to. "Right now, I want you to fuck me. Can you handle that or not?"
She's trying to keep her lip from quivering, because she cannot talk about this, about any of it. She's fucked up—they both know it—and the only thing she feels anymore is the reassuring sting of her punishment. It's what gets her through these unbearably long summer days. When it fades, when she is clean and empty again, she comes back. Losing herself in this one bad choice feels better than dealing with all the others.
It's a lie, but it's one she likes.
And that's just it—it helps to have tangible pain. Something she can control and nurse and inflict on her whim. Quinn doesn't want to remember what it's like to not hurt like this, to only feel the other pain, much deeper inside, where she can't reach it, where it doesn't heal.
She needs this, until she breaks herself down so far that there's nothing left to lose.
But she's not there yet. Not when her heart is wounded, bleeding, but intact.
Puck sighs and unbuckles his belt with a pursed, sympathetic expression.
**************
The following week, she's on her period, but she goes over anyway.
Puck seems shocked to find her fully dressed, surfing the internet on his shitty laptop (password: puckzilla69). She gives him cash for putting a purchase on his credit card, plus an extra $20 for not asking what she's buying.
She's purchasing independence, at least from him. Men are expendable, and Puck is no exception, other than when it comes to Beth. Maybe. But she can't think about that, because thinking about Beth means thinking about Rachel, and that's not why Quinn's here.
She leaves the seven crisp bills on the bed on her way out.
The nondescript box arrives six days later, as promised, and she stows away to her bedroom to investigate it privately. The item inside has a stupid name, but the silicone is high quality and the base is flared, and the online comments said that's what matters. It's bigger than it looked in the picture, but Quinn Fabray doesn't back down from a challenge. The hot pink hue seems like a bold choice, but it won't be within view for long.
The fact that it's Rachel's favorite color is a coincidence. Really.
She tosses the packaging aside and gives her new best friend a look over. Quinn has total control now. No more animalistic grunts from her babydaddy fuck machine, no more living on his stamina's timeline, no more sweaty boy beating against her, no more breaking and entering.
It’s all Quinn now. She can enter—and break—her body as she pleases.
She unpacks the bottle of extra-cushion lubricant and sets it on the bed next to the washcloth she has permanently assigned to this task. At the bottom of the shipping box is a small carton containing the chair strap. A gamble of a purchase, but she can afford to try it. It's made for car seats (because, sure, fucking yourself while driving sounds like a risk-free life choice) but should fit on her make-up chair with a little tinkering. Ordering it made Quinn feel a little dangerous, a little desperate, and very dirty.
She liked it.
Puck always had to deal with the set up of supplies, and she feels a bit silly now working through these logistics, but then she's back on all fours, sliding the thick head inside and sighing at the pleasurable familiarity. It's bigger than Puck, intentionally, and it feels good to be pushed to her limit again.
Maybe this time she'll feel it for a week after. Maybe she can make herself bleed.
The thought makes her wet, and only then does she realizes it's not even a consideration to fuck herself there. That's just a distant memory of another girl she used to know, someone who thought she had everything but was in fact dreadfully commonplace. A typical girl who got fucked the typical way. Quinn's mission to drown out that memory—to drown that girl—with something else has been quite successful, more than she thought it would be.
She pushes the toy another two inches in. This is how Quinn has sex now. This is what she knows. This is what she likes.
This is who she is.
The angle's bad and it's hard to reach back far enough to get a firm grip on the base, but she works her strong arm as long as she can, switching off when her triceps lock and fail, dragging out and pushing back in, again and again. It still surprises her how amazing it feels every time, why her body has these pleasure sensors there, like we are creatures born to do this, and to enjoy it.
Like Quinn was born to do this and enjoy it.
And, god, it's impossible not to think about doing this to Rachel Berry. How her gorgeous legs would part for Quinn, eyes dark and heavy and wanting. How Quinn would feel the friction as she moves back and forth inside Rachel, generating heat to match the fire between her own trembling thighs. How Rachel would cry, whimpering, and beg for more, beg Quinn to go deeper and deeper still, pleading, powerless, until she comes undone at the core.
Quinn presses the base hard, driving it as far in as it can go, and squeezes around it, clenching her whole body—eyes, toes, teeth—like she'll lose everything if she lets go. When her arm tires, she falls on her side and quickly learns it's much easier this way—one arm behind her to hold the toy still and deep, the other in front to furiously pump her clit back and forth. She doesn't know why, what nerves are connected or just how these systems interact, but the fullness inside—simply present, unmoving—is significantly intensifying the sensations beneath her fingertips now more than it ever did with Puck's constant motion.
How has she not known about this?
For weeks she has focused on the beautiful symbolism of Puck's force driving her shame deeper into her, rubbing her skin raw and providing no reprieve. Yes, she relishes the impact, often wondering if it's possible to bruise internally, wanting to feel black and blue in places she can carry without needing an explanation. She enjoys the pull-back and how it gives her a breath's time to brace herself as the change in sensation rips through her like a knife. She even came to embrace the process, playing the role of Puck's wanting whore as an escape from herself.
But this...the grinding on her clit, the thickness resting inside her, the pleasure coursing through her body...this is new. This is some even darker secret.
She doesn't need anyone else to fuck her to feel alive. She just needed something she could hold inside her. Something that wouldn't immediately leave the moment it broke through her surface. Something that would stay long enough for her to remember how to feel.
Something, or someone.
And in a flash, Rachel is there beside her again, holding the toy firmly inside Quinn, sadness etched all over her face. Ever disappointed in how Quinn is closing herself off from the world a little more each day as she chooses this over genuine human connection. Over her friends. Over Rachel.
Clearly, the only things Quinn cares about anymore are herself and the seven-inch dick in her ass.
Rachel says she's pathetic.
Quinn's body arches high off the bed as she comes, screaming.
**************
She doesn't go to Puck's anymore.
He texted once, in early August, and she made up some bullshit story about meeting a 40-year-old skateboarder at a party and moving on. It had to be someone Puck wouldn't ask if he knew, and that's the first thing that came to mind. She's told better lies, but a story is a story. People just want something they can believe. Somehow, this one isn't quite as fucked up as the truth.
She just wants to be left alone. She trusted word would travel around eventually and people would stop texting her.
They did.
Her life has become a string of dirty secrets not trying to be so secret anymore. She bummed a cigarette off a girl outside the movie theater and didn't bother to mask the scent before coming home. Her mother didn't even notice, but Quinn probably won't do it again, anyway. It was gross. But there was something reminiscent about the way the smoke burned as it made its way inside her. Something pleasurable in the way Quinn struggled to hold it in like she's supposed to.
When she got home, she fucked herself on a chair until her legs gave out.
And now, Quinn's two weeks from starting school, and she's made plans to go vandalize the park on Saturday night with that girl from the theater and her friends, whoever they are. She doesn't even know what they're doing yet, but a small part of her hopes they get caught.
It doesn't matter what she does anymore. Not to herself, to the world around her, to anyone. Her choices no longer have consequences. She can bleed or scream or cry, and nobody hears it. Nobody cares. She's free to do anything, have anything, and yet she wants nothing.
She's going to walk down the halls of McKinley, the prestigious senior, hating herself and hating what she's become. She'll carry her bag of books, an unwavering glare, and this void, eating away at her insides. It feels as vast as the weight of its accompanying dirty secret: how the sexual revolution of Lima's Darling became yet another layer in her bottomless, spiraling devolution.
This is who she's become. Powerful, yet not in control of anything. Surrounded by people who claim to love her, yet utterly unknown and alone. Nobody could understand why she's doing these things to herself, not even Puck. Nobody would believe that fucking herself in the ass is the only way Quinn Fabray knows how to feel alive at all.
She's a crash waiting to happen, but she's got enough changes in mind to fuel the gossip train down the wrong track for a while, starting with a new wardrobe. The void may be wildly on display, but the secret of how she fills it, she's keeping for herself.
Because this is the thing nobody has ever really understood about Quinn Fabray: Every shitty thing her peers say about her—the stupid bitch slut who got herself knocked up at sixteen and dumped—she's already thought ten times about herself. She doesn't need their affirmations to believe it. She knows her life. She's the one who's had to suffer through it day after day.
But to believe she's pretty? To believe she's worth being with? Worth keeping around? Worth anything at all? Quinn needs to hear it ten times before even considering it, and even then she'll just wonder what you really want from her. If she's learned anything, it's that everyone always wants something from you. Well, she's done giving herself away. And it seems everyone is done asking.
Hopefully.
Rachel's opinion is the only one that ever really mattered, and it's the one Quinn can't run from fast enough.
She knows she will never have Rachel, not really, not even if she actually tries. They're in different worlds; Quinn is making sure of that. She's leaving Glee club, she's making new friends, she'll take different classes. Whatever it takes to put up a wall that Rachel can't climb, or, more importantly, that Quinn won't try to tear down, herself.
She will never have Rachel Berry, so Quinn wants nothing more to do with her at all. At least, nothing real, only the moments in the dark where she is alone with her pain and her pleasure and her shame. Their evening hours together when Rachel can remind her what a sad, horrible person she is, touching her out of pity and need, because Rachel hates herself for wanting Quinn just as much as she does. It hurts more than Quinn can bear, but it's easier than the alternative, easier than having to face Rachel for real.
And it's what Quinn deserves.
She burned her life to the ground and ran for the exit, desperate for escape and setting off a blaring alarm that everyone could hear. But no one responded. And now she'll ride out the fire until there's nothing left.
This is who she has become. This is who she wants to be. Quinn Fabray has found herself.
And she's thinking of dyeing her hair pink.