Disclaimer: I own nothing. All belongs to Glee writers and creators.
A/N: Drabble series I'll be working on every now and then, nothing to worry about disrupting updates because it seriously takes like two minutes to write each part.
It took me three months to get it.
I know that seems like a really long time for me to dawdle about like some idiot, but it's not as though we did it every night. It was usually only once a week, at a party or something. A few times at school when she had an itch to scratch and I was all too willing to help her out.
See, I've had this problem. Since the ninth grade, my third period English class, when a girl wearing a plaid skirt and knee highs plopped into the chair next to me, sleek brunette locks whipping over her shoulders as her perfectly white teeth flashed at me. My jaw practically hit the floor. I was overwhelmed with the citrus scent clogging my nostrils, the brightness of her chocolate colored eyes, the sweet cadence of the voice wishing me a good morning. I've been in like with Rachel Berry since then.
And sure, the high school hierarchy and a boy named Finn Hudson yanked us apart and forced me into my role as the Head Bitch In Charge, but pregnancy and glee club brought us closer together, even after, when I wanted Prom Queen so badly I'd have done anything to nab it. But I never stopped wanting her.
I was on cloud nine that night at Puck's midsummer party, finding her dancing in the midst of the rest of the crowd. We were both tipsy, her beautiful eyes were glazed, and she grabbed me by my belt buckle and pulled me in until I had my arms around her waist and we were dancing with abandon. And if I wasn't giddy enough at this, she soon dragged me up the stairs and into a room I didn't recognize in the dark, shoving me against the door in lieu of closing it and smashing her lips to mine. I took her again and again that night and woke up equal parts relieved and devastated when I found her gone.
And then at the next party, it happened again, and again, and again. I was on cloud nine again. I figured she understood how I felt, how I fell more in love with her every time my skin touched hers, and that she was giving me this because she knew I couldn't do what Santana and Brittany had done—not yet, not under my mom's roof.
It wasn't until the other night that I really understood that it wasn't about me. It never was. It was about self-loathing. She would have been just as happy—though it wasn't really about happiness, either—with someone else on top of her, making her moan, driving her over the edge. I just happened to be the person she found on the dance floor that night, the one that looked at her with unadulterated lust.
I should have noticed the signs, of course. I noticed how in public she was quieter, her clothing taking on darker shades as time went on, her skin getting paler, how she was wearing thicker and thicker makeup, like if she wore enough she could paint herself a whole new face. Her frowns became more common. I noticed, but I didn't say anything—during the day. At night, at those parties, when I could finally have her again, I gushed about how beautiful she was, told her how much she turned me on. But then, I should have realized she never heard a word.
She always had her eyes closed, through the entirety of our encounters, almost. She only opened her eyes to work on me, because even though it wasn't about me, she was still too nice to leave me hanging. And she never uttered a word, never moaned my name when she came. It didn't bother me because I figured that's how she must be during sex. It never occurred to me that she kept her eyes closed because it wasn't me, it was the feeling. I never once thought she didn't moan my name because her mind was empty of anything but the feeling I gave to her.
Until the other night, when we'd finished, laying there on the bed of the week, panting and covered in sweat. She didn't wait until I'd fallen asleep this time, only waiting long enough to recover before she slid off the bed and went to retrieve her clothes, but I wanted more time, more chances to hold her, be with her. So I propped myself up on my elbows and said, "Stay."
In that instant where she looked up, confusion scrunching her gorgeous face, I got it. Even without the realization that crashed over, the tears suddenly slipping down her cheeks as she understood, too. She finally realized that she'd been leading me on, using me, that this wasn't nothing to me. And I finally realized it wasn't about me at all.
She rushed out; I didn't stop her.
I overheard her talking to Mercedes about the next party; she insisted she's not coming, and I'm delighted. Not because I don't want her again, but because it signals the beginning of a new era, where I, Quinn Fabray, am going to reintroduce myself to Rachel Berry, who is finally going to see how fucking gorgeous she is. And when I have her again, that name is going to be the only thing she remembers in the English language.