dark blue

Rachel had truly tried to stay awake, but Quinn’s house was warm and the bed was impossibly soft. Not to mention, it had been days since she’d gotten a full night of sleep (her trailer wasn’t quite this comfortable).

But the sound of heels against hardwoods roused her, soon. And when she opened her eyes, they were met by a very dressed up and very tired Quinn. Rachel didn’t ask where she’d been, but she reached a hand forward, propping herself up on one elbow and seeking out Quinn’s waist. When she caught it, she reeled her in and dragged her down to the bed.

“When did you get here?” Quinn asked, disentangling herself from Rachel to perch on the edge of the mattress.

“Let myself in,” sleep curled around Rachel’s hoarse throat. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Quinn leaned back to run her fingers through Rachel’s hair. “You want a cigarette?”

Rachel shook her head. Smoking sounded simply too tiring.

“Come outside with me, then,” Quinn coaxed, kicking her heels messily from her feet.

And because Rachel could never say no when it came to Quinn, she found herself complying. She knew how this would go— how it went every time. They’d sit out on the wicker swing and Quinn would smoke her cigarette and Rachel would fight the urge to crawl right over into her lap and burrow there forever.

And this, they did. Rachel curled against the arm of the swing and watched. Quinn was always beautiful, but with smoke curling from between her lips, she looked almost ethereal. The lipstick that had, no doubt, popped bright red earlier in the night was faded now and the haphazard scar above Quinn’s lip cinched with each pull. Rachel longed to kiss her, to become lost across her lips, beneath her tongue, between her thighs.

She fidgeted here and there, and when Quinn offered her the cigarette, she did not refuse. The smoke felt warm entering her throat; she sucked in until the swell of full lungs satiated her. Tipping her head back, she released out against the navy sky, watching the smoke dissipate into the darkness.

“How was your night?” she asked absently, and took another slow drag.

“Long,” Quinn accepted the cigarette back from Rachel and raised it to her lips, drawing in and humming in satisfaction. She patted the cushion next to her. “Come,” she reached for Rachel.

And Rachel could not protest. She scooted in and burrowed down against Quinn, plucking the cigarette from between her fingers to stub it out, slinging an arm lazily around her middle.

“I wasn’t done with that,” the scold was half-hearted and the annoyance was a feign.

“You were,” Rachel murmured and pressed her lips against Quinn’s shoulder.

And it was against their better judgment, then, that they were kissing. Here, Rachel tasted many things: mints and bourbon and nicotine and Quinn. The flavor rushed hot to the apex of her thighs where it settled with a throbbing ache.

This had not been her plan for the evening. She had wanted only to find Quinn and lie with her and sleep in a bed that was not makeshift. But Quinn and had been gone when she’d arrived and she’d been slapped once more by the knowledge that she was not the only one with which Quinn chose to lie.

But now she’d let Quinn touch her, she’d smoked her cigarettes and smelled her scent and tasted her tongue. There was no going back. It hurt, but she could not stop.

She was hoisted, eventually, from the swing on which they had been sitting and found herself carried, coiled tight around Quinn like a vine. She was a vine— a parasite— she fed off Quinn and could not let go.

When she was lowered back down onto the bed, she allowed herself to be kissed, to be undressed. She’d not wanted this earlier, but oh, how she wanted it now. And something inside her was coiled too tightly, a knot of frustration and arousal.

“Get the—“she was cut off by an open mouthed kiss, and she could only gesture towards the bed-side drawer.

She rolled over to let Quinn fuck her, the base of the harness slamming between the backs of her legs with each thrust. And she fucked back, trying as she might to shake loose the fish hook of grief Quinn had left lodged inside her. She reached behind her to pull Quinn in harder, but the barb was stuck deep in the darkest corner of her heart. When Quinn’s hand snaked around her to touch her clit, she pulled it gently away. Pleasure was not what this was about.

And here, Quinn began to understand. There was never much she could do for Rachel— she lived under the constant weight of the knowledge that it was she who both quelled and created Rachel’s demons. The guilt was crippling. If Rachel needed to be fucked loose, it was the least she could do to comply. If this was not going to be about gratification, she gladly could let it be about recovery. Tonight, they would not seek climax— only clarity.

She pushed Rachel’s top leg up and angled herself lower, slamming her hips up against Rachel’s, the hilt of the strap-on rubbing her clit until she was panting hard, her own breaths only marginally quieter than Rachel’s, which came out in choppy sobs with every thrust. She knew when to stop only when Rachel became quiet again, at which point she withdrew gently and fell back into the pillows.

Rachel remained with her back to Quinn, her breaths slowing gradually. She felt a hand on her spine, across her shoulder blades, caressing gently, letting her know that she had not been forgotten.

“You wanna finish?” she murmured.

Met with no verbal answer, she felt the pillows behind her shift in a staccato pattern; Quinn had shaken her head.

Rachel pulled the covers up over her clammy body. 

After a long time, the mattress dipped and she knew that Quinn had gotten up. The drawer opened and closed, and then the bathroom door.

Alone, she longed for tears to come, if only to refresh her, but they would not. She scrubbed at her eyes and rolled over onto her back where she watched the ceiling fan whirr until she felt dizzy and sickness welled in her stomach. The barbs inside of her still held fast.

And Quinn was returning then, her face scrubbed free of makeup, her pajama top buttoned haphazardly half way up. Rachel rolled towards her lover, avoiding brown eyes, longing for embrace (though she scolded herself for this). She felt Quinn gather her up, felt lips against the crown of her head.

“What’s wrong, Goldberg?”

Rachel felt a lump rising in her throat at the affection. She could not possibly express what she knew she needed to— if only for her own sanity.

“Quinn…” She watched her own fingers slip across Quinn’s chest and beneath the lapel of her top, ghosting tenderly over a bare breast.

And here Quinn reached inside as well, finding Rachel’s hand to cradle in her own.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Rachel whispered.