Fantasies
Title: Fantasies Are Only For The Slightly Overwhelmed Or The Underwhelmed
Author: awkwardgayguy
Rating: PG:13
Length: 1,735
Spoilers: Blame It On The Alcohol
Summary: AAAAAANNNNGGGGSSSSTTTT
AN: Well, I've had a rather large break from livejournal, as assignments and life have kept me away from posting anything. But I still read everything about faberry. EVERYTHING. They are the cutest couple ever. But I decided to go on an angsty route, which is strange for me. I think it's terrible. Oh well!
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Quinn Fabray was a hopeless dreamer.
Her fantasies always were a certain way. There was always an order, a structure. There would be grand redemptions, soulful declarations and sultry seductions. Or they would be more realistic, with a wary friendship starting then a mutual buildup into hushed whispers of adoration and lukewarm bodies intertwined. Then the all important first kiss would come.
Quinn had always imagined what Rachel's lips felt like. They would be far too soft and would either taste like freshly picked strawberries or freshly made macaroons. She would kiss with grandeur, thrusting her personality into each little peck. She had always thought the small girl would try to transfer her verboseness into actions, with an overload of little bites, nibbles and caresses. She would be determined yet desperate, dramatic yet earnest. They both would pause for breath and Quinn would just look. She'd try to see some meaning out of the corners of her complexion, like a critic judging a painting, but the painting is far too multifaceted to be judged. Only to be viewed in all its beauty.
And every time without fail, Quinn Fabray would leave Rachel Berry silent.
It was the only constant in her quaint little dreams, for once she would leave her breathless, not the other way around. She would be the one left desperately clinging to the ground for fear that she would just drift. For all her vast imagination, Quinn couldn't imagine anything but a small girl who liked to talk with big words.
It was just far too much for a young Christian girl to handle. Her fantasies shouldn't be fantasies, for they imply that the improbable is what we wish for. Quinn knew she mustn't want her and she couldn't quite believe it was improbable. She hated clichés, but clichés were there for a reason and she couldn't think of any reason why she wasn't one. Teenage pregnancy is already enough to classify her as one, but being that would be just going over board. So she teased, she manipulated and she regretted. Eventually of course, it became too hard to maintain the hateful exterior and the interior kept leaking out.
"Hey RuPaul." She said, half-hearted as always.
"You know Quinn, your constant attempts at insulting me are growing more and more lackluster. I expect far better from you; your attempts have been half-hearted at best. We're in Glee club together, so you don't need to pretend you hate me."
And yet again, Rachel left Quinn silent.
Truths aren't supposed to hurt. They're supposed to enlighten and this truth certainly did. Quinn started being, well, moderately pleasant. She was trying, against all her beliefs to be nice to the girl who defied everything. She wasn't rude, she wasn't insulting and she was mostly just pathetic. Her fantasies still plagued her thoughts.
As she lay in her bath thoughts cascaded through her fanciful mind. Golden hair danced in the water, spreading like a bird would spread its wings. The peaceful yet blank expression hid the elaborate thought process going around in circles. A different fantasy was playing out, one that she was sure to repeat over and over again. The "maybes" and "what ifs" may have been delicious, but they always left a horrible aftertaste that would linger for far too long.
Rachel snuggled closer and giggled slightly. Sleepovers with the glee club were always fun, as Rachel always loved to turn testing the boundaries of public indecency into a performance. Especially when the audience doesn’t know about the performance.
"Rachel! For god’s sake, people are here!"
"You always assume I don’t make accommodations for these things. Of course people are here. That's what makes it fun."
"But what if they see us? How on earth can we explain this?"
"Maybe I just tripped over Quinn, who knows? Are you suggesting that I'm doing this for ulterior motives?"
She loves being playful and you love it too.
"I'm not suggesting it; I'm merely stating the obvious. If we wanted people to know we would tell them! Not show them!"
"Oh, but Quinnie it's so much more fun this way!"
The bath would eventually grow cold and you'd have no choice but to leave your little hidey hole of fabrications and enter the real world yet again.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The dreams are far worse. With fantasies, she knew that they were not real. Dreams are bittersweet, for a few brief moments they are real and then inevitably Quinn would wake up wishing she didn't.
The worst of these involved a small little baby girl, with immaculate blue eyes that lovingly stare back at her.
Quinn and Beth wander through the golden pavement of New York just behind a bounding figure. The figure is awash with excited laughter, jumping up and down while clapping. She turns back at her, puts an arm around her waist and brings her along. She rants about all the apparently historic sites but she couldn't care less. Quinn tilts her head to the side and wonders how she got so lucky to be with the two people she adores the most.
Then of course she wakes up.
Well, shit.
Instead of reality crashing down on her, it merely seeps into her. The gravity of her situation isn't pathetic, nor is it pitiful. It's just sad. But there is always that thin layer of hope that lays dormant in her, waiting for one of the days where it's just far too much.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The party is pointless. Teenage drinking has never really been her thing, lack of social inhibitions almost always lead to awkward and/or unfortunate things happening. Losing that control is always unpleasant and she doesn't need to be reminded about what happened last time she lost it. But she drinks anyway; peer pressure isn't the cause, apathy laced with longing makes for an excellent incentive.
Her basement is all the things she didn't know she wanted. Of course Rachel would have an impromptu stage. Of course she would have that ridiculous dress on. It brings a slight smile to her face. She decides to have a look around for the other social interactions on offer that could make this night bearable.
Mercedes is off talking to Sam. Brittany is, perhaps inevitably, giving Santana a lap dance with Artie looking half aroused and half annoyed. Puck is strangely hugging Mike, who leaves Tina also looking half aroused and half annoyed. Kurt is looking longingly at that random black haired boy that he brought, who is eyeing Rachel. Finn is doing the same. Someone obnoxiously yells out “spin the bottle!” and Quinn could honestly throw up.
They all sit down in a lazy circle, cuddling or nuzzling when appropriate. Rachel picks up one of many empty bottles that litter the ground. She stumbles over slightly; she’s obviously quite drunk.
“Hokay, so we ah, spin the bottle then we make out right?” She manages to burp out.
The cries of acknowledgement also burp out.
“Rightio then. Puck’s turn first!”
They spin the bottle, it reaches Santana. They kiss. Rinse and repeat. Quinn pays no attention; disinterest seems to be her trademark. This is interrupted when there are cat calls and whistles. Quinn’s look of drunken puzzlement is almost comedic, as it seems the universe likes making cruel jokes.
The bottle that has been spun by Rachel has landed on her.
Yet again,
Well, shit.
This can’t be happening. Bad dream. Not like this. It can’t be like this. But of course, it is. Her face reddens and her pupils grow large while her stomach sags. There is this awful feeling of uncertainty; she’s out of control and Quinn Fabray is never out of control. There is also that feeling of hope stirring, that feeling that has lain not quite dormant. She doesn’t know what to do. She bites her lower lip and tugs her skirt below her knees. A million fantasies go through her head, each outlining a different possible outcome. There is always one major theme.
The chance to be loved.
That chance is worth everything, yet worth nothing if she doesn’t act. For once in her life, Quinn takes a leap of faith. She quietly leans in and kisses Rachel Berry.
Quinn has always fantasized about what Rachel’s lips tasted like. Quinn’s fantasies were horribly misinformed. Rachel Berry’s lips were something that could not be described. If she tried to write or paint it on paper, it wouldn’t seem as real. She sucks on the brunettes bottom lip, the distant echo of alcohol didn’t even bother her. She tries to feel for anything, any trace of lust, any fiber of longing. She cannot find any so she tries harder, attempts to put everything she feels into one simple action. Warmth and love make her heart soar and its ecstasy.
That is, until she pulls away.
Quinn is left with her lips still puckered and eyes still closed. She awkwardly opens them to see a certain lack of Rachel. She crashes to the ground as she retakes her seat. Puck in his intoxicated state attempts to yell out something provocative, but it comes out as a strangled mutter. Finn is asleep and everyone else pays no heed to what just happened.
Quinn Fabray kissed Rachel Berry.
In all her fantasies, Rachel would have at least some reaction. Joy, animosity, abhorrence, disgust, love- it did not matter. But to have Rachel feel nothing, to be apathetic, hurt more then her imagination could have conjured up. Couldn’t she feel it? Couldn’t she see it? Her fantasies and hopes, immense paintings on the wall are burnt and torn down, each fragmented into a million segments of unrealistic fancy.
The girl spins the bottle again and it lands on the black haired boy from before. They sloppily clash their lips together. Rachel seems engrossed and interested, not half-hearted or dispassionate. Quinn just looks on, wanting to look away, but she just can’t. It meant nothing; it was just a stupid party game. She almost laughs at how un-romantic it is. She tries to hide her hurt by chugging another drink, but when she looks back Rachel is kissing another person. She's so very loud.
Quinn fantasies Rachel saying “At least we have dreams!” but of course she doesn’t anymore.
Fantasies 3rd person singular present, plural of fan•ta•sy
Noun: The faculty or activity of imagining things that are impossible or improbable.
Author: awkwardgayguy
Rating: PG:13
Length: 1,735
Spoilers: Blame It On The Alcohol
Summary: AAAAAANNNNGGGGSSSSTTTT
AN: Well, I've had a rather large break from livejournal, as assignments and life have kept me away from posting anything. But I still read everything about faberry. EVERYTHING. They are the cutest couple ever. But I decided to go on an angsty route, which is strange for me. I think it's terrible. Oh well!
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Quinn Fabray was a hopeless dreamer.
Her fantasies always were a certain way. There was always an order, a structure. There would be grand redemptions, soulful declarations and sultry seductions. Or they would be more realistic, with a wary friendship starting then a mutual buildup into hushed whispers of adoration and lukewarm bodies intertwined. Then the all important first kiss would come.
Quinn had always imagined what Rachel's lips felt like. They would be far too soft and would either taste like freshly picked strawberries or freshly made macaroons. She would kiss with grandeur, thrusting her personality into each little peck. She had always thought the small girl would try to transfer her verboseness into actions, with an overload of little bites, nibbles and caresses. She would be determined yet desperate, dramatic yet earnest. They both would pause for breath and Quinn would just look. She'd try to see some meaning out of the corners of her complexion, like a critic judging a painting, but the painting is far too multifaceted to be judged. Only to be viewed in all its beauty.
And every time without fail, Quinn Fabray would leave Rachel Berry silent.
It was the only constant in her quaint little dreams, for once she would leave her breathless, not the other way around. She would be the one left desperately clinging to the ground for fear that she would just drift. For all her vast imagination, Quinn couldn't imagine anything but a small girl who liked to talk with big words.
It was just far too much for a young Christian girl to handle. Her fantasies shouldn't be fantasies, for they imply that the improbable is what we wish for. Quinn knew she mustn't want her and she couldn't quite believe it was improbable. She hated clichés, but clichés were there for a reason and she couldn't think of any reason why she wasn't one. Teenage pregnancy is already enough to classify her as one, but being that would be just going over board. So she teased, she manipulated and she regretted. Eventually of course, it became too hard to maintain the hateful exterior and the interior kept leaking out.
"Hey RuPaul." She said, half-hearted as always.
"You know Quinn, your constant attempts at insulting me are growing more and more lackluster. I expect far better from you; your attempts have been half-hearted at best. We're in Glee club together, so you don't need to pretend you hate me."
And yet again, Rachel left Quinn silent.
Truths aren't supposed to hurt. They're supposed to enlighten and this truth certainly did. Quinn started being, well, moderately pleasant. She was trying, against all her beliefs to be nice to the girl who defied everything. She wasn't rude, she wasn't insulting and she was mostly just pathetic. Her fantasies still plagued her thoughts.
As she lay in her bath thoughts cascaded through her fanciful mind. Golden hair danced in the water, spreading like a bird would spread its wings. The peaceful yet blank expression hid the elaborate thought process going around in circles. A different fantasy was playing out, one that she was sure to repeat over and over again. The "maybes" and "what ifs" may have been delicious, but they always left a horrible aftertaste that would linger for far too long.
Rachel snuggled closer and giggled slightly. Sleepovers with the glee club were always fun, as Rachel always loved to turn testing the boundaries of public indecency into a performance. Especially when the audience doesn’t know about the performance.
"Rachel! For god’s sake, people are here!"
"You always assume I don’t make accommodations for these things. Of course people are here. That's what makes it fun."
"But what if they see us? How on earth can we explain this?"
"Maybe I just tripped over Quinn, who knows? Are you suggesting that I'm doing this for ulterior motives?"
She loves being playful and you love it too.
"I'm not suggesting it; I'm merely stating the obvious. If we wanted people to know we would tell them! Not show them!"
"Oh, but Quinnie it's so much more fun this way!"
The bath would eventually grow cold and you'd have no choice but to leave your little hidey hole of fabrications and enter the real world yet again.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The dreams are far worse. With fantasies, she knew that they were not real. Dreams are bittersweet, for a few brief moments they are real and then inevitably Quinn would wake up wishing she didn't.
The worst of these involved a small little baby girl, with immaculate blue eyes that lovingly stare back at her.
Quinn and Beth wander through the golden pavement of New York just behind a bounding figure. The figure is awash with excited laughter, jumping up and down while clapping. She turns back at her, puts an arm around her waist and brings her along. She rants about all the apparently historic sites but she couldn't care less. Quinn tilts her head to the side and wonders how she got so lucky to be with the two people she adores the most.
Then of course she wakes up.
Well, shit.
Instead of reality crashing down on her, it merely seeps into her. The gravity of her situation isn't pathetic, nor is it pitiful. It's just sad. But there is always that thin layer of hope that lays dormant in her, waiting for one of the days where it's just far too much.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The party is pointless. Teenage drinking has never really been her thing, lack of social inhibitions almost always lead to awkward and/or unfortunate things happening. Losing that control is always unpleasant and she doesn't need to be reminded about what happened last time she lost it. But she drinks anyway; peer pressure isn't the cause, apathy laced with longing makes for an excellent incentive.
Her basement is all the things she didn't know she wanted. Of course Rachel would have an impromptu stage. Of course she would have that ridiculous dress on. It brings a slight smile to her face. She decides to have a look around for the other social interactions on offer that could make this night bearable.
Mercedes is off talking to Sam. Brittany is, perhaps inevitably, giving Santana a lap dance with Artie looking half aroused and half annoyed. Puck is strangely hugging Mike, who leaves Tina also looking half aroused and half annoyed. Kurt is looking longingly at that random black haired boy that he brought, who is eyeing Rachel. Finn is doing the same. Someone obnoxiously yells out “spin the bottle!” and Quinn could honestly throw up.
They all sit down in a lazy circle, cuddling or nuzzling when appropriate. Rachel picks up one of many empty bottles that litter the ground. She stumbles over slightly; she’s obviously quite drunk.
“Hokay, so we ah, spin the bottle then we make out right?” She manages to burp out.
The cries of acknowledgement also burp out.
“Rightio then. Puck’s turn first!”
They spin the bottle, it reaches Santana. They kiss. Rinse and repeat. Quinn pays no attention; disinterest seems to be her trademark. This is interrupted when there are cat calls and whistles. Quinn’s look of drunken puzzlement is almost comedic, as it seems the universe likes making cruel jokes.
The bottle that has been spun by Rachel has landed on her.
Yet again,
Well, shit.
This can’t be happening. Bad dream. Not like this. It can’t be like this. But of course, it is. Her face reddens and her pupils grow large while her stomach sags. There is this awful feeling of uncertainty; she’s out of control and Quinn Fabray is never out of control. There is also that feeling of hope stirring, that feeling that has lain not quite dormant. She doesn’t know what to do. She bites her lower lip and tugs her skirt below her knees. A million fantasies go through her head, each outlining a different possible outcome. There is always one major theme.
The chance to be loved.
That chance is worth everything, yet worth nothing if she doesn’t act. For once in her life, Quinn takes a leap of faith. She quietly leans in and kisses Rachel Berry.
Quinn has always fantasized about what Rachel’s lips tasted like. Quinn’s fantasies were horribly misinformed. Rachel Berry’s lips were something that could not be described. If she tried to write or paint it on paper, it wouldn’t seem as real. She sucks on the brunettes bottom lip, the distant echo of alcohol didn’t even bother her. She tries to feel for anything, any trace of lust, any fiber of longing. She cannot find any so she tries harder, attempts to put everything she feels into one simple action. Warmth and love make her heart soar and its ecstasy.
That is, until she pulls away.
Quinn is left with her lips still puckered and eyes still closed. She awkwardly opens them to see a certain lack of Rachel. She crashes to the ground as she retakes her seat. Puck in his intoxicated state attempts to yell out something provocative, but it comes out as a strangled mutter. Finn is asleep and everyone else pays no heed to what just happened.
Quinn Fabray kissed Rachel Berry.
In all her fantasies, Rachel would have at least some reaction. Joy, animosity, abhorrence, disgust, love- it did not matter. But to have Rachel feel nothing, to be apathetic, hurt more then her imagination could have conjured up. Couldn’t she feel it? Couldn’t she see it? Her fantasies and hopes, immense paintings on the wall are burnt and torn down, each fragmented into a million segments of unrealistic fancy.
The girl spins the bottle again and it lands on the black haired boy from before. They sloppily clash their lips together. Rachel seems engrossed and interested, not half-hearted or dispassionate. Quinn just looks on, wanting to look away, but she just can’t. It meant nothing; it was just a stupid party game. She almost laughs at how un-romantic it is. She tries to hide her hurt by chugging another drink, but when she looks back Rachel is kissing another person. She's so very loud.
Quinn fantasies Rachel saying “At least we have dreams!” but of course she doesn’t anymore.
Fantasies 3rd person singular present, plural of fan•ta•sy
Noun: The faculty or activity of imagining things that are impossible or improbable.