Straight Girls - Glee - Mercedes/Quinn
Title: Straight Girls
Pairing: Mercedes/Quinn
Word Count: 1821
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Written for the "restraint (held down)" square of my kink bingo card, but it ended up very vanilla.
Summary: Having a crush on her straight friend: Mercedes is fed up with her life mimicking Kurt's.
"Get off me!"
In a pile of bruised limbs and batter elbows, they try to get to their feet once more: for a tiny blonde girl, Mercedes thinks that Quinn is ridiculously heavy. Too heavy to have tumbling down on top of you, in any case.
"I think you broke something," Mercedes says as she tries to prop herself up.
Quinn brushes her hands over herself, checking for injuries. "No, I'm fine," she says.
"My something," Mercedes corrects. She makes sure to glare as she shuffles over to the chairs that line the choir room: on the way, she makes sure to limp in an exaggerated fashion. The quiver of Quinn's face might be guilt. On the other hand, it might be barely restrained amusement. "You're lucky we're practicing alone. Kurt would have your ass if you did that in front of him."
"Please," Quinn says with an eye roll. She comes to sit beside Quinn on the chairs. "I could take Kurt in a fight."
Mercedes hmphs at her, and doesn't say that that is a fight that she would kinda like to see. Epic, an Alien vs. Predator kind of thing.
Probably best not to make that reference in front of either of her warriors, of course. They'd accuse her of hanging out near the guys too often.
(It's not her fault that Puck, despite being a douche-bag, has an awesome DVD collection.)
"Let's see your ankle," Quinn says, holding out her hands. When Mercedes hesitates, she flaps them insistently: she also gives Mercedes a look that she hasn't seen since Quinn's cheerleading days, something that reminds her that Quinn still knows how to burn a person's spirit to the ground in two seconds flat. "You were limping. Let me see it."
It's a little bit like being under a spell; Mercedes swivels on her chair and places her left leg in Quinn's care. Her hands feel cold as she pushes up the leg of Mercedes's jeans. "It's nothing," she mutters, because it doesn't hurt half as much as she had pretended it had, and also because she hasn't shaved her legs in way over a week. Quinn's the sort of girl who always looks as if she wakes up in the morning looking preened and perfected. Her two hours hogging the bathroom suggest otherwise, but to Mercedes the point still stands: Quinn is easily perfect. Her? She's easily not.
"Maybe you should see the school nurse," Quinn says - and when Mercedes tries to whip her leg away, her hands clutch down to make that impossible. For an until-recently pregnant teenager, Quinn is alarmingly strong. She's gotta wonder if Coach Sylvester had been slipping steroids into her diet. "I mean, you are hurt, right?"
"Right." Mercedes nods, and then she swallows. Quinn's eyes have always been a little too piercing for her liking. "It's just not that bad. Must've been the shock of getting fallen on."
"Uh-huh," Quinn agrees. She holds onto Mercedes's gaze for a little while longer, with the threat of a smirk quirking at her top lip. "I'm sure it was crushing."
"You're heavier than you look," Mercedes says. She's just happy it wasn't the other way around: Quinn wouldn't have let her hear the end of it for weeks.
She becomes aware that her leg is still in Quinn's protective grasp, and that Quinn's fingers are rubbing back and forth over her skin. She swallows again, but it doesn't seem to help with the dryness of her mouth: the whole room feels too hot, actually, and that's not much of a surprise. Principal Figgins wouldn't spend money on a good air conditioning system unless it was fully paid for by someone else.
She clears her throat. "I think I have to go, actually. Class. Detention. Kurt." Out of those three words, one of them is bound to be a decent excuse. "See you at home?"
She slips her leg away from Quinn's gentle hands before she has a chance to think about what is going on or, even more worryingly, why it's going on. Quinn lets her go and Mercedes scurries from the room - and over her shoulder, she pretends that she doesn't see that thoughtful, devious expression on her friend's face.
*
See, here's the thing: Mercedes is straight.
Or that's what she thought before Quinn moved in and started wandering around in nothing more than a towel.
And it's not just the towel thing, though that's awesome as well.
It's the unexpected sweetness thing, like when Quinn makes hot cocoa for her for no real reason. It's the fierceness thing, like when Quinn stands up for her in front of others. It's the wicked giggle thing, because Quinn is secretly a devil once you look close enough.
"Are you going to shave your head?" Kurt asks.
She gets the distinct feeling that he's teasing her.
"No."
"Then we're good," Kurt responds.
It's far easier than she would have imagined.
*
That part is easy. The Quinn-part really isn't.
'cause, fine, she likes girls (or she likes a girl, and maybe there's a difference - does it matter?). Yet Quinn is just about the straightest person she's ever met, and she's had the baby to prove it. Makes sense to avoid her for a couple of days - she's got to try to get her head in the right place for this.
Avoiding someone that you live with, though? That's kind of hard.
She manages it for almost twenty-four hours, and that seems like something to be proud of. She doesn't get to be proud very often, so she'll take what she can get.
"Mercedes," Quinn says, blocking the doorway as Mercedes tries to leave the living room when she enters it. She's got a ton of excuses saved in her head, but at the sight of Quinn they all vanish. Awkward. "You're hiding from me."
"What?" Too fast. She sounds guilty - she knows it. "No I'm not. I'm here, aren't I?"
Quinn arches an eyebrow that looks thin enough to slice through skin. "Mercedes, c'mon. You've been avoiding me since I fell on you."
"You hurt my ankle," Mercedes blurts. "Maybe I'm mad at you over that."
"Maybe." Quinn doesn't believe her. Mercedes knows her well enough by now to be able to read that on her face. "But you're not limping. I don't think it even hurt."
"What is this about, Quinn?" Mercedes tries to sound as diva-ish as she can. She calls on the spirit of Beyonce to carry her through, but she doesn't think that Beyonce ever crushed on Kelly Rowland. If she did, they sure kept that one quiet. "I got stuff I need to do."
"I like you, Mercedes," Quinn says, which is freaking out of the blue in a way that makes Mercedes's stomach clench. "You're probably the first real friend I've had in a long, long time."
"Quinn - "
"I'm not finished." Obligingly, Mercedes shuts up. She doesn't know many other people who she would listen to without another word of complaint. "You're a friend. And I wouldn't do anything to jeopardise that, but I think - I think maybe we could be more than that."
The world really doesn't feel real right now. Mercedes looks down at her feet as if she isn't sure if the ground is still gonna be there. "What are you saying?" she asks. She's misinterpreting it. She's gotta be.
Quinn doesn't answer her with any words.
Instead she steps closer, real close, until they are breathing the same air. Quinn's breath smells like mint; it's a suggestion that she's been planning this. It says that she came into the room knowing that she was going to do this, and that thought somehow makes the butterflies in Mercedes's stomach grow even more violent. Then 'real close' becomes 'touching', and Quinn's hands are light on her face, lighter than air itself. Her lips are gentle when they graze against Mercedes's mouth: it's more like the offer of a kiss than the real thing.
All Mercedes needs to do is close the gap. She can place her hand on the back of Quinn's head, fingers sinking into that pretty blonde hair, and then this could actually happen - something real and solid and beautiful.
Terrifying.
That's what it is: terrifying.
And she's not a coward. She's really not. She faces shit daily that most of the lucky bitches at her school couldn't imagine, but this - This is new and different.
She pulls away, and she thinks that maybe she feels ill. "I gotta go," she mutters without looking Quinn in the eyes. Escape, that's all she's thinking right now. Escape.
Before she makes it to the door, Quinn's hand slides around her wrist. For someone so damn skinny, Quinn's got a lot of power packed into those cheerleading muscles. "Don't run away from me, Mercedes," she urges.
Mercedes strains against Quinn's grasp, just to see how that goes, but Quinn doesn't let go - doesn't let her escape. Instead she visibly steels herself, sucking in a deep breath, before she steps forward. She doesn't release Mercedes at all as she presses their lips together, firm and confident this time. Nothing is left to chance.
Mercedes feels like her very breath is being stolen, like she might fall over if they're not careful, but Quinn's hand is an anchor and it keeps her steady. Chaste and careful, their lips press and move and relax together, exploring and setting out the vague thought of a possible future. Mercedes's heart hammers in her chest and she feels like singing - feels like closing her eyes and letting loose, because that's the safest way for her to get her feelings out these days.
But life ain't a musical and Quinn doesn't give her a chance to escape, not this time.
Captured and kept, Mercedes chooses to keep kissing her instead: it's the best feeling she's had in years.
*
Kurt smiles at her when she makes it to school the next day, his eyes alight with glee. It's probably not the kind of thing that Mr Schue would want to see on stage: there's something rather sinister about it, if Mercedes is honest.
"So," he says. "How did it go?"
"How did what go?"
"You. Quinn." She glares at him when she hears that answer, but he seems utterly unaffected. "I may have taken it upon myself to give Quinn a shove in the right direction."
"You did?"
"Uh-huh." No shame at all. Her boy is insane. With the whispered memories of a night spent kissing Quinn, Mercedes actually finds it difficult to resent him for it. "So. How did it go?"
She smiles to herself and links their arms together, marching side-by-side into school. "Awesome," she says, because that's the only word for how she's feeling these days.
Kurt's small smile spreads and grows, and he gives her arm a happy squeeze: "Welcome to the dark side," he says.
She's planning on having a lot of fun while she's here.
Pairing: Mercedes/Quinn
Word Count: 1821
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Written for the "restraint (held down)" square of my kink bingo card, but it ended up very vanilla.
Summary: Having a crush on her straight friend: Mercedes is fed up with her life mimicking Kurt's.
"Get off me!"
In a pile of bruised limbs and batter elbows, they try to get to their feet once more: for a tiny blonde girl, Mercedes thinks that Quinn is ridiculously heavy. Too heavy to have tumbling down on top of you, in any case.
"I think you broke something," Mercedes says as she tries to prop herself up.
Quinn brushes her hands over herself, checking for injuries. "No, I'm fine," she says.
"My something," Mercedes corrects. She makes sure to glare as she shuffles over to the chairs that line the choir room: on the way, she makes sure to limp in an exaggerated fashion. The quiver of Quinn's face might be guilt. On the other hand, it might be barely restrained amusement. "You're lucky we're practicing alone. Kurt would have your ass if you did that in front of him."
"Please," Quinn says with an eye roll. She comes to sit beside Quinn on the chairs. "I could take Kurt in a fight."
Mercedes hmphs at her, and doesn't say that that is a fight that she would kinda like to see. Epic, an Alien vs. Predator kind of thing.
Probably best not to make that reference in front of either of her warriors, of course. They'd accuse her of hanging out near the guys too often.
(It's not her fault that Puck, despite being a douche-bag, has an awesome DVD collection.)
"Let's see your ankle," Quinn says, holding out her hands. When Mercedes hesitates, she flaps them insistently: she also gives Mercedes a look that she hasn't seen since Quinn's cheerleading days, something that reminds her that Quinn still knows how to burn a person's spirit to the ground in two seconds flat. "You were limping. Let me see it."
It's a little bit like being under a spell; Mercedes swivels on her chair and places her left leg in Quinn's care. Her hands feel cold as she pushes up the leg of Mercedes's jeans. "It's nothing," she mutters, because it doesn't hurt half as much as she had pretended it had, and also because she hasn't shaved her legs in way over a week. Quinn's the sort of girl who always looks as if she wakes up in the morning looking preened and perfected. Her two hours hogging the bathroom suggest otherwise, but to Mercedes the point still stands: Quinn is easily perfect. Her? She's easily not.
"Maybe you should see the school nurse," Quinn says - and when Mercedes tries to whip her leg away, her hands clutch down to make that impossible. For an until-recently pregnant teenager, Quinn is alarmingly strong. She's gotta wonder if Coach Sylvester had been slipping steroids into her diet. "I mean, you are hurt, right?"
"Right." Mercedes nods, and then she swallows. Quinn's eyes have always been a little too piercing for her liking. "It's just not that bad. Must've been the shock of getting fallen on."
"Uh-huh," Quinn agrees. She holds onto Mercedes's gaze for a little while longer, with the threat of a smirk quirking at her top lip. "I'm sure it was crushing."
"You're heavier than you look," Mercedes says. She's just happy it wasn't the other way around: Quinn wouldn't have let her hear the end of it for weeks.
She becomes aware that her leg is still in Quinn's protective grasp, and that Quinn's fingers are rubbing back and forth over her skin. She swallows again, but it doesn't seem to help with the dryness of her mouth: the whole room feels too hot, actually, and that's not much of a surprise. Principal Figgins wouldn't spend money on a good air conditioning system unless it was fully paid for by someone else.
She clears her throat. "I think I have to go, actually. Class. Detention. Kurt." Out of those three words, one of them is bound to be a decent excuse. "See you at home?"
She slips her leg away from Quinn's gentle hands before she has a chance to think about what is going on or, even more worryingly, why it's going on. Quinn lets her go and Mercedes scurries from the room - and over her shoulder, she pretends that she doesn't see that thoughtful, devious expression on her friend's face.
*
See, here's the thing: Mercedes is straight.
Or that's what she thought before Quinn moved in and started wandering around in nothing more than a towel.
And it's not just the towel thing, though that's awesome as well.
It's the unexpected sweetness thing, like when Quinn makes hot cocoa for her for no real reason. It's the fierceness thing, like when Quinn stands up for her in front of others. It's the wicked giggle thing, because Quinn is secretly a devil once you look close enough.
"Are you going to shave your head?" Kurt asks.
She gets the distinct feeling that he's teasing her.
"No."
"Then we're good," Kurt responds.
It's far easier than she would have imagined.
*
That part is easy. The Quinn-part really isn't.
'cause, fine, she likes girls (or she likes a girl, and maybe there's a difference - does it matter?). Yet Quinn is just about the straightest person she's ever met, and she's had the baby to prove it. Makes sense to avoid her for a couple of days - she's got to try to get her head in the right place for this.
Avoiding someone that you live with, though? That's kind of hard.
She manages it for almost twenty-four hours, and that seems like something to be proud of. She doesn't get to be proud very often, so she'll take what she can get.
"Mercedes," Quinn says, blocking the doorway as Mercedes tries to leave the living room when she enters it. She's got a ton of excuses saved in her head, but at the sight of Quinn they all vanish. Awkward. "You're hiding from me."
"What?" Too fast. She sounds guilty - she knows it. "No I'm not. I'm here, aren't I?"
Quinn arches an eyebrow that looks thin enough to slice through skin. "Mercedes, c'mon. You've been avoiding me since I fell on you."
"You hurt my ankle," Mercedes blurts. "Maybe I'm mad at you over that."
"Maybe." Quinn doesn't believe her. Mercedes knows her well enough by now to be able to read that on her face. "But you're not limping. I don't think it even hurt."
"What is this about, Quinn?" Mercedes tries to sound as diva-ish as she can. She calls on the spirit of Beyonce to carry her through, but she doesn't think that Beyonce ever crushed on Kelly Rowland. If she did, they sure kept that one quiet. "I got stuff I need to do."
"I like you, Mercedes," Quinn says, which is freaking out of the blue in a way that makes Mercedes's stomach clench. "You're probably the first real friend I've had in a long, long time."
"Quinn - "
"I'm not finished." Obligingly, Mercedes shuts up. She doesn't know many other people who she would listen to without another word of complaint. "You're a friend. And I wouldn't do anything to jeopardise that, but I think - I think maybe we could be more than that."
The world really doesn't feel real right now. Mercedes looks down at her feet as if she isn't sure if the ground is still gonna be there. "What are you saying?" she asks. She's misinterpreting it. She's gotta be.
Quinn doesn't answer her with any words.
Instead she steps closer, real close, until they are breathing the same air. Quinn's breath smells like mint; it's a suggestion that she's been planning this. It says that she came into the room knowing that she was going to do this, and that thought somehow makes the butterflies in Mercedes's stomach grow even more violent. Then 'real close' becomes 'touching', and Quinn's hands are light on her face, lighter than air itself. Her lips are gentle when they graze against Mercedes's mouth: it's more like the offer of a kiss than the real thing.
All Mercedes needs to do is close the gap. She can place her hand on the back of Quinn's head, fingers sinking into that pretty blonde hair, and then this could actually happen - something real and solid and beautiful.
Terrifying.
That's what it is: terrifying.
And she's not a coward. She's really not. She faces shit daily that most of the lucky bitches at her school couldn't imagine, but this - This is new and different.
She pulls away, and she thinks that maybe she feels ill. "I gotta go," she mutters without looking Quinn in the eyes. Escape, that's all she's thinking right now. Escape.
Before she makes it to the door, Quinn's hand slides around her wrist. For someone so damn skinny, Quinn's got a lot of power packed into those cheerleading muscles. "Don't run away from me, Mercedes," she urges.
Mercedes strains against Quinn's grasp, just to see how that goes, but Quinn doesn't let go - doesn't let her escape. Instead she visibly steels herself, sucking in a deep breath, before she steps forward. She doesn't release Mercedes at all as she presses their lips together, firm and confident this time. Nothing is left to chance.
Mercedes feels like her very breath is being stolen, like she might fall over if they're not careful, but Quinn's hand is an anchor and it keeps her steady. Chaste and careful, their lips press and move and relax together, exploring and setting out the vague thought of a possible future. Mercedes's heart hammers in her chest and she feels like singing - feels like closing her eyes and letting loose, because that's the safest way for her to get her feelings out these days.
But life ain't a musical and Quinn doesn't give her a chance to escape, not this time.
Captured and kept, Mercedes chooses to keep kissing her instead: it's the best feeling she's had in years.
*
Kurt smiles at her when she makes it to school the next day, his eyes alight with glee. It's probably not the kind of thing that Mr Schue would want to see on stage: there's something rather sinister about it, if Mercedes is honest.
"So," he says. "How did it go?"
"How did what go?"
"You. Quinn." She glares at him when she hears that answer, but he seems utterly unaffected. "I may have taken it upon myself to give Quinn a shove in the right direction."
"You did?"
"Uh-huh." No shame at all. Her boy is insane. With the whispered memories of a night spent kissing Quinn, Mercedes actually finds it difficult to resent him for it. "So. How did it go?"
She smiles to herself and links their arms together, marching side-by-side into school. "Awesome," she says, because that's the only word for how she's feeling these days.
Kurt's small smile spreads and grows, and he gives her arm a happy squeeze: "Welcome to the dark side," he says.
She's planning on having a lot of fun while she's here.