daughter of the sky, you slit the world (with one bolt of your lightning)
[striptease!quinn. because striptease!quinn is a necessary thing. i mention 'music is my hot, hot sex' by css. here's the original playlist. also, milo greene.]
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daughter of the sky, you slit the world (with one bolt of your lightning)
.
don't go far off, not even for a day, because-because-i don't know how to say it: a day is long
...
"Quinn?" you ask, walking through the front door of your apartment and tossing your keys into a little ceramic bowl on the side table where they clink. It's dim, even though it's mid-afternoon. The shutters are drawn as you walk into the big, open living room and kitchen; this isn't necessarily surprising: Quinn had been napping on the couch when you left this morning to go to rehearsal, cuddled up with a pillow she'd dragged from your bed. You'd kissed her forehead and she'd hummed I love you with a little smile, which you'd had stuck in your head all day.
But she's not on the couch now, so you move towards your room. "Quinn?"
She still doesn't answer, but you're not worried. For the past week and a half she's been mostly napping or reading with headphones in because she's recovering from (another) surgery, this time a bigger, more serious procedure to help her lung. You're twenty-five now, and she's working on her PhD from Columbia; you're starring in a hugely successful show, so you try not to let this "minor setback"-as Quinn calls it-derail your happiness.
Besides, she's been better the past few days, up and about more. The door to your bedroom is open halfway, so you push it further and go inside. "Baby?" You sit on the edge of the bed and flop over onto Quinn's side, but she's not there, although the bed is still warm.
You're about to sit up and check the bathroom when you feel two hands press into the mattress on either side of your hips. Then Quinn's low, rough voice is saying, "Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach; may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance."
You squirm so you can turn over, and then you're met with dark hazel eyes and messy blond hair spilling over Quinn's face.
"Are you feeling better?" you whisper.
You watch Quinn fight a smile. "Don't leave me for a second, my dearest, because in that moment you'll have gone so far-"
"-Neruda, huh?"
"Don't interrupt Pablo," Quinn instructs, climbing so that her weight presses into you wonderfully. "I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking, Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?"
You pout. "This is a sad one, Quinn."
"You love it when I recite poetry."
This is true, and it's because usually Quinn recites poetry when she wants to make love to you. "You're a poet," you say, which is also true.
Quinn smiles but shifts so that she's standing in front of the bed. And then you notice she's wearing one of her few pantsuits, this one tailored and grey (and expensive) from Saks. And she's wearing a tie.
"Do you have a meeting today?" you ask-gulp-and your legs are shaking, and then Quinn's smile drops and she shakes her head. "Then why-"
"-This won't be nearly as enjoyable if you keep asking so many questions," she says, then picks up the remote off of the dresser and presses play. A song starts blaring from the Bose speakers.
"We're going to get a noise ordinance," you say.
Quinn leans over your body, the tie grazing your cheek, and leans close to your ear. "It's to block out your screams," she whispers.
Your eyes roll back in your head, and you take a moment to thank any deity in the entire universe for your girlfriend.
Quinn switches to the next song-"Music is My Hot, Hot Sex" by CSS-on whatever evil (wonderful, perfect) playlist she's created for this event and stares at you, then starts unbuttoning the front of her blazer, slowly, with thin, pale fingers with blunt nails painted red. She arches an eyebrow when you sit up further and says, "It's all about the teasing."
You groan.
Finally, she gets the blazer unbuttoned and tosses it on a chair, casually, and you're rewarded with a view of a black, lacy bra underneath a white silk camisole, the tie running down between her breasts. She's dancing and serious, and she comes to stand directly over you as she hooks fingers underneath the hem of her camisole and pulls it over her head.
"Don't touch," she instructs, and you mumble some sort of consent, although you sit on your hands. Quinn's abs are as defined as ever, and she dances over you for a few seconds before backing up. There's a new scar on her ribs, redder and more defined than any of the others, but you've already seen it multiple times; still, you nod and she takes a deep breath. It's been simpler and simpler reassurances over the years-you hope, by now, with desperate tenderness, that Quinn knows that no scars will ever make her less beautiful or desirable in your eyes. Years ago, it would take words, nights and nights of tender touches, to make Quinn believe you. Now, which you're incredibly relieved and happy to discover, Quinn is seeming placated with a nod during a striptease to Anya Marina's "Whatever You Like" cover, because she smiles for a split second before unbuttoning her high-waisted, wide-legged slacks and working them over the glorious pale flesh of her hips before they drop to the floor. She has on a tiny black thong and you nearly come just at the sight of Quinn's smooth stretch of skin.
Then she's closer to you again, in a bra and panties, Louis Vitton heels, and a fucking tie, her hair messy and wild. Her pupils are dark, and she blinks a few times before she tugs your hands out from under your legs.
You understand the gesture, and the song changes into something softer and more tender (something new, something Quinn's found lately) and she finally lets you kiss her.
Then she takes her bra off with sure, steady fingers and makes no protest when you immediately put your mouth along one of her hardened nipples. Her head falls back and exposes her long neck, and she pushes back when your hand drifts down and swirls around her bellybutton.
She smiles gently and you stand with wide eyes-a staring contest with her skin, because you refuse to miss a second of this-as she slips her panties off.
And then Quinn's standing in front of you in a tie and heels and nothing else.
"Please," you say.
Quinn slips off her heels and walks slowly-achingly-over to the bed, and you're still wearing a dress and tights and underwear and a bra and (her) cardigan.
She pushes the sweater from your shoulders and then her hands tug at your tights, which you happily help her with. When you rip them without pretense, she rolls her eyes, but you don't care. You wiggle out of them and fight with the buttons on the front of your dress, which Quinn undoes quickly, although you notice her fingers shake too.
"It's been forever," you groan.
She laughs into your chest. "It's been eleven days."
You tug at the tie still around her neck. "Forever."
She gets your bra off as you tug at your (soaked) cotton panties, and then her skin is everywhere along yours. You revel in the pressure and tension, the texture of everything, your hands in her hair, the rifts along her ribs, the divots and peaks of her shoulder blades and collarbones.
And then you want to cry, because she's yours, because she's better now (but she'd been sick, and sometimes, late at night, when you watch her sleep, your sure it was still your fault), because she's everything you never allowed yourself to dream of.
Because, "I love you," you say. You put a palm against her ribs, hard, so that she grunts a little and falters for a second, allowing you to roll over so that she's underneath you, breathing heavily. You slip the tie from around her neck, over her head.
"Rachel-"
You kiss her. "I've missed you."
When your tongue hits that spot a few minutes later, when you reach that moment of infinite electricity, (and in this, Quinn is quiet, even as her body strains beautifully), she whimpers, "I've missed you, too."
She reciprocates (multiple times) as afternoon turns into evening, and you exhaustedly order takeout and cuddle under a few layers of blankets, naked but for Quinn's cold feet wrapped in an old pair of your argyle socks.
Quinn whispers her own poetry in your ear in time with the patter and boom of thunderstorms outside; in the moment of ghosting consciousness just before you fall asleep, a wisp of smoke along the synapses of your brain, you're certain they're the same thing.
...
references from neruda's cien sonnetos de amor; title is "L"; the poem quinn recites is "XLV."