Every Whisper of Every Waking Hour I'm Choosing My Confessions (R, 1/1)
Title: Every Whisper of Every Waking Hour I'm Choosing My Confessions
Rating: R, for swearing and a little bit of sex
Word Count: 680
Pairing: one-sided quinn/rachel, quinn/puck, implied past quinn/other boys
Disclaimer: characters belong to fox and ryan murphy and co. title taken from losing my religion, by r.e.m.
A/N: this takes place in a slight au where quinn never got pregnant and where rachel actually has friends, and where quinn isn't as virginal as she is on the show.
A/N 2: i wrote most of this a few weeks ago when i had a random emo moment and was thinking about my life. it's pretty personal in that regard, i guess, since it started out as a reflection on my summer. i just added a couple lines and turned it into a drabble, cause i'm more comfortable with it that way. it's kinda angsty, just a heads up.
A/N 3: special shoutout to larapatrick, you're awesome and thanks for reading this ahead of time and reassuring me that it doesn't suck.
He’s on top of you, sweating and grunting and thrusting. You feel his heavy body hovering over yours, you know he’s inside of you, but you barely feel a thing. It’s like this every time; you go there (he never comes over), you start fooling around, you check out. He doesn’t notice. They never do.
You know you don’t want him. You don’t want any him. But you can’t have her, so you settle. He’s there, he wants you. He’s safe, comfortable, familiar. You know how things work with him. You talk, you kiss, you fuck, you leave. It’s a well-practiced routine by now. It’s been over a year of this…relationship, or whatever you want to call it. It’s always the same.
He knows you don’t want him. He’s asked you more than once what you’re doing with him, but you don’t have an answer, so you just kiss him instead and grind against him until he forgets to push it. If you had her, you wouldn’t need him. You care about him, you really do, and he’s a good friend, but if there were even the slightest chance of her, he would be gone in a second.
You watch her from afar, smiling and talking with her friends. You’ve never seen anything so beautiful, so perfect, so alive. You hear her laugh and it’s the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard, second only to hearing her sing. Her voice is angelic, and sometimes the only thing that keeps you from just leaving this town, this home, this life, is the fear that you would never hear it again.
You hate that you’re so weak, that you could let something as trivial and fleeting as your reputation dictate how you live your life. You might be the head cheerleader, the homecoming queen, the most popular girl in school, but you barely even notice. None of it means anything. You’re envious of her light, carefree attitude, her ability to see past the frivolity of high school politics, her confidence to just be herself. She’s at the bottom of the social hierarchy, but she doesn’t care. She’s happy, which is more than you can say for yourself.
You feel dirty sometimes when you’re with him, like a traitor, a whore. Like you’re lying to yourself and everyone around you. Which you are, if you really think about it. You don’t want him. You don’t even like boys. You’re a fucking lesbian. But it’s easier to close your eyes and fall back on him than to deal with your pain and loneliness, to deal with the fact that you don’t have her.
You’re a pro at faking it by now, you don’t even have to think about it anymore. You’re so good at pretending you want to be with him that it almost feels real. When you go out with him, people assume you’re a couple. It’s easier to let them believe it. Sometimes you want to believe it. But then you catch a glimpse of a pretty girl walking past, and you remember why you could never truly be with him. You want her, any her, you always have. He, and all the other he’s before him, are just there. They’re simple, they’re easy, they’re comfortable, they’re familiar. You know the deal with them. It’s just sex. You’re friends, sometimes you fuck. No big deal. But you know it’s just a lie, a façade, a way to avoid dealing with the uncertainty of pursuing her.
You know he’d never hurt you, not like she could. He’s safe; she’s new and potentially dangerous. He’s familiar; she’s a mystery, yet you’re intrigued and captivated by her, more than you’ve ever been by him. You don’t want to be with him, but you don’t know how not to be. It’s all you’ve ever known, being with him. You would rather stay with him and be miserable than be alone. As much as you want her, you’re terrified, so you stay with him, ignoring the hollow, empty feeling in your chest that sits, unfilled, day after day.
Rating: R, for swearing and a little bit of sex
Word Count: 680
Pairing: one-sided quinn/rachel, quinn/puck, implied past quinn/other boys
Disclaimer: characters belong to fox and ryan murphy and co. title taken from losing my religion, by r.e.m.
A/N: this takes place in a slight au where quinn never got pregnant and where rachel actually has friends, and where quinn isn't as virginal as she is on the show.
A/N 2: i wrote most of this a few weeks ago when i had a random emo moment and was thinking about my life. it's pretty personal in that regard, i guess, since it started out as a reflection on my summer. i just added a couple lines and turned it into a drabble, cause i'm more comfortable with it that way. it's kinda angsty, just a heads up.
A/N 3: special shoutout to larapatrick, you're awesome and thanks for reading this ahead of time and reassuring me that it doesn't suck.
He’s on top of you, sweating and grunting and thrusting. You feel his heavy body hovering over yours, you know he’s inside of you, but you barely feel a thing. It’s like this every time; you go there (he never comes over), you start fooling around, you check out. He doesn’t notice. They never do.
You know you don’t want him. You don’t want any him. But you can’t have her, so you settle. He’s there, he wants you. He’s safe, comfortable, familiar. You know how things work with him. You talk, you kiss, you fuck, you leave. It’s a well-practiced routine by now. It’s been over a year of this…relationship, or whatever you want to call it. It’s always the same.
He knows you don’t want him. He’s asked you more than once what you’re doing with him, but you don’t have an answer, so you just kiss him instead and grind against him until he forgets to push it. If you had her, you wouldn’t need him. You care about him, you really do, and he’s a good friend, but if there were even the slightest chance of her, he would be gone in a second.
You watch her from afar, smiling and talking with her friends. You’ve never seen anything so beautiful, so perfect, so alive. You hear her laugh and it’s the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard, second only to hearing her sing. Her voice is angelic, and sometimes the only thing that keeps you from just leaving this town, this home, this life, is the fear that you would never hear it again.
You hate that you’re so weak, that you could let something as trivial and fleeting as your reputation dictate how you live your life. You might be the head cheerleader, the homecoming queen, the most popular girl in school, but you barely even notice. None of it means anything. You’re envious of her light, carefree attitude, her ability to see past the frivolity of high school politics, her confidence to just be herself. She’s at the bottom of the social hierarchy, but she doesn’t care. She’s happy, which is more than you can say for yourself.
You feel dirty sometimes when you’re with him, like a traitor, a whore. Like you’re lying to yourself and everyone around you. Which you are, if you really think about it. You don’t want him. You don’t even like boys. You’re a fucking lesbian. But it’s easier to close your eyes and fall back on him than to deal with your pain and loneliness, to deal with the fact that you don’t have her.
You’re a pro at faking it by now, you don’t even have to think about it anymore. You’re so good at pretending you want to be with him that it almost feels real. When you go out with him, people assume you’re a couple. It’s easier to let them believe it. Sometimes you want to believe it. But then you catch a glimpse of a pretty girl walking past, and you remember why you could never truly be with him. You want her, any her, you always have. He, and all the other he’s before him, are just there. They’re simple, they’re easy, they’re comfortable, they’re familiar. You know the deal with them. It’s just sex. You’re friends, sometimes you fuck. No big deal. But you know it’s just a lie, a façade, a way to avoid dealing with the uncertainty of pursuing her.
You know he’d never hurt you, not like she could. He’s safe; she’s new and potentially dangerous. He’s familiar; she’s a mystery, yet you’re intrigued and captivated by her, more than you’ve ever been by him. You don’t want to be with him, but you don’t know how not to be. It’s all you’ve ever known, being with him. You would rather stay with him and be miserable than be alone. As much as you want her, you’re terrified, so you stay with him, ignoring the hollow, empty feeling in your chest that sits, unfilled, day after day.