glee drabble, or "i am a sellout" is not a strong enough phrase
Title: relativity
Author: Jade Sabre
Notes: I REGRET NOTHING.
Spoilers for: "Duets"
relativity
Quinn stands, suspended in space.
She curls her fingers over a fret board while warm-strong hands cover hers, and for a moment she defies the laws of physics and lives two moments at once, traveling through time in a race with light, edging out its speed and bending the world to her will. For a moment she is standing in an empty classroom while a blonde stranger teaches her a C-chord, but she is also in her bed with an all-too-familiar body next to her, shaping her fingers over the strings and teaching her to pluck a pattern; she giggles, drunk from wine coolers and sex; she is stone-cold sober, and his breath is uncertain against her hair. She is pressed against Puck and leaning against Sam and they are different and the same, they occupy the same space in her mind (Puck would never admit to seeing Avatar six times, even though it was more like twelve; Sam would never have a mohawk, though she feels his bad-boy streak in her bones), and she would give anything, anything to feel those lips against hers again, because what is she without them?
Quinn Fabray, of course, and she snatches that thought from the stream of time and light swirling in the air around her; it is nothing more than sunlight on the curl of her hair, in this room, and she steps away and holds her head high and plants her feet on the ground, where they belong.
Author: Jade Sabre
Notes: I REGRET NOTHING.
Spoilers for: "Duets"
relativity
Quinn stands, suspended in space.
She curls her fingers over a fret board while warm-strong hands cover hers, and for a moment she defies the laws of physics and lives two moments at once, traveling through time in a race with light, edging out its speed and bending the world to her will. For a moment she is standing in an empty classroom while a blonde stranger teaches her a C-chord, but she is also in her bed with an all-too-familiar body next to her, shaping her fingers over the strings and teaching her to pluck a pattern; she giggles, drunk from wine coolers and sex; she is stone-cold sober, and his breath is uncertain against her hair. She is pressed against Puck and leaning against Sam and they are different and the same, they occupy the same space in her mind (Puck would never admit to seeing Avatar six times, even though it was more like twelve; Sam would never have a mohawk, though she feels his bad-boy streak in her bones), and she would give anything, anything to feel those lips against hers again, because what is she without them?
Quinn Fabray, of course, and she snatches that thought from the stream of time and light swirling in the air around her; it is nothing more than sunlight on the curl of her hair, in this room, and she steps away and holds her head high and plants her feet on the ground, where they belong.