Good Morning Quinn
It's the morning before you leave. Leave for New York, get out of Lima! You graduated, you got that scholarship, but you can't help but forget that if just for a moment, and just focus on the spray of dark hair across your porcelain chest. You run your fingers through it, feeling it's softness.
Last night was... amazing. She trusted you with everything she had, her virginity, her love and you took both willingly.
And now she's curled up into your side, your arm around her peaceful body and her head on your chest.
This has always been a familiar position, the first time, it had been slightly forced. Because you were still denying... everything and even in the back of your mind, you didn't want to be the 'man' of the relationship.
You confessed this one night, her hand in yours as you stared down at it, which earned you a lecture about how gender roles aren't necessary in all relationships and though you was obviously the more dominant personality that didn't mean you had to slip into a role of masculinity.
Especially because of how much you'd softened because of her.
You barely yell, you don't scream, (okay maybe on occasion, but you're human) you do everything you can so that she can see who you want to be, and you talk to her.
You actually talk to her about how you're feeling, no matter how hard it is and you've continued. Because that first time you did, she tackled you in kisses before pulling away with a smile and an apology whispering, "I'm sorry, I'm just so... thrilled."
So you continued because you wanted her 'thrilled', you wanted her happy. You want her happy.
And now you've both packed your bags, she's forced you into living at the apartment that her fathers bought her when you were stressing about how you'd pay rent, or how you could be in a dorm room.
You relented after a partially hot kiss that had your head spinning, it actually wasn't fair. You both know you can barely think after her kisses.
You kiss her hair softly, smiling at the smell of your shampoo from the shower you shared the night before.
You've changed in your appearance too, if only slightly. You're hair is still short, and your eyes are still hazel, but your style has changed.
Instead of dresses and cardigans, it's tight jeans and thin t-shirts. There's slightly less make-up mostly because you've been staying over at her home most of the week, but your eyes, they're always shining now.
But no matter how much you changed, you always tried to hold onto your femininity, because even though you were... lesbian (it was still hard to think) ... you still wanted to be... pretty. She got mad at you for saying that, then gave you another lecture on how you shouldnt think that just because someone loves a woman or women in general that doesnt mean they cannot be a beautiful woman in and of themselves.
But you wanted to be pretty.
She had learned the difference that night at prom, and now instead of saying beautiful, or gorgeous, she said pretty, even that one time she dressed you in on if her fathers bowties for an interview to match your elegant black working dress.
You remember smiling as you looked at your reflection in the mirror and placing your hands on her hips and pulling her abruptly close, muttering an 'I love you," as you kissed her languidly.
The hand that was resting softly on your chest has started moving softy. She's tracing out names, letters, shapes. She always does that, and you love it. Your skin in tingling from the touch, and your muscles clench deliciously under her touch.
You roll over softly, moving so you're face to face and you see a smile, a glow, a happiness as she reaches up and cups your cheek.
You lean into her touch and nuzzle her palm, like some pet, desperate for affection, but this is always what she humbles you to. You kiss the skin softly and she leads it up to your hair, threading through it softly. Everything she does is always soft. She said it was because she always thought of you as... ice.
It melted so easily under the right heat, but under frost, it froze with a hard protective layer. She said she just wanted to melt you, and she blushed as she was flustered thinking you would make fun of her, but you just kissed her and told her how much you loved her.
But she had melted you so long ago. With that gaze that she had, of warmth and love and comfort.
"Morning beautiful," You whisper as you return to the present away from your memories and kiss her softly.
And she doesn't rant about dental hygiene or morning breath, just threads her other hand through your hair.
She wants to be close to you. You know that feeling. It's basic.
You remember that morning when you woke up at Puck's, you were curled into his side, his bulky arm around you. It killed you, absolute murdered you to grab your things and run as fast as you could, because you wanted to cuddle and feel the skin and heart beat of the one that had taken your innocence.
One of her legs wraps around yours as the kiss was broken. Your noses are touching, your breath mixing, and your eyes meeting.
You say an unnecessary, "Hi," and she smiles softly.
"Hi," She breathes and you kiss her again.
You lean down and nuzzle her neck. This time she doesn't laugh, just holds you tighter. Maybe she finally understands your need for touch.
You splay your fingers over her stomach, moaning softly as the alarm goes off and she reaches over and flips it off after the notes of Alanis Morrissette filled the room. Her muscles moving under your hands, the feeling was so intimate.
Your lips attach to the side of her neck, right at the place that you know makes her knees go weak. Her head tips back and she moans your name softly.
Pulling away reluctantly, because you know you won't be given the recent luxury of sex if you leave a mark.
"Good morning Quinn," She whispers, pecking your lips.
AN: Cover image not mine, manip found on Google Images, I don't attempt to claim any credit for it.