[okay so the music video of the killers' with dianna inspired this because holy shit. also this is my 100th story on here & it feels apropos that it's faberry smut. cheers!]

...

the cracks of my hungry body from diaphragm to sunrise

.

that's a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey and kisses for everyone
—richard siken, "little beast"

…

Santana decides to take you out. She doesn't really give you much of a reason, other than it's almost the end of the semester for Quinn, that this is the first year that she's just taught instead of worked on anything, which has been full of pressure in a different—and lovely—way, and that you have a long weekend, that your workshop for your next show is almost finished so it seems like a lot of decent things to celebrate.

You end up taking your own cab from a recording session that you wrap up around nine and head to the bar Santana texted directions to. You spot her at a table in the corner of the place that, for the meatpacking district, is aesthetically pleasing as well as perfectly clean. Megan is with her, and they look happy, laughing at something Megan's said. You don't spot Quinn, and you figure she's either getting more drinks or in the bathroom. You head over to them and spot the stage that's set up for karaoke and almost want to hug Santana for that—because you love to sing, always.

You sit and chat with them about their days, sip some of the beer they've ordered for you—you plan completely on getting absolutely hammered tonight but you don't want to get sloppy drunk until Quinn is there.

And then you hear her voice, which makes you happy. Happy happy. She taps you on the shoulder and Santana smirks and you turn and your stomach plummets. You're used to seeing lots of looks on Quinn—she's always been so pretty that she can pull anything off—but lately she's been switching between professional clothes for school and leggings and boots and sweaters on weekends. But tonight she's wearing a sheer blouse under a black blazer, and you can see a black bra peeking through. And then she's wearing black skinny jeans and Doc Martins, and her hair is pulled back on the sides and volumized on top, shining and blonde, and her eyeshadow is smoky and dark and her eyes are green and it's just so sexy and dramatic.

And she smiles, then, because she knows. Because she knows, only ever rarely, the effect she has on you. She struggles with her body on a daily basis, which you go through patiently still, and she works hard, and her brain is usually of utmost importance to her, which is something you love. You love coming home to a Quinn snuggled in a blanket and boxers and an old Yale t-shirt on your couch, glasses on and tapping a pen on the page of a book, cold feet covered in wool socks. You love that Quinn.

But this Quinn? This Quinn makes you want to have sex for fifty years without stopping. This Quinn reminds you of senior year when Quinn smoked and wore boots and had pink hair, except her eyes dance when she smirks in front of you, scratches her black-polished nails under the table up your thigh.

"Hey," she says, low and in the voice you know from just after she's come—and briefly you wonder what she was doing in the bathroom—and then kisses your jaw.

"Hi," you manage to work out. She hands you a shot of tequila and Santana and Megan lift their shot glasses in a seemingly planned salute of actually pulling this off, and you watch her throw back her shot without grimacing in the slightest—her jaw and the muscles of her neck graceful and strong—before you tip your head back, cold glass against your lips.

You have a few more shots and you can't stop completely gawking at Quinn, and then she kisses you deeply, tongue and teeth and all, before standing. "I'm going to sing you something," she says, and then struts her way to the karaoke stage, none of the stiffness from scars and surgeries she's been struggling with this winter present in the slightest.

And she does sing you something. Grabs the microphone and takes up all of the space of her body and everyone in the whole bar is captivated. You love her, all of her—these dazzling parts and the parts that hide in the dark behind them.

When she finishes, she walks back toward you like she's not fantastic, like everyone isn't watching her, and she kisses you gently.

You grab her hand and scoot out of the booth, drag her out of the bar. Santana and Megan boo good-naturedly and then wave, and Quinn doesn't seem to have any objection to an early night.

"You're absurd," you tell her while she hails a cab.

"I know I've been a little less-than-sexy lately," she says, shrugging.

"Are you kidding?" You're both more than a little drunk and you sort of help each other into the back of the cab.

She kisses you instead of answering, and you know that this is just Quinn, that even with all of the reassurance you'll ever give her, she'll doubt herself. But you know, too, that she loves you immensely. That she's in love with you. She believes you sometimes, and that's enough.

The cab driver gets you home quickly, and you traipse past your doorman and up to your apartment, trading hungry kisses and sticking hands up shirts and down pants and anywhere you can find purchase. And then one of you clumsily gets your door unlocked and Quinn unbuttons her shirt a ways before she ends up ripping the rest of the closures, and then it's her hips and her abs and her bellybutton.

"God," she breathes into your mouth, fighting to get your tights off, and you rub her clit without warning, push her back on the bed. You know her. You know her breath and the way she says your name when she comes. That is what you know.

You wake up in the morning with four hickeys on your collarbone, and Quinn is draped over you, still asleep. You kiss her forehead and she stirs, pulls you closer. "I love you in all of the ways," you tell her, and you rub her back, across the scars, and she's all full hips and ribcage and smoky eyes and the clearest, pale skin—the roughest, most tender, holy thing in the window-slitted, gentle light.