restless
puck/quinn
She's in his head and he can't sleep.
He can see her clearly, and it's killing him. He can see the blonde hair and the green eyes (shit, they're so green) and he can see the parted lips that curl up as they whisper his name with the kind of poisonous voice that sends chills up his spine.
He can feel her scratching at his skin, carving words into his flesh – her name, his name, words of love and words of hatred. He can feel her breath, hot and fiery and delicious. He can feel her in all the ways she's let him feel her, and the few she hasn't.
He can feel her heartbeat against his after they're done and she falls asleep (or passes out drunk), a rhythmic thudding pattern that makes his own heart speed up. He can feel her heart in his hands, heavy and torn, and there's blood spilling through his fingertips all the way down to his feet in a puddle. He can feel her eyes on him and her hands on him, and he can feel her feel him too.
He tosses and he turns and he's restless because the only thing that he can think about is her and it's no use because the era of Puck and Quinn was over even before it began.
