A/N - So, I was working through this whole Quinntana week I didn't know about, whoops! I had some ideas for some of the themes but nothing except the one about the killer one came out, may be because I was super busy. Debated whether to put it up or not, but I am, so here it is.
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Sociopaths aren't supposed to fall in love. They aren't supposed to feel. And maybe she doesn't.
Maybe she is suffering from some chemical imbalance in her head. Perhaps she is mistaking obsession, possession even, for love. Because she does possess her, in every way she possesses her.
Perhaps this is just the cataclysmic result of two serial killers identifying together so very strongly that they turn it into a warped, twisted version of love. A dark, sick imitation that only serves the purposes of their sexual appetites, outwardly appearances and cruel desires to kill. Together they are stronger, they can work as one unit and reflect an entirely different persona. They were a beautiful couple together, sweet and disarming and friendly. Their lies were particularly stronger for being together.
Except, that was not entirely true – and only one of them was a sociopath.
One killer was born and one killer was made.
Now they were here, together, coinciding – functioning in what was indeed a very real relationship. They took part in hobbies together, they ate together, they slept together, they exchanged about their days, they supported one another and protected one another and they had sex together, and for both of them having a monogamous relationship of any kind was certainly a new experience. They bought food together; they cleaned the house together and listened to music together.
They just happened to kill together.
Despite their insatiable lust for death, the twisted pull to take away the life of another, the way they planned in ice-cold precision, they went to the opposite extreme with one another. It was all consuming and raw heat, as insatiable for each other as they were for their murders.
There was an unanticipated trust and loyalty between them, perhaps coming from the deep understanding of their circumstances.
''Santana..?''
Quinn's voice was rough, low and even shaky. It held a whiskey quality to it normally, but right now it was edged and lilted with arousal, with lust and a primal heat. There was a desperate quality to it, as she fought with the waves of euphoria surging through her body.
Of course she had had sex before, many, many times. It had just never had the same affect on her. With Santana it was completely different – with the women before, they had simply been there to serve her needs. When she had wanted sexual release, she knew how to get it – she was not a woman afraid to take and demand what she wanted. She had never actually cared whether her partner received what they wanted; of course it didn't, because they were nothing to her. She had no capacity to give the slightest damn. The only reason she ever did give back was to make sure she kept up a certain appearance and keep her options open to her.
It was one thing to sleep with a mysterious, alluring womaniser who had the reputation for satisfying to the extreme. It was quite another to avoid the same woman who took what she wanted, and cruelly dismissed her partner. That would only mean that word would spread, and Quinn would find that she would have to find her conquests elsewhere – and that was time and effort that could be much better spent.
''Yeah?''
Quinn, with hooded lids, looked directly into Santana Lopez's eyes. They were face-to-face; situated in the very middle of the bed they shared together. Quinn was knelt and Santana was straddled over her, and they were knuckle deep inside each other. It wasn't a slow pace, but it wasn't a fast one either – it was torturous and tantalising. Candlelight flickered against the sheen of their bodies, bathing them in a calming yet ghostly glow.
''Do you love me?''
Santana looked right back at her, and Quinn already knew the answer but felt compelled to ask anyway.
''Yes.''
It was obvious that Santana loved her. It had happened almost instantly. The first time their eyes had met, there had been intrigued and attraction whirling there. In the midst of hopelessness, emptiness and volatility of course. Santana had been near death – tending bar in some backwater hick town in New Orleans, very close to being discovered for the killer that she was when three bodies had surfaced from watery graves. It had been unfortunate and unlucky, but what was more so was that she didn't seem to have cared.
This, Quinn had picked up on instantly.
She has learnt how to get Santana off. There are many different ways, depending on the circumstances, position and seemingly the mood of which the sex is intended. Quinn is never out and out rough, just maybe enough to make it dark and dangerous to be exciting rather than frightening. It depends what mood Santana is in, of course – these Quinn has also evaluated.
Right now, she hooks her fingers just right and sweeps her thumb at the precise angle against her clit and draws her up into a deep, open kiss that makes her murmur into it. So she cums with an arch, a quiver and murmurs that get swallowed by Quinn's own mouth. And maybe its time, or perhaps its Santana's irregular fingering or maybe it's the fact that the Latina is cumming around her fingers – but Quinn is right behind her and that sweeping white hot liquid goes rushing through her and her blood booms through her ears.
She forces Santana down with a push, making her land back on the mattress and she follows in short order. Quinn pins the slightly younger woman's hands up above her head and she hovers over her, panting lightly and staring straight into hazy, sated eyes.
''Tell me what love feels like.''
She husked, both wanting and needing to understand what the people around her talked about so very often. Quinn had said the words without fault, with every ounce of feeling that they would expect, but of course it was all false. She imitated, she acted – she delivered exactly what she needed to. Inside, in her heart and in her head – she felt nothing. It wasn't that she was trying to feel something, it didn't bother her in the slightest that she didn't, but she liked to understand these kinds of things, and she wanted to understand why Santana was so significant. Quinn couldn't recognise these feelings by herself, Santana had to be her translator.
''It feels…it feels like your chest is full of this hot, bright energy that makes you feel so good and makes you feel full. Like you're gunna burst. I mean, that's how I feel about you.''
''You feel this everyday?''
The raven-haired woman nodded lightly.
''Every single day – I think about you, and I can feel you in me. I feel happy with you, and safe.''
It was somewhat of an oxymoron for one killer to tell another that they made them feel safe. There was of course, every chance that things could go wrong and they could get hurt – or dead, or caught. But then again, Quinn could understand that compared to the life Santana had lived before they had met, this one would feel significantly safer.
She studied the subject beneath her for long, intense moments.
''If anyone ever hurts you again, I'd rip their heart out. Is that love?''
It was true – if anyone ever did anything to Santana, if they touched her or upset her or did anything to remotely hurt her, Quinn would strap them down and very slowly open up their chest and rip their heart out of it. This would be, of course, after she had taken her time to torture them first, and make them wish they had never been born in the first place. And she would enjoy every second of it.
''For you, yeah, it is.''
Quinn contemplated.
''Quinn, can I…why me? Why did you chose me?''
Santana's voice was wrought, like she was fearful to even ask. Her dark brown eyes looked up at her with a longing, a submission – a need. Quinn was aware that Santana would do anything for her. Whatever she wanted, the Latina would submit to, she was entirely in control of this relationship.
She was a delicate balance of strong and weak, with one of her major weaknesses needing to depend on somebody. Quinn offered stability, she offered security and safety. Santana had been abused and misused for so long, and now she was protected. She had a teacher, and an anchor, someone to direct her and to love her even in the limited way that Quinn could offer.
Quinn once again contemplated. She had to start first, with her compulsions.
It isn't that hard.
If you're careful, if you're silent and keep your ego in check and do your research, it isn't that hard.
She can't remember never not wanting to do this. A fascination with death has always lived inside of her, an irony that is not lost on her. It runs deeper though, than a fascination with death.
Her parents didn't do anything to her. She was, is, the typical girl next door. There was no trauma, no abuse and no neglect. She had the picture perfect life. Her Mother told her bedtime stories, and made pancakes and took care of her when she was sick. Her Father taught her good math, how to defend herself and how to take care of her car. Her sisters played with her, and she had her own room and everything she could ever want or need.
Her parents told her that they loved her every day. They also told her she could be anything she ever wanted to be, and they would always be proud of her.
It just so happened that what she wanted to be, was a killer.
No one ever suspected her. Not as a child, so methodical and analytic, observing human nature and interaction. Every emotion was catalogued, every cue assessed for instant recognition and imitation. She memorised cues, body language, metaphors and speech.
She was a profiler from the time she was an infant.
It was key to investigate; she watched what she was never supposed to see. She killed small animals and opened them up, learnt how blood felt on her hands and how to get rid of it and the bodies. She set fires, purposefully said and did things to illicit responses for her to record the results. No one suspected that the sweet, polite little blonde girl was meticulously cataloguing all of these things, meeting two out of three tick boxes of the triangle of sociopathy. Turns out she would never be a bed wetter.
Lucy Quinn Fabray had absolutely no doubt in her mind that she was a sociopath. A very dangerous, insidious one at that. She had done extensive research into the subject, even. A genuine member of MENSA since the age of 6 with a sky high IQ she was often the most intelligent person in the room, whether an adult stood before her or not. She learnt how to negotiate this feeling, knowing from an early age that if she displayed any narcissism or toxic arrogance then it would be a tell in her giant poker game of life and death.
The sunshine blonde hair, outwardly social and sweet personality, charming smile and pretty eyes were all extremely beneficial to her act – and the voice, the voice did things to people. Quinn was also aware that she was highly attractive, and her work outs and efforts were equally to keep that as it was to be the fittest she could be – they were both essential.
She was a snake in the grass.
The fact that she was an FBI Agent, the youngest of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, did not hurt either. They had bent over backward to bring a 4-time PhD genius into their fold, because of course she was highly accomplished. A girl had to have her hobbies besides murder.
Quinn gets a kick out of hunting serial offenders, it takes the edge off of her urges, basically making sure she never overdosed and made a mistake. She did not feel one ounce of hypocrisy or guilt that she went after 'her own kind'. They were not like her.
It's not like she went around killing just anyone. She had put a lot of time, thought and effort into her victim pool. Quinn didn't bother the innocent – people like her family. They held no challenge. Criminals though, she was their grim reaper. The more violent the better, in her eyes – gang member were a particular favourite.
They deserved what came to them, her own victims and those that she caught via her job. It appalled her that there were simply no standards to serial murders anymore. The people she investigated were amateurs, or arrogant, or out of control – or so goddamn stereotypical it made her want to cave their heads in. It was especially satisfactory when she got to use her weapon, thrilled that she harmed or killed one of them on the job. There was a special irony to that.
Her job served a multiple of motives, access to violent and serial offenders, the ability to hunt without killing so she remained in control, and the vantage point to detect whether she had been detected.
It was a perfectly organised life. No surprises, no accidents and no wrong turns.
Until her.
Until Santana Lopez.
Quinn had travelled all the way to the backwaters for her. Something had spoken to her when she had been assigned the case to look over and give advice on. Something in the details had caught her attention, whispering to her – compelling her to go there.
The law enforcement were moronic hicks, beyond confused at the three bodies that had been discovered. They had absolutely no clue, not a single one. Quinn had figured it out within the day after a little legwork on the victims' histories. The cops thought they had been killed by one of their own kind – drug using, alcoholic criminals. They just wanted advice on who.
It wasn't a stretch to plant evidence. No one questioned her when she shot the 'murderer' right through the heart in the shack that Santana tended bar in. Case closed.
''What…what the hell? You just fucking shot an unarmed man in my bar!''
Quinn lowered her gun, calmly re-holstered it and swung her gaze up to the Latina that blinked in shock from the few feet away she stood from the dead lump of a man that stretched across the floor. It was after closing but Quinn had left breadcrumbs for her intended victim to be here.
''Your work is sloppy.''
''Excuse me?''
''Your work is sloppy. Those men should never have been found. You're out of control, your technique needs to improve before you get killed, or you get caught.''
Santana stood, with a dishcloth slung over her shoulder and her fingers holding the glasses she had been collecting to clean up after she had ushered the last of the drinkers out of here. It was late, and she was tired, and she was getting edgy – she needed her fix soon.
Not that she really gave a damn about the pig bleeding out on her floor, but it was her floor and she did not have the patience for some blonde stranger talking to her like she knew her.
Then she caught the glimpse of her cuffs and her badge. Her FBI badge. Fuck.
''Lady, I don't know what you're fucking talking about – clean up your shit and get the hell out of my bar.''
Quinn did call it in, but then she slid out one of the chairs and sat down, pinning Santana with a knowing look.
''I came here for you, Miss Lopez. I came here because you need me, you need discipline. I can provide it. You have potential; you just need the right teacher.''
Of course, Santana had denied it some more, she had insisted that Quinn was crazy, thinking this was just some inventive way to make her confess or something like that. Until the cavalry had arrived and the blonde had calmly explained that she had located Hank West into the bar, thus coming between him and his next intended victim. She had openly declared that he had killed the low lives they had found, and Santana was left off of the hook.
It wasn't until Quinn had sat there and detailed her reason for killing them as well as her personal history.
It was the exact opposite of hers.
''You were a shining star at high school; you had a perfect GPA because you are smarter than this town combined. You were athletic, and popular and talented. All covers for the nightmare you were living at home. Every one of your siblings left you here, abandoned you to be neglected by your drug and alcohol dependant Mother. Abandoned you to your violent, abusive Father. And when he couldn't get what he needed from her, he took from you. It was hard, and brutal and painful and it stripped every single thing away from you, degrading you until you were nothing.
That's when you noticed, how men look at you. It's how you learnt to profile them, to spot the rapists and the wife beaters and the child molesters – walking versions of the man you would love to kill the most, but you can't because he terrifies you.
You're a textbook killer, Santana, but you can be so much more.''
Quinn taught her, to be smarter and to be careful, and how to control herself.
''I was born like this, Santana. I'm a natural born killer; you were made by your circumstances. I was always going to kill, no matter what. If you had my parents you would never have even thought about it. Yet, there you were, struggling to cope with the weight of your history and you were so good at it, vicious and cruel yet elegant and poetic.
If you were going to be that way, to be like me, I thought you should have the best teacher. I wanted to make you a more efficient killer.''
''You wanted to make me better?''
''I suppose I did.''
''That's love, Quinn. That's your love.''
Santana was a more efficient killer. She was a more efficient person, she functioned better. Quinn focused her, she had taught her so much and even when she was severe, and reprimanded her on something she deemed sloppy, she loved her. She needed her. And her love may have been abnormal to the rest of the world, it may have been twisted and sick, but it was Quinn's and she was giving to her.
It was as close as a sociopath was going to get, and it was enough – because not everyone could provide what Quinn did, and could follow up on her threat to kill anyone that ever hurt her again.
