possibilist fanfiction—20, give the bruises out like gifts. also currently: queer & post-colonial theory, extra dry decaf skim cappuccino, champagne, mason jars, callused knuckles, all of the quiet ghosts in bloom. (& quinn fabray.)

echoes of mine

[faberry smut. because i promised TS i would. just as a note, this takes place within the “with your eyes alone/god’s moving in your bloodstream" universe—you don’t need to read them, but in case you wanted to know. it’s smut with some angst/fluff too though. also you should listen to "myth" by beach house if you haven’t already. it’s beach house. ‘nuff said. title and quote from M83.

also: i wrote porn on mother’s day. be proud, everyone. be proud.]

echoes of mine

.

you came out of nowhere, stealing my heart and brain

flaming my every cell

you make me feel my soul

there’s no more loneliness, only sparkles and sweat

there’s no more single fate

you make me feel myself

“reunion” by M83

Rachel blames it on Quinn. Because Quinn’s, literally, like, perfect in bed, something Rachel’s gotten to experience for two years now, and now they’re stuck in this little hospital room, back in Lima, with Quinn finally disconnected from the IV drip, still slightly loopy but much less insane than the day before.

And horny, apparently, because she says, “Rachel, come here,” from her curled up position under a sheet and a blanket, and when Rachel gently, carefully lays down in front of Quinn, she quickly feels strong arms pull her infinitely closer, pressing Quinn’s hospital-gown-clad stomach up against Rachel’s back, and Quinn’s lips latch onto her neck.

“Quinn,” Rachel says as forcefully as possibly, but it’s not that assertive because Quinn Fabray’s tongue is running along there. “You had surgery three days ago.”

“Exactly,” Quinn murmurs, and Rachel shivers despite herself. “That was ages ago. I’m feeling much better now.”

Rachel rolls over in bed so that she’s facing Quinn, although when she sees Quinn’s completely blown pupils and her full lips and those eyelashes, Rachel rethinks the notion that it would be a good idea. “You had back surgery. Three days ago.”

Quinn rolls her eyes, then captures Rachel’s mouth in a kiss. An assuming kiss, without pretense of anything else. “I want you,” Quinn murmurs.

“But we’re in a hospital,” Rachel says, fighting the urge to roll her eyes back in her head and lose herself in her girlfriend’s skin.

“The nurses won’t be by for another hour,” Quinn says, “and I know it won’t take you that long.”

“Quinn,” Rachel says, and it really does sound like a desperate whine, and that’s when she’s sure she’s done for. “Are you sure it’s safe? I don’t want to—I can’t hurt you.”

And Quinn’s hands’ assault on Rachel’s Yale sweatshirt stop then, completely stilling. “I’m okay.” 

Rachel swallows, but she knows Quinn’s telling the truth. “If—if it starts to hurt, you have to tell me.”

Quinn smiles softly—unguarded and shy—and nods. “Okay.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

Rachel takes a deep breath and then meets Quinn’s lips in another kiss, and quickly her tongue finds Quinn’s. Rachel memorizes every taste-bud, feels the little gaps between Quinn’s teeth, the divots on the roof of her mouth. Quinn moans and Rachel feels warm hands on her back, so she sits up and takes off her sweatshirt as Quinn grins.

Rachel smiles and moves her left knee over to the other side of the bed, so that’s she’s straddling Quinn. She leans down again and presses just enough weight on Quinn so that their bodies are touching everywhere, but not enough so that it’ll hurt. Quinn sighs underneath her and then there are hands pressing into Rachel’s breasts, gentle and rough at the same time, reverent and greedy. The clasp on Rachel’s bra comes undone and Rachel watches Quinn smirk as she flings it across the room, but before Rachel can reprimand her, Quinn is pinching a nipple, and Rachel groans as quietly as possible as the sensation travels all the way down her spine. 

She’s wet already—being in close proximity to Quinn does that usually without fail—but the feel of Quinn’s certain fingers and then Quinn’s even more controlling tongue, sucking, biting softly, makes Rachel forget about the once-important idea of volume control that hospital-sex hypothetically involves. Quinn’s touch is purposeful and full of wonderful lust, and it removes all the terrible worry of the past two days for Rachel, because Quinn is still Quinn, and nothing bad had happened to her. Quinn is safe. Quinn is, remarkably, whole.

So Rachel brings her lips to Quinn’s lips once more, and then her kisses move to Quinn’s jaw, then down to where the hospital gown meets her skin. Rachel unclasps the little snaps there quickly and unties the little bow of string behind Quinn’s neck, then pulls the soft fabric away. Rachel drops it to the floor quickly—she knows Quinn isn’t wearing any underwear—and then she takes in Quinn’s body. No matter how many times she’s gotten to over the past few years, it still disrupts the regular rhythm of Rachel’s heartbeat, because Quinn is an expanse of pale skin and toned muscle, just as perfect as Rachel had always imagined, with abs and legs that go on for miles, neat, perky breasts.

But one of Rachel’s favourite things about Quinn’s body, she’s discovered, are her collarbones, so that’s where she starts first. Rachel balances her weight again on her elbows, kissing Quinn’s right collarbone, biting a little so Quinn arches. 

Rachel’s right hand moves to trace the scars that line the spaces between Quinn’s ribs, which sends—as always—a violent shiver through Quinn. Rachel’s own arousal grows steady as more of their skin touches, so when she feels the tremble through Quinn’s body, ricocheting in Rachel’s own hands and in her own mouth, she moans, jerking her hips into Quinn’s. Quinn’s head tips back into the pillow, her eyelids fluttering and her short hair disheveled, and her hands start to tug at the waistband of Rachel’s sweatpants, but Rachel gently grasps one wrist, bringing it up to her mouth and licking from the base into Quinn’s palm.

“Rachel,” Quinn moans.

Rachel shakes her head. “You’re so beautiful,” she says, her voice impossibly low. “Tonight I get to take care of you.”

Quinn licks her swollen lips, and Rachel can tell that Quinn’s trying not to cry, but then Quinn nods. “Thank you,” she says.

Rachel resumes her kiss, trailing up Quinn’s arm to the smooth skin around her elbow, then she takes one stiff nipple in her mouth while the other hand makes sure the other doesn’t go unattended. Rachel feels Quinn’s strain underneath her and she lets out a little gasp, and Rachel immediately stills.

“Keep going,” Quinn rasps, desperate. “I’m fine.”

Rachel pauses, but Quinn looks at Rachel seriously, so honestly, that Rachel continues, growing wetter by the second each time Quinn’s hips thrust up to meet her own. It’s the best kind of torture she knows, her moans echoing the movement of Quinn’s body beneath her. Since the first time they kissed, Rachel had always been just a little amazed at how violently—perfectly, wonderfully, beautifully—Quinn’s body had reacted to hers.

Quinn’s thigh slides in between Rachel’s legs and that motion alone almost makes Rachel come, but she kisses just above Quinn’s bellybutton instead, because tonight is about the two of them, together, safe and healing.

Rachel licks Quinn’s bellybutton and tries to stay quiet when Quinn mumbles, “Fuck, I’m so wet.”

Hearing those words from Quinn Fabray’s mouth have always done startling things to Rachel, so when Rachel raises her head quickly and bites down on Quinn’s left collarbone, it’s mainly due to the fact that she doesn’t want to get caught, but then she feels Quinn’s entire body tense and pull with the motion.

And then Quinn looks at Rachel, her eyes unfocused, and says, “Please, Rachel. I need you.”

Rachel slips her right hand down between Quinn’s legs—tonight she needs to see Quinn come, to be sure of everything else in the entire world—and rubs her thumb and finger in slow circles around Quinn’s clit. Rachel’s body is begging for release as Quinn’s hips pound out an ever-more-frantic rhythm.

Quinn almost growls, “I need you inside me,” so helplessly that Rachel complies immediately, two fingers thrusting, pushing and pulling on Quinn’s walls as they tighten even more.

Rachel tugs knowingly, and Quinn clamps down against her hand. 

“Look at me, baby,” Rachel says, and Quinn’s eyes lock onto Rachel’s.

Rachel holds Quinn carefully and Quinn mumbles strings of incoherent words, and Rachel watches her eyes struggle to stay open and captures her mouth in a kiss as she comes, a flurry of motion and then incredible stillness—the peace of these moments have struck Rachel since she first experienced them, because never before in her life has she ever seen Quinn so still. It’s breathtaking, the way her body just stops fighting for those split seconds in time, how everything in her falls apart, how every purposed, hurtful thing she’s ever done—to herself or others—falls away and there’s only Quinn, laid bare and so vulnerable beneath Rachel.

“I love you,” Rachel says. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Quinn says. “So much.” 

Quinn smiles and Rachel withdraws her fingers, putting them into her mouth as Quinn groans, watching intently. Quinn tastes like nothing else.

“I need to feel you,” Quinn murmurs, and although Rachel has no idea the amount of time that has passed, or whether or not they’d managed to stay quiet at all (which she knows is actually no), she doesn’t protest.

She trusts Quinn. She wants Quinn. She needs Quinn.

And then Quinn is there, with her fingers and her lips and her reassuring, “Fuck, I adore you,” mumbled into Rachel’s skin, on fire. Rachel’s not entirely sure how Quinn manages, because they’re laying down side by side in the little bed, but when two of Quinn’s fingers press between Rachel’s legs, Rachel only tries to keep pace.

She comes quickly—so near the edge already, and Quinn knows exactly where to touch her anyway—and it’s like always: All of Rachel’s thoughts fall away.

She loses track of expectations and deadlines, dance steps. She forgets being slushied and called names, doesn’t remember hurt or fear or loneliness. She doesn’t think of almost-weddings, or car accidents, or wheelchairs; not even now, not even in the middle of a hospital.

Because she only can manage to know Quinn in these moments, everything that she is, everything that she wants to be.

It’s enough, and as Rachel comes down from that high, Quinn holds her tenderly, so gently.

They’re quiet for a while, Rachel tenderly tucking her body into Quinn’s shoulder, until Quinn says, “I was scared.”

“Me too,” Rachel says. 

Quinn smiles sadly and brushes aside Rachel’s messy, sweaty bangs. 

“But you’re okay.”

“I think that was sufficiently proven.” Her voice is rough, that after-sex voice that Rachel could listen to forever.

“I suppose so,” Rachel says, then kisses Quinn again, tasting herself against Quinn’s lips. “Quinn?”

"What?"

"When you said—that day in the choir room—that your plumbing—how did you know that everything still worked?"

Even in the relative dark of the room, Rachel can see Quinn flush a deep pink. “You know I liked you for a long time, right?”

Rachel smiles. “Is the real me better?”

"Infinitely."

Rachel laughs. “Good.”

Quinn sighs. “Do you think we should put our clothes back on?” 

Rachel purses her lips. “So soon?”

Quinn laughs lightly. “They’ve all seen me naked, but I don’t think the same is true of you.”

Rachel rolls her eyes but gets up reluctantly—Quinn frowns at the loss of contact—pulling on her sweatpants, then traipsing across the room to find her bra. Rachel puts her sweatshirt back on once her bra is secure and then picks up the hospital gown from the floor.

“Sit up,” she directs, and Quinn does so, slowly, but without much of a grimace. 

“Yes, Mother,” she says.

Rachel ignores her comment and guides Quinn’s sleepy, meanderingly arms into the sleeves. Before she ties the little strings in the back, Rachel runs her hands lightly over the line of stitches about three inches long that run down the middle of Quinn’s spine.

“You’re perfect,” she whispers into Quinn’s shoulder, kissing it lightly before tying the gown.

Rachel moves so she can face Quinn again as Quinn says, “I’m not.”

Rachel shakes her head, running her fingers through Quinn’s wild hair (admittedly, her favourite). “You are.”

They lay back down in bed, and tonight Rachel’s the big spoon, because Quinn’s back always feels a little better on the bad days with the reassurance of safe arms and tender touches behind it.

“You gave me a hickey,” Quinn whispers as Rachel’s about to fall asleep.

Rachel nods into her neck. “You wanted me to have sex in a hospital. It’s only fair.”

“Rachel Berry,” Quinn mumbles.

“What, Quinn Fabray?”

Quinn sighs. “I love you.”

Rachel smiles. It’s an easy echo. Always. “I love you too.”


  1. skywarrior108 reblogged this from mulanisgay
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  6. pathologicalmonsters reblogged this from possibilistfanfiction and added:
    Possibilist wrote it so it couldn’t be anything other than reverent and deep and meaningful words right? Nah okay I’m...
  7. daringdrinkerofdreams reblogged this from possibilistfanfiction and added:
    This is BEAUTIFUL in every way…