Hi! So here’s some OOC information for you:
- I’m 18
- I’m a committed and experienced roleplayer
- I love to write, though that doesn’t mean I’m immune to the occasional writer’s block
- I’m very active, especially right now
- Faberry is my OTP, but I’m respectful of all ships
Here’s a sample of my writing: (Please note: I’m comfortable writing in any tense.)
Sometimes Quinn thinks of Rachel as a good bacon sandwich. Not because she’s porky, not because she’s greasy or because she’s striped with fat and gristle — because obviously, Rachel is none of these things really, most especially not right now, all grown up and with jeans and actual cheekbones and everything. (Anyone who studies reflexology would be flabbergasted by Quinn’s immediate snap-bang ability to conjure up an insult from the unlikeliest of things under certain pressures. Pressures like chatty Jewish girls with vocal chords of steel. Anything could be an insult if Quinn cocked her head and squinted her left eye just right.)
But no. It’s not even meant to be insulting. Not really. Rachel is like a bacon sandwich for a real, legitimate reason, which isn’t even the amusement Quinn finds in the irony of Rachel being a Jewish vegan pig sandwich.
It’s that Rachel is bad for her. That’s the thing. She clogs up Quinn’s twisted up throat with bad, unhealthy stuff. Or maybe it’s her heart she blocks up with those unidentified chunks. Quinn’s a romantic like that.
She’s, you know, bittersweet. She always was. Back in high school, Quinn exhausted herself with this girl, this one, supposedly insignificant creature scouring the seabed of McKinley High. She never should have mattered, in the big scheme of things.
As weeks unfolded into months which pieced together years, Quinn justified her interest. The good, the bad, and the ugly parts of it. She thought to herself, how could anybody ignore Rachel Berry? Rachel was the star, that girl who was going big and never going home, except probably around the holidays where she would probably eat plastic turkey, or nutroasts, or whatever vegans ate, with her two gay dads who would shower her with gifts and ‘We’ve missed you’s.
And Quinn. Quinn’s story was— and maybe still is— known in excruciating detail by every inhabitant of Lima, so needless to say, she was no Rachel Berry. It didn’t take her adolescent shrink to tell her that.
It was natural though, for someone of Quinn’s caliber— you know the type; big fish in a small pond— to be interested in, even jealous of the real deal.
It made sense, except here and now, in the middle of a busy New York street, a pair of intrusive eyes are back in her life, hovering over her with that fucking concern that makes her want to bite Rachel’s head off all over again. Just like old times, she thinks bitterly.
“Are you trying to fucking kill me?” Quinn snaps, even though Rachel was sitting obliviously in the backseat of the cab when that asshole driver tried to run her down. And it’s not like Quinn’s hurt anywhere but her pride.
Rachel Berry adjusts her face with little twitches that Finn Hudson probably doesn’t find so endearing anymore, because Quinn notices— or maybe she checks— manhands isn’t donning any bling anymore. Not on the important finger, at least.
Rachel helps her up anyway. Quinn’s more concerned with the pieces of road clinging to her white interview dress, or maybe she just doesn’t want to be concerned with how concerned Rachel is, like it’s 2011 again or something.
She wants to say something like “I’m a big girl now, Rachel.” in that condescending tone Rachel used to be so familiar with, or “God, it’s not like you got hit by the car.” or “I date girls now.” just to prove how new and grown up she is, because it’s not like she needs Rachel to come find her ‘round the back of the bleachers and bring her back to the choir room anymore, so Rachel doesn’t need to look at her with those giant bush baby eyes of hers like that.
But it shouldn’t even matter, and it shouldn’t have ever mattered. If Finn Hudson, the supposed love of her life can forget all about her then Quinn Fabray sure as hell should be able to as well. It’s not like they were even friends if you don’t count that fleeting five minutes of their senior year.
“Yo, get out the fuckin’ road!” a cabbie yells in a heavy Brooklyn accent, and oh yeah, they haven’t moved from where Rachel’s cab knocked the side of her knee and bopped her to the ground. It’s rush hour in New York, so it’s not like the car was going anywhere close to fast.
She doesn’t apologize to the traffic jam forming to their sides. She’s a New Yorker now, don’t you know, so it’s a miracle she didn’t call the guy an asshole and be done with it. But she and Rachel do both move, ditching both the taxi and her fruitless quest to get to the other side of town in— she glances at her silver watch with a slim, black leather strap— ten minutes ago. Typical.
The wound up scribbles of stress in her forehead smooth as the pressure of an impossible task eases. She looks at Rachel and thinks of her as a bacon sandwich for the first time since she was eighteen years old. Bad for her. Damn near magnetic.
“Well, I don’t know what to say.” her voice is lower and more grown up these days. It’s slower too, when her words come out; because when she’s not on her ass in the middle of New York, she can actually be quite relaxed, you know. She can even smile when she says things now. That was a pretty big corner to turn back in the day. ”You sure know how to make an entrance. You could have just called if you were that desperate for my attention.” it’s a compliment, actually, and if Rachel is who Quinn thinks she is, she’ll know that. And Quinn hopes that Rachel is that Rachel, who still sort of knows her, still gets that she still hasn’t clued in on how to communicate without those little verbal jabs that she depends on to keep her own spine straight when she faces other people’s success. Is Rachel successful?
Between herself and Rachel, this is like some secret language they wrote when they were nine. A language that only she speaks, and that still makes the deer-like creature ahead retreat on instinct, just until that good old Rachel Berry bravado shoves its way back out into the world.
What Quinn really means to say though, is actually just ‘hello’.