yo yo have you read 'what doors may open' by kschoiceofafi? it's a real cool fic told entirely from rachel's pov where it mainly deals with her own coming out experience and quinn is totally quinn about it in a way which is simultaneously v funny and heartbreaking also the makeout scenes are really hot and it's complete and there is MAD rachel/finn bromance so yes all good things i think you should read it
I hear that author’s name constantly but I haven’t read anything by them yet. That does sound amazing, though. You know how I love Rachel-centric fics and some good Hudbromance. I’m gonna put the link here for myself and others and come back to read it later :’)
Title: It Was a Plane Ride from LAX to O’Hare
Author: Sydney Redfield
Pairing: Quinn/Rachel (very brief mentions of Puck/Quinn and Finn/Rachel)
Disclaimer: This isn’t real. I own nothing.
Summary: When Puck breaks up with Quinn, there’s only one thing Quinn can think to do. Slightly AU (though isn’t Faberry fic always slightly AU??).
A/N: Unbeta’d. ‘Cause I’m impatient like that.
So I completed the story, and I really can’t figure out this new posting situation, but I uploaded it to fanfiction.net and here’s the link. Sorry it took so long, sorry for mistakes, and hope you enjoy.
Also, you should sign up for faberrycon if you haven’t.
Emphasis on Quinn lovin’. Heavily implied Faberry.
Title: There Are Two Seats At The Bar (For Mr. And Mrs. My Last Name)
Pairing: Beca Mitchell/Chloe Beale
Spoilers: Mild ones for Pitch Perfect
Summary: New York is the land of plenty. Plenty of noise, plenty of people, plenty of dollars sucked out of her wallet—and plenty of surprises.
A/N: Kay-prompted. Title from The Damnwells’ “Closer Than We Are”
Do you know any good Brittany/Rachel/Santana fica? (I put Rachel in the middle because I know you like the Rachel sandwich.
the only one I know off the top of my head is this one, but you should search around that author’s FFN page because I follow her on tumblr and I know that she whole-heartedly supports Berrittana
AU Rachel and Quinn meet via a Craigslist job ad. It’s not as bad as it sounds because it is worse.
I AM ALWAYS INTO FABERRY
GIVE. THEM. ALL. TO. ME.
ummm this isn’t very much of it but it’s all I’m able to find without pulling links from my phone, too
[quinn/yale prof headcanon. title from regina spektor’s ‘one more time with feeling.’ reference from richard siken.]
one more time with feeling (your stitches are all out, but your scars are healing wrong)
you’re in the eighth grade. you know these things. you know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do long division, and you know a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you didn’t do, because you are weak and hollow and it doesn’t matter anymore.
—’a primer for small weird loves’ by richard siken
You only talk about Lacan on the first day of Psych 101 because you’re nervous. And, okay, sure, it’s also because your professor, one Lauren Baxter, PhD, is attractive and young, with long dark wild hair and her left arm covered in a colorful tattoo sleeve. She’s exciting and funny and the thought crosses your mind that she doesn’t know you have a child, that she doesn’t know you spent half of senior year learning how to walk again.
She doesn’t know you at all.
When you make an introductory comment about Lacanian melancholia, she smiles at you. She has blue eyes. She has dimples. She turns to the chalk board and you watch her hips, think about sin and grace. There is chalk on Lauren’s hands, white and pure and fleeting.
It’s called Gleedazzled and it’s fucking awesome. Ignoring minor characterization issues (“the girl” and “the cheerio” and the usual ilk), it’s pretty much flawless. Rarely do we see a fic starring Rachel Berry in her possibly unrequited pursuit of Quinn Fabray. This fic is innovative, intriguing, and unfortunately underrated. I give it an A+ and 11 out of 10 points.
Still not convinced? The basic premise is that Rachel gets seven wishes in exchange for selling her soul to the devil, which oh yeah, just so happens to be Santana.
Quinn sat on the couch staring at it, as she had been for the past twenty minutes. She was still mulling over the why and how of Rachel owning such a thing. Apparently, if the label was to be trusted, at least twelve such things. Also, she knew she needed to discuss it with Rachel, but wasn’t quite sure how to bring the subject up. So she had going for the passive-aggressive approach of positioning herself on the couch, it on the coffee table, and aiming her best glare towardsit, just in time for Rachel to return home from rehearsal. The dramatic scene would provoke a question from Rachel which would open the discussion, then Quinn would be free to launch into a tirade (she had several planned, and was leaning heavily towards one she liked to call ‘Is my butt not enough for you?’)
Quinn goes to Yale and, without the eye of family and friends, throws herself into bed with any beautiful girl she can. The only requirement is that they be brunette and outspoken, which isn’t hard to find on an IV League campus. Her favorite thing to do is roughly top them while both are drunk so the girl is less likely to notice her wandering conscience. She always tells them to bite her shoulder, hard, and they do, gasping “Quinn” between each mouthful of her skin. Between the pain—the reminder that she’s still alive—and her name on a placeholder’s lips, Quinn manages to maintain a 3.7 GPA and a faintly beating heart.
The back patio was swimming with beautiful women. A sweet tinge of alcohol carried on the evening breeze as it gently tousled her hair. Sigh—it was getting so damn long.
She was nervous. The cranberry cocktail had stung a bit on the way down, but it did help take some of the edge off. She draws the nearing-empty glass to her lips once again and scans the crowd. You’d think she would’ve seen Foster by now, being that it was her clam bake, but that was beginning to seem like a pipe dream.
Why had she come here alone? The upperclassmen who invited her were nice enough; she should’ve accepted their offer to carpool. No—no, this was better. No obligations to force smiles and make small talk. No hassle of coordinating a meet-up for the ride back.
No strings attached. That was the new precept for Quinn Fabray.
Her senses feel weird, softer at the edges. It’s different from the wine coolers with Puck and the beers over summer, but the way she feels is strangely reminiscent of that lame-ass Glee party at Rach—
Of that.. of that lame-ass Glee party. She was so angry that night. God, why was she so upset? Bits and pieces come back to her with every stir of her ice and straw. Her teeth grind and in a split-second, she’s determined to focus on anything else.
For example, the beautiful brunette approaching the lawn furniture she was now sinking into. The girl—no, the young woman had a walk about her that seemed.. determined? Like she put purpose in her movement. If Quinn was being honest, it was actually kind of sexy. Equally alluring was the smile spreading across her face as she neared.
“Hi, I’m Laura! I figured I would come over here and introduce myself, being that I’m embarrassingly alone at this shindig, too.”
Quinn’s eyebrows quirk. She tries to portray offendedness, but amusement creeps onto her lips as she asks, “And what makes you think I’m as embarrassingly alone as you are?”
“Well, you’ve been nursing that cocktail glass there two or three times over and, no offense, but you couldn’t be any more T.S. Elliot if you tried.”
Something about her word choice and demeanor has Quinn swallowing back a pang in her throat, but she tries to stay in the moment. “Is that so?”
“Oh, yeah.” Her response is immediate, but the silence that hangs momentarily afterward feels.. playful?
“While I can appreciate the compliment, I much prefer ‘Quinn’.”
“Quinn,” She seems hesitant, like she’s testing it out on her lips. “Well, if we’re going to do this whole ‘two-loners-who-ironically-socialize’ thing, what do you say I get us another round?”