"Don’t bitch.” Quinn warns as soon as your back hits the gym lockers, hand slamming beside your head, trapping you in. Say what you want about Quinn Fabray; she cuts to the chase. No use in dithering—you both barely have enough time as it is.

“Also," Quinn’s lips glide along your jaw, voice almost as scathing as the heat radiating from her fingertips. “make any noise too loud and I’ll scream.” She hisses, though you don’t miss the smirk that curves her lips. Even if she’s always the one to snake her hand around your wrists and promptly shove you in the specially-designated-Cheerios-lockerroom. Or a closet. Or the back of Finn’s car.

You couldn’t even call this as an arrangement, really. As long as you don’t directly address the fact that you—a girl— could be dragged into a meticulously secluded area and be locking lips (and nothing more) with Head Bitch of McKinley—then you could keep doing it. Voice the situation out loud?

Quinn doesn’t so much as have her foot in the door, but her whole body. Neck-down, at least. You being a crisis for her reputation aside; she really can’t stand a day without dragging you off somewhere, doors bolt-locked if she could.

It’s nothing personal. All things considered, she’s treating you kindly. She could be so much worse—at least she's not ordering the jocks to slushie you in the hallways. Yet. McKinley’s rumour mill is vicious, and any suspicions that float too close to the truth.. Well. A girl has to take precautions, after all.

Her fingers curl, delicate and demanding all at once. It’s nothing personal. Really.