A girl wandering around New York City on her own at night is not irregular – during the vampiric domination of the city, it is.
Any mortal caught out after nightfall is considered fair game for the vampires, who will eagerly take advantage of whatever beating heart walks past them.
Quinn is not afraid of them. She walks under the bright street lights – the ones that remain intact despite the looting and general destruction of the city – with a cigarette between her teeth, almost asking for trouble. Her hair is spiked up, a mix of pink and blonde, gone undyed for too long.
She's not an idiot, though.
Quinn Fabray, vampire hunter, does not mess around. The holster around her hips contains a handgun longer than the line of her shorts, and in her boots is a long, silver dagger. Around her neck – more for the irony than religious affiliation – hangs a large cross, bouncing between her breasts with every step.
But Quinn is not the girl wandering around New York City at night.
Quinn Fabray is a hunter stalking her prey.
The brunette girl crossing the street, coat pulled tight around her small form and head whipping from side to side, is the girl.
Foolish, foolish.
It doesn't take someone with Quinn's senses to know there are eyes everywhere, lusting after her tanned neck and sweet, sweet blood.
Quinn would almost count herself as one of them.
Quinn can tell the girl isn't paying too much attention, as she has the time to duck into an alley before the brunette crosses her path. In her ears, she can hear the steady – frantic – rhythm of her heels on the ground.
Tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-
And it's cut off, when Quinn darts and arm out and pulls her into the darkness of the alley. Her free hand winds up to wrap around the girl's mouth, clamping down on a scream that begs to come forth. The smaller body writhes against her as Quinn drags her backwards, pins her up against the wall.
Their eyes meet – the brunette's wide and anxious, Quinn's amused.
"Don't scream." Quinn says, and waits for an approving nod before loosening her grip. "What are you doing out right now?" Quinn asks in a whisper, pulling her hand away entirely.
The girl takes a shaky breath, and a minute passes before she can speak. "My boyfriend took me out on a date – but he had to leave."
Quinn frowns. "Leave you alone?" The girl nods. "To walk home at night?" Another nod. "What is he, a fucking idiot?" Quinn hisses, looking up and down the alleyway every so often to ensure their continued safety.
"I – I guess so." The girl says, dropping her eyes. "It was light out when I left the restaurant, I… got lost."
"Not your fault." Quinn says, stepping back so that only a vice grip on the girl's wrist remains. "My name is Quinn, I'm here to save your ass." She explains, reply sent back over her shoulder as she tests out a door beside where they stand.
It falls open with ease, and Quinn promptly drags the girl inside.
"I'm Rachel." Is the stuttering response she receives, before getting a, "thanks," tacked on the end.
"My pleasure." Quinn replies, turning so that she and Rachel are now face to face, taking one another in by the light of the streetlight making it through the broken window.
Quinn has lived in worse places, so she pays no mind to the abandoned building – all she can see is Rachel.
Though small and scared, her posture suggests a stubborn strength beyond what Quinn has seen. Her brunette hair falls in gentle curves around her face, lightening towards the tips. The coat fits her body perfectly, flaring out above the hip and finishing mid-thigh, leaving Quinn to glimpse the top of thigh-high stockings before it's down to her classic black heels.
It's a classic, elegant look – and there's Quinn, in camo short-shorts, a black tank, and a web shirt pulled over. The cigarette – unlit – has been moved back behind her ear, and her hair is starting to droop to one side.
Quinn is certainly not the only one lusting this evening – and if the look Rachel is giving her is anything to go by (up and down, slowly, sensually, as if Quinn is a tall glass of water in a desert), there's more than one in that room alone.
"You know," Quinn begins, stepping closer to Rachel, pinning her now against the interior of the building. "I charge a fee for saving people's asses." They are close enough now that Quinn's husky reply is stolen by Rachel's sharp inhale.
They linger, for a moment, in that space between lusting after and acting upon it.
Quinn breaks the fragility of it all by roughly sliding one hand behind Rachel's head, fisting a hand in her nicely-done hair, and shoving their mouths together. It isn't pretty, it sure as Hell isn't romantic, but it gets the job done.
There's no dancing around the issue, either. As soon as Quinn's mouth is on Rachel's she can taste her – the wine she had with dinner mingling with the very essence of her, and it's as intoxicating to Quinn as blood is to a vampire.
She's pushing Rachel up against the wall, tongue forcing to claim as much of Rachel's mouth as she can. Rachel, however, is not submissive in this – her hand fists in Quinn's shirt, tearing some of the webbing, and her back is arched up, up against her chest.
Quinn's not one to waste time – there isn't much time to waste these days – so when she breaks apart from Rachel to take a deep breath, her hands do not pause. They work quickly, undoing the white coat keeping from her all of Rachel's secrets.
And boy, were they secrets.
"Planning an after dinner treat?" Quinn asks, with a devious smirk and her tongue poked between her teeth.
Beneath the coat, Rachel is wearing no more than an elegant lace bra and panty set, complete with garter belt resting up on her waist.
The blush – that sudden rush of blood to Rachel's cheeks – it kills her. Quinn's questioning whether or not she, too, is a vampire, at this point.
She's back on Rachel in a second, hands gripping the space of skin beneath her breasts tightly, squeezing. Quinn can feel above her hands the underwire of Rachel's bra, beneath them the top of her garter belt.
Her wandering hands do not linger in any one spot. Whilst Rachel's making fists in her short hair now, Quinn is sliding her fingers around to Rachel's back, unlatching her bra. The cups fall forward against her body, revealing to Quinn a set of perfectly rounded breasts – perky, and just enough to fill a neat handful.
"You're beautiful." Quinn says when she separates her mouth from Rachel's, trailing kisses up her jawline as her hands slowly massage her breasts.
Rachel shivers and makes a high-pitched noise, rolling her hips up, desperate for contact.
At least Quinn isn't the only one.
Quinn's head moves down slowly, maintaining eye contact with Rachel (who has her eyelids at half-mast, looking sexier than anyone has any right to) until her lips reach one nipple. She starts slow – lips mouthing the hard nub of flesh, before her mouth encompasses it whole, tongue flicking and teeth grazing.
Rachel is unable to stay still – or quiet. The way her body bucks up into Quinn's mouth, the garbled noises she makes, all of them go straight down to Quinn's damp pussy.
Though Quinn has one hand on Rachel's hip, restraining her from shifting too much, she does have one hand free.
It starts on Rachel's thigh. It flicks the garter holding her stockings up. Rachel whimpers, makes a noise like begging but can't form words. Quinn's fingers climb on up the garter belt until they reach the start of her underwear, where they follow the curve down, around, and to her goal.
There's no need to remove Rachel's panties – if anything, Quinn prefers them on.
The fabric offers more friction when Quinn starts to slowly rub Rachel's clit. Now she really does scream – Quinn really can't complain about it attracting attention when it's because of her mouth, her fingers – and Quinn doesn't wait. Her mouth moves from one breast to the other, and her finger manoeuvres around the panties to plunge knuckle-deep into Rachel's core.
"Jesus!" It's the first coherent word Quinn has heard Rachel say, but the emphasis is all off – her voice rises and cracks midway through the word, whilst the end of it is little more than a petering wail.
Quinn smirks as she lifts her head, watching appreciatively as Rachel's breast drops down with a little bounce, before raising her eyes. "I told you, my name is Quinn." She repeats devilishly, before kissing Rachel once more, swallowing any screams that might arise from the second and third fingers joining the first.
Rachel is a mess beneath her – it's taken no longer than fifteen minutes, and Quinn has her begging and sobbing between kisses to "please" something and "yes, God – yes" something else. Quinn's fingers are fast and efficient, and she's set up a slowly rising pace, her thumb rolling Rachel's clit back and forth as she works.
It's the culmination of Quinn's dedication and talented fingers that has Rachel, five minutes later, sweaty and sagging against her to maintain an upright position.
They're both panting, holding one another against the dingy wall of the abandoned building, when a window to their left shatters.
Rachel screams – and Quinn can separate this, terrified scream, from her holy fuck Quinn orgasm scream – and Quinn turns.
A man crouches there, amidst a field of broken glass, eyes glowing red and fangs extended.
Quinn's moving on autopilot, now – her hand, still wet, removes itself from Rachel and takes her gun. There's time for a bead of saliva to drip from the vampire's fang before Quinn has fired two shots between his eyes. The creature falls back with a cut-off shriek, eyes wide and unseeing.
For safety purposes, Quinn stamps down on its neck, hearing the satisfying snap. She fires again, just above the first two entry wounds, before stepping back.
Rachel's eyes are back to their wide, horrified state, but she blinks and returns to herself.
"You okay?" Quinn asks, reholstering her weapon and moving to wipe her fingers off on the bare skin of her thigh.
Rachel stops her, taking her hand and looking at it. It glistens where the streetlight outside catches it – the proof of Rachel's orgasm coating her fingers.
"I thought you said you charge a fee for saving asses." Rachel said, licking each digit clean – and bringing back Quinn's arousal tenfold.
Once her hands are clean, Rachel leans up to kiss her. It is brief, chaste – it is everything a first kiss should be, if they were blushing teenagers on a first date.
But they're not.
So Rachel undoes Quinn's shorts, and yanks them down to rest around her ankles along with her underwear.
Then the brunette drops to her knees, and puts that screaming mouth to good use.