Summary: Quinn, a writer, comes into a bar where Rachel is singing.
Word count: 671
Author's Note: A little rushed, just finally realized what Faberry week meant, and it was 1950s themed, so I did the Beat movement.
I don't either.
I cough upon entering, it's been too long. Not used to the musty atmosphere. It explains a lot though. Why I don't remember the singer. It's not that I didn't remember: I had never been in here when she was around. The word from Puck – he's the owner – is that she's been coming in and singing every Sunday night for the last month and a half. She was too good to let go. She looks pained. I want to reach out and touch her.
Her eyes clench shut half the time. A tear escapes every now and again as she strains her voice to achieve the high notes that she clearly feels. A few audience members are crying: I might be too if my hard had been broken. It hadn't though.
The girl – Rachel, Puck referred to her as – was singing about some guy who left her and took everything. Some asshole I don't know and now have a problem with. She's too pretty to hate for it though. Rachel drops to her knees as the pianist behind her starts to end the song, and soon it's silent until she gets back up, in which she was met with snaps all around. I do nothing, simply staring her down. The Japs believed that silence held the most respect.
I stand up and walk over to her as she returns to whom I take is her lover. My theory is disproven when he pats her and gives a third party member a gentle kiss. Rachel is clad in black, like most in the room. She pulls it off well, and is surprisingly well formed despite her shortness: three inches or so separate us. Maybe more. I stop in front of her, and she looks up at me.
"Beautiful."
"Well thank you. I'm Rachel Berry. It was mostly adlib though, how much did you"
"I meant you." She saw me come in late. She blushes and smiles.
"Too kind."
I stroke her cheek with my thumb and cross my arms. "I'd like to treat you to a drink."
"Well I'd like to treat you."
"To a drink?"
"A drink of me."
"Did your last asshole not have a taste for Berry?"
"Are you my next asshole?"
"I'd like to be." She grins cheekily at my responses, and each time I can't help but imagine her stripping down further and further: a game of strip poker.
"Do you have a name, asshole?"
"Quinn."
"Quinn what?"
"Quinn Berry."
"Same last name?" she says excitedly.
"We will in the future." I say, stepping closer, my body starting to consume all light reaching her in the already dimly lit room. She bites her bottom lip and runs her eyes down my length, clearly interested.
"You haven't had an asshole in a while, have you?"
"The sexless writer writes best."
"You're a writer?"
"Like Capote."
"Capote?"
"Truman Capote."
"Don't know him."
"Someone's gonna be punished." My hand grasps her hip, and she looks down at it, and I squeeze the plush area, feeling bone. Her eyes move to my chest before eventually returning my gaze.
"I like Joyce."
"Joyce is pretentious."
"Joyce gives good head."
"I give better."
"Not as good as Capote."
"So you do know Capote?"
"He's bound to have been in my bed at least once."
"At least?"
"I sometimes have repeats."
"Not a lot of business around here."
"Not a lot of lesbians around here."
"Capote's not a lesbian."
"Neither is Joyce."
"So what's the point?"
"In lying?"
"In waiting."
She purses her lips and mimics my hand. I lean down and kiss the corner of her mouth before gliding my nose up her cheek, forehead and resting my chin atop her head, her body melding into mine.
"Have a car?" she whispers into my suprasternal notch.
"No."
"I don't either."
"Shame."
Her lips press against my chest. I enjoy the stream of warm breath in my cleavage. Her hands are loving. Rachel doesn't seem to care that my hand's slipped into her skirt. I don't either.