Just a fill for the age difference Faberry week prompt. I know I am late but better late than never, unless this sucks of course. In that case just ignore it and keep living life lol.

If there are mistakes sorry.

The Lady and the Punk

The two of you don't particularly like each other. You see it in the way that she regards you, with a disdainful squint, as you ruffle your choppy cotton-candy strands of hair, burp, and then tear into your well-done steak.

But it's fine, because you aren't particularly fond of how she always leaves the cap off of the toothpaste on those mornings after you've fucked her into a coma the night before.

Anyway, it was her idea to come to this restaurant. It always is, and you know that she only takes you to these haughty places because she struggles with which direction her moral compass glides. No strings sex behind her husband's back with somebody that has pink hair, a nose ring, and a vagina is a tough one indeed. Sure, you get it - that she thinks that she can't possibly be a bad person if she takes you out to dinner every now and then, and spends her husband's money on expensive meals that line your stomach.

But she's wrong, and you know that she knows it. Even so, you've decided that you'll play along, because the sex is good. Besides, who the fuck are you to turn down a free meal and a bottle of champagne?

The two of you usually don't talk during these outings. This one's been a smidge different though. She's tried to make small talk, to which you've shrugged and hummed. You normally just sit across from one another, chambered by this stony on-edge silence whilst you wolf down whatever it is that you couldn't pronounce when you'd browsed the menu. The food's hit and miss. A reheated hot-pocket and a few joints sat in front of the television is much more your style.

"Hurry up and finish your meal," Rachel suddenly whispers past the small vase of flowers that sit centre of the table. It's almost like she doesn't want to draw any attention - like she's doing something other than talking to a friend over dinner. Like she's doing something wrong.

You want to let her know that she should stop being so obvious, but that falls second to, "do you want me to get indigestion, Rachel?" you whisper back, smirking up at her through your eyelashes as your cheek revolves around your mouthful. "If I eat any faster, it's not gonna be good. I may throw up, and we both know that when I'm down there," you breathe, flickering your eyes in the direction of the tensing brunette's crotch, "you never need any help with lubrication, so let's leave me vomiting out of the equation."

She's unamused and antsy, just as you'd known she would be. In fact, she seems downright offended. "Must you be so crude? God, you are such a pig!" she scoffs, seemingly horrified at the images that you've conjured in her head. She snaps her tongue off of the roof of her mouth, and peers off, irritated.

You know that she wants to fuck you. She sort of gets this way when she wants sex. Mean and haughty. It probably shouldn't make you as wet as it does. But nothing strokes the fire in your loins like knowing that this affluent, uptight, well kept, lady doesn't want to be attracted to you, but is anyway - can't help herself and hates you for it.

It's just the type of dysfunctional relationship that you like.

"You're gorgeous when you're mad," you tell her, an eyebrow quirked as you chew and peer hooded-eyes straight at her.

She rolls her eyes and pets the collar of her coat, but says nothing, which just makes that bundle of nerves in your panties thrum more emphatically.

"God, I can't wait to get you back to my place," you growl lewdly, pushing your almost empty plate aside.

Rachel closes her eyes, her jaw constricting almost painfully as she fights whatever war that she has going on inside of her.

"Tell me what you're thinking," you quietly request, smirking. "Tell me how much you want to touch my soft warm toned body."

Rachel allows her eyes to slowly glide to yours, but continues to say nothing.

"What? Don't let my rebellious exterior fool you; every girl needs to be told that she's desirable."

"You are the most obnoxious, crude, misfit that I have ever had the misfortune of meeting!" Rachel bursts, though it comes out in quiet harsh rushes of breath, like jets of hail to the face. And speaking of faces, her face has filled a deep dark bruising red.

You're pleading with whatever controls this reality - be it God or Santa Clause - that Rachel storms off, if only so that you can get a look at that ass in those slacks, before going after her and touching her until she comes with breathy insults about how disgusting she thinks you are on her lips.

The thought has you breathing deep.

Your memories, so vivid, make it so that you can almost smell her right now; that sweet feminine scent that boasts, within it, something distinctly Rachel.

"Can we save the insults for the bedroom, hot stuff?"

"That's it!" she whispers, and there's an air of finality to it that slowly slackens your flirtatious smirk. "I'm not going back to your apartment. I can't stand you right now, Quinn!"

Maybe you're missing something because the two of you have done this dance many times, and Rachel's never said that she wasn't going to come back to your place.

But now she is, and it rattles the dynamic of your relationship with her.

Setting two fingers amongst the soft but tussled pink strands that grow out of your head, you scratch your scalp and frown. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Rachel?" you ask, suave and husky with a touch of just enough emotion to paint a picture of your irritation.

"I'm out to dinner with an asshole. That is what is wrong with me!"

"Well what the fuck did I do?" you drawl melodically, keeping it light. Keeping your cards close to your chest. You watch the woman across from you.

She blinks, glances off to the side, runs her hand through her soft mane, and sighs. "It doesn't matter. Let's just..." Her big doe eyes dart towards the exit. "Let's go."

"Back to my place?"

"No!"

You sigh, kind of. Letting Rachel in on your need for her isn't something that appeals to you, at all. Letting anyone in on your need for them just... nope.

Standing up, you snatch your black beanie from where it had been laying next to the salt. "If you don't tell me what's up, I'll kiss you right here," you whisper, prodding the table, "for all to see."

She snatches your forearm, tosses a few hundred dollar bills to the table, and drags you into the back of her limo.

There's so much space in the limo; there's no hiding from the fact that you're sat, shoulder to shoulder, because you want to be and not because you have to.

But just because you want to feel her shoulder on yours, doesn't mean you're not a little heated about what's going on. You passed on free weed for her!

"I blew off a bong session with some friends for this, and you're just going to send me home without letting me go down on you?" is out of your mouth before you can police it. But now that it's out, why not just go with it?

"Quinn!" Rachel exclaims, all hands and big expressive scolding eyes.

Her abrupt motions cause you to halt. Not just because they're sexy as hell, but because you were not expecting them.

"It's that time of the month. The painters are in," Rachel enunciates. "I'm not that sort of girl!"

"Oh," you utter. "Well why did you call me?" you wonder aloud, scooting a few inches away from her warm petite body, because you know how funny you get about personal space when your painters are in. You broke a guy's nose once for hanging all over you during your time of the month.

"It doesn't matter, Quinn."

"Wait - you just wanted to spend time with me?"

Rachel pretends to find something on the other side of the tinted window interesting. There's nothing interesting on the other side of it though...

Rachel had just wanted to spend time with you. It's a notion as shocking as aliens visiting earth. You've known each other for a month. An online porn site that you sometimes pose topless for, when rent letters stack up too high, brought the two of you together. She'd emailed Rob Sparks, the admin of the website, and offered up a neat sum of ten thousand dollars to meet you. Since that first meeting, wherein the chemistry between you almost singed your nose crispy, she's been calling you, and she only calls when she wants to get off... preferably in your mouth, which you have absolutely no problem with at all.

You love it! Everything about it, including the fact that she's this uptight, sheltered, older woman who is married to some arrogant rich asshole.

So what?

You fucking love it!

You're a bad person, and everybody knows it, especially Rachel, which is why you're a little frazzled about the fact that she wants to spend time with you, without the allure of sex, given the struggle that she battles when it comes to her morals and all.

You toss a thumb back at the restaurant. "So, what, that was, what, like supposed to be a date?"

"No, I..." Rachel seems to just stop giving a damn towards the end, and her answer dies with her will. "I'm married..." she decides to guilt herself.

You scoff, rolling your eyes off towards your window. "Little too late for that princess. I know how your come tastes."

She sighs. "How many times have I told you to refrain from calling me princess? Yes, I have a well off family, but I have worked for every cent -"

"Was this just another bone that you were trying to throw yourself?" you interrupt, because you don't particularly want to hear about how she has single-handedly built her singing school from the ground up again. Plus, you want to know if she'll confirm your suspicions. "If you take the internet porn site model out on a real date, then somehow that makes you less -"

Rachel huffs. "You possess the emotional intelligence of a shoe, Quinn."

Usually you love it when she gets huffy, love it when she insults you. But there's something different about this time. So you snap, "my capacity for emotional intelligence is high grade actually, princess. Don't confuse my lack of fucks to give for emotional bankruptcy, thanks."

"Well then you'll already know that I've begun to develop feelings for you!" she yells, all hands and big eyes and petulance. "I didn't want to, Quinn. Believe you me. But I am, despite the fact that you're completely wrong for me! That's what this was, and it was highly unsuccessful, because all you care about is sex, and you're highly immature!"

You adjust your beanie, and let silence soothe your sore eardrums for a moment.

"I don't know what I was thinking - bringing you here. We come from different worlds. You're nineteen and I'm thirty-five. I have to be a certain way, and you, quite frankly, are a delinquent. You're an emotional cripple, and I feel immensely. I'm married to an angry asshole who..."

That catches your attention. You look at her, scanning her thoroughly. "He hits you?"

When Rachel shakes her head, you suspect that she's lying. It sets a fire in your fingertips. They fluster beneath black shiny nail polish, dancing like they need to pee.

You grew up watching your mother slap on extra layers of make-up to cover up your father's wasted boxing talent.

The need to plant a stick of dynamite in Rachel's husband's exhaust pipe burns through you, and you know that you have to teach him a lesson. "I'm gonna get him."

"Quinn -"

You shush her protests. "We both know that I'm not gonna listen to you, so save it."

"He doesn't hit me - why do you even care? I thought that this was just about sex for you?"

She's fishing for a commitment, or something, from you. You know that she knows that you know that. "I'm an asshole." You nod, like you're wedging the idea into place. "I'm an even bigger asshole when I'm with you, because I know that it turns you on, even though you hate that it does. But I'm a person beneath the character that you paid ten grand to have sex with."

"I did not pay to have sex with you. I simply wanted to meet you because your pictures intrigued me."

You jut your head back and quirk a wry eyebrow. "I intrigued your pussy, Rachel. You wanted to have sex with me. I mean, what would two women from two completely different worlds, as you've just said yourself, have in common, besides fucking?"

Rachel takes on a sheepish glow.

"I like what we have how it is. It's fun -"

"Fun?" Rachel scoffs, shaking off her blush. "You never let me touch you. The last time I tried you almost broke both my wrists pinning them to your sofa. I call, we meet up, we trade insults, and then you go down on me. I never thought that I'd say this, but..."

You narrow your eyes at her. She's beautiful, even when hesitant. Especially when hesitant.

"I'm bored of being touched. I want to do things to you too," she confesses, eyeing you for a reaction.

"Like what?" you ask, because your pussy is intrigued.

"A lot of things."

"Like, you wanna do me with a strap-on," you state with a grave voice, and all the seriousness of police officer. She seems like she'd relish the power of having a cock to fuck you with.

Rachel shrugs. "Maybe."

"I get pleasure from pleasuring you. That's better than an orgasm to me. I guess you could call me a stone butch, though I don't look like one." You shrug. "I walk to the beat of my own drum. Plus I don't like penetration."

"I see. So you're not prepared to compromise so that I can experience pleasure from pleasuring you?"

"No," you answer, peering at the visibly disappointed brunette. "I take from people all day every day. But in bed I'm a giver."

"Well I'm not going to force you," Rachel says, lifting her chin to shake her vulnerability out of the air. "If you don't want some novice fumbling all over you then I guess I understand."

"Quit trying to guilt me into telling you that you're probably an amazing top. You're probably not. It's a lot of hard work, and takes practice. But if you're bored, we have a problem."

Rachel pets her hair smooth. "I'm... not bored. Who gets bored of having a reasonably attractive person make them come, especially after years of not even knowing that women could come?" she asks, before following up with, "you gave me my first ever orgasm. I would just like to reciprocate."

"I've had plenty, but thanks." You chuckle. "And reasonably attractive, huh? All those models on the site, and you sought me out. I'd say that I give you immense girl wood every time you so much as think about me. You think that I'm stunning and have exquisite bone structure, even though I have pink hair and a metal hoop in my nose, which is what you emailed to Rob if I remember correctly."

"You're such a pig."

"Yeah, such a pig that you are dying to top the shit out of me."

"If only to shut you up."

That one sort of silences you, because whenever you do orgasm you're always a fit of shallow raspy pants and sharp abrupt movements, not that Rachel knows that. She's kind of the same, so quiet yet so animated.

"Quinn?"

"What?"

"We should stop what we're doing."

Those words have been a long time coming. You'd been expecting them after the first time that you'd had her warm thighs tremble around your cheeks, when she'd stumbled off to get dressed on stringy legs.

But they never came.

"Okay," you respond cautiously. "I'm not going to force you either."

"So this is it?" Rachel asks, unsure.

"I guess."

"See? The emotional intelligence of a shoe."

You laugh quietly. "I'm not gonna placate you, princess. Make a decision and own it. That's what life is."

She steers those luscious brown eyes towards your face, holding you under them. "I want to divorce Dustin."

You don't balk or anything, since nothing really surprises you these days. If school shootings don't startle you anymore, then Rachel vocalizing her need to leave her crappy husband hasn't got a chance. But you can tell that it's big to her. Not shocking, but big.

"So divorce him, and if he gets mad when you tell him, call me and I'll kick the shit out of him and walk out with his coveted golf club collection."

Rachel sniggers to herself. "Stereotype much? Not every man who has money golfs."

You shrug. "I'm nineteen and I'm a bit of a wild child. So if you're thinking that you'll just divorce him and then ride off into the sunset with me then -"

"Quinn, I don't want to have your children or anything within the vicinity of it. I'm fully aware of who it is that you are. So you can stop shitting bricks, okay?"

"I wasn't!" you quickly argue. Perhaps too quickly. "I'm not!"

"Own it," she retorts. "You have glaring intimacy and commitment issues."

How many times have you heard that line in your life? A dangerous number of times to be precise. All the older women who you've stolen from rich powerful men have wanted to touch you back, just like Rachel does, and they all highlighted your fear of intimacy the moment they saw that you were not going to let them.

"I don't have intimacy issues," you part with, slinging your grip into the door handle and rattling it when the door doesn't pop open to accommodate your swift exit. "Open this God damn door," you say calmly.

"Why?" Rachel asks, looking genuinely confused.

That's the way you like it. People can't figure you out most of the time, and that is fine by you. More than fine actually.

"I want to go back to my apartment - Kurt!" you yell at the driver. Your voice seems to hold enough gusto to make him throw a lingering look over his shoulder.

He smiles like he has just joined the room. Like he hasn't been in on your conversation with Rachel from the start. "Yes?"

"Take me back to my apartment."

"Sure."

Once the car starts to take off, Rachel decides to say something instead of staring holes into the side of your face whilst you block her - along with everything else - out.

"Quinn!" she repeats a little louder this time.

You sigh, looking at her with a dry smile. "Yes?"

"It's not really that time of the month... I lied."

"That's great for you, princess."

"You're pissed off because I brought up your issues, but you never have any problem pointing out mine!" Rachel snaps.

"This is about sex! This isn't a therapy group!" you erupt. "I hardly know you. I'm not gonna talk to you about deep shit."

"Fine!"

Before the tires can roll to a complete still, you're out of the limo and inside your apartment. Just being surrounded by your own things, and the dirty pile of clothes that Santana has obviously forgotten to put in the machine provides you with a sense of comfort.

But then your phone bleeps, and before you answer you know it's her name that you'll see on the screen. "Hey," you answer, kicking your boots off, and tugging your beanie from your head.

"Can I come up?" she asks sort of demurely.

Honestly, you kind of just want to be alone. You're moody like that. But Rachel wants to come up and let you touch her body, and her voice sounds so fucking adorable right now. "Yeah, but no moaning about how untidy it is this time. I left my drill sergeant of a mother back in Lima Ohio for a reason."

You hear her small intake of breath. "You're a real brat aren't you?"

"No more than you, princess."

"No sex this time," she says.

It takes a moment for you to process the few words. You're quiet for some time, and you think about how many of her free minutes you're probably wasting. Rachel wants to spend time with you. God knows why, but whatever.

There's half a joint in the ashtray on the windowsill. You glance at it longingly. "I'm not what you're looking for, Rachel. I'll only screw you over, and then we won't be able to have sex anymore. Tell me that that's how this isn't gonna go," you challenge her softly. The space between you has done you good.

"I am not asking for marriage and children. Just that we talk when we are in the same space as one another, as opposed to stealing glances at our watches, and counting down the seconds to when your head is going to be between my legs."

You do do that, and you've noticed that she's the same. You should have known that she was lying about being on her period from when she'd told you to hurry up and finish your meal earlier. The both of you are impatient when it comes to each other. "Whatever," you say, "just promise me that the insults won't stop. They turn me on, especially when we're having sex. If we become friends you're going to be less likely to call me a disgusting pig."

"I promise, you filthy animal."

You smirk ever so slightly, and press your thumb to the door buzzer on the wall. "Okay. Come on up."