Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or any of its characters

A/N: Hey guys, TheSilentPen here. So I was digging through old documents to throw away and I found some old Faberry pieces from back when I first started writing for Glee. This was one of those pieces that was mostly finished, but I didn't release because I thought it was a bit of a mess and MUCH more raunchy than anything I've ever written... But I'm willing to take a chance. So I rewrote it and added the end...

Please let me know what you think. I'd really appreciate it.

Something Silky, Satin, and Sultry

TheSilentPen

Rachel Berry isn't a popular girl.

In fact, you're not even of average notice on the High School food chain. None of the jocks really know you (you keep to the walls so that they don't grab you and shove you out of the way), you keep your head down in front of the Cheerleaders when you pass them in the hall, and you do your best to stay out of the way in class.

Because, really? Other than at Carmel High, home of the legendary Marching Soldiers, how high could a Band Geek possibly rank?

Amongst your band friends, you're pretty well known. You're a Jazz pianist/singer for the school's Big Band and a decent flautist in McKinley's Marching Band. The Geeks ask you for advice, etc. You have Artie, Kurt, Mercedes, Tina, and Blaine around for friends. They're the best friends anyone could ever have.

Who else would go to 6:00 PM showings of Drum Corps International in theatres on a SATURDAY during SUMMER? Who else would sit next to you in class and listen to you ramble about the benefits of superior air control as well as the artistry in Ella Fitzgerald's heavenly voice?

If that's not friendship, you don't know what is.

Band Geeks are ranked as the lowest of the low on the High School food chain for their sexual promiscuity (which is funny, considering the fact that all said friends are virgins), their drug use (again, clean… unless snorting pixie stix counts?), and outright weirdness (that's one charge you can't deny). But at least the Band Geeks are happy, free of any sort of drama, and free from bullying, on account of the fierce 'if you hurt one of us, you hurt ALL of us' policy that comes with becoming a member of the Band Family.

So you're content in your little band based world through all of freshman year. You adjust to the halls of McKinley high, learn the little intricacies of the caste system, get used to spending lunch in the crappy band room that OBVIOUSLY needs a ton of TLC, and even casual date with Jesse St. James, your childhood friend and Drum Major of Carmel High's Marching Band.

It's a relaxing, cool year full of laughter and unforgettable memories.

But when you get back from a refreshing summer, all well-dressed in a starched white oxford shirt, black, fitted vest, black skinny tie, and a brand new messenger bag and skinny jeans, your band world drastically tilts on its damn axis.

You walk into Jazz Band first period and do a double take, because the sight you see is something you NEVER expected to see in your wildest dreams. Because there's no way in High HELL this could be possible.

Finn Hudson, the school's Quarterback, is sitting at the Drum Set, jamming with Artie.

You wipe your eyes, thinking you're dreaming. You slap your cheeks and pinch your arm continuously, but Finn Hudson's still sitting there, playing a quick swing beat with a huge, boyish grin wrought all over his handsome, albeit dopey face.

To add to your ever growing surprise, Brittany S. Pierce of the Cheerios walks into the band room, holding an Alto Sax case in hand with a sweet smile on her face.

A frickin' Cheerio.

And she's not the only Cheerio in the room. Santana Lopez, Assistant Captain is standing right next to Brittany, pinkies linked, whispering lightly into the girl's ear and sending a series of giggles down her tall companion's frame.

And then there's Quinn Fabray, the Captain of the Cheerios and ringleader of all loser-torture, standing right there next to them, arms crossed, HBIC scowl firmly locked into place as she examines every little corner of the band room.

You're not very familiar with Quinn Fabray, since you make an effort to run like high heaven when you even catch the slightest sign of the crowd parting to let her through. But just because you don't know her personally, it doesn't mean that you haven't heard about her.

In fact, you don't think there's a single person at this school who HASN'T heard of Quinn Fabray before.

After all, she's the President of the Celibacy Club and Christ Crusaders, the youngest girl to EVER make Captain (as only a Sophomore), and the most gorgeous girl on Campus.

And Quinn is gorgeous, you observe, studying the girl from your spot halfway across the room.

The girl's skin is as pale as alabaster, with perfect golden blonde hair pulled back into a tight, high ponytail, leaving gorgeous greenish hazel eyes exposed. Quinn's nose is nobly shaped, and the rest of her features look straight out of that etching of Aphrodite you have in your Latin II HP textbook.

It's too bad the girl's known for being such a bitch, you think absentmindedly to yourself as you walk over to the covered piano.

Quinn calls the shots around the school. Names you a loser or a popular kid (though that process was skipped in your case, since being a band geek means you're automatically at the bottom of the barrel), and then leaves the loser as shark bait for the jocks.

Kids were slushied, thrown into lockers and dumpsters, or insulted on a regular basis on Fabray's orders.

But whatever, you snort as you uncover the piano, Tina getting up from her seat along with Kurt to help you move it. Why should you care about Quinn Fabray at all? You don't care for labels or the elite of McKinley, nor do you give a damn to find out more.

You run fingers over the smooth ivory, sitting down and placing your messenger bag on the floor next to you. Your music and this world is all that matters. Who cares about Jocks and all that crap?

Closing your eyes, you start to run through 'Take the A Train', letting the notes fall freely from your fingertips, losing yourself in the music.

Mere minutes later, you can hear drums follow in an upbeat swing, bass join in behind it, and soon you're flyin', jamming past chords, and it's just freeing.

You open your eyes, and you see Finn grinning up at you, Artie hard at work nailing down the chords on his Bass. You take a hand from the keys, making a clockwise motion (to name off the order of solos) before turning back to the keyboard, hitting the top of your head twice (to symbolize two more times through the melody before solos) and returning your hand to its place.

There's a flash of blonde hair, and a cry of the melody in a silky Sax voice. You look over to see Brittany ripping on her Sax, walking over to your little combo, Quinn and Santana following close behind.

The tall blonde nods to you, asking silent permission to join in before you yell a 'YES!' over the din of the music, smiling and looking at the boys to make sure they know to add an extra chorus.

Brittany's an amazing Sax player (which is strange, considering the fact that she's not the smartest bulb in the drawer, since when the teacher asked what 'iambic pentameter' was in English, she said it was a 'thingy with five sharpy things'). She dives in and out of the chords easily, wails on opportune moments, and feels the music just right.

You tell her so at the end of the song.

"You were really something…?" you hold out a hand, and leave the ending open for her name, since you don't wanna seem like a damn stalker by saying it.

"Brittany S. Pierce," she smiles sweetly at you, taking your hand. "You're Rachel Berry, right? You're totes an amazing pianist."

She pauses for a moment, studying you intently.

"Good pianists are really hot… they can do a lot of awesome stuff with their fingers," she studies you again as your eyes widen in shock at the innuendo. "You're really hot."

"Ummm…" your brow creases in confusion. "…Thank you?"

Your eyes wander to the two silent Cheerios beside Brittany, darting back and forth.

Santana looks extremely pissed by the fact that you're still holding Brittany's hand (so you rectify the situation by drawing your hand away from the Sax player's rather quickly), and Quinn…

Quinn's staring at you with some sort of dark hunger in her eyes. Looking at the tie you have fastened around your neck like it's the best meal in the world. In fact, she's looking at the little, loosened area of your shirt around the neck area, where a little bit of skin is coming through, rather intently.

Those molten hazel eyes look up at you, locking gazes with you before looking the opposite way.

"Ummm… Brittany?" you question, drawing attention back to the Sax Player. "…Who are-."

"Smurf, I have a hard time believing you know nothing about me," Santana snaps from her place beside Brittany.

Your eyes narrow. "Excuse me?"

Santana smirks. "Ooo, did I hit a sore spot, Hobbit? Now do you know who I am? The whole damn school does."

"S," you hear Quinn hiss from beside her, but the Latina just looks at you with that goddamn annoying grin etched across her lips.

You draw up, and you know your face is reddening. But still, you don't allow the insult to shock you as you smile as sweetly as you possibly can, crossing your arms.

"I'm sorry," your voice is honeyed and sarcastic, "I'm not familiar with any smart-ass bitches on campus."

That smug smirk is gone from the Latina's face as it turns a dark shade of red and she lunges toward you, shouting curses in Spanish. You grab her arms and wrestle her into an arm lock, shoving her to her knees, smile still etched onto your lips.

"Oh, so the bitch is all bark and no bite," you chuckle, applying more pressure. "Here's how this works. You respect me, I respect you. I won't be a bitch, and you won't be a bitch. You introduce yourself, and you call me Berry. We good?"

"F-fine!" the Cheerleader yelps. "Just let me up!"

You unceremoniously let Santana go, watching her sprawl on the floor while Brittany giggles and that look in Quinn's eyes darkens, a strange smile taking residence on her face.

You eye Quinn suspiciously. "You're not going to be a bitch either, are you?"

The head Cheerio looks at you in disbelief before she throws her head back and laughs.

And so starts your friendship with the Unholy Trinity.

It's the strangest friendship you've ever had. You've got three dynamics suddenly introduced into your life in the form of the three most popular girls in school, and it seems like a little much for the first month.

Brittany quickly becomes one of your closest friends. She has a sweet, no-nonsense way of approaching things in life. It's very refreshing, because you're so used to people skirting around the issue before getting to the heart of the manner. And even though she's not the smartest person in the world, she sure seems to have the right idea about a majority of things in life. That, and it doesn't hurt that she's an absolutely kick-ass Sax player.

Santana is the antithesis of her blonde girlfriend (Brittany told you the 'secret'—it didn't seem so secret to you, you see the way they look at each other—during a rhythm section rehearsal) in almost every way. Where Brittany is sweet and kind, Santana is devious and evil to a fault. She revels in pissing you off, pushing buttons you never even knew you had to coax you into arguments. She enjoys throwing slushies over people's heads ('it's either them or you' Santana had once smirked after she'd thrown a slushy at a new kid and you'd fought with her) or flirting around with Jocks just to reject them. But you don't miss the way she glares evilly at people who seem to contemplate slushying you (the Unholy Trinity's attentions toward you have gathered a great deal of attention) or the grudging nods of respect she gives you while dropping Brittany off at your house for sleepovers.

And then there's Quinn.

Quinn Fabray, the girl that you're certain is supposed to be cruel, nasty, and a downright bitch. At least, from what you've heard and seen displayed in the past.

But she isn't.

She isn't anything like the descriptions that your friends have whispered into your ears as she passed you in the hall.

Instead, Quinn Fabray is kind, honest, and… dare you say it, somewhat shy around you.

Every morning, when Brittany walks into the band room for your morning jam session, Quinn's right there behind her with her arms tucked behind her back and a curious little blush across her pale cheeks. She smiles faintly at you, gives a tentative little wave, and then sits down on a nearby chair to listen to the section play.

The second she learns of your somewhat obsessive love of coffee, you find a steaming latte sitting on a music stand next to the piano occasionally, Quinn sitting in her normal spot with an identical cup in her hand.

The first time she'd brought you the coffee, you waited till she left the room to rip open the lid and stare at the brownish liquid with distrust. You'd sniffed it curiously, dipped a finger in and put it to your tongue (what if she'd put salt or something in it to humiliate you?) before deeming it safe for human consumption.

These little quirks confuse you at first. Quinn never actively talks to you. She just stands there behind Brittany with her shy little smiles, strange little waves, and brings you coffee on an almost semi-regular basis.

One day, though she comes over and she sits on the bench next to you and tentatively asks you if you could play some Charlie Brown songs for her. She's always wanted to hear the pieces live, and she'd figure she'd ask you because you're so good at it.

And just like that, the two of you strike a friendship. She brings you song requests on lazy Wednesday afternoons, and you play them for her with a bright smile on your lips. The song sessions turn into mini outings, which turn into house visits. Soon, you're seeing Quinn Fabray almost every day of the week and it's a bit refreshing for you.

You've never had a friend that you could really, truly count on with the exception of Brittany. But you're glad. Glad that you have a friend in someone else. Someone who doesn't look at you like a piece of meat (you know what the boys at school think of you, thanks to Noah Puckerman's lecherous comment).

Quinn Fabray looks at you in many ways—with soft, greenish hazels when she's content. With sharp green during moments of nameless emotion, and flashing amber when infuriated. But you haven't seen that same burnished gold from the first day of school when Quinn Fabray rather suddenly walked into your life.

Yet you think little of it. Perhaps that heady, golden color is an emotion you have yet to access. Before Quinn came into the room, there could've been any number of things that triggered those eyes.

So you don't think about the mystery hue any longer than a fraction of a second. It can't really be that crucial to understanding your friend if you haven't seen those eyes since that day.

Instead, you find out there are things you should be much more attentive toward.

Like the ways Quinn's fingers—long, delicate, and lovely pianist fingers—linger a little bit too long against your hand. The way her hugs feel more inclusive than before as she moulds every possible curve to yours.

The way the soft, green hue in her eyes seems to intensify to an almost bottle green emerald after several months of calling her a friend.

Some part of you knows that she likes you more than good little Catholic girls should.

Some part of you suspects it.

But then you see that cross, with its fancy silver filigree, lying against the pale slope of her throat. You know what that little necklace represents and the message that its majority teaches about relationships between people of the same gender. You know what people who wear those necklaces have said about you and your fathers all your life and you feel a nagging sense of doubt.

You've never felt more certain yet uncertain about something in your life.

But you love to hide it. You enjoy burying it beneath your music, lost in the ivory sheen of the piano keys and in the steady plunk of the bass string pounding through your body. In the sultry cry of the saxophone against your ear, the bitter taste of coffee on your tongue after a gig, and the smoky, stale atmosphere of the bars you frequently play at.

You throw your nerves out in standards and classics. In the melancholy bars of 'I Loves You Porgy' and ballads like 'Summertime.' You lose yourself in Gershwin, Les Browne, and Charles Mingus.

With your music in front of you on the page, in your fingers, in the keys, floating through the air, calling through your mouth, and pounding in your heart, you can hide anything.

You can especially hide this throbbing, pounding ache of your heart. The sweet taste of love against your tongue. The bitter uncertainty circulating through your bloodstream.

Because Quinn isn't the only one who's more attentive that she should be.

Because your fingers chase hers as they pull away. You hang on her so much more than the bluesy riffs that complete your life.

She's the one that makes standards so much more than they are.

But you won't make the first move in this 'will they, won't they' relationship.

You don't have anything to lose in this situation other than your heart from your chest.

Quinn has so much more.

Everything gradually builds between the two of you like a slow crescendo…

…And it suddenly explodes into existence the night of your first 'school' Jazz gig.

You come to the performance dressed down to the nines—black slacks clipped up around muscular shoulders with blood red suspenders, shiny black dress shoes, black Calvin Klein button down shirt with the sleeves crisply rolled up at the elbows, pinstripe vest buttoned down, and a fedora perched atop dark, tied back brown locks.

It's go to Jazz performance uniform for the entire Jazz ensemble, with some variation between sections. You've always loved the sharp look and comfortable feel of it.

You don't see Quinn before the performance, but you know she's there—she texted you that afternoon about the entire deal (and you know Santana would never go to a 'geek convention' alone).

You throw your hat to the ground the instant you get on stage, cracking your knuckles and settling your fingers on the keys with a smile.

The set goes by rather smoothly. The band earns a standing ovation, much to your complete satisfaction.

After the set, you sit at the piano watching as people shuffle out of the auditorium. You replace the fedora on your head, chatting a little with music enthusiasts until their numbers dwindle. Your fingers fall to the keys and you play background music with a bit of a smile on your lips.

Your fingers freeze on the keys as you hear the slow advance of someone behind you, echoing through the empty stage.

You turn quickly on the bench, only to see Quinn standing behind you.

Blonde hair tumbles down her shoulders, her lips a bright red with lipstick. A loose, willowy white dress floats out from her svelte silhouette.

And her eyes…

Quinn's eyes are dangerously dark and golden.

You feel yourself swallow nervously.

"Quinn, hey," you try to make your voice as even as possible. "Did you enjoy the set?"

Quinn advances forward several steps, silent. It chills your blood.

"…Are you alright?" you ask as she comes closer. "You… Quinn, are you alright?"

You stiffen as Quinn shrinks the distance between the two of you, standing between your legs. You lean back and she follows, pushing you back against the piano.

"Quinn…?" your voice sounds like a terrified squeak.

"Rachel," her voice is low and husky against your ear. "You were so great tonight… You're always so amazing… So kind and smart…"

Supporting her weight with one arm, the other hand plays against your cheek, making goosebumps pull up along your arms.

"You know, Rachel," that voice… God, it's a low sexy drawl, "I've always liked you… but God…

"Seeing you up there… seeing you play like it's your last day?" her breath is hot against your lips, those dark eyes centered on the chapped surface. "It makes me want to love you."

"Qui-."

Her lips seal over yours evenly and steal your breath from your lungs. Your eyes widen in shock and your muscles tense, because God, you never expected this from Quinn Fabray. She's always so demure, proper, and shy (you can see her hiding behind those coffee cups in the morning).

But right now, Quinn Fabray is anything but shy in the way she eases herself on top of you, straddling your legs and winding her fingers through your hair. You feel your fedora drop from your head as her fingers play through brown strands, taking out your hair-tie.

Your brain finally registers that Quinn Fabray is kissing you and your hands come up to rest respectfully on her waist as you return the kiss.

And God, Quinn gives this low, husky moan when she registers the pressure, and the kiss becomes even more heated (who knew closed mouth kissing could actually be this erotic?).

Eventually, there's a lazy drag of her tongue against the seal of your lips, and that's when you really wonder what the Hell's happened to Quinn. You keep your lips closed, simply rubbing patterns down Quinn's back in an attempt to placate her (because God, you don't know if you can handle that right now).

But Quinn, it seems, will not be deterred. A sneaky hand runs down the collar of your shirt and plays against the silk of your tie before grabbing it fiercely and yanking it around your neck.

You give a startled gasp, which Quinn uses to force her tongue into your mouth.

You feel yourself shake as your mind becomes clouded over, stifling an encouraging groan in your throat.

God, you need to talk to her, but you don't know if you can when she's so determined.

Quinn holds you to her, hand still tight on your tie, lips still working against yours.

You gently place the flat of your hands against her belly and give a gentle shove, enough to send her stumbling hazily off your lap as you lean back against the piano, releasing a cacophony of notes as you attempt to steady your breathing.

"Jesus Quinn," you wheeze, shakily standing, pulling on your tie and popping the button at your throat. "Wh-what was that?"

Quinn's eyes have returned to that emerald color, albeit her lips are swollen and her lipstick is several shades lighter (and she has sort of this 'just been ravaged' look to her). She bites that tempting lip again, eyes falling to the ground before growing determined.

"Actions speak louder than words, Rachel," her voice is that normal, slightly smoky alto once more. "I meant everything I said."

"Are you sure about that?" you ask softly, still trying to gather your wits about you. You pull your tie from around your throat in an attempt to release heat. "You have so much more at risk than I do, Quinn and you're-."

"I'm what, Rachel?" she's defiant, fierce. "Popular? I could care less about it. A bitch? I haven't been in months-."

"—That's not the issue, Quinn," your voice is steady. Brown eyes flicker up to study her features. "You're… you're beautiful and anyone would be lucky to have you on his arm. But you're also Catholic and daughter to one of the biggest opponents of gay marriage in the state of Ohio.

"I'm…" you close your eyes, "I'm the daughter of two gay men, I'm Jewish, and I'm bisexual…" Your eyes are pleading. "I'm confused, Quinn. I don't understand how this is happening."

"Oh, Rachel," her fingers play against your jaw tenderly, forcing you to look into her eyes, "you're so much more than you think you are.

"This is happening because I'm not my father's daughter… this is happening because you're the most beautiful, gorgeous person I've ever met," she places a feather soft kiss on your cheek. "This is happening because you're the daughter of the most wonderful men in all of Lima… because you're a lovely person." A kiss goes to your forehead.

"And because you love everyone and I don't give a fuck what anyone else could think," her voice lowers, "I just love you." A warm kiss goes to your lips.

She pulls back after several seconds, smiling softly. "Will you give me… us a chance, Rachel?"

You study the gentle slope of her jaw, tracing it with your fingers, studying those ever-changing eyes before closing your own. You press your forehead to her chest with a faint smile on your lips and nod.

"Yeah…" you nod again. "Yeah, I'd really like that."

She smiles.

You kiss again.

Your relationship isn't smooth, but it's good.

Quinn still comes every morning with a coffee in her hand and a bright smile on her lips, adding kisses to the end of it. You let her lean against you while you sit at the keys, pounding out a solid comp for jam sessions.

You hold hands in the hall (Quinn insisted that your relationship should be out and proud, because you weren't something to be ashamed of), walk each other to class, and steal chaste kisses at lunch.

On your first date, you'd bought Quinn Italian at a small little establishment on the outskirts of Lima (you'd never take anyone to Breadsticks, it's terrible) and chatted with warm smiles about your lives. How you've known how to sing, dance, and play piano since early childhood. How her parents divorced a year ago and how her mother supports her wholeheartedly.

People scoff at you or threaten to slushy you, and you both take it in stride (well, Quinn combats it with sharp glares and her low threats).

But sometimes, Quinn feels like you can do better than her and doesn't take too kindly to any people who get close to you. You, sometimes, wonder if all of this is a joke and someday you'll walk through the doors and find Quinn standing there with a slushy waiting in her hand and a cold smirk on her lips.

Sometimes the two of you yell and shout over trivial little things, like who pays for dinner or making time for each other.

But the two of you always kiss and make up.

It isn't perfect, but you love Quinn.

You genuinely love her.

Physically, you haven't ventured beyond that rather… explosive session in the auditorium.

In fact, Quinn is rather slow with you now. Your kisses are chaste and send a slow burn through your veins. She doesn't shove you into things or play the aggressor. She's smooth, even, and respectful.

You're respectful of this slow pace. Hell, if it'd been as explosive as your first kiss, you might've needed to ask her to slow down a little (you don't know how the Celibacy Club President knew how to do half those things).

Quinn remains stagnant for several months.

Until one day you venture into school on the school assembly day, starch white shirt, gray vest, jeans, black converse, and a faded gray tie (one of your absolute favorites) cinched around your neck.

After the assembly, you're walking to class with your hands shoved into your pockets when suddenly you're pulled into a nearby classroom (you think it's the Spanish room) and the door is slammed behind you.

Your eyes widen marginally when two delicate hands slam you into the door by the shoulders and you face the burnished gold of Quinn's eyes.

"Quinn, sweetheart," your brow furrows concernedly. "What's wro-."

Before you can even complete the goddamn sentence, that mouth is moving against yours along with her body. One of her hands fastens again around your tie, pulling it from your vest and using it to pull you closer to her mouth.

"Quinn-," you groan as she latches onto your neck, "Wh-what are you-."

"Rachel," her voice is that husky drawl, "shut up." One of her hands, the one not holding your tie, grabs your hand (which, you're sure, scratching up the oaken door behind you), and shoves it beneath the pleats of her skirt to rest on a milk white thigh.

And again, your eyes widen. Because Jesus, that's the farthest you've gotten since you've been together.

'What the fuck is going on?' you think hazily as Quinn continues on her rough assault. Your girlfriend is usually demure and proper. In fact, you often wonder if there's a carnal bone in her body.

Something must be triggering this.

'It can't be the vests,' you stare at the ceiling, tilting your head back as Quinn places kisses against it. 'I wear those weekly.'

A sharp tug at your neck suddenly sends a new idea to your mind.

'It's the tie,' you gasp (you not certain if it's because Quinn's managed to weasel a hand under your shirt or because of the revelation).

Quinn Fabray has a tie fetish.

You never imagined the day you'd have to be the one to stop the President of the Celibacy club from going too far, but you somehow manage to do so by claiming to need to see Director Schue in his office.

For the next several weeks, you avoid ties (which is hard, considering you have quite the collection and you love them), because God, you're not ready to go there yet and you don't think you can handle your girlfriend ravaging you like an animal in heat.

But eventually, you just can't avoid wearing one during a school rally where uniforms, of course are required (Schue is such a sadistic bastard), which means you can't avoid wearing that silk, red tie from oh so many months ago.

And, predictably, you find yourself stalked, thrown into another empty classroom, and straddled with your girlfriend's manicured fingers grasping at your tie and her mouth sealed across yours.

"Quinn, you really need to—fuck—stop."

"You don't seem to mind it…"

"I-I d-do," you pant out, flinching as she scratches down your stomach. "O-ohmigod. H-has anyone t-told you that you have a p-problem?"

"Such as?" she smirks.

"You j-jump me when I'm wearing t-ties," you fight back a groan.

"Can you blame me, baby?" her voice is a deep, husky whisper. "You're always so clean cut and professional… the ties are so attractive on you… they scream… authority."

"God, aren't you supposed to be celibate and chaste?" you whimper.

"I'm a teenager with a healthy dose of hormones and a hot, intelligent girlfriend," you feel her smirk against your throat. "Why should I pretend to be something I'm not?"

"I-I'm the same way," you pant out. "But I don't stalk my girlfriend and jump her in random classrooms to have my way with her."

"Well, that's because you're a prude, sweetheart," she smirks darkly. She kisses your ear softly, making you shiver. "And you know, your hot, blonde, head cheerleader girlfriend wouldn't mind it if you jumped her in random classrooms to have your way with her."

"Y-you n-never usually act like this."

"Oh honey," she tsks, smirking that smirk that once would've sent chills down the column of your spine. "Just because I don't say it doesn't mean you can't do it… Venture out a little and see what you can get away with, hmm? …You don't always have to be so noble."

"It's not being noble," you mutter, "it's having dignity."

"Then drop the dignity and live a little," she purrs. "I think I might have to teach you how to remove that stick up your ass a little."

"Quinn-." You scowl.

"It's okay, Rachel," she chuckles darkly. "I used to have one too… till I met you…" She kisses you softly for a moment before leaning back. "This'll be lesson number one, free of charge for the big, mighty musician."

She leans down to press her lips warmly to yours again.

"Oh," she freezes, before tugging a bit on the tie with that smirk on her lips. "Part of required material for these lessons? …You wear a tie… understood?"

You grumble, looking away.

She pulls on the silk fabric once more, forcing you to look at her.

"Rachel," her lips play against yours lightly. "Do you get it?"

"Yes," you murmur, shivering slightly.

"Good," she loosens it a bit before smirking again.

"Now let's start that lesson…"

A/N: So I hope that you enjoyed that... So... now that you're at the end, I bet you see that little, empty box right there, all lonesome. You see, this box is magical, it sends reviews to a desperate author who would love to hear your comments, anonymous OR signed. So please leave a review for this rather lonely author ;)

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