Author's Note: I wrote this in an attempt to flush out the writer's block I'm experiencing for another, much lengthier, Faberry fic I'm writing. Is it just me or am I fucking obsessed with Faberry lately? No, I am.
So anyway, I have a feeling this may be the fluffiest thing I've ever written (to date). Still, I'm kind of pleased with it. Make sure to reviewreviewreview. :)
And I own nothing.
You wonder how you ended up alone in the auditorium with her. Rachel Berry. Sure, she asked you to meet her, but all the events leading up to that point are a blur. The decision to come. The parking lot. The heavy double doors swinging open. The decision to come. The footsteps echoing down the aisle. The quick smile and cordial hello. Above all, the decision to come.
Not that you hate Rachel or anything - not anymore, at least, if you even did in the first place - but you tend not to jump into any interaction with the brunette without knowing her intentions first. Because Rachel's like that - when it comes to you, anyway: there's always a motive, always something she wants. And it's never just conversation.
You suppress a smile at the thought that she must have picked it up from you. The idea is amusing, in its own way, but if you let your lips twitch Rachel will see it as a smirk and throw a bitch fit. One thing you've learned about Rachel Berry, the one thing you need to remember when dealing with her, is that you must always act as though you take her seriously.
"So what do you want to sing?" you drawl, placing a hand on your hip and glancing about the empty stage. Empty but for two girls. You're pretty sure there's a musical number in your near future; what else could Rachel want with you? At the very least she needs an audience.
Wild alternatives flood your brain, but anything like that is just plain laughable. Sure, Rachel Berry has mastered the art of love profession à la song dedication, but Sapphic romance is definitely not an idea she entertains, as it should be with you. Still, you've quite the imagination in that cynical, unrequited head of yours, giving this meeting a number of possibilities. They fade away quickly, though, once you clear your throat and will them to. It's easy to see that this strange little infatuation is and always will be a pipe dream.
"I actually had no musical motives for this meeting, Quinn," Rachel replies, hands clasped behind her back. "What I wanted was to have a word with you."
"Oh?" You quirk an eyebrow. Awful lot of privacy needed for a word. "What is it then?"
"Well…" Rachel trails off and bites her lip. The action, miniscule as it may be, calls attention to Rachel's decidedly full lips, and it's not lost on you. Most people look at Rachel Berry and think virgin, and you're definitely one of them, but while everyone also thinks prude, you notice what they overlook and wholeheartedly disagree. Because Rachel tends to be very sexual. It was she that crashed the Celibacy Club, after all, and she who has always looked surprisingly comfortable getting into raunchier dance routines. And what about the questionable length of her skirts? Just looking at her makes you think that she must be hiding a sexy side under all that argyle; for some reason you've always had a sneaking suspicion that she's the type of girl who touches herse-
"I'm sorry," Rachel blurts, liquid brown eyes huge and anxious.
"What?" you snap, tearing your own eyes away from her lips. This is seriously getting ridiculously out of hand.
"I said I'm sorry, I don't quite know how to start," she continues in a rush, frowning at the floor. "I just require a moment to get my mental notes in order and realign all my conversation points."
"This required planning?" you ask slowly, not bothering to hide your disbelieving stare.
"Yes," she responds dutifully, squaring her shoulders. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm rather nervous to be having this conversation with you."
"Why?" You move forward unconsciously, closing off several inches between Rachel and yourself. Her nostrils flare and her eyes sweep you up and down in a fraction of a second.
"Nevermind that," she answers dismissively, tossing her hair ever so slightly and cocking her head. "Quinn, I wanted to tell you that I know."
You heave a sigh, realizing this is going to end up playing out as the most likely non-musical scenario you had predicted. Dramatic confrontations are everyone's thing at McKinley, but Rachel Berry has it down to an art form. She's also predictable. Predictably insecure and sometimes moronically paranoid.
"There's nothing to know," you respond languidly, meeting Rachel's gaze. "I don't like Finn anymore, I haven't even looked at him in months. You're free to pounce on him and get him back, I don't care."
"No," Rachel says firmly, shaking her head. "I'm not talking about him. I know who you're really hiding feelings for." Your heart skips a beat, but you try to keep cool. There's no way she could know. Being a cheerleader is supposed to be the ultimate protection against Sapphic suspicions. So is a front of strong disdain. Still, you can't help the red alert pulsing in your brain. It's all you can do to squash the sirens and paste a confused and impatient frown on your face.
"Who then, my Stairmaster?" you retort feebly, "Because it's the only one I'm making googly eyes at these days, I swear."
"I see the way you look at me, Quinn," Rachel interrupts, her voice dropping suddenly, and you stop breathing. "In the chorus room, when you think I'm not looking. Those prolonged gazes, while I sing. Even just now." Right on cue, your stupid eyes sweep her stupid lips helplessly. You could die on the spot.
"Don't be ridiculous," you choke, but you don't even budge when Rachel takes a step closer to you. Her breathing is shallow, echoing maddeningly in the small space between you, and your heart is pounding faster than a rabbit's.
"You can kiss me," she says huskily, pupils blown so huge that her wide brown eyes are almost black. "If you want to."
Your first thought is that you do want to, more than anything. Your second thought is that you had no idea Rachel was into girls, but then the third thought is a realization that the idea makes sense, somehow. Your fourth thought is that you had no idea she could like you, but then the fifth thought is a realization that none of this matters.
All this flashes through your head in a matter of one breathless nanosecond hanging in the space between you and Rachel Berry.
Your sixth thought is that you do want to kiss her. More than anything.
You open your mouth once or twice but nothing comes out. The protests die on your lips as Rachel stares up at you so intently that your mouth goes dry. Somehow, though your body isn't following any of your orders, you manage to drift closer to her. Her eyes dart to your mouth and she lets out a rattling breath before she closes the gap and presses her lips to yours.
It's slow and tentative and would be awkward if not for the fact that you want this so much. Rachel's lips are everything you've dreamed, luscious and smooth and so soft that time stands still, and as they graze yours you sigh from pure pleasure. She matches the sound, placing a delicate hand on your jaw, and you gently take her by the waist.
It's kind of perfect, kissing Rachel Berry. Her body is warm as it presses against you, and your senses go on overload just from the way she feels; woolen sweater vest grazing the polyester of your uniform, smooth skin of her knee momentarily grazing yours, her teeth grazing the tender skin of your bottom lip. She kisses you chastely, with the hesitance of actually doing this, but you realize you want more.
She moans softly into your mouth as you suck on her lower lip and you realize with a gasp that her hand has found its way up to cupping your right breast. You knew she wasn't a prude. The sensation sends a wicked thrill up and down your spine.
Before long, Rachel's breathing is getting heavier and heavier, echoing deliciously in your ears, and you're pretty sure yours is doing the same. You wonder how you ended up here on the stage, making out with her. Rachel Berry. Rachel fucking Berry from Glee Club. The girl who uses the Dewey Decimal System in her locker. Her tongue surges against yours, though, and your incredulity is momentarily erased. You've fantasized about this for months now, after all.
But after a while, it comes to an end. You don't know how long you'd been standing there. Five minutes? An hour? It's hard to tell. All you know is that once it went from a simple kiss to passionately making out, time flew out the window. So did your sanity. That's probably why you find yourself mumbling a garbled "waitRachel" when she finally pulls back.
"It has to be getting late," she murmurs, eyes darting to your lips, and you count your blessings and just consider yourself lucky that she didn't pull back far enough so that you can't feel the air from her mouth when she speaks. "It's Parcheesi night and my dads will become anxious if I'm tardy."
"Right," you mutter, hypnotized by how swollen and tantalizing Rachel's lips are. You really need to pull yourself together.
"Quinn."
"Hm?" With a small jolt you snap out of your Rachel Berry-induced fog. "Oh, right." She raises her eyebrows at you. "Right," you repeat more firmly.
A bright smile slowly lights up her face, and butterflies spring up in your gut as you weakly return it. You can't remember the last time you smiled at Rachel Berry. It doesn't happen often. Does this mean you get to smile at her more often now? Does this mean you get to kiss her again too? The thought of a repeat performance makes what feels like flames flare up in your stomach, almost certainly frying the butterflies.
"So what just happened here?" you say hoarsely.
"I'm pretty sure we spent somewhere between eight and nine minutes fulfilling unspoken desires."
"Right," you respond absently, transfixed by Rachel's inflamed and still obviously kiss-swollen lips (seriously, they had better go back to normal before she gets home) and your own thoughts. As much as you would love to kiss Rachel all over McKinley, the thought of Santana's comments alone if and when this goes public is absolutely daunting. It's a very real fear because there's no way you can keep away from Rachel well enough to leave this as a one time thing. Now that you've gotten a taste, it's pretty safe to say you're addicted.
"Listen," you begin casually, "This is kind of amazing and everything, but it stays between you and me. You tell no one, got it?"
Rachel just smiles fondly, apparently unfazed and perhaps even tickled by your in-character demand. She nods understandingly and throws her arms around your shoulders, beaming up at you. "You have two weeks of secrecy and self-assessment, accompanied by covert rendezvous at my place after school when my dads aren't home, and then we debut ourselves for the Glee Club with an expositorily romantic duet. Understood?"
You pause briefly, gazing at her intently, and then deflate, realizing that a Rachel Berry compromise is a rare gift. "Sure," you agree softly. And actually, reluctant as you are to admit it, you can see yourself getting used to the idea of being part of the Glee Club's newest couple, if it means you're with Rachel. You know, in two weeks.
"You know," Rachel says brightly, tracing circles on the back of your neck that not only remind you in the best way possible that her hands are still clasped up there, but also make you shiver, "I'm quite pleased by the way this meeting of ours has worked out. As I was only forty-three percent sure your decidedly loaded glances in Glee were lustful in nature, there was quite a substantial margin for error. This confrontation could have taken a terrible turn if indeed I did end up being mistaken." Her eyelashes flutter as she looks back down to your lips, seeming hypnotized. "But I'm glad I wasn't."
"Yeah," you rasp, a genuine smile slowly spreading across your face. "Lucky for you." Before she can respond, you lean in and capture her lips once again.