Title: Welcome the Night (It's When I See You Most)

Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray

Rating: R

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Just having a little fun.

Summary: There will always be a part of me that craves Quinn. And I'm afraid she's aware.

There will always be a part of me that craves Quinn.

And I'm afraid she's aware.

How she always manages to move through my room in the dead of night with swift precision, never once stubbing a toe, is beyond my comprehension. Sometimes I amuse myself in the deafening silence by likening her to a cat—a panther ready to devour her prey as she climbs atop my bed on all fours and makes a beeline to me.

I shiver, but I tell myself it's from the window she left open. I'm instantly incensed. "Quinn Fabray," I shout in a whisper. "Kindly close my window, please. As captain of glee club and, let's be totally honest, the carrier of the glee club, I cannot compromise my voice by—"

"Yeah, yeah." She cuts me off with a put-out sigh and lifts from the bed. It's a frequent thing—her cutting me off. And in the blanket of darkness surrounding us, I allow myself to feel the sting of constantly going unheard—by her, by Finn, everyone.

My thoughts more or less coalesce on the floor as my night clothes will soon follow when I feel the bed shift under Quinn's weight. I sigh. I can feel her already and she isn't even touching me. I always can. Perhaps in another time, another place, Quinn and I were more. More than enemies, more than friends…

"Stop thinking," she instructs me. Her voice is velvety smooth and I can feel more than see her begin to loom over me as I retreat back into the blankets. She likes the chase and so do I. I'm no mouse, mind you, but I'd be anything for her.

I'm still growing accustomed to the pink mop atop her head, and my fingers run through each strand to meet their acquaintance as Quinn just stares down at me. We've gotten more docile about this—she and I. Whatever this is. Gone are the days where we'd quite literally rip each other's clothes off, push and pull at each other in frustration and desperation over the fact that it had taken us this long, and that inevitably we would go nowhere.

Because Finn is my long-term boyfriend.

And this new Quinn lying on top of me isn't looking to settle down any time soon.

She's a restless spirit. I think deep down, she always has been. But there's always this stillness to her around this time of night when she's in my arms that makes me feel powerful, invincible, and—

I can feel my eyes widen as Quinn's weight shifts and she lunges for my mouth. I've been caught. Our lips fuse together as one as she steals my breath, the very essence of me with no hint of apology. I moan as my fingers that had been languidly combing through her hair grip the back of her skull.

She pulls away and I mentally chastise myself for the pathetic whimper that escapes my mouth before I'm able to close it. "Stop thinking."

I hurriedly nod my assent, but she takes matters into her own hands anyway and descends upon my lips once again.

Quinn is without a doubt the best kisser I've experienced from a strictly subjective viewpoint. Her technique is equal parts precision and passion, something that neither Noah, Jesse, and—so help me—Finn could hope to master.

I clench my eyes shut as Quinn's lips slide effortlessly over my own. I'm not supposed to think about Finn, or at all for that matter. But it's impossible. People view me as impulsive, but I'm a thinker, too. It's all I do. I can hardly ever turn my brain off, and I'm constantly turning situations over and over again in my head to learn every nuance, every crevice, and arrive at the best possible outcome.

But this has thrown me for a loop, has for weeks—years. Quinn always throws me for a loop.

And she knows.

Her tongue glides across the tiniest, most sensitive spot right in the center of my lower lip that only she can ever find, and my bottom jaw drops, an embarrassingly needy moan escaping without my consent. How she knew the spot existed, I'll never know. I've even attempted to find it myself, lapping at my lower lip until it was raw to no avail. I think she created it within me. It's hers.

And in some ways, so am I.

As always around this time, my body begins to operate on instinct, on its own need, and my arms snake around Quinn's neck to pull her close. Her entire body rests on top of me, and in many ways it's like coming home. My fingers wind into wisps of cotton candy pink hair as I attempt to adjust my lower half until there.

She's nestled between me, my thighs rising eagerly to wrap around her waist and pull her closer. She never used to allow me this luxury of affection. It was always wham bam, thank you, ma'am. But then one night my frustration with the status quo of rough fucks in the dead of night had reached a head. It was the last time our trysts were just quick fixes, because that night I took her. For the first time I had made love to Quinn. She had been hooked ever since, her visits more frequent—and so had I.

Her fingertips are cold as they slide underneath my night gown, but I'm more than willing to share my warmth. They dance across my twitching abdomen before a sure hand rises to cup my breast. I don't have much, but what I do have is hers. I feel her hips begin to shift against my own and I pull my mouth away from hers. I can't help my pout. "Do it right," I insist. Do me right.

It's all I've ever asked of her, sexually and otherwise—to do right by me. But it was always a tall order for some unfathomable reason. It both perplexed and vexed me that treating another human being as they should be treated was that much of an alien concept to Quinn.

She freezes momentarily as if she had gotten caught with her hand in the cookie jar, and I bite back a laugh as Quinn rises to rid me of my night gown. I'm laid bare before her, not a stitch of clothing to separate us, and I relish in her gasp when she realizes.

"You're not—"

"I figured you'd just rip them," I cut in. She's rubbed off on me.

She emits a soft growl from the back of her throat. That's her pleasantly surprised response. I elicit that often, only when we're alone. She pounces on me again and I welcome her lips onto my own, her prodding tongue inside my mouth. Quinn approaches the art of French kissing like she approaches her daily life—to conquer. But I'm no conquest. I grab the back of her neck and place my other hand on the small of her back, tracing nonsensical circles. I know it's only my imagination, but she always feels especially soft here, vulnerable. It's her Achilles heel and she arches into me, into submission as I take my opportunity to explore her mouth.

Never one to be one-upped, Quinn cups my breast with renewed vigor and drags her thumb back and forth across my hardening nipple. It drives me mad. My breath hitches, thighs clenching. And when she pinches the hardened nub between her fingers, I tremble around her, tingling sparks igniting in the pit of my stomach.

She hardly ever pays much attention to my neck, bitter because she can't leave behind hickies; but her hot mouth envelops my nipple and my back arches off the bed with a sharp, quiet cry. I wish I could scream. I wish I could let her know just what this does to me. But despite my well-tested, fully functional sound-proof walls, something about making love to Quinn by the moonlight instills as much anxiety in me as excitement.

I don't want to get caught.

I don't want Finn to know.

My eyes clench shut again as Quinn moves down my body. I'm not supposed to think of Finn, and how much this would hurt him. He wouldn't understand. No one understands how much I need Quinn. And she needs me. We fulfill something in each other that no other person has quite yet. I'd like to think it's because we were designed to fulfill these little niches inside of one another. That in some capacity, we were meant for each other. Whether as friends or lovers, Quinn and I were meant to be.

My hips buck against the biting sting I feel on the inside of my thigh. I hiss in equal parts pain and pleasure, my eyes opening a hairsbreadth to glance down at Quinn's outline between my legs. "Stop thinking."

I lick my lips. "I was thinking that—"

"I don't want to hear it."

Her lips find the bite on my thigh, and we both know it's going to bruise. But it's hard to be mad when she sprinkles soft, almost apologetic kisses along the expanse of skin.

She doesn't like to discuss us. It's something I had to learn to respect. She doesn't like the idea of being responsible for someone else's happiness, because inevitably, she feels she'd make a mess of things.

My eyes slip shut as Get It Right softly plays in my head. It's a rather poignant song, especially now. Because this isn't getting it right. This is getting it completely wrong, to the point of near devastation. But I've never found anything, not even music, that can make me feel this at peace, this untroubled. My life can be so cumbersome with leading glee club, the weight of my future resting solely on NYADA, keeping Finn happy in every possible way I can. And these moments with Quinn, for once, make me feel unburdened.

I sigh as her fingers slip into me. Always two unless either of us is feeling particularly adventurous. I rest my hand heavily on the back of her neck and, getting the hint, she rises up the bed to loom over me. I stretch my arm across her back to grab her waist as my other hand finds the small of her back again, and we move as one.

My breath whistles out of me every time she thrusts upward. I love this feeling. It's so intimate and so filling. Her mouth drops down to my ear and I hear her smile. It's so lovely. "Rachel…"

I can do little more than whine. "Quinn." Her voice has dropped to a purr, and it just does something to me.

She doesn't speak again as her pace quickens. My breath grows shorter, my moans choked as she hits that spot over and over and over again. I can feel my lower extremities begin to tingle and my hands fight against Quinn's seemingly endless layers of clothing for skin. I always just want contact. My nails rake down her back, and Quinn growls as her back arches. "Naughty girl," she tuts.

My eyes slip shut at the remark as my hips begin to undulate beneath her and I ride her hand with renewed vigor. She laughs, a light, breezy sound at my expense, at what her words alone can do to me. I clench around her and I hear Quinn swear. "I can barely move," she growls against the shell of my ear.

I reached down past her lower back to grasp her butt and squeeze as my breath continues to shorten. She's so beautiful, every inch of her. Impatient, I wiggle under the hem of her denim skirt and slide my fingers underneath the lace of her underwear to feel bare skin. She's so unbelievably soft, and it's with that thought that my entire body seizes.

"Quinn." It's a rushed, choked cry before I throw my head back with a series of deep moans that increase in pitch the way I know she likes. Distantly, I can hear her swear in her own arousal as I completely lose control underneath her.

I like to think of everything I like about Quinn when I climax for her. How beautiful she is, how sensual she is, how I like to be dominated by her, pinned to my bed by her, being fucked by her. Just her.

My breath hitches over and over again as I finally come down. Quinn waits patiently until my breathing regulates then she collapses on top of me with a tired sigh. A tease regarding her unusual lack of stamina tonight is on the tip of my tongue, but I haven't the heart to ruin this moment of bliss by revving up her defensiveness. I rub my hand up and down her back, noting the lack of bra clasp I feel, and my arousal returns once more. Why does she do this to me?

I capitalize on her momentary exhaustion and flip her over so I can climb on top. Sitting astride her, my mind briefly conjures up an image of me riding her with a strap-on. I feel a surge of warmth fall over me, and my hips buck forward of their own volition.

Quinn gasps and looks down to where we're joined. I feel more than the see the crooked, smug smirk on her face. "So this position gets you a little…excited?"

I blush, thankful for the dark as I remove myself from her pelvis. "Stop it, Quinn."

I relish in her laugh. It's the last I'll hear of it tonight.

In a show of just how different our approaches can be, I slowly encroach upon her space before gently pressing my lips to hers. The kiss is light, and in true Quinn Fabray fashion, she wedges her hands between us and cups my face, pulling me closer.

Always dominating, even from the bottom. I have to admire consistency.

It occurs to me that she isn't even the slightest bit undressed and, unwilling to pull apart from her for even a second, I grasp the lapels of her faux leather jacket (I certainly hope so) and pull her forward to a sitting position. My hands trek along her slender arms as I slide the jacket off. Our lips part and I inhale a sharp breath, our foreheads meeting briefly before we pull apart so I can pull her shirt over her head.

As I guessed, she isn't wearing a bra. She's been doing that lately and it drives me absolutely insane. I cup her breasts with greedy hands as my mouth finds her neck. It's entirely too much stimulation. Too much skin, too much her. But I can't bring myself to stop. I trail kisses up to her ear and tug on the lobe. Quinn tips her head back with a moan. "Lay down."

She does as she's told, but I dare not tease her for it or else this would all be over far too soon.

I offer no warning as I take her breast into my mouth. Her nipple is hard against my tongue and the contrast between my soft mouth and her hard nipple makes me moan. I will never get over the fact that I elicit these reactions from Quinn. Because I know I'm the only one. The only one who has ever taken the time to learn her, to care enough to break down the barriers she builds around herself.

"Rachel, come on."

I frown around her nipple at how coherent she sounds. Barely, but still. She still has her wits about her and a witty Quinn is a dangerous Quinn. She'd have me on my back again before I knew it and I won't have that.

I pull away from her nipple with an audible pop that makes Quinn whimper and slide down her body. I nip at her hipbone and inhale deeply because I can smell how much she wants me. That's the thing about Quinn. She can lie directly to my face but her body never can.

My lips trace her inner thighs in greeting before I settle on a spot and suck with abandon. I get to leave marks because Quinn isn't sleeping with anyone else. At least I hope not. I don't think I could handle it if she was. The double standard stares me in the face but it's different because it's Quinn. I've never been particularly fond of sharing her.

I feel her legs start to shift restlessly around me, and I know it's time. I can't keep her waiting any longer. In the darkness, I nose around for my target until I find it, and her hips buck against my face without warning.

"Sorry," she murmurs breathlessly.

I rub my nose but smile. "It's all right. Though I certainly don't think you want me going under knife at this moment, do you?"

The irritation in her voice is palpable. "Enough games, Rachel." It amuses me. But I give her what she wants. I always do. I spoil her too much, really.

I trace my tongue languidly through her folds. Up and down, over and over again because the way she moans my name in frustration makes me clench. I've always frustrated her. Now I just do it in a completely different way. Or perhaps the exact same way it's always been.


There's my girl.

I've never had the opportunity to taste another woman so I won't pretend to have a wealth of knowledge to compare her to but Quinn is simply exquisite. She coats my entire mouth from inside out and I wear her on my face like a badge of honor.

I ease two fingers in, and my eyes slip shut as Quinn's moan of my name washes over me. The power she has over me, one should not be allowed to have over another. I gradually pick up my pace as I work her over with my mouth, and not more than a few minutes later is she trembling around me with the most delicate moans anyone could ever hope to hear. I rub the tips of my fingers up and down her thigh to memorize how her muscles contract in the throes of climax.

I never pull out until she's completely done. And in the darkness of my room, I can feel my cheeks flushing as I taste her on my fingers.


I smile. That one phrase, when I've reduced her to slurred words, is equivalent to a pat on the back. I make quick work of her skirt and underwear before I fall into her arms and kiss her slowly, shivering at the knowledge that she's running her tongue through my mouth in order to taste herself.

I play in her hair and we don't say much else as we both drift to slumber. She always sleeps over for a few hours, then sneaks out and leaves just before my fathers awake for work. And I delight in these moments that I get to hold her to me and feel such an expanse of soft skin under my fingertips.

Because in these moments, Quinn is mine.