Find Me, Want Me, Forget Me
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from glee. Scenes like this would not be cut from the show if I did.
AN: Erm. Yeah. You know who you are :P
M for a reason. It's a bit dark and smutty. Okay yeah, it's a lot dark and suggestive and quite a bit smutty.
"Quinn," he growled, just knowing it was her from something in the way she walked onto the stage, her footsteps ominous and yet unconsciously unsure.
He stuttered over a few threats and angry retorts, but nothing actually formed as intelligible words to reply to her cocky question.
Instead he buried his face in his hands, elbows digging harshly into his thighs as he leant forward, his legs over the side of the stage.
The sound of boots dropping loudly on the empty stage has his fingers digging into his ears until the sharp pain just became a dull ache of normalcy.
He couldn't ignore the click and fizz of the stage lights though, and looked up, for human curiosity, mainly, but some part of him still needed to catch a glimpse of longing in her eyes.
"Shit," he cursed, loudly, hands clenching to fists and fingernails marking his palms, holding his breath to have control of at least some aspect of his body's reactions.
And Quinn just stood there, boldly, wearing only her underwear, illuminated and smirking like the devil's own converted angel in the main spotlight, her clothes on the floor around her, so haphazardly that he almost wanted to pick them all up and fold them into a neat pile.
Or maybe that was someone else.
She said something, and he wanted to listen to her, was supposed to talk to her, set things straight, point her towards becoming something better, but all this stuck in his throat, right beneath the desire to blurt out a load of lustful expletives.
She plucked the hat off her head and dropped it beside her, but his eyes were too busy scolding the black lace from hiding yet more pale skin that he yearned to touch and kiss and…
He found himself on his feet (why and when was he on his feet?), stumbling forward with undue haste to get to her, to pull her out of the spotlight and hold her to him, his leg the only thing warmed by the fierce rays.
The shadows caressed her bare skin, and his fingers followed them, his forehead pressing against hers as he explored silken dips and curves, his breath in gasps into the curve of her neck.
At first she was herself unresponsive, then she was closing her eyes and relaxing tense muscles just a tiny bit as his hands warmed her, but all too soon she seemed to remember herself, or at least, remember the part she was playing, swiftly spinning away from him.
"We're still not finished," Quinn started.
He balked, looking away from her, her as the picture of his dark temptation, and forbidden lust burning in his eyes, unable to stop himself risking a glance to just a slender wrist. Her fingers were splaying at her hip, still graceful, just as they had been when he had watched her tame ivory keys, but her dirty nails betraying their new found use for twirling cigarettes.
"Still not finished with what?" he grated out.
The fighting? The angry sex? The ruining each other's lives?
She ignored him, sweeping straight on.
"If anyone's the victim here- it's you right? And I'm just sabotaging you over and over and over again."
Her right hand ventured up her side at every 'over', creeping round to her back, and although he couldn't see her reaching fingers, he could imagine them inching nearer to the clasp of her black lace bra.
It matched the barely-there underwear, with a tiny pink bows as decoration, and he nearly groaned as a cascade of hazy memories tumbled into his head with the bitter ghost of a taste of Jack Daniels in his mouth that accompanied them.
"Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?" She asked bluntly.
He took a deep breath, trying to take some sort of control over his wandering thoughts, his body yearning to succumb to his illicit need to grab her roughly and throw her against the baby Grand piano.
"I was talking about the glee club," he said lowly, "And you know it, Quinn. This isn't about 'us', okay? It never is and never was…" He took a breath, delivering the punch line with all his assumed courage. "…There is no us."
She sneered, her mouth a cruel thin line.
"I wasn't even talking about 'us'." She crowed, "But it's good to know what's on your mind…are you reliving the fun we had in your office or something?"
"If you want to have a healthy argument about this, can you at least put…" He paused, shrugging off his open shirt and throwing it to her, "Just put this on?"
He wished he hadn't asked, when she did exactly as she was told.
There was something so possessive, that writhed up inside him as she wrapped the white cotton around her, and he bit down on his lip, hard, just imagining how it would now smell of her as well as him, their scents combined, complimenting each other.
Hers was audacity and rebellion, his was anxiety and the undefinable darkness of anger that seemed to swirl in his periphery without a calming sun as relief.
"Alright," she said, clearly.
"Talk to me," she ordered, "Tell me that… tell me that I'm Quinn Fabray, right? Tell me how I can do anything I want to do, that I can be better than all of this, that I can be so much better…"
He narrowed his eyes at her.
"If you know all of that already, why are you still acting like this?"
She laughed mockingly. "Right. 'Cos you'd know exactly what to do with yourself if I wasn't being like this… you'd be able to blame, whatever, on something other than just the fact that you're angry at me."
He mulled this over for a moment, and winced at how it tasted.
"Okay, we can talk," he said after a while, with a heavy sigh. "We need to talk."
The more he heard the word 'talk', the more he replaced it with 'fuck' in his head. He mentally shook himself.
"There's some ground rules," she announced imperiously, but he was distracted by the way she was scratching the inside of her thigh with the corner of his shirt.
He made a noise of frustration, looking heavenwards but still not finding his sun there.
She crossed the stage, close to him, much too close to him, close enough for him to spot the bit at the back of the collar that was slightly folded over, and his fingers itched to reach out and straighten it properly.
After picking up the piano stool, she crossed back again, placing it down opposite him and clambering up onto it, delicately.
"Take off your pants," she instructed.
"Take of your pants," she repeated, slowly, enunciating every word, loaded with sarcasm.
"Are you kidding me?"
She scoffed. "Do I look like I'm kidding you?"
"Uh- w, why?"
"So that we're on even ground, I'm pretty much only wearing my underwear."
"Not through my choice," he spat back.
She smiled, teasingly, and he glanced behind him at the piano.
"Okay, so…this isn't your choice either. I said we can talk, well, I'm ready to talk… just take off your pants and t shirt and we can have a civil conversation."
He closed his eyes, and she was smiling there, smiling with the whole of her face, lying on his bed and laughing, blonde hair in a halo around her head.
She could find that happiness again. He wanted to help her, wanted her to be happy... and maybe that would leave him to find his own happiness.
"Just the t shirt," he offered, a peace offering, fingers pulling at the hem and crunching greedily in the fabric as he imagined pulling his shirt from her.
"Na-na… not how this works", she laughed roughly.
He was a glutton for punishment, he supposed.
He should have known that she wouldn't just sit there and let him lecture her, that she wouldn't take his advice on how she could be a part of her daughter's life, and help herself in the process.
He should have at least been expecting her to creep up on him as he stepped out of his pants , to be right there in front of him, pink tongue licking pink lips and pupils dark and dilated.
So why was he kissing her back with so much enthusiasm? He was eagerly gripping her lace clad butt and pulling her closer, the angles of the piano digging into his back and the wood startlingly cold in comparison with her hot skin against his.
"Turn around," he growled, into her ear, hands shaking as he let go of her so she can do that, quickly flicking the clasp of her bra open and hand reaching round, not at all tentative, thumbs and forefingers rolling her nipples into peaks.
He pushed her round towards the regal instrument with his leg, and her hands slammed down onto the piano cover to maintain her balance as he forced her to bend over, leaning his weight against her.
"This is how it works," he said gruffly, dangerously, hands still massaging her breasts and pressing every inch of his body against her, curving round her back like two parts of a mould.
"Fast," he continued, and she craned her neck, lips seeking his, but he denied her, seeking her ear and speaking hotly into it.
She moaned, and he licked his lips as though he could taste such a delicious sound.
"Fast and hard... and then we both leave and you can at least pretend that you're pretending that you actually give a damn about your daughter."
She flexed, and he grunted, biting her earlobe without being gentle.
"Are you threatening me?" She asked, and her breathlessness gave her arousal away, causing him to grin against her neck.
"Don't try and make out that you don't want this," he murmured, "If you didn't want this, don't give me a striptease in the spotlight."
She pressed her thighs together, cursing at the aching need for him there, throbbing with his deep, gruff voice.
"It wasn't a striptease," she argued, brokenly, "You didn't watch me take my clothes off."
"Did you lock the doors?" He asked suddenly, rewarding her with a brief kiss to her lips when she nodded.
He pulled away slightly, allowing room for him to tear his shirt from her back, his fingernails leaving marks that he absent-mindedly soothed with wet kisses, draping himself over her again, their noises of mutual appreciation echoing around the empty auditorium.
He gripped her tightly, much too tightly, hardly letting go to shimmy out of his boxers and rolling his favourite panties off over her hips.
He claimed warm soft skin with rough lips and wet tongue, and he didn't need her to say the words to know she wanted him, with the way she squirmed against him and bucked into his hand, fingers plunging into her slippery heat.
The heel of his hand covered over the tattoo on her lower back for a prolonged moment, his subconscious creating his smiling face instead, wishing for a memory to be marked forever in ink.
But when he slid inside her, hissing in pleasure, and his harsh grip morphed into a desperate embrace and he clung to her, glad she couldn't see the mist in his eyes reflecting in the light of the spotlight that found neither of them in its bright optimistic circle amidst the darkness.
She sashayed over to him, now dressed, her face giving nothing away.
"Yeah, so your yelling was… damn hot and all, but really, just tell me, why are you even trying to help me?"
He stared back at her, jaw set and knuckles white as he gripped the piano.
Her own stare faltered for a second. "You hate me," she reminded him, forcefully. "I brought the end to your marriage, I'm bad, I …"
He stopped her, pushing himself upright and catching her hands strongly before she could pull away.
"Shelby passed her phone around the staff room," he said quietly, barely audibly, "And I'm sure that Beth didn't get curly hair like that from you or Puck."
Quinn jumped back from him, pulling him with her since he was holding onto her so tightly.
"What are you saying?" She hissed shakily, "No, no…"
"I'm not saying anything," he said, firmly, "Plenty of kids have curly hair and then grow out of it..."
He heart beat in her mouth.
"You can go now," he said, his eyes open and trusting, thumbs rubbing circles on the inside of her forearms.
Her eyelashes fluttered, a whisper of hope that he clung to, leaning forward to ghost his lips on her temple.
"If you want my help, you know where to find me… But…"
"I get it," she said shortly, a slight waver if he listened hard enough. "You get the peace of mind that you're still the good guy, and I pretend to forget that it is actually possible that Beth is…"
He crushed his lips to hers, stealing the last few words of that sentence and abruptly pulling away.
"I don't exist," he murmured, fingers tracing the edges of her face, remembering a time he would brush blonde tendrils from her eyes.
And she knew he meant the guy who just shagged her up bent over against the piano, the guy who choked her name as a prayer when he came, and pushed her over the edge with him, using dirty Spanish words and talented fingers.
"I want you to exist," she said gruffly, "A skank's gotta have some sort of unhealthy fetish… even if mine is for a guy in vests and most of u- them have strange dreams about rabbits."
His eyes widened for a brief moment, before he gave a warm laugh, obviously assuming that she was joking, convincing himself that she was joking about everything.
"I'm not telling you what to do," he said, taking a small step away from her, away from temptation. "Because you've gotta work that out yourself… but, just come find me when you have some sort of idea- yeah? We could do with your soulful alto back in glee."
She raised both eyebrows, losing them beneath a shock of pink hair, and spun around with her lips twisted in a final act of defiance, and left him standing alone on the middle of the stage with the piano and its now slightly dodgy leg.
She looked beautiful, clean and bright like a sun, even if the remaining steely edge in her eyes didn't quite complete the transformation.
They shared a few lingering looks across the stage.
He pretended not to understand.
She cornered him behind the curtain at the edge of the stage when he excused himself to grab a drink of water.
He knew she would.
She curled a hand round the back of his neck, tantalisingly slowly tilting her lips to his, finally kissing him, drawing him in with soft giving lips.
He couldn't pull away, couldn't stop her, as she twisted her fingers up into his hair, goading him closer, her tongue teasing his.
She tasted like cherry flavoured bubblegum.
She ended the kiss, dragging on his bottom lip with her teeth, her eyes dancing with forbidden lust.
There was laughter from behind them, on the stage, and she nodded as he moved to go past her to join the others again.
A gentle hand on his arm stopped him though, as he brushed past her, her fresh fruity fragrance conjuring memories of lazy Sunday mornings with breakfast in bed.
He swallowed thickly and met her eyes with question in his.
"I'm getting her back for us," she promised huskily, and was gone in a twirl of unmarred pure white.
AN: So I can't promise any more whimsical season 3 Quill, as it is pretty exhausting, but I do hope that we get more Quill in season 3!
Please review :)