A/N: I wanted to do a series that features a lot of dry humping. Seriously. And this is one chapter of however many I plan to write. Also, between the humping sessions, there will be some kind of story. That's all there is to know.

"What is she doing here?" The space under the bleacher is supposed to be, like, sacred. It's hers. She picked it, she furnished it (with some assistance from Coach Sylvester), and she says who is and isn't allowed to be there.

Mack's perched on one arm of Quinn's favorite sofa (the one with the stripes that kind of reminds her of a circus), facing the rest of the seating space, feet up on the cushion. "I told to her scram, but she says she has business with you. So, I figured I'd wait to punch her until I knew for sure."

On the opposite end of the same couch is Rachel, sitting primly with her hands clutching her purse. The way Mack's eyeing it, Quinn can't blame her.

"Get your feet off my couch," Quinn says and Mack quickly turns so she's straddling the arm and her feet dangle in front of her. She crosses her arms and glares at Rachel. "What?"

Rachel looks from Quinn to Mack, then back to Quinn. "I prefer our discussion be private, if that's possible."

Quinn tosses her bag onto the couch and jerks her head to the side. "Give us a minute. Watch the south entrance for me. Make sure no one comes in." It's after school on a Friday and most people are already gone. There would be sports activity happening, but there's an away game, so the football field is void of players and cheerleaders.

Mack slides off the edge of the sofa and her boots thump against the concrete. "Gimme a cigarette."

"What happened to yours?"

"Smoked 'em all."

Quinn rolls her eyes and digs through her bag until she secures the pack of American Spirits, then chucks the whole thing at her... friend. They're not enemies, anyway. "Try not to burn through all of them."

Mack's already walking away and replies with a single fingered salute.

"You're keeping classy company."

"Please, you're dating Finn. He thinks etiquette is a game with mallets." Quinn drops onto the sofa, her bag occupying the space between herself and Rachel. "What do you want?"

"I thought I'd spend some time with you."

"Okay, if you don't seriously tell me what's up, I'm calling Mack back over here-"

"-I want to know what you do. Down here. It's clearly more inviting to you that what we have to offer at Glee Club, so I decided to take it upon myself to experience the world of Quinn Fabray, temporary societal deviant."

"Who says this is temporary?"

"Quinn I've known you since-"

Quinn shoves her bag aside to lean into Rachel's personal space. "You don't know me, okay? No one knows me."

"Then perhaps some of us would like to try-"

"-Try and what? Understand my life? What I go through?"

"Is that so hard to imagine?"

Quinn rests an arm over the back of the couch. "You want to know what I imagine?" Her eyes take in the sight of Rachel, still seated so carefully, though she's let up her death grip on the small bag in her lap. "You want to know the stuff I think about?"

"If that's what it takes to get to know you? Yes. I do."

"You don't tell anyone."

"Of course."

"I'm serious." Quinn's next to Rachel, now. She smells like citrus and blossoms or something.

"I understand."

A smirk works its way across Quinn's like, because she knows Rachel definitely doesn't understand what's about to happen. She grips the smaller girl's chin, firmly but not roughly, and turns it toward her. Her lips barely brush against Rachel's but she doesn't make a move to actually kiss her. That's too easy. "Still with me?"

"If you're trying to intimidate me, I'm... it's not working."

Quinn's hand releases Rachel's chin and slips behind her neck, pressing their mouths together. She's almost positive this is the end of it, because there's no way Rachel will kiss back.

And then, in that stupid way that always seems to happen, Rachel Berry proves her wrong. Lips move against hers, and then there's even tongue and that ugly purse that's been clutched and monitored the entire time Rachel's been under the bleachers hits the ground.

It's a cool afternoon, so the warmth of the body against hers is a welcome contrast. Plus, she can definitely feel Rachel's heartbeat, probably because she's now basically lying on top of her, kind of. Rachel has her back against the arm rest and one foot on the ground. Quinn's in a black denim skirt and tights, so she tugs the skirt up a little so her legs are granted a little more maneuverability, then settles one on the span of Rachel's dress that's fanned out across the couch cushion.

She's not sure if Rachel's kissing her out of spite or to prove something or what, but it's the best make-out session she's had in a long time, so she has no plans to quit. Especially not with the way Rachel keeps tugging at her sweater, pulling her closer.

Part of her wants to make a comment about Finn, but that's overridden by the part of her brain that suggests she just shut up and enjoy the ride. Rachel bends her leg and her thigh presses right between Quinn's. It's unexpected and forces the air out of her lungs, along with what would best be described as a moan.

She pushes the leg down a little, then repositions herself so they're sort of locked together, pressed tightly against each other. If the rest of Rachel is warm against her body, the part that keeps rubbing into her tights is smoldering. They're not kissing anymore, because Rachel's face is buried in Quinn's shoulder and Quinn's gripping the arm of the couch for as much leverage as possible.

It's Rachel who comes first and Quinn doesn't even want to think about the fact that it seems like maybe she knew exactly what she was doing, because then that means- Yeah, she definitely doesn't want to think about it.

Quinn focuses on the feeling of the way Rachel's body goes taught, the increase of warmth against her thigh, the way the girl's ragged breathing stops, just for a second, then shifts to a drawn out sigh. She's had her eyes closed through most of this whole encounter, but she risks a glance and looks at Rachel. What she sees is closed eyes, open mouth, and slightly flushed skin.

And then it's Quinn's body locking down tightly over Rachel's, her hand now white-knuckled from its grip on the arm, one foot stuffed down behind the back of the cushions.

There's no string of obscenities or excessive groaning. In fact, she keeps as quiet as possible to avoid doing something stupid like saying Rachel's name, because it's bad enough they've done this.

As soon as she can actually breathe, she pushes herself up and off Rachel. The absence of heat is immediately noticeable.

She wishes she had her cigarettes.

Rachel pulls herself together and straightens out her dress. Quinn waits for the commentary, the lecture, the inevitable ramble that's so sure to follow.

But Rachel says nothing as she picks up her purse and walks away.

Quinn won't hear from her until the following Monday, when she finds her right back here. On this couch. Under the bleachers.