(Glee, Rachel/Santana) Keeping Score (Brown-Eyed Girl Remix)
Title: Keeping Score (Brown-Eyed Girl Remix)
Author: vnilla
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Rachel/Santana
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1269
Summary: Santana has kissed a brunette. In fact, she's done a whole lot more than kiss one
Author's Notes: This a remix of Keeping Score by summerstorm. I basically took one line and ran with it.
Giant sales crowds are enough of a pain, but mix in small town desperation and you've got a recipe for disaster. Every Black Friday, Santana makes sure she's causing the disaster, rather than becoming its victim. She's a cheerleader and a total bitch; elbowing her way into a dressing room is a cinch.
Except the dressing room is occupied.
"Santana," says Rachel Berry, clutching a freakin' animal print sweater to her chest. How did she even find something so ugly in here?
"Berry," Santana snaps, "get the hell out of my dressing room. One: I needs to get my fashion on, and two: I'm going to light that sad little pile of clothes on fire if I have to look at it any longer." Not her best zinger, but there are more important things on her mind.
Then comes classic Berry: her lips compress into a thin line, she squares her shoulders, and she twitches her little skirt at the same time she tosses her hair. She always busts out the diva moves before quitting glee club or after someone's cracked a gay joke. Also, apparently, when someone tries to take something from her. "I refuse."
Santana shrugs and hangs up her clothes on the door. "Whatever."
The look of shock she's getting is almost hilarious enough to make up for the annoyance. "What?"
"I said whatever, freak. Hope you're not going deaf." Santana toes off her shoes and lifts her shirt over her head in the same motion. Her jeans follow shortly after. "I'll just make myself at home."
Berry squeaks, face going bright red, and she spins around, obviously trying to find a place to look that isn't Santana's rockin' bod. Too bad (or too good) for her, because these dressing rooms don't skimp on mirrors. Santana strikes a pose before she takes the first dress off the rack and slides it on.
"Stop twitching and zip me up, loser."
To her surprise, Berry complies. Berry always goes for the social suicide option, which usually involves sticking up for herself, with sticking up for Quinn a later addition. Her hands are warm as they lift Santana's hair out of the way and slide the zipper up, and yes--there is a little tremble to them, and they do linger a little bit too long. Santana smirks. So that's why.
Santana whirls Berry around, pinning her against one of the mirrors. "You think I'm hot," she purrs.
"You're also a terrible person," Rachel says, voice even despite the flush to her skin. "But I can work with that," she adds, and kisses her.
Little Berry's been fooling around with somebody more fun than Finnocence, because it's a damn good kiss. Berry's doing creative things with her tongue that probably originated from vocal exercises or whatever. Santana groans in appreciation and slides her hands under Berry's shirt, palming her breasts through the cotton of her bra. Tits always feel amazing in Santana's hands, and Berry's are no exception: they're small, firm, the perfect handful. This is fun.
Then Berry spoils it all by breaking off the kiss and backing away. Santana retaliates by pinching her nipples and Berry gasps, the flush of her cheeks deepening. "A dressing room," Berry manages to get out, and Santana rolls her eyes.
"Just pretend that we're on stage," she snaps, and spins Berry around yet again. She gestures to their reflections in the mirrors. "This is your audience, and you have to put on a show. It makes you horny, right? Everybody watching."
If there is one thing Santana Lopez is good at (and there are so many things Santana Lopez is good at), it's sex. Rachel Berry has freaky interests like old movies and Bedazzling glee club property, stands to reason that she'd be a freak in the sack. Sure enough, Berry gets all breathy and then starts stripping, the cadence of her movements measured as a dancer's. (Santana starts to think of Brittany and then stops herself. There's sex, and then there's sex with Brittany, and the two categories do not overlap.) Berry's got her game face on. Santana lets her take all of her clothes off, nodding in approval when she shimmies out of her panties, which spell out SATURDAY in cheerful yellow.
"The show must go on," Berry says, which has to be the stupidest come-on Santana's ever heard. She's itching for a fuck, though, and so she kisses Berry's neck as she runs her hands down her sweet little body. It's awesome to watch herself feel up Berry from three different angles. "Look at you," she murmurs, and Berry shivers.
Santana enjoys her some foreplay, but she's also a fan of skipping straight to the good part. She slides a hand between Berry's legs, and Berry throws her head back and says "Mmm, yes" in a throaty voice Santana's never heard before. Just for that, Santana takes her time teasing her, fingers circling her clit but never quite making it there. Berry squirms in frustration and Santana laughs, delighted.
"I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to fuck you, and I want you to watch me watching you." Santana drags out her words like she's dragging out the sex: languidly, and with a hint of malice. She slides three fingers inside Berry, who's so wet she could probably fit a mic--probably has before, Santana thinks, and muffles another laugh in Berry's hair. Berry doesn't notice, too busy bucking against Santana's hand. Her enunciation is perfect as she moans "Yes, yes, yes" over and over.
"Star of the show," Santana manages, just barely because her pussy's aching so much she can barely resist crossing her legs. "Look at you, Rachel Berry." Berry comes as fast as a virgin, panting and shuddering. Santana watches through half-lidded eyes as Rachel Berry three times over sighs in post-coital bliss.
"Your turn," Berry breathes. Santana doesn't even have time to process the words before Berry's fingers are in her panties. Berry's clumsy, but she at least knows how the female body works, which is more than Santana can say for some of her sex partners. "Your panties are soaked," Berry says, low and excited, and Santana closes her eyes, willing herself not to come too soon. Dirty talk is another one of her weaknesses, and dirty talk coming from Berry's pristine mouth is downright amazing.
"No, really, I didn't know girls could get so wet," Berry continues, like this is something that she does every day.
"Shut up," Santana moans, slamming her head back against the door. It hurts just enough to feel good.
"You must really love watching girls come." Berry might have a mean streak after all. Either that, or she's a quick study, if the teasing fingers are any judge. "You loved fucking me in front of all those people."
Just as Santana's deciding she can't take anymore, Berry slides her finger over her clit, back and forth and forth and back and then Santana is coming, her hands searching for purchase until she sinks her nails into Berry's shoulder. "Jesus fuck," Santana growls after she's ridden out the last wave of the orgasm. Her body feels weightless and heavy at the same time, and she can see in triple vision what total wrecks she and Berry look like.
"I agree," Berry says, and smiles. "Shall we?"
Some of the women outside the changing room shoot them scandalized looks as they exit, but Santana flips them all off. "Don't think this changes anything," she warns Berry.
"I assumed as much."
"Yeah, well, see you."
Santana buys the dress, though.
Author: vnilla
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Rachel/Santana
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1269
Summary: Santana has kissed a brunette. In fact, she's done a whole lot more than kiss one
Author's Notes: This a remix of Keeping Score by summerstorm. I basically took one line and ran with it.
Giant sales crowds are enough of a pain, but mix in small town desperation and you've got a recipe for disaster. Every Black Friday, Santana makes sure she's causing the disaster, rather than becoming its victim. She's a cheerleader and a total bitch; elbowing her way into a dressing room is a cinch.
Except the dressing room is occupied.
"Santana," says Rachel Berry, clutching a freakin' animal print sweater to her chest. How did she even find something so ugly in here?
"Berry," Santana snaps, "get the hell out of my dressing room. One: I needs to get my fashion on, and two: I'm going to light that sad little pile of clothes on fire if I have to look at it any longer." Not her best zinger, but there are more important things on her mind.
Then comes classic Berry: her lips compress into a thin line, she squares her shoulders, and she twitches her little skirt at the same time she tosses her hair. She always busts out the diva moves before quitting glee club or after someone's cracked a gay joke. Also, apparently, when someone tries to take something from her. "I refuse."
Santana shrugs and hangs up her clothes on the door. "Whatever."
The look of shock she's getting is almost hilarious enough to make up for the annoyance. "What?"
"I said whatever, freak. Hope you're not going deaf." Santana toes off her shoes and lifts her shirt over her head in the same motion. Her jeans follow shortly after. "I'll just make myself at home."
Berry squeaks, face going bright red, and she spins around, obviously trying to find a place to look that isn't Santana's rockin' bod. Too bad (or too good) for her, because these dressing rooms don't skimp on mirrors. Santana strikes a pose before she takes the first dress off the rack and slides it on.
"Stop twitching and zip me up, loser."
To her surprise, Berry complies. Berry always goes for the social suicide option, which usually involves sticking up for herself, with sticking up for Quinn a later addition. Her hands are warm as they lift Santana's hair out of the way and slide the zipper up, and yes--there is a little tremble to them, and they do linger a little bit too long. Santana smirks. So that's why.
Santana whirls Berry around, pinning her against one of the mirrors. "You think I'm hot," she purrs.
"You're also a terrible person," Rachel says, voice even despite the flush to her skin. "But I can work with that," she adds, and kisses her.
Little Berry's been fooling around with somebody more fun than Finnocence, because it's a damn good kiss. Berry's doing creative things with her tongue that probably originated from vocal exercises or whatever. Santana groans in appreciation and slides her hands under Berry's shirt, palming her breasts through the cotton of her bra. Tits always feel amazing in Santana's hands, and Berry's are no exception: they're small, firm, the perfect handful. This is fun.
Then Berry spoils it all by breaking off the kiss and backing away. Santana retaliates by pinching her nipples and Berry gasps, the flush of her cheeks deepening. "A dressing room," Berry manages to get out, and Santana rolls her eyes.
"Just pretend that we're on stage," she snaps, and spins Berry around yet again. She gestures to their reflections in the mirrors. "This is your audience, and you have to put on a show. It makes you horny, right? Everybody watching."
If there is one thing Santana Lopez is good at (and there are so many things Santana Lopez is good at), it's sex. Rachel Berry has freaky interests like old movies and Bedazzling glee club property, stands to reason that she'd be a freak in the sack. Sure enough, Berry gets all breathy and then starts stripping, the cadence of her movements measured as a dancer's. (Santana starts to think of Brittany and then stops herself. There's sex, and then there's sex with Brittany, and the two categories do not overlap.) Berry's got her game face on. Santana lets her take all of her clothes off, nodding in approval when she shimmies out of her panties, which spell out SATURDAY in cheerful yellow.
"The show must go on," Berry says, which has to be the stupidest come-on Santana's ever heard. She's itching for a fuck, though, and so she kisses Berry's neck as she runs her hands down her sweet little body. It's awesome to watch herself feel up Berry from three different angles. "Look at you," she murmurs, and Berry shivers.
Santana enjoys her some foreplay, but she's also a fan of skipping straight to the good part. She slides a hand between Berry's legs, and Berry throws her head back and says "Mmm, yes" in a throaty voice Santana's never heard before. Just for that, Santana takes her time teasing her, fingers circling her clit but never quite making it there. Berry squirms in frustration and Santana laughs, delighted.
"I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to fuck you, and I want you to watch me watching you." Santana drags out her words like she's dragging out the sex: languidly, and with a hint of malice. She slides three fingers inside Berry, who's so wet she could probably fit a mic--probably has before, Santana thinks, and muffles another laugh in Berry's hair. Berry doesn't notice, too busy bucking against Santana's hand. Her enunciation is perfect as she moans "Yes, yes, yes" over and over.
"Star of the show," Santana manages, just barely because her pussy's aching so much she can barely resist crossing her legs. "Look at you, Rachel Berry." Berry comes as fast as a virgin, panting and shuddering. Santana watches through half-lidded eyes as Rachel Berry three times over sighs in post-coital bliss.
"Your turn," Berry breathes. Santana doesn't even have time to process the words before Berry's fingers are in her panties. Berry's clumsy, but she at least knows how the female body works, which is more than Santana can say for some of her sex partners. "Your panties are soaked," Berry says, low and excited, and Santana closes her eyes, willing herself not to come too soon. Dirty talk is another one of her weaknesses, and dirty talk coming from Berry's pristine mouth is downright amazing.
"No, really, I didn't know girls could get so wet," Berry continues, like this is something that she does every day.
"Shut up," Santana moans, slamming her head back against the door. It hurts just enough to feel good.
"You must really love watching girls come." Berry might have a mean streak after all. Either that, or she's a quick study, if the teasing fingers are any judge. "You loved fucking me in front of all those people."
Just as Santana's deciding she can't take anymore, Berry slides her finger over her clit, back and forth and forth and back and then Santana is coming, her hands searching for purchase until she sinks her nails into Berry's shoulder. "Jesus fuck," Santana growls after she's ridden out the last wave of the orgasm. Her body feels weightless and heavy at the same time, and she can see in triple vision what total wrecks she and Berry look like.
"I agree," Berry says, and smiles. "Shall we?"
Some of the women outside the changing room shoot them scandalized looks as they exit, but Santana flips them all off. "Don't think this changes anything," she warns Berry.
"I assumed as much."
"Yeah, well, see you."
Santana buys the dress, though.