Santana/Rachel (in which Lynne can't stop prompting pezberry). (720): Had sex five times today because there was nothing else to do. I had no idea snow days could get even better than when we were kids
She never thought she'd say this but she's actually tired of having sex. Another orgasm is not something she ever planned to file away in her Do Not Want cabinet but, if Rachel so much as licks her lips in Santana's direction again, she is going out into the two feet of snow outside.
(Hey! Don't judge her.
She's fucking exhausted.)
They've already boned five times today, which, okay, they’ve done that before but she can’t possibly give or receive another orgasm, no matter what season it is.
She’s not sure if death by orgasm is a thing but she’s also not willing to find out.
So, maybe she’s hiding in the bathroom under the guise of a shower when she’s really sitting on the sink reading Esquire with zero plans to come out because fuck that noise
( ... )
Rachel pulls away her purple towel, pushes her up onto the dresser and tells Santana she wants her for breakfast, which, okay, that’s a fucking wonderful idea. She screams when she comes because Rachel’s breath control is a beautiful thing and, seriously, things are good.
After, Santana pulls on a pair of leggings and some warm socks and tugs Rachel’s Tisch sweatshirt over her head. She wraps her hair into a messy bun and tells Rachel she’ll make them some real breakfast.
There’s so. much. snow. outside the window while she fixes bowls of muesli that she figures they’ll be in tomorrow, too.
She makes coffee, iced with caramel, for her, and this holiday blend that Rachel loves. Rachel appears a few minutes later, wrapping her arms around Santana’s waist and pressing a kiss to her neck.
They eat breakfast on the couch while Santana flips through the channels until she comes across Cool Runnings. Rachel frowns immediately but Santana does not care because, “It’s bobsled time
( ... )
“Fuck, baby,” she says after. Rachel just kisses her, fits herself into the space beside her on the couch and traces lazy shapes on her stomach and chest, licks sweat off her collarbone. “Stop,” she says with a laugh.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll want you again and I’m tired.” Rachel just hums, lays her hand flat on Santana’s stomach
( ... )
“You just threw your cards at me, asshole.” She flings one back and it drops to the ground before it even reaches Rachel. So, she tackles her instead.
“Santana!” Rachel yelps then starts laughing when Santana’s fingers flex against her sides.
“Say, ‘Uncle’.”
“No.”
“Say, ‘Santana kicked my ass.’”
“Santana,” Rachel whines, squirming and then laughing when Santana nips at her neck.
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Say, ‘Santana kicked my - oh.”
That sneaky bitch.
“Say, ‘Uncle’,” Rachel teases.
Um. No. She basically only wants to say right there because … well, yeah, that feels nice. So, she does. Rachel just grins and keeps rubbing these tight little circles over her panties.
“I’m not exactly sure how your hand got there
( ... )
“Have you just been sitting here?” Rachel asks looking at what she’s wearing, which isn’t a towel because she hasn’t gotten in the shower yet.
“Maybe.” She yawns and works the natural pouty face that follows it. Rachel’s eyes soften.
“Are you really that exhausted?”
“No. I’m ready for five more rounds.”
“Really?”
“No and the fact that you are is scary.”
“I didn’t say I was!”
“You just got way too excited. Your eyes did that Furby thing.”
“Stop calling me a Furby, Santana.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m,” she says, pointing at her chest. “Going to get in bed. Keep your hands away from my lady parts. The only touching I’m up for is cuddling, alright?”
She doesn’t realize just how lame that sounds until she’s climbing into bed. Rachel slips in a few minutes after, laughs too hard at the pillow Santana’s put in the space Rachel usually fits into in front of her then moves it and makes herself comfortable
( ... )
I'm 100% in love with you right now. I'm serious. You're hot.
Like just so many things. I don't even know where to begin. Santana getting out-orgasmed. Baked ziti. Uno. Margaritas. Rachel's eyes doing a Furby thing. Santana as a sex toy. Cool Runnings. I just can't with all of this. DYING OF LAUGHTER.
But like...only thing is....not enough sex in this so...
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She never thought she'd say this but she's actually tired of having sex. Another orgasm is not something she ever planned to file away in her Do Not Want cabinet but, if Rachel so much as licks her lips in Santana's direction again, she is going out into the two feet of snow outside.
(Hey! Don't judge her.
She's fucking exhausted.)
They've already boned five times today, which, okay, they’ve done that before but she can’t possibly give or receive another orgasm, no matter what season it is.
She’s not sure if death by orgasm is a thing but she’s also not willing to find out.
So, maybe she’s hiding in the bathroom under the guise of a shower when she’s really sitting on the sink reading Esquire with zero plans to come out because fuck that noise ( ... )
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After, Santana pulls on a pair of leggings and some warm socks and tugs Rachel’s Tisch sweatshirt over her head. She wraps her hair into a messy bun and tells Rachel she’ll make them some real breakfast.
There’s so. much. snow. outside the window while she fixes bowls of muesli that she figures they’ll be in tomorrow, too.
She makes coffee, iced with caramel, for her, and this holiday blend that Rachel loves. Rachel appears a few minutes later, wrapping her arms around Santana’s waist and pressing a kiss to her neck.
They eat breakfast on the couch while Santana flips through the channels until she comes across Cool Runnings. Rachel frowns immediately but Santana does not care because, “It’s bobsled time ( ... )
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“Why?”
“Because I’ll want you again and I’m tired.” Rachel just hums, lays her hand flat on Santana’s stomach ( ... )
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“You just threw your cards at me, asshole.” She flings one back and it drops to the ground before it even reaches Rachel. So, she tackles her instead.
“Santana!” Rachel yelps then starts laughing when Santana’s fingers flex against her sides.
“Say, ‘Uncle’.”
“No.”
“Say, ‘Santana kicked my ass.’”
“Santana,” Rachel whines, squirming and then laughing when Santana nips at her neck.
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Say, ‘Santana kicked my - oh.”
That sneaky bitch.
“Say, ‘Uncle’,” Rachel teases.
Um. No. She basically only wants to say right there because … well, yeah, that feels nice. So, she does. Rachel just grins and keeps rubbing these tight little circles over her panties.
“I’m not exactly sure how your hand got there ( ... )
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“Maybe.” She yawns and works the natural pouty face that follows it. Rachel’s eyes soften.
“Are you really that exhausted?”
“No. I’m ready for five more rounds.”
“Really?”
“No and the fact that you are is scary.”
“I didn’t say I was!”
“You just got way too excited. Your eyes did that Furby thing.”
“Stop calling me a Furby, Santana.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m,” she says, pointing at her chest. “Going to get in bed. Keep your hands away from my lady parts. The only touching I’m up for is cuddling, alright?”
She doesn’t realize just how lame that sounds until she’s climbing into bed. Rachel slips in a few minutes after, laughs too hard at the pillow Santana’s put in the space Rachel usually fits into in front of her then moves it and makes herself comfortable ( ... )
Reply
I'm 100% in love with you right now. I'm serious. You're hot.
Like just so many things. I don't even know where to begin. Santana getting out-orgasmed. Baked ziti. Uno. Margaritas. Rachel's eyes doing a Furby thing. Santana as a sex toy. Cool Runnings. I just can't with all of this. DYING OF LAUGHTER.
But like...only thing is....not enough sex in this so...
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(I could possibly 100% in love with you too tho. Maybe.)
P.S. DO NOT LET YOUR LAUGHTER KILL YOU.
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I ship you + Pezberry dialogue until the end of time, okay?
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O.T.P. ♥
Thanks, bb!
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;) Well done, bro. *dap* I was grinning and giggling the whole way through.
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Thanks, Bee. * dap, dap, backpack *
I like when people grin and giggle in kind. So you, my friend, are A++.
I'ma work 'but orgasms' into something soon. * nods *
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