fic: like a moth to a flame
TITLE 
like a moth to a flame
CHARACTERS: Santana Lopez/Rachel Berry.
WORDS: 4.4k.
RATING: NC-17.
DISCLAIMER: I don't owns the Glee.
SUMMARY: AU. The text says that she's on her way over, which is fine with Santana. They'd planned on that. Not that they're like Valentine's or anything lame. Rachel's just the incredibly hot girl Santana's baking weed brownies for.
A/N: set in the same verse as this one's gonna leave a mark. // for the wife, smc_27. happy (very late) valentine's day.
Honestly, Santana's a little surprised she hasn’t gone crazy today. What with all the imbeciles who requested that she tattoo someone’s name in a strange place. It’s one of those things she just doesn’t do -- along with several other popular requests (butterflies, company logos, random ass words in chinese). She’s kind of a tattoo purist even if she does have several really damn ridiculous tattoos of her own courtesy of too much tequila and Puck. It’s really art to her and she’s not (nor is any member of the shop) down with tatting something someone will very obviously regret about five minutes afterward. Their prices are a little higher and their consultations a little more thorough because they're really about creating pieces people can be proud of.
Anyway, she stays at the shop ‘til around four thirty. Joaquin, one of the new guys with a super awesome fro and one of her favorite back pieces, slides her a dub and a shiny new red grinder while she's putting shit into her bag and says, "Happy Valentine's day, Lo," then chuckles at the blank stare and, "You do know I'm gay, right?" she shoots back.
"Yeah, I know," he says as he shakes his head, still kind of chuckling at her. "I owed you that from like November and you broke your grinder last time me and Puck were over."
She is so not used to having nice people work here but she will take this free weed and run with it. Besides, Joaquin’s a cool dude. He’s originally from Detroit, went to school in Atlanta, did the investment banker thing for like two years then said fuck it, grew out his hair and apprenticed at a shop in Harlem. She met the guy at a party and decided she needed to hire him right then and there. Pretty good business decision and, well, he's a good friend, too, even if he's a pansy.
"Oh yeah, thanks then," she says around a laugh and punches his shoulder. "No more sweet shit though. It's scary. We have an asshole policy here. Everyone has to be one."
"I'll work on it," he tells her, then bumps fists with her as they both head out together. Puck blows her an obnoxious kiss and slaps her ass for good measure. Tina shakes her head at him and waves goodbye.
"We're doing happy hour at Dirty Dick's tomorrow," she says over her shoulder, heading the opposite way up the block.
*
She gets home about an hour later after making a couple pit stops at both the grocery and liquor store. She hops in the shower and pulls on a pair of dark wash jeans, a tight white v-neck that doesn’t quite reach the band of her jeans, this red and pink braided belt she’s half in love with and a thin gold chain with a Nefertiti pendant Puck gave her for Christmas. She gets a text from Rachel just a few minutes later while she’s half-way fussing with her hair.
They've been talking or fucking or whatever for the last several months. Whenever it's convenient for both of them, really. Rachel was in Chicago over Christmas and through January, doing a short run of some show a friend of her’s produced and visiting her dads who moved out there in October.
Santana's pretty fucking glad she's back. They're not in a relationship or anything like that, but she hasn't been sleeping with anyone else and she's certainly overdue for an orgasm or two.
The text says that she's on her way over, which is fine with Santana. They'd planned on that. Not that they're like Valentine's or anything lame. Rachel's just the incredibly hot girl Santana's baking weed brownies for.
She seems to be fucking fascinated by Santana's penchant for occasionally blowing trees. Also, quite obviously curious about it.
Santana's offered to let the girl roll up with her on occasion but she's wary of like, fucking up her vocal chords and she gave Santana an entire speech on the many ways her career would be ruined. Still, she knows Rachel's über curious about what being high's like, so. She decided she'd mix up a batch of brownies.
The oil's super fucking potent because she let it simmer low and slow for about six hours yesterday and the actual recipe is delicious. She and Puck have been making it for years; usually on birthdays, occasionally just because.
She cuts on a playlist Mike hand mixed for her. It's a lot of her favorite 90s hip hop cuts to like, counter the fact that she feels all ... whatever baking brownies for a chick on Valentine's day.
*
Rachel knocks on her door about ten minutes after she's taken the brownies out the oven. She looks hot as fuck in this little red lace jacquard dress, with black piping along the collar and a black band around the waist. Her legs look endless and her hair is parted down the middle, wavy and shiny as fuck like always, too. She's got the little ombré thing going on and Santana likes the color. The woman’s holding a polka dotted reusable tote and whatever’s in it smells delicious.
They greet each other with a hug and of course Santana lets her hand slide down the girl's back and onto her ass. Rachel giggles and nips at her neck in kind. She's trying not to like, say fuck it and get the girl naked but that's pretty damn hard. She kind of has to kiss her, y'know? And so what if she slips in a little tongue. If that moan is any testament, Rachel likes it.
Rachel pulls back and squeezes at Santana's hip, her thumb working back and forth there as she says, "You look pretty,” with a cute little grin.
Santana chuckles a bit. "Thanks. Uh, you look hot as fuck," she says eying her appreciatively. Santana hasn't done anything special, save for a bit of mascara and some lip gloss that's definitely missing now. Her haircut is new, too. She added a few layers. The longest stopping a little above her bra strap. Santana’s learned that Rachel’s the kind of girl who notices that kind of stuff.
Rachel blushes a bit, pinches the skin on Santana's side and asks how she's been as she follows her further into her loft, the tote swinging just slightly.
"Can't complain, really," she says, shrugging. She really can't. Not with a number of awesome opportunities flowing in. They’ve lost one artist since Holly left but she's hired three more: Joaquin, as well as Marco and a tiny dude from London who calls himself Turtle. There's also been a few renovations and she and the rest of the guys are planning to turn one of the main walls into a mural. "Was Chicago good to you?"
Rachel smiles wide at that, bouncing on her toes and running her fingers through the ends of her hair. "Really good actually," she says in a cute little singsong voice as she presses her back to Santana's counter and watches her slide the knife through the brownies. Santana knows from casual conversation that her fathers moved out there recently and it was the girl’s first chance to see their place. “I met Devin Perkins."
Santana's got no idea who that is and her face surely says so. Her eyebrows go up though, to show that she can tell Rachel's excited about it and that she’s actually listening and even interested.
(It’s not a reaction a lot of people get out of her.)
"He's a playwright and a respected producer. He's workshopping a show and he says he's eying me for the lead. It's not a guarantee or anything but it's still exciting," she says happily. There's a lilt in her voice that Santana's become pretty familiar with. It's cute as hell when the girl gets like this. She fucks with how passionate she is about her craft. Santana could generally give fuck all about stuff like this, but Rachel tends to grasp her interest and it’s not just because she likes her rack.
“That’s dope,” she tells her then chuckles at the way Rachel’s head is bobbing to the music that’s still playing.
“Thank you. Tupac?” She asks. Santana smirks, rolling her eyes because like, six months ago the girl had no idea who he really was other than the fact that one of her cousin’s was a big fan and that she’d seen a movie he was in called “Soda or … Juice or something” a long time ago.
She’s kind of made it her personal mission to introduce the girl to good hip hop and Rachel’s made it her own mission to school Santana on Broadway. It’s a pretty fun exchange of interests. They went to see Porgy and Bess back in September, hit a Kendrick Lamar concert in October and traded iPods for a weekend before Rachel’d gone to Chicago.
(Rachel’s still trying to talk her into going to Chelsea to see Rocky Horror.)
“Yeah. What’s that?” She asks as Rachel starts to unload her tote bag. She pulls out a casserole sized tupperware and a baguette.
“Dinner.”
“Damn. It smells good,” Santana says, peeking as Rachel peels off the top. It looks just as good as it smells and when Rachel explains all that’s in it, her mouth waters. She’s a sucker for a good pasta dish. Also, incredibly hungry.
“I figured you’d be hungry and we couldn’t just eat brownies,” she says, reaching into Santana’s cabinet to take down two plates, standing on her toes. She’s pretty comfortable at Santana’s place and vice versa though they tend to hang here most often. Santana chuckles appreciatively and takes the plates from the woman.
“Very true,” she says, smirking. There’s a comment she could make, but she’s keeping it to herself. Rachel seems to be aware of it anyway because she rolls her eyes and pokes at Santana’s side.
“Are those the, um, special ones you talked about?” Rachel asks, giggling a bit and biting the edge of her bottom lip. Santana nods and Rachel grins. “Tonight should be fun.”
Santana’s banking on that fact.
*
Dinner is fucking great and delicious and a million other adjectives that leave Santana satisfied.
They catch up and drink a few glasses of Moët from a bottle that somehow went unopened on New Year’s Eve. The tequila she picked up at the liquor store doesn’t seem right for the meal … or the occasion.
They’re both a little tipsy and flirty and goofy, too. She laughs a lot when Rachel’s around and not just at her, because yeah, that happens, but Rachel is fucking funny, too. She’s like a secret jackass and Santana loves it.
Rachel’s cooked for her a few times and it’s always good, but this might’ve been her favorite meal. She tells her so and the girl blushes and teases that it can’t be while she pushes her hair over her shoulder.
“I’m serious,” she advises, standing up to clear the table. “You ready to try these brownies?”
“I think so,” Rachel says in a smaller voice than normal, looking up at Santana through her lashes. She’s so hot it’s insane in the best ways. And it’s always the most random thing she does that makes Santana think it.
“S’not gonna hurt you, baby. Promise.”
“Okay,” Rachel says fairly confidently, following Santana to the kitchen. She actually has to move the girl away from the sink to keep her from trying to wash dishes.
Rachel stands close to her, a hand on Santana’s hip as she extracts a brownie from the pan. She cut them small and figures two will do the trick for her, but one should suffice for Rachel. She goes to pass it to her, but Rachel just opens her mouth, a devious little glint in her eyes.
Of fucking course she can get with this.
She feeds it her, making sure her fingers catch on Rachel’s bottom lip as they retreat and wets her own lip at the way Rachel hums appreciatively. This girl.
“They’re good,” Rachel says, like she’s surprised. Santana chuckles, rolling her eyes and tipping her head just so.
“You saying you were skeptical about my skills?”
Rachel just grins, raising one shoulder slightly in a cute way. Santana’s learned that the girl enjoys fucking with her just as much as Santana likes to do the same.
*
She got a new television over Black Friday and Mike’s the awesome type of friend who will buy her the Blu-Ray player she’d had a boner for since Halloween for Christmas. She set up all the new shit in her room because it’s become her favorite place to actually watch things so they settle there, on her bed. There are bottles of water on her nightstand, shoes at the end of her bed and Fresh Prince reruns playing on the screen.
Rachel’s curled up around a pillow she’s pretty much claimed as her own in the last few months (it smells like her even when she’s gone) when the giggles start about two episodes in. Her eyes are glossy and she’s grinning when she looks up at Santana, her head tipping back and her hair falling over her shoulder. Of course Santana’s reaction is to giggle back.
“You’re really, really attractive you know,” Rachel tells her, her fingers gliding over Santana’s forearm, her teeth sinking into her own lip. Her skin tingles at the touch. There’s a hazy, blissed-out expression on Rachel’s face and she’s looking up through her lashes in that way that makes want ripple through Santana almost instantly.
“You’re high,” she chuckles out, playfully rolling her eyes.
“I’m not-“ Rachel says, beginning to protest but it only takes a couple of seconds for her to laugh about that. “I am, but that’s not the point,” she tells her in that little indignant voice she gets. It’s never really serious. At least, Santana never takes it serious and it’s always followed by one of those cute as fuck grins that gets her wet and makes her stomach flip.
The girl sighs, rolling toward Santana until their knees are bumping and says, “It’s a rather peculiar feeling … being high.”
“God, I thought you’d like, lose your thesaurus if I got you zooted,” she teases. That earns a pinch and then Rachel’s rolling away, her hand hitting the remote and cutting the TV off by accident. Santana chuckles, then bites down on her bottom lip.
“Are you pouting?” she asks into newfound darkness. “I know you’re not pouting,” she continues, slinking closer to Rachel in the dark.
Her lips find skin; a shoulder, she’s sure. Positive, really. She’s learned this body with no lights to guide her anyway. She knows if she just shifts her lips to the right, they’ll press down on those tiny music notes she inked there.
“I’m not,” Rachel says on a sharp inhale.
“Good; you’re too hot for that shit,” she says, tongue flicking out to wet her own lips.
She knows Rachel rolls her eyes at that. Mostly because the girl flattens so that she’s lying on her back, coyly looking up at Santana when she does it. Even in the dark those eyes sparkle and she has to press a kiss to Rachel’s lips.
It’s supposed to be a quick peck but Rachel holds her there, slipping a hand into her hair and stroking a thumb across the ‘xo’ she knows is on the base of Santana’s neck. Her own fingers crawl up Rachel’s leg until they’re tickling the soft skin of her thighs. Rachel kisses her harder, more urgently and laughs into her mouth.
Everything is slow and fast at once and she’s warm, but not uncomfortable. The kiss is uncoordinated at best, but fuck if it doesn’t still feel good. It’s like they’re both eager, but not quick enough and it takes a bit of focus to get it right, but it feels really fucking good when they do.
Rachel says, “Oh,” when her lips start to pepper hot kisses along her jawline and her hand inches up just a little higher. She pulls back for just a moment to smile at her lazily. Rachel licks her lips and slides a a hand over the back of her shirt and into her back pocket. Her hips press down and Rachel’s buck back gently as one of those long-as-fuck legs comes to wrap around her waist.
Her gut is burning with want and her skin is hot and sensitive and dying to be flush against Rachel’s. It’s like the girl knows, because tiny hands work the buckle on her belt then undo her jeans before nails scrape at her back as Rachel peels her shirt off. The girl’s thumb deftly flicks at the clasp of Santana’s bra and then it’s gone, too.
“Gotta get you out of this,” she mumbles against Rachel’s neck while she feels around for the catch on her dress. She’s just a little pissed at herself for not locating the zipper when she had a good view of the thing. Her fingers bump against a zipper-pull after a few moments of fumbling around, seeking hips and lips busying them anyway. She helps Rachel out of it, rolling the red fabric down her body and pitching it off the bed before her own jeans and boyshorts are shoved down her hips. Her body covers Rachel’s a moment later and they both seem to sigh at the feeling.
She loves Rachel like this; laid out beneath her, lissome in pretty pink panties and a matching bra, flagrant in her want. Her head spins a little and her hips surge forward again, searching.
“Shit,” Rachel hisses, gently. It makes Santana chuckle as she sucks on Rachel’s chest, bruising little marks blossoming along the swell of her breast. She knows that the ease with which the girl swears now, is partially influenced by her. She likes it. Just like she likes the nails scraping at the small of her back. She doesn’t hate being marked, not hardly.
“It feels …” Rachel starts, she cuts her off with a kiss because Rachel doesn’t know what feeling is yet, not when there are still barriers between them and she’s barely put a dent in the list of things she wants - needs to do.
Rachel surprises her then, rolling them quickly. She ends up on her back, chest heaving as Rachel straddles her. There’s no sound save for heavy breathing as Rachel looks down at her. The way her eyes scan over Santana’s body makes the floating feeling surrounding her suddenly stronger. She feels both heavy and light and her head spins again. Her eyes squeeze shut for a moment as her hands grip Rachel’s waist, claiming even in the haze.
Rachel’s reaching behind herself, bra falling away from her body when Santana opens her eyes. The girl giggles almost bashfully when their eyes lock and Santana just slides her hands up over her taut stomach until they’re cupping warm, soft, perfect skin. Rachel gasps, back bending slightly. She’s wet against Santana’s belly, nipples hard against her palms.
“I want …” Rachel says, hips rolling.
“Shh.” She leans up, tongue swirling around a nipple. Her thumbs hook into the band of Rachel’s panties and tug down. Rachel lifts, helping her slide them off then settles back on top of her. It’s almost graceful the way their bodies find each other again.
She likes Rachel on top, loves it even, but right now she wants something else. She shifts, rolling the girl back onto the mattress and settling between thighs that part for her. Santana kisses her again, tongue gliding over Rachel’s lips before she licks into her mouth and rocks against her. Rachel’s hips roll again and again against her thigh and she gasps out, “Please,” between kisses. She can’t really argue with that.
She’s missed this.
“So fucking sexy,” she says as her kisses drift lower. Her lips chart a map of all her favorite places; the column of Rachel’s neck, her collar bone, between her breasts, the spot on her stomach that makes her squirm, just below her belly button, that pretty little star on her hip.
Rachel’s hands are everywhere at once; nails scrape the nape of her neck and dig into her shoulders, fingertips caress her cheek, massage her scalp, guide until she’s just there, pressing bruised lips against the ampersand she penned right there on Rachel’s inner thigh.
Rachel is so wet.
Her heartbeat is thudding in her ears when long legs open wider and she presses one quick kiss to the black ink before she licks the length of her, long, slow, confident. Rachel exhales sharply, but she’s watching, all hooded lids and swollen lips.
Santana thinks this might be her favorite part. The way Rachel can’t form sentences and her hands can’t settle on one anchor until Santana rolls her tongue and sucks hard. Then Rachel’s gripping her hair tight and hissing, moaning, calling.
It’s like she can’t decide if she wants to get away or come closer because she squirms but her palm holds Santana’s head in place solidly. Her name is grunted out like a curse. Like fuck. Like damn. Like unbelievable. She can’t help but smirk against warm, wet flesh and even that manages to illicit a groan.
She feels lost and found and anchored all at once. She can’t help but think it has more to do with the who than the substance that brought the fog. She tries to shake that thought and focus, but it’s there like a hand on her back.
It doesn’t last nearly long enough and yet it feels unending like a song she’s put on repeat with only one verse and a chorus, circling round. There’s the familiar sharp intake of breath and thighs trembling, flexing against her marked shoulders. Her name’s drawn out between tight breaths then panted over and over as her tongue keeps working slowly.
It’s not enough, Rachel breaking into a million little pieces beneath her mouth, so she shifts up as the girl comes down, sinks into a kiss and inside all at once. Rachel’s gasp fills her mouth as her fingers fill Rachel and it’s almost too much.
Almost.
Too much is Rachel’s hand dragging down the ink on her sleeve and around the curve of her hip. Her fingers slide over Santana’s wet skin like they just know and then they’re both working together. Fingers curling and pulling, pressing and rubbing, knowing and discovering. It’s just the two of them. Pressing out haphazard kisses and gets warm skin and shifting so their bodies fit together in just the right way.
And fuck, she thought she would last longer, but Rachel’s pulsing around her fingers and she’s found that spot in Santana that makes her see white and quiver. She gasps, tries to keep her on focus on the sharp, deep thrusts guided by her flexing wrist, but her belly is warm and the room is spinning.
Santana’s teeth sink into Rachel’s shoulder. Her groan isn’t muffled much at all. Rachel’s name falls off her lips like water and her hips keep rocking, searching for what’s been found. Her own thrusts stop momentarily but Rachel doesn’t seem to mind, just keeps curling her fingers in shallow strokes as her thumb rubs tight circles against Santana’s nerves.
She gives Rachel one of those soft kisses that seem to just happen against her will when she’s come down. Rachel giggles and gives her ass a squeeze then gasps out a whine when Santana’s fingers flex just once inside of her.
She knows Rachel’s close, knows how to get her where she’s going, knows where to press and push to take her there.
It’s beautiful the way she falls apart, eyes low but locked with Santana’s, perfect lips gasping out, “Oh.”
*
It’s near silent for while, save for the sound of breathing and wind rattling against her window. She’s staring at the ceiling, eyes long adjusted to the darkness, spent.
“That was …” Rachel starts and then just doesn’t finish. She laughs lightly though, turning her head to look at Santana. There’s no expectancy there, just soft eyes and Santana sticks out her tongue just because. “You’re a child,” Rachel says but she’s laughing and rolling closer until she’s tucked against Santana’s side. Santana’s arms wrap around her easily. She’s hot and groggy and sated, skin moist from drying sweat, legs sticky.
Rachel’s thumb presses up and down against her side, sinking into the anchor tattooed there like it’s taken to doing. It feels nice to just be like this.
She knows it’s not just the orgasm or the weed. She knows it’s more “the Rachel” than anything else. God, she doesn’t even know how to contemplate what that means, but she does.
“I like being high,” Rachel giggles out.
“I like you,” she says before she can stop herself.
It’s true.
*
Rachel kisses down her stomach a few minutes later, makes her fall apart with a scream then squeezes hot soapy water onto her back when they shower together.
She doesn’t spend the night every time, but she’s staying tonight and they settle back on her bed. Rachel in a pair of Santana’s little red cotton shorts and a tank top, head on Santana’s stomach while she plays with the girl’s hair. She’s in Ralph Lauren boxer briefs and a sports bra and the socks she likes to sleep in. Rachel teases her about those and tickles her side.
Frank Ocean and Janet and The Isley Brothers drift in and out of the room. She can always feel music when she’s like this and she’s half in love with this moment. Being like this. With this girl.
She could be worried about how right it feels but she doesn’t, just thumbs at Rachel’s bottom lip when she looks up at her with a silly grin and tells her she’s really curious to here what Biggie sounds like when she’s feeling like this.
It can’t get much better.
like a moth to a flame
CHARACTERS: Santana Lopez/Rachel Berry.
WORDS: 4.4k.
RATING: NC-17.
DISCLAIMER: I don't owns the Glee.
SUMMARY: AU. The text says that she's on her way over, which is fine with Santana. They'd planned on that. Not that they're like Valentine's or anything lame. Rachel's just the incredibly hot girl Santana's baking weed brownies for.
A/N: set in the same verse as this one's gonna leave a mark. // for the wife, smc_27. happy (very late) valentine's day.
Honestly, Santana's a little surprised she hasn’t gone crazy today. What with all the imbeciles who requested that she tattoo someone’s name in a strange place. It’s one of those things she just doesn’t do -- along with several other popular requests (butterflies, company logos, random ass words in chinese). She’s kind of a tattoo purist even if she does have several really damn ridiculous tattoos of her own courtesy of too much tequila and Puck. It’s really art to her and she’s not (nor is any member of the shop) down with tatting something someone will very obviously regret about five minutes afterward. Their prices are a little higher and their consultations a little more thorough because they're really about creating pieces people can be proud of.
Anyway, she stays at the shop ‘til around four thirty. Joaquin, one of the new guys with a super awesome fro and one of her favorite back pieces, slides her a dub and a shiny new red grinder while she's putting shit into her bag and says, "Happy Valentine's day, Lo," then chuckles at the blank stare and, "You do know I'm gay, right?" she shoots back.
"Yeah, I know," he says as he shakes his head, still kind of chuckling at her. "I owed you that from like November and you broke your grinder last time me and Puck were over."
She is so not used to having nice people work here but she will take this free weed and run with it. Besides, Joaquin’s a cool dude. He’s originally from Detroit, went to school in Atlanta, did the investment banker thing for like two years then said fuck it, grew out his hair and apprenticed at a shop in Harlem. She met the guy at a party and decided she needed to hire him right then and there. Pretty good business decision and, well, he's a good friend, too, even if he's a pansy.
"Oh yeah, thanks then," she says around a laugh and punches his shoulder. "No more sweet shit though. It's scary. We have an asshole policy here. Everyone has to be one."
"I'll work on it," he tells her, then bumps fists with her as they both head out together. Puck blows her an obnoxious kiss and slaps her ass for good measure. Tina shakes her head at him and waves goodbye.
"We're doing happy hour at Dirty Dick's tomorrow," she says over her shoulder, heading the opposite way up the block.
*
She gets home about an hour later after making a couple pit stops at both the grocery and liquor store. She hops in the shower and pulls on a pair of dark wash jeans, a tight white v-neck that doesn’t quite reach the band of her jeans, this red and pink braided belt she’s half in love with and a thin gold chain with a Nefertiti pendant Puck gave her for Christmas. She gets a text from Rachel just a few minutes later while she’s half-way fussing with her hair.
They've been talking or fucking or whatever for the last several months. Whenever it's convenient for both of them, really. Rachel was in Chicago over Christmas and through January, doing a short run of some show a friend of her’s produced and visiting her dads who moved out there in October.
Santana's pretty fucking glad she's back. They're not in a relationship or anything like that, but she hasn't been sleeping with anyone else and she's certainly overdue for an orgasm or two.
The text says that she's on her way over, which is fine with Santana. They'd planned on that. Not that they're like Valentine's or anything lame. Rachel's just the incredibly hot girl Santana's baking weed brownies for.
She seems to be fucking fascinated by Santana's penchant for occasionally blowing trees. Also, quite obviously curious about it.
Santana's offered to let the girl roll up with her on occasion but she's wary of like, fucking up her vocal chords and she gave Santana an entire speech on the many ways her career would be ruined. Still, she knows Rachel's über curious about what being high's like, so. She decided she'd mix up a batch of brownies.
The oil's super fucking potent because she let it simmer low and slow for about six hours yesterday and the actual recipe is delicious. She and Puck have been making it for years; usually on birthdays, occasionally just because.
She cuts on a playlist Mike hand mixed for her. It's a lot of her favorite 90s hip hop cuts to like, counter the fact that she feels all ... whatever baking brownies for a chick on Valentine's day.
*
Rachel knocks on her door about ten minutes after she's taken the brownies out the oven. She looks hot as fuck in this little red lace jacquard dress, with black piping along the collar and a black band around the waist. Her legs look endless and her hair is parted down the middle, wavy and shiny as fuck like always, too. She's got the little ombré thing going on and Santana likes the color. The woman’s holding a polka dotted reusable tote and whatever’s in it smells delicious.
They greet each other with a hug and of course Santana lets her hand slide down the girl's back and onto her ass. Rachel giggles and nips at her neck in kind. She's trying not to like, say fuck it and get the girl naked but that's pretty damn hard. She kind of has to kiss her, y'know? And so what if she slips in a little tongue. If that moan is any testament, Rachel likes it.
Rachel pulls back and squeezes at Santana's hip, her thumb working back and forth there as she says, "You look pretty,” with a cute little grin.
Santana chuckles a bit. "Thanks. Uh, you look hot as fuck," she says eying her appreciatively. Santana hasn't done anything special, save for a bit of mascara and some lip gloss that's definitely missing now. Her haircut is new, too. She added a few layers. The longest stopping a little above her bra strap. Santana’s learned that Rachel’s the kind of girl who notices that kind of stuff.
Rachel blushes a bit, pinches the skin on Santana's side and asks how she's been as she follows her further into her loft, the tote swinging just slightly.
"Can't complain, really," she says, shrugging. She really can't. Not with a number of awesome opportunities flowing in. They’ve lost one artist since Holly left but she's hired three more: Joaquin, as well as Marco and a tiny dude from London who calls himself Turtle. There's also been a few renovations and she and the rest of the guys are planning to turn one of the main walls into a mural. "Was Chicago good to you?"
Rachel smiles wide at that, bouncing on her toes and running her fingers through the ends of her hair. "Really good actually," she says in a cute little singsong voice as she presses her back to Santana's counter and watches her slide the knife through the brownies. Santana knows from casual conversation that her fathers moved out there recently and it was the girl’s first chance to see their place. “I met Devin Perkins."
Santana's got no idea who that is and her face surely says so. Her eyebrows go up though, to show that she can tell Rachel's excited about it and that she’s actually listening and even interested.
(It’s not a reaction a lot of people get out of her.)
"He's a playwright and a respected producer. He's workshopping a show and he says he's eying me for the lead. It's not a guarantee or anything but it's still exciting," she says happily. There's a lilt in her voice that Santana's become pretty familiar with. It's cute as hell when the girl gets like this. She fucks with how passionate she is about her craft. Santana could generally give fuck all about stuff like this, but Rachel tends to grasp her interest and it’s not just because she likes her rack.
“That’s dope,” she tells her then chuckles at the way Rachel’s head is bobbing to the music that’s still playing.
“Thank you. Tupac?” She asks. Santana smirks, rolling her eyes because like, six months ago the girl had no idea who he really was other than the fact that one of her cousin’s was a big fan and that she’d seen a movie he was in called “Soda or … Juice or something” a long time ago.
She’s kind of made it her personal mission to introduce the girl to good hip hop and Rachel’s made it her own mission to school Santana on Broadway. It’s a pretty fun exchange of interests. They went to see Porgy and Bess back in September, hit a Kendrick Lamar concert in October and traded iPods for a weekend before Rachel’d gone to Chicago.
(Rachel’s still trying to talk her into going to Chelsea to see Rocky Horror.)
“Yeah. What’s that?” She asks as Rachel starts to unload her tote bag. She pulls out a casserole sized tupperware and a baguette.
“Dinner.”
“Damn. It smells good,” Santana says, peeking as Rachel peels off the top. It looks just as good as it smells and when Rachel explains all that’s in it, her mouth waters. She’s a sucker for a good pasta dish. Also, incredibly hungry.
“I figured you’d be hungry and we couldn’t just eat brownies,” she says, reaching into Santana’s cabinet to take down two plates, standing on her toes. She’s pretty comfortable at Santana’s place and vice versa though they tend to hang here most often. Santana chuckles appreciatively and takes the plates from the woman.
“Very true,” she says, smirking. There’s a comment she could make, but she’s keeping it to herself. Rachel seems to be aware of it anyway because she rolls her eyes and pokes at Santana’s side.
“Are those the, um, special ones you talked about?” Rachel asks, giggling a bit and biting the edge of her bottom lip. Santana nods and Rachel grins. “Tonight should be fun.”
Santana’s banking on that fact.
*
Dinner is fucking great and delicious and a million other adjectives that leave Santana satisfied.
They catch up and drink a few glasses of Moët from a bottle that somehow went unopened on New Year’s Eve. The tequila she picked up at the liquor store doesn’t seem right for the meal … or the occasion.
They’re both a little tipsy and flirty and goofy, too. She laughs a lot when Rachel’s around and not just at her, because yeah, that happens, but Rachel is fucking funny, too. She’s like a secret jackass and Santana loves it.
Rachel’s cooked for her a few times and it’s always good, but this might’ve been her favorite meal. She tells her so and the girl blushes and teases that it can’t be while she pushes her hair over her shoulder.
“I’m serious,” she advises, standing up to clear the table. “You ready to try these brownies?”
“I think so,” Rachel says in a smaller voice than normal, looking up at Santana through her lashes. She’s so hot it’s insane in the best ways. And it’s always the most random thing she does that makes Santana think it.
“S’not gonna hurt you, baby. Promise.”
“Okay,” Rachel says fairly confidently, following Santana to the kitchen. She actually has to move the girl away from the sink to keep her from trying to wash dishes.
Rachel stands close to her, a hand on Santana’s hip as she extracts a brownie from the pan. She cut them small and figures two will do the trick for her, but one should suffice for Rachel. She goes to pass it to her, but Rachel just opens her mouth, a devious little glint in her eyes.
Of fucking course she can get with this.
She feeds it her, making sure her fingers catch on Rachel’s bottom lip as they retreat and wets her own lip at the way Rachel hums appreciatively. This girl.
“They’re good,” Rachel says, like she’s surprised. Santana chuckles, rolling her eyes and tipping her head just so.
“You saying you were skeptical about my skills?”
Rachel just grins, raising one shoulder slightly in a cute way. Santana’s learned that the girl enjoys fucking with her just as much as Santana likes to do the same.
*
She got a new television over Black Friday and Mike’s the awesome type of friend who will buy her the Blu-Ray player she’d had a boner for since Halloween for Christmas. She set up all the new shit in her room because it’s become her favorite place to actually watch things so they settle there, on her bed. There are bottles of water on her nightstand, shoes at the end of her bed and Fresh Prince reruns playing on the screen.
Rachel’s curled up around a pillow she’s pretty much claimed as her own in the last few months (it smells like her even when she’s gone) when the giggles start about two episodes in. Her eyes are glossy and she’s grinning when she looks up at Santana, her head tipping back and her hair falling over her shoulder. Of course Santana’s reaction is to giggle back.
“You’re really, really attractive you know,” Rachel tells her, her fingers gliding over Santana’s forearm, her teeth sinking into her own lip. Her skin tingles at the touch. There’s a hazy, blissed-out expression on Rachel’s face and she’s looking up through her lashes in that way that makes want ripple through Santana almost instantly.
“You’re high,” she chuckles out, playfully rolling her eyes.
“I’m not-“ Rachel says, beginning to protest but it only takes a couple of seconds for her to laugh about that. “I am, but that’s not the point,” she tells her in that little indignant voice she gets. It’s never really serious. At least, Santana never takes it serious and it’s always followed by one of those cute as fuck grins that gets her wet and makes her stomach flip.
The girl sighs, rolling toward Santana until their knees are bumping and says, “It’s a rather peculiar feeling … being high.”
“God, I thought you’d like, lose your thesaurus if I got you zooted,” she teases. That earns a pinch and then Rachel’s rolling away, her hand hitting the remote and cutting the TV off by accident. Santana chuckles, then bites down on her bottom lip.
“Are you pouting?” she asks into newfound darkness. “I know you’re not pouting,” she continues, slinking closer to Rachel in the dark.
Her lips find skin; a shoulder, she’s sure. Positive, really. She’s learned this body with no lights to guide her anyway. She knows if she just shifts her lips to the right, they’ll press down on those tiny music notes she inked there.
“I’m not,” Rachel says on a sharp inhale.
“Good; you’re too hot for that shit,” she says, tongue flicking out to wet her own lips.
She knows Rachel rolls her eyes at that. Mostly because the girl flattens so that she’s lying on her back, coyly looking up at Santana when she does it. Even in the dark those eyes sparkle and she has to press a kiss to Rachel’s lips.
It’s supposed to be a quick peck but Rachel holds her there, slipping a hand into her hair and stroking a thumb across the ‘xo’ she knows is on the base of Santana’s neck. Her own fingers crawl up Rachel’s leg until they’re tickling the soft skin of her thighs. Rachel kisses her harder, more urgently and laughs into her mouth.
Everything is slow and fast at once and she’s warm, but not uncomfortable. The kiss is uncoordinated at best, but fuck if it doesn’t still feel good. It’s like they’re both eager, but not quick enough and it takes a bit of focus to get it right, but it feels really fucking good when they do.
Rachel says, “Oh,” when her lips start to pepper hot kisses along her jawline and her hand inches up just a little higher. She pulls back for just a moment to smile at her lazily. Rachel licks her lips and slides a a hand over the back of her shirt and into her back pocket. Her hips press down and Rachel’s buck back gently as one of those long-as-fuck legs comes to wrap around her waist.
Her gut is burning with want and her skin is hot and sensitive and dying to be flush against Rachel’s. It’s like the girl knows, because tiny hands work the buckle on her belt then undo her jeans before nails scrape at her back as Rachel peels her shirt off. The girl’s thumb deftly flicks at the clasp of Santana’s bra and then it’s gone, too.
“Gotta get you out of this,” she mumbles against Rachel’s neck while she feels around for the catch on her dress. She’s just a little pissed at herself for not locating the zipper when she had a good view of the thing. Her fingers bump against a zipper-pull after a few moments of fumbling around, seeking hips and lips busying them anyway. She helps Rachel out of it, rolling the red fabric down her body and pitching it off the bed before her own jeans and boyshorts are shoved down her hips. Her body covers Rachel’s a moment later and they both seem to sigh at the feeling.
She loves Rachel like this; laid out beneath her, lissome in pretty pink panties and a matching bra, flagrant in her want. Her head spins a little and her hips surge forward again, searching.
“Shit,” Rachel hisses, gently. It makes Santana chuckle as she sucks on Rachel’s chest, bruising little marks blossoming along the swell of her breast. She knows that the ease with which the girl swears now, is partially influenced by her. She likes it. Just like she likes the nails scraping at the small of her back. She doesn’t hate being marked, not hardly.
“It feels …” Rachel starts, she cuts her off with a kiss because Rachel doesn’t know what feeling is yet, not when there are still barriers between them and she’s barely put a dent in the list of things she wants - needs to do.
Rachel surprises her then, rolling them quickly. She ends up on her back, chest heaving as Rachel straddles her. There’s no sound save for heavy breathing as Rachel looks down at her. The way her eyes scan over Santana’s body makes the floating feeling surrounding her suddenly stronger. She feels both heavy and light and her head spins again. Her eyes squeeze shut for a moment as her hands grip Rachel’s waist, claiming even in the haze.
Rachel’s reaching behind herself, bra falling away from her body when Santana opens her eyes. The girl giggles almost bashfully when their eyes lock and Santana just slides her hands up over her taut stomach until they’re cupping warm, soft, perfect skin. Rachel gasps, back bending slightly. She’s wet against Santana’s belly, nipples hard against her palms.
“I want …” Rachel says, hips rolling.
“Shh.” She leans up, tongue swirling around a nipple. Her thumbs hook into the band of Rachel’s panties and tug down. Rachel lifts, helping her slide them off then settles back on top of her. It’s almost graceful the way their bodies find each other again.
She likes Rachel on top, loves it even, but right now she wants something else. She shifts, rolling the girl back onto the mattress and settling between thighs that part for her. Santana kisses her again, tongue gliding over Rachel’s lips before she licks into her mouth and rocks against her. Rachel’s hips roll again and again against her thigh and she gasps out, “Please,” between kisses. She can’t really argue with that.
She’s missed this.
“So fucking sexy,” she says as her kisses drift lower. Her lips chart a map of all her favorite places; the column of Rachel’s neck, her collar bone, between her breasts, the spot on her stomach that makes her squirm, just below her belly button, that pretty little star on her hip.
Rachel’s hands are everywhere at once; nails scrape the nape of her neck and dig into her shoulders, fingertips caress her cheek, massage her scalp, guide until she’s just there, pressing bruised lips against the ampersand she penned right there on Rachel’s inner thigh.
Rachel is so wet.
Her heartbeat is thudding in her ears when long legs open wider and she presses one quick kiss to the black ink before she licks the length of her, long, slow, confident. Rachel exhales sharply, but she’s watching, all hooded lids and swollen lips.
Santana thinks this might be her favorite part. The way Rachel can’t form sentences and her hands can’t settle on one anchor until Santana rolls her tongue and sucks hard. Then Rachel’s gripping her hair tight and hissing, moaning, calling.
It’s like she can’t decide if she wants to get away or come closer because she squirms but her palm holds Santana’s head in place solidly. Her name is grunted out like a curse. Like fuck. Like damn. Like unbelievable. She can’t help but smirk against warm, wet flesh and even that manages to illicit a groan.
She feels lost and found and anchored all at once. She can’t help but think it has more to do with the who than the substance that brought the fog. She tries to shake that thought and focus, but it’s there like a hand on her back.
It doesn’t last nearly long enough and yet it feels unending like a song she’s put on repeat with only one verse and a chorus, circling round. There’s the familiar sharp intake of breath and thighs trembling, flexing against her marked shoulders. Her name’s drawn out between tight breaths then panted over and over as her tongue keeps working slowly.
It’s not enough, Rachel breaking into a million little pieces beneath her mouth, so she shifts up as the girl comes down, sinks into a kiss and inside all at once. Rachel’s gasp fills her mouth as her fingers fill Rachel and it’s almost too much.
Almost.
Too much is Rachel’s hand dragging down the ink on her sleeve and around the curve of her hip. Her fingers slide over Santana’s wet skin like they just know and then they’re both working together. Fingers curling and pulling, pressing and rubbing, knowing and discovering. It’s just the two of them. Pressing out haphazard kisses and gets warm skin and shifting so their bodies fit together in just the right way.
And fuck, she thought she would last longer, but Rachel’s pulsing around her fingers and she’s found that spot in Santana that makes her see white and quiver. She gasps, tries to keep her on focus on the sharp, deep thrusts guided by her flexing wrist, but her belly is warm and the room is spinning.
Santana’s teeth sink into Rachel’s shoulder. Her groan isn’t muffled much at all. Rachel’s name falls off her lips like water and her hips keep rocking, searching for what’s been found. Her own thrusts stop momentarily but Rachel doesn’t seem to mind, just keeps curling her fingers in shallow strokes as her thumb rubs tight circles against Santana’s nerves.
She gives Rachel one of those soft kisses that seem to just happen against her will when she’s come down. Rachel giggles and gives her ass a squeeze then gasps out a whine when Santana’s fingers flex just once inside of her.
She knows Rachel’s close, knows how to get her where she’s going, knows where to press and push to take her there.
It’s beautiful the way she falls apart, eyes low but locked with Santana’s, perfect lips gasping out, “Oh.”
*
It’s near silent for while, save for the sound of breathing and wind rattling against her window. She’s staring at the ceiling, eyes long adjusted to the darkness, spent.
“That was …” Rachel starts and then just doesn’t finish. She laughs lightly though, turning her head to look at Santana. There’s no expectancy there, just soft eyes and Santana sticks out her tongue just because. “You’re a child,” Rachel says but she’s laughing and rolling closer until she’s tucked against Santana’s side. Santana’s arms wrap around her easily. She’s hot and groggy and sated, skin moist from drying sweat, legs sticky.
Rachel’s thumb presses up and down against her side, sinking into the anchor tattooed there like it’s taken to doing. It feels nice to just be like this.
She knows it’s not just the orgasm or the weed. She knows it’s more “the Rachel” than anything else. God, she doesn’t even know how to contemplate what that means, but she does.
“I like being high,” Rachel giggles out.
“I like you,” she says before she can stop herself.
It’s true.
*
Rachel kisses down her stomach a few minutes later, makes her fall apart with a scream then squeezes hot soapy water onto her back when they shower together.
She doesn’t spend the night every time, but she’s staying tonight and they settle back on her bed. Rachel in a pair of Santana’s little red cotton shorts and a tank top, head on Santana’s stomach while she plays with the girl’s hair. She’s in Ralph Lauren boxer briefs and a sports bra and the socks she likes to sleep in. Rachel teases her about those and tickles her side.
Frank Ocean and Janet and The Isley Brothers drift in and out of the room. She can always feel music when she’s like this and she’s half in love with this moment. Being like this. With this girl.
She could be worried about how right it feels but she doesn’t, just thumbs at Rachel’s bottom lip when she looks up at her with a silly grin and tells her she’s really curious to here what Biggie sounds like when she’s feeling like this.
It can’t get much better.