Glee, Shake The Glitter (1/?)
Title: Shake The Glitter
Author: lowbatterie , archived here @ substitute_ego
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn
Rating: R/NC-17, eventually.
Word Count: ~2250
Spoilers: The first 13 episodes of season 1, because I came up with this and wrote most of it during the hiatus waiting for the back 9.
Disclaimer: I don't own it or any of the characters used within, I'm just borrowing them with the promise to put them back where they belong when I'm done with them, scout's honor.
Notes: I wrote the majority of this like last March or something, but never posted it for reasons of I hadn't written all of it in one go, like I usually do, and I apparently like lurking in this fandom, and other things.
For the following kink_meme prompt: Rachel/Quinn "Waking Up In Vegas" style fic (after baby!Drizzle is idk gone, out of the picture.) Accidently!married after a night that neither of them remember. Please have a waking up naked and together, freakout scene. Bonus points for sexy flashbacks to that night as they gradually remember. Would prefer a happy together ending,(after sufficent angsting over everything, of course) just not married.
So this is what my brain said, and then I started writing: Nationals, senior year, bb Drizzle is, uh, adopted? Yeah. Let’s go with that. WIN. Everyone goes and gets plastered. Last thing Rachel remembers is the third bar of the night. Quinn can’t remember past the fourth cosmo at the first bar.
---
Quinn wakes up first. First she’s warm. And happy. And sated, but for some reason that word doesn’t quite compute just yet.
Then she feels a breath blow across her spine and she realizes she’s naked and there’s someone in bed with her and the last time she woke up like this it had resulted in one of the worst years of her life so her very next instinct is-- screaming. Stumbling, scrambling out of bed and whipping around to face whoever it was she has slept with-oh, God, oh, God, now she’s screaming more and the sleeping figure she’d just had next to her stirs, groaning, a mess of dark, long, wavy locks and Quinn can’t stop screaming because she was just, oh, you know, tangled up with Rachel Berry using her back as a pillow? (She’s taken to sleeping on her stomach after the six months she couldn’t.)
When brown eyes open fully to the situation there’s a brief struggle over who gets the top sheet to cover themselves with. Rachel wins out of sheer stubbornness and Quinn yanks the comforter and burritos herself up in the zebra pattern. When she looks back up at Rachel the diva has remarkably good hair for spending the night wasted and the morning hungover and why is she looking at Quinn like that?
Hazel eyes narrow. Rachel’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out.
“Talk, Rachel. I know you can. This is one of four times I’ve ever known you to be speechless in our entire lives.”
“You, um. Neck. Sh-shoulders.” She waves a shaky finger and then points limply to the mirror. Quinn glances to her left.
Then does a triple take.
Holy. Shit. There are bite marks all over her. She drops her makeshift toga a bit to see that they spread - she opens it up and peeks down at her breasts and gasps, clutching the material to her and squeezing her eyes shut. No. No, no, no. They are everywhere and suddenly she remembers the feel of Rachel’s silky hair as it slides over her skin, trailing after those perfect teeth and the mouth that scorches her skin. “Fuck, Rachel,” she hisses, body arching up against yet another firm, possessive bite on her breast, her rib, her hip as the brunette works her way down toward Quinn’s simmering heat-she gasps again and it seemed to shake Rachel out of her haze.
“Quinn? Are you alright?”
“Am I alright? I wake up with no memory, in-in-in bed with, with… you,” she sputters, flinging an accusatory finger at the girl in the tangled sheets, “and one killer fucking hangover,” she adds with a snarl, “and ask me if I’m-all… righ…” It’s Rachel’s turn to wonder what Quinn’s hazel eyes are getting wide about.
“What is it? I know I forgot to take off my make up,” she says quickly, lifting a hand to her face self-consciously in a very un-Rachel Berry-like manner.
“No, you actually look pretty with it slept in,” Quinn says dazedly. “It’s… you have a… handcuffs-“ and suddenly Rachel feels the weight on her wrist. She looks down at the hand clasping the sheet to her chest and oh, sweet son of Abraham, there’s a pair of steely, shiny handcuffs dangling from her arm, one open and one still closed about her wrist. Her mouth drops open as her brows furrow in shock, and when she lifts her eyes to meet Quinn’s a rush of memory runs over her - snick, snick. The cuffs are brand new and sound it and Quinn’s eyes are dancing.
“Gotcha,” she whispers, straddling Rachel’s hips and leaning down to gaze into those trusting brown eyes. Rachel swallows hard, and Quinn’s eyes grow serious.
“Give me a safeword, Berry.”
“Broadway.”
The blonde rolled her eyes. “God, you’re predictable.” But her smile is fond and then she’s rolling her hips and all Rachel can feel is damp undies against her thighs and holy crap, Quinn is a master bra remover, who knew?
“What the fuck did we do last night, Rachel?” The blonde’s voice startles Rachel out of her memory, and she blinks at the edge of anger in it that has been missing from the ex-Cheerio’s voice for years. If Rachel didn't know better, she would have missed the tremor of panic that the lace of venom is trying to hide.
“I think that’s obvious,” she sniffs.
“I meant besides this unsightly sin,” Quinn sneers. If Rachel is going to be snippy about it then she can be snippy right back. Quinn is about ninety percent positive her hair looks like a rat’s nest and it feels like Mr. Schue is break dancing against her skull right about now, so civility is a little out of reach.
“I have no idea,” the brunette retorts hotly. “I can’t remember anything after the third bar.”
Quinn groans, sinking against a chest of drawers with a hand over her face. “Jesus, it’s just a blur last night. I can’t remember anything past my fourth cosmo at the first bar.”
Rachel, retaining as much dignity as she can, scrambles off the bed without showing any more skin than is possible. (Although it’s not like she hasn’t seen it all, Berry, a small voice sounds in her head and she winces when it rings true.) Then she winces when she tries walking, and reaches for the post of the bed after just a couple steps.
“Quinn… I…”
“What?” The blonde looks concerned, takes a hesitant step toward the brunette leaning against the bedpost.
“I think you… I think we… um.”
Her eyes flutter to the floor because she can’t manage to say, “fucked until I can’t walk straight,” quite yet and Quinn breathes, “Oh. Oh.” And she is at Rachel’s side in a moment, left arm wrapping around her waist to help her stand, hand on her hip. Rachel blinks up at her with a small smile and then lashes hide her brown eyes again. They’ve taken a few steps when Rachel stops completely.
“Why,” she asks slowly, in a deceptively calm voice, “are you wearing my class ring, Quinn?”
“I’m not, moron, I’m wearing mi-“ and hazel eyes find the red stone with stainless steel and a cross on the side on Rachel Berry’s tanned finger. And Rachel finds the winking red oval set in white gold metal with a big, bright star beneath her graduating year on Quinn Fabray’s finger. Her left ring finger, to be exact. Just like Rachel’s.
“Shit,” they say in unison, and Rachel dashes for the bathroom while Quinn runs for the walk-in closet.
-
Doors slam at the same time and Quinn’s knees are shaking so badly she slides down against the door and sits in the dark closet, trying to catch her breath that she's so suddenly lost. As her eyes adjust to the tiny sliver of light coming from under the door, she lowers her hand to the floor, heart pounding wildly again at the sight of Rachel’s signature gold star winking up at her from her left ring finger. She groans internally to herself, convinced that things can’t possibly get more complicated or worse when she kicks her legs out and her foot brushes against something rubbery and hard.
Quinn freezes for a moment. When her brain can’t figure it out what it is without further evidence and her curiosity overwhelms the small part of her brain screaming for her to leave it alone, she crawls over slowly and pats her hand over the ground until it meets an object that makes her swear.
“Oh. My. Fucking. God.”
It takes her another few moments to build up the courage to actually pick it up, fingers sliding over a sizable silicone length and the connected loops of synthetic material that can only be part of a harness.
She can't even bring herself to say it out loud. She can barely bring herself to think it. I can’t believe we…with a… it’s… it’s a- a strap on. …fuck. Quinn closes her eyes and suddenly another memory assaults her.
“I can’t believe you convinced me to do this.”
“Do you need help? You’ve been in there a while.”
“No!” she shoots back too quickly. “No, no, I’m-shit-I’m fine. Just gimme a minute.” Quinn glances at herself in the full-length mirror, turning to make sure she’s got all the straps in the right places, and tries to ignore how ridiculous she looks with this purple dildo attached to her hips. Checking that everything fits snugly, she lets the liquid courage running through her veins take over and swaggers out of the closet, taking long determined strides toward the girl who has been giggling on the other side of the door.
Brown eyes go wide at the sight of Quinn’s mostly naked body and her laughter dies in her throat at the predatory look in her eyes. Oh, fuck.
“Something funny?” the blonde asks, standing over Rachel where she sits at the edge of the bed. A smirk curls her lips as the diva simply shakes her head no, eyes fluttering down to the toy and back up again, visibly swallowing hard. Quinn puts her hands on her hips, her smirk growing.
“You’re the one that wanted me to wear this, Rach. I’m not really familiar with this type of thing but I’m pretty sure it needs to be prepped before a good fucking and I’m also pretty sure that’s your job.”
Something in Rachel’s chest seizes at the casual way Quinn dominates the situation in about five seconds flat (and uses the phrase ‘a good fucking’ like she says it every day of her life and means it) and she licks her lips nervously, dropping her eyes from that confident hazel gaze and reaching for one pale hip.
“Don’t be shy,” Quinn coos, and opens her mouth to tease Rachel a little more when the brunette traces the tip of her tongue from the base of the fake cock to the tip and suddenly Quinn is the one at a loss for words because watching Rachel close her mouth around the head of it and moan before the length disappears past her lips is maybe the hottest thing Quinn has ever seen.
Rachel has the passing thought as she lets her eyes flutter closed that Ms. Pillsbury was right, not having a gag reflex is a gift because Quinn makes a series of whimpering noises that are like music to her ears. Only she doesn't get to showcase her talent for long because then Quinn’s hand is in her hair, pulling her away. While she can't help the groan of pleasure at the way the blonde just fists a handful of her dark locks, it’s when Quinn half-tosses her onto the bed, crawls up the length of her body and whispers in her ear that she shivers all over with an undeniable wetness pooling between her legs.
“I’m gonna make you sing,” Quinn promises in a husky, throaty whisper. The way Rachel's body arches up into Quinn's, one leg wrapping around her hip and her short nails digging into her back tells the blonde that is exactly what the brunette wanted.
Quinn’s eyes shoot open before that recollection goes any further and she can't deny the warm heat coiling low in her belly. Swallowing hard, she searches the rest of the floor of the closet, finding only a stray heel and her jeans. The denim smells like vodka and smoke and Rachel and another memory swims forward.
Quinn frowns, patting the ass of her jeans repeatedly, stumbling against Rachel’s embrace, tanned arms looped around her neck.
“Damn it, I lost my fake ID.”
“Shut up and kiss me, Fabray.”
“God, so demanding.”
“You like it. Now kiss me.”
“No.”
“Why not?” Rachel’s whole face takes on a perfect pout, those big brown eyes threatening to crumble Quinn’s resolve from now until forever.
“Because I want to do terrible things to you,” she replies.
Rachel blinks. “That’s not a good reason to want-to want to not-” she frowns at her inability to get the words out right, because Rachel Berry does not stumble over her words, even when heavily intoxicated. “To not want to kiss me,” she finally enunciates clearly, a small smile of pride at getting the words out correctly blossoming. Then her brow crinkles again in thought. “In fact, I think that’s like the opposite of a reason to not kiss me.”
“I can’t kiss you, because if I do, I’m not gonna wanna stop. And I think I lost the hotel key along with my ID.”
That brings the diva up short. For about five seconds.
“This is why I insisted on the third key,” Rachel says matter-of-factly, speaking of the forty minute argument between her, Mr. Schue (who had to have all their room keys for security reasons) and the poor, unlucky desk attendant that had checked them in. She pulls the card with the magnetic strip out of her bra and Quinn lights up.
“Now will you kiss me?”
Quinn doesn’t answer with words.
Quinn is beginning to realize that she and Rachel had a lot of pent up feelings. Or must have had, for every single recollection of last night seems to have been about, during, or directly related to them having a ridiculous amount of sex. She files this realization away for later because trying to think about what it all means with this level of a hangover isn’t going to work. Instead she scoots up against the closet door and leans against it with a sigh, letting her eyes fall closed, because the only thought she can really manage right now is:
Fucking Vegas.
Author: lowbatterie , archived here @ substitute_ego
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn
Rating: R/NC-17, eventually.
Word Count: ~2250
Spoilers: The first 13 episodes of season 1, because I came up with this and wrote most of it during the hiatus waiting for the back 9.
Disclaimer: I don't own it or any of the characters used within, I'm just borrowing them with the promise to put them back where they belong when I'm done with them, scout's honor.
Notes: I wrote the majority of this like last March or something, but never posted it for reasons of I hadn't written all of it in one go, like I usually do, and I apparently like lurking in this fandom, and other things.
For the following kink_meme prompt: Rachel/Quinn "Waking Up In Vegas" style fic (after baby!Drizzle is idk gone, out of the picture.) Accidently!married after a night that neither of them remember. Please have a waking up naked and together, freakout scene. Bonus points for sexy flashbacks to that night as they gradually remember. Would prefer a happy together ending,(after sufficent angsting over everything, of course) just not married.
So this is what my brain said, and then I started writing: Nationals, senior year, bb Drizzle is, uh, adopted? Yeah. Let’s go with that. WIN. Everyone goes and gets plastered. Last thing Rachel remembers is the third bar of the night. Quinn can’t remember past the fourth cosmo at the first bar.
---
Quinn wakes up first. First she’s warm. And happy. And sated, but for some reason that word doesn’t quite compute just yet.
Then she feels a breath blow across her spine and she realizes she’s naked and there’s someone in bed with her and the last time she woke up like this it had resulted in one of the worst years of her life so her very next instinct is-- screaming. Stumbling, scrambling out of bed and whipping around to face whoever it was she has slept with-oh, God, oh, God, now she’s screaming more and the sleeping figure she’d just had next to her stirs, groaning, a mess of dark, long, wavy locks and Quinn can’t stop screaming because she was just, oh, you know, tangled up with Rachel Berry using her back as a pillow? (She’s taken to sleeping on her stomach after the six months she couldn’t.)
When brown eyes open fully to the situation there’s a brief struggle over who gets the top sheet to cover themselves with. Rachel wins out of sheer stubbornness and Quinn yanks the comforter and burritos herself up in the zebra pattern. When she looks back up at Rachel the diva has remarkably good hair for spending the night wasted and the morning hungover and why is she looking at Quinn like that?
Hazel eyes narrow. Rachel’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out.
“Talk, Rachel. I know you can. This is one of four times I’ve ever known you to be speechless in our entire lives.”
“You, um. Neck. Sh-shoulders.” She waves a shaky finger and then points limply to the mirror. Quinn glances to her left.
Then does a triple take.
Holy. Shit. There are bite marks all over her. She drops her makeshift toga a bit to see that they spread - she opens it up and peeks down at her breasts and gasps, clutching the material to her and squeezing her eyes shut. No. No, no, no. They are everywhere and suddenly she remembers the feel of Rachel’s silky hair as it slides over her skin, trailing after those perfect teeth and the mouth that scorches her skin. “Fuck, Rachel,” she hisses, body arching up against yet another firm, possessive bite on her breast, her rib, her hip as the brunette works her way down toward Quinn’s simmering heat-she gasps again and it seemed to shake Rachel out of her haze.
“Quinn? Are you alright?”
“Am I alright? I wake up with no memory, in-in-in bed with, with… you,” she sputters, flinging an accusatory finger at the girl in the tangled sheets, “and one killer fucking hangover,” she adds with a snarl, “and ask me if I’m-all… righ…” It’s Rachel’s turn to wonder what Quinn’s hazel eyes are getting wide about.
“What is it? I know I forgot to take off my make up,” she says quickly, lifting a hand to her face self-consciously in a very un-Rachel Berry-like manner.
“No, you actually look pretty with it slept in,” Quinn says dazedly. “It’s… you have a… handcuffs-“ and suddenly Rachel feels the weight on her wrist. She looks down at the hand clasping the sheet to her chest and oh, sweet son of Abraham, there’s a pair of steely, shiny handcuffs dangling from her arm, one open and one still closed about her wrist. Her mouth drops open as her brows furrow in shock, and when she lifts her eyes to meet Quinn’s a rush of memory runs over her - snick, snick. The cuffs are brand new and sound it and Quinn’s eyes are dancing.
“Gotcha,” she whispers, straddling Rachel’s hips and leaning down to gaze into those trusting brown eyes. Rachel swallows hard, and Quinn’s eyes grow serious.
“Give me a safeword, Berry.”
“Broadway.”
The blonde rolled her eyes. “God, you’re predictable.” But her smile is fond and then she’s rolling her hips and all Rachel can feel is damp undies against her thighs and holy crap, Quinn is a master bra remover, who knew?
“What the fuck did we do last night, Rachel?” The blonde’s voice startles Rachel out of her memory, and she blinks at the edge of anger in it that has been missing from the ex-Cheerio’s voice for years. If Rachel didn't know better, she would have missed the tremor of panic that the lace of venom is trying to hide.
“I think that’s obvious,” she sniffs.
“I meant besides this unsightly sin,” Quinn sneers. If Rachel is going to be snippy about it then she can be snippy right back. Quinn is about ninety percent positive her hair looks like a rat’s nest and it feels like Mr. Schue is break dancing against her skull right about now, so civility is a little out of reach.
“I have no idea,” the brunette retorts hotly. “I can’t remember anything after the third bar.”
Quinn groans, sinking against a chest of drawers with a hand over her face. “Jesus, it’s just a blur last night. I can’t remember anything past my fourth cosmo at the first bar.”
Rachel, retaining as much dignity as she can, scrambles off the bed without showing any more skin than is possible. (Although it’s not like she hasn’t seen it all, Berry, a small voice sounds in her head and she winces when it rings true.) Then she winces when she tries walking, and reaches for the post of the bed after just a couple steps.
“Quinn… I…”
“What?” The blonde looks concerned, takes a hesitant step toward the brunette leaning against the bedpost.
“I think you… I think we… um.”
Her eyes flutter to the floor because she can’t manage to say, “fucked until I can’t walk straight,” quite yet and Quinn breathes, “Oh. Oh.” And she is at Rachel’s side in a moment, left arm wrapping around her waist to help her stand, hand on her hip. Rachel blinks up at her with a small smile and then lashes hide her brown eyes again. They’ve taken a few steps when Rachel stops completely.
“Why,” she asks slowly, in a deceptively calm voice, “are you wearing my class ring, Quinn?”
“I’m not, moron, I’m wearing mi-“ and hazel eyes find the red stone with stainless steel and a cross on the side on Rachel Berry’s tanned finger. And Rachel finds the winking red oval set in white gold metal with a big, bright star beneath her graduating year on Quinn Fabray’s finger. Her left ring finger, to be exact. Just like Rachel’s.
“Shit,” they say in unison, and Rachel dashes for the bathroom while Quinn runs for the walk-in closet.
-
Doors slam at the same time and Quinn’s knees are shaking so badly she slides down against the door and sits in the dark closet, trying to catch her breath that she's so suddenly lost. As her eyes adjust to the tiny sliver of light coming from under the door, she lowers her hand to the floor, heart pounding wildly again at the sight of Rachel’s signature gold star winking up at her from her left ring finger. She groans internally to herself, convinced that things can’t possibly get more complicated or worse when she kicks her legs out and her foot brushes against something rubbery and hard.
Quinn freezes for a moment. When her brain can’t figure it out what it is without further evidence and her curiosity overwhelms the small part of her brain screaming for her to leave it alone, she crawls over slowly and pats her hand over the ground until it meets an object that makes her swear.
“Oh. My. Fucking. God.”
It takes her another few moments to build up the courage to actually pick it up, fingers sliding over a sizable silicone length and the connected loops of synthetic material that can only be part of a harness.
She can't even bring herself to say it out loud. She can barely bring herself to think it. I can’t believe we…with a… it’s… it’s a- a strap on. …fuck. Quinn closes her eyes and suddenly another memory assaults her.
“I can’t believe you convinced me to do this.”
“Do you need help? You’ve been in there a while.”
“No!” she shoots back too quickly. “No, no, I’m-shit-I’m fine. Just gimme a minute.” Quinn glances at herself in the full-length mirror, turning to make sure she’s got all the straps in the right places, and tries to ignore how ridiculous she looks with this purple dildo attached to her hips. Checking that everything fits snugly, she lets the liquid courage running through her veins take over and swaggers out of the closet, taking long determined strides toward the girl who has been giggling on the other side of the door.
Brown eyes go wide at the sight of Quinn’s mostly naked body and her laughter dies in her throat at the predatory look in her eyes. Oh, fuck.
“Something funny?” the blonde asks, standing over Rachel where she sits at the edge of the bed. A smirk curls her lips as the diva simply shakes her head no, eyes fluttering down to the toy and back up again, visibly swallowing hard. Quinn puts her hands on her hips, her smirk growing.
“You’re the one that wanted me to wear this, Rach. I’m not really familiar with this type of thing but I’m pretty sure it needs to be prepped before a good fucking and I’m also pretty sure that’s your job.”
Something in Rachel’s chest seizes at the casual way Quinn dominates the situation in about five seconds flat (and uses the phrase ‘a good fucking’ like she says it every day of her life and means it) and she licks her lips nervously, dropping her eyes from that confident hazel gaze and reaching for one pale hip.
“Don’t be shy,” Quinn coos, and opens her mouth to tease Rachel a little more when the brunette traces the tip of her tongue from the base of the fake cock to the tip and suddenly Quinn is the one at a loss for words because watching Rachel close her mouth around the head of it and moan before the length disappears past her lips is maybe the hottest thing Quinn has ever seen.
Rachel has the passing thought as she lets her eyes flutter closed that Ms. Pillsbury was right, not having a gag reflex is a gift because Quinn makes a series of whimpering noises that are like music to her ears. Only she doesn't get to showcase her talent for long because then Quinn’s hand is in her hair, pulling her away. While she can't help the groan of pleasure at the way the blonde just fists a handful of her dark locks, it’s when Quinn half-tosses her onto the bed, crawls up the length of her body and whispers in her ear that she shivers all over with an undeniable wetness pooling between her legs.
“I’m gonna make you sing,” Quinn promises in a husky, throaty whisper. The way Rachel's body arches up into Quinn's, one leg wrapping around her hip and her short nails digging into her back tells the blonde that is exactly what the brunette wanted.
Quinn’s eyes shoot open before that recollection goes any further and she can't deny the warm heat coiling low in her belly. Swallowing hard, she searches the rest of the floor of the closet, finding only a stray heel and her jeans. The denim smells like vodka and smoke and Rachel and another memory swims forward.
Quinn frowns, patting the ass of her jeans repeatedly, stumbling against Rachel’s embrace, tanned arms looped around her neck.
“Damn it, I lost my fake ID.”
“Shut up and kiss me, Fabray.”
“God, so demanding.”
“You like it. Now kiss me.”
“No.”
“Why not?” Rachel’s whole face takes on a perfect pout, those big brown eyes threatening to crumble Quinn’s resolve from now until forever.
“Because I want to do terrible things to you,” she replies.
Rachel blinks. “That’s not a good reason to want-to want to not-” she frowns at her inability to get the words out right, because Rachel Berry does not stumble over her words, even when heavily intoxicated. “To not want to kiss me,” she finally enunciates clearly, a small smile of pride at getting the words out correctly blossoming. Then her brow crinkles again in thought. “In fact, I think that’s like the opposite of a reason to not kiss me.”
“I can’t kiss you, because if I do, I’m not gonna wanna stop. And I think I lost the hotel key along with my ID.”
That brings the diva up short. For about five seconds.
“This is why I insisted on the third key,” Rachel says matter-of-factly, speaking of the forty minute argument between her, Mr. Schue (who had to have all their room keys for security reasons) and the poor, unlucky desk attendant that had checked them in. She pulls the card with the magnetic strip out of her bra and Quinn lights up.
“Now will you kiss me?”
Quinn doesn’t answer with words.
Quinn is beginning to realize that she and Rachel had a lot of pent up feelings. Or must have had, for every single recollection of last night seems to have been about, during, or directly related to them having a ridiculous amount of sex. She files this realization away for later because trying to think about what it all means with this level of a hangover isn’t going to work. Instead she scoots up against the closet door and leans against it with a sigh, letting her eyes fall closed, because the only thought she can really manage right now is:
Fucking Vegas.