Glee, Shake The Glitter (2/3)
Title: Shake The Glitter
Author: lowbatterie , archived here @ substitute_ego
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn
Rating: R/NC-17, eventually.
Word Count: ~3100
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. I do abuse italics quite heavily in this chapter, though.
Summary: That's what they get for waking up in Vegas. (See part one for the full kink_meme prompt.)
Part 1
Rachel is employing every breathing warm-up she can think of to try and calm herself down right now, but considering she knows she had at least six shots independent of the drinks that were shoved into her hands last night by increasingly inebriated teammates, she isn’t particularly surprised that even her iron-willed focus is failing her.
That, and she’s about forty percent sure she’s still in shock, which would also account for her inability to concentrate on any one thought (other than the one that’s been screaming I HOOKED UP WITH QUINN FABRAY since she became conscious of that apparent fact) for more than the time it takes nausea to spin her stomach around from ravenous to on the verge of vomiting and back again. Which is to say about every ten seconds or so.
Staring at the faintly off-white paint of the bathroom ceiling seems to help, and Rachel eventually gives in to the urge to sink to the floor when her legs inform her that they’ve done quite enough standing for now. On the way down she inhales sharply, a muscle in her jaw jumping as her teeth clamp together, stifling a weak, inarticulate sound at the soreness between her legs that aches in a way that says last night was rough, and lengthy, and really, really good.
Something beneath her is hard and uncomfortable, jabbing her right in the thigh, and she tugs a stray high heel out from under herself, finding it tangled in a striped tank-top and a pair of red underwear she recognizes as her own. Both the shoe and shirt belong to Quinn, and Rachel knows because she remembers-
Ripping the shirt off of Quinn as they stumble into the bathroom is easier than Rachel expects, and she delights at the surprise written on the blonde’s face as her golden hair falls into her eyes.
“Weren’t expecting that, were you, Fabray?”
Quinn seems to have recovered herself, because all she does is grab Rachel by the waist and bring her in close for a kiss, thumbs rubbing along the hem of her skirt over her hipbones and making the petite diva squirm. They’re connected at the lips and at the hips and Rachel can’t stop running her hands over Quinn’s skin, which is simply divine and asking for further attention-so Rachel obliges by letting her lips trail down over Quinn’s throat. She wedges a thigh between Quinn’s to stop her discontented murmurs at losing Rachel’s mouth on hers and follows her exploring fingertips with her lips.
“What’re you-“
“Shhh… your skin… tastes amazing,” she whispers between kisses, each press of lips against soft skin more fevered and enthusiastic than the last, until Quinn’s hips are rolling against Rachel’s thigh, which is actually more like her waist until she kicks off her heels (because Rachel had discarded hers the moment they got back to the hotel. “The carpet is SO SOFT-“ “Rachel, shut up, the elevators are this way-“ “Is all the carpet in Vegas this soft? This is AMAZIN-“ Quinn had kissed her then, and finally satisfied a long-dwelled upon notion that Rachel Berry could indeed be quieted by an impromptu kiss) and then she sort of comes down hard in just the right way against a leg Rachel is lifting on purpose and Quinn can’t do anything but moan.
“Holy Christ Almighty…”
Quinn’s finally gone pliable and limp in Rachel’s arms, and Quinn can feel her smile against her skin briefly before she gasps at the sharp, not entirely unwelcome flash of pain that accompanies a nip to her shoulder. Rachel takes that as a cue to bite down harder next time, and when Quinn graduates from gasping to groaning, Rachel knows she’s doing something right.
Being the eager overachiever that she is, she does something right from chin to chest, laying claim to both collarbones and every other square inch of Quinn’s delightfully sensitive neck until the blonde is clutching at her shoulders begging her to stop and put her mouth to better use.
“What do you want me to do, Quinn?” Rachel is playing coy, toying with the bra straps that have begun to slip down pale shoulders, but a wicked grin overtakes Quinn’s mouth and she slides her hands firmly up the backs of Rachel’s thighs beneath her skirt until they meet the lacy edge of underwear and tease along her skin until goosebumps arise.
“I’m thinking maybe I should show you,” is the husky growling suggestion that Rachel can barely believe is coming from Quinn Fabray’s throat, but the blonde’s lips are closing around her earlobe and suddenly the roles are reversed, because Rachel finds herself sitting on the counter looking down at hazel eyes with blown pupils and there’s a denim-clad pelvis nestled snugly between her legs. She’s a little bit breathless and Quinn seems to be silently asking her permission even as her fingers curl around the top of her panties and it’s all Rachel can do to nod frantically and help lift herself up to aid Quinn’s intent.
“Yes, yes I think a demonstration of what you’d like me to do would be most info-oh. Ohhh, Quinn…”
Rachel scrambles to her feet, staring at her reflection in the mirror for a shred of stability as she tries to calm her breathing down from uncontrollable panting again. This was the last time Noah Puckerman (or Santana Lopez, for that matter, delinquents, the both of them!) could goad her into something by simply teasing her with a well-timed and irritatingly-successful, “Don’t be a baby.”
“Never again,” she tells herself aloud as she gulps down oxygen. She turns on the sink to splash a little cool water on her cheeks, which she’s embarrassed to admit (to no one but herself, but it’s embarrassing all the same) have flushed at the mere thought of what must have followed that recollection. Truth be told, she’s really only remembering things in bits and pieces, although some come through with much sharper clarity than others.
The thing is, though, even without a full recollection, she’s pretty sure she knows what she’d do if she had the chance to choose to do last night all over again, questionable drinks included. Because if it resulted in even a fraction of what little she could remember, well…
Her eyes look down at the hand not clutching her sheet-dress to her chest (with that goddamn handcuff on her wrist, she can’t even begin to bring herself to think about that yet) and blink owlishly at Quinn’s silver graduation ring, then back up at her own mussed reflection, teeth worrying her bottom lip.
It’s Vegas. These things happen. …Right?
For once, the brunette isn’t very convinced by her rationalization skills, and she isn’t very happy about it, either. Rachel leaves the sanctuary of the bathroom in a frustrated huff and starts moving around in the main room. By this time, Quinn has been staring at that stupid gold star on that stupid ring long enough to get stupid angry.
“Rachel?”
“No, it’s Sue Sylvester,” she shoots back, an eye roll accompanying the retort. Quinn shudders at the thought. That possibility introduces a whole new level of fucked up she isn't ready to address. Ever.
“What’s your problem, Berry?”
“Are we resorting to last names, now? Well, my problem, Fabray,” she growls, “is that you got me into this mess!”
Quinn rolls to her knees and turns, glaring at the door she’d been leaning against. (Because yes, she is having this conversation through a closed door. Yes, she is sitting in a dark closet. No, she isn't planning on coming out any time soon, thanks.) “Now, don’t blame me for this,” she throws back hotly.
“Oh? Who else do you suggest I blame, hmm?”
“Let’s see, there’s Puck, and Finn, and Kurt, and Tina, and oh, especially Santana and I don’t know, possibly yourself?” she shouts through the door, on her feet and pacing the dark space.
Rachel glares at the door, and Quinn rolls her eyes at the silence.
“Spare me your freaking dirty looks, Berry.”
Quietly seething (and a little unsettled) that Quinn knows her so well, she stomps over to the closet. The blonde braces herself for the door to go flying open with a bang her headache will only use to fuel the fire in her temples, but is instead met with an attack on her retinas as the brunette flicks on the closet light from the switch outside the door. Quinn claps a hand over her eyes immediately, moaning.
“Why are these lights so bright?” is one of the only coherent things that make it out of her mouth besides cursing for a full minute. “Was that really necessary?” she hisses through the wood, once she’s gathered herself and can squint against the devil-powered light bulbs searing her vision. All it earns her is a small noise of indifference and a self-righteous, “Serves you right.”
Quinn growls in response, and while Rachel mostly ignores the sound, some small part of her remembers that sound from last night, only before it was a little less angry and a lot more possessive and the brunette’s heart rate is increasing completely without her permission. Quinn’s next words bring it almost to a stop.
“Well if you’re so sure of this mess, Rachel, then answer me this: did we get hitched last night or not?” Quinn doesn’t realize her heart is thudding in her chest until it’s all she can hear, because Rachel’s silence is deafening. And telling. Either they did, and she knows, or she can’t remember the night clearly either. Which might be just as bad.
The blonde sighs, closing her eyes, and drops the hand that had tangled in her hair to the carpeted ground, sending a small object skittering away from her. Recognizing the sound, she blinks at the bottle as she draws it close and then sends a slew of thankful prayers to God above. Ibuprofen, praise be to Jesus. Quinn downs two capsules dry, her years as an athlete under Coach Sylvester’s instruction making it almost second nature, eager to have the monster headache methodically trying to beat its way out of her head subdued.
Quinn comes out of the closet (with a mental face-to-palm moment at the irony of that statement because apparently she came out last night all over the fucking place) a good ten minutes later feeling significantly more human to find Rachel still wrapped in the sheet, now perched on the edge of the bed by the nightstand, frowning at her wrist.
“Hey,” Quinn says softly, trying not to startle her. Rachel jumps anyway, but only for a second.
“Hey,” she says just as softly, argument already in the past and forgotten. (Well, not really, but as good as.) “I ordered room service.” Quinn must’ve lost control over her eyebrows and given her a look, because she adds, “Well, you’re hungover.” This time she knows she’s giving Rachel a look. “Okay, we’re both hungover.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. Quinn shakes her head and tosses the pill bottle Rachel’s way. “I found ibuprofen in the closet.” Rachel’s taking a swig of water to wash down the tablets when Quinn adds, “Along with a strap-on.”
Cue spluttering choking from the usually composed Rachel Berry as a victorious smirk lodges itself firmly in place on Quinn Fabray’s lips.
“You couldn’t have waited until after I finished drinking?” she chokes out, dark eyes glaring across the room.
The blonde lifts and drops a shoulder. “Couldn’t resist.”
“Fuck, no wonder I can’t walk,” she grumbles to herself. Rachel flicks a glance at Quinn and rolls her eyes. “Oh, quit smirking and help me find the key to these damn handcuffs, because I am not going out in public with these on,” she says, shaking her hand, the metal clasped around her arm clinking for emphasis.
“Maybe I wasn’t planning on letting you out in public,” Quinn replies casually, leaning down to overturn a few pillows that had made it to the floor. When she stands up again to toss them to the bed, she finds Rachel is frozen to the spot with her mouth slightly agape, eyes fixed on her teammate.
Quinn realizes that perhaps there are a few more than four times Rachel Berry has been rendered speechless in the time that Quinn has known her, and a surge of heady pride roars through her with the knowledge (well, okay, fine, vague notion if you wanted to get technical) that she is the one who can render her as such. She readjusts her zebra-comforter-toga and only gives Rachel an impish half-smirk, hazel eyes flashing with something darker for just a moment and sending a jolt of warmth through the brunette’s system.
Oh, hell. Banter is easy enough to maintain. Quinn’s barbs had lost their bite long ago, and Rachel had learned that the ex-Cheerio usually was just looking for a verbal sparring partner. (As a well-read and loquacious young woman with an extensive vocabulary, it was only logical that she step up into that role, and the two had surprised the entire Glee club with their amicable bickering at the beginning of junior year.) But this… those words coupled with that look hinted at the memories that were flashing back and fading in and out and suddenly Rachel understands exactly why she has handcuffs hanging from one wrist and an aching, delicious soreness between her legs that is going to leave her walking a little funny for the rest of the trip.
She blinks rapidly and licks her lips, teeth closing over her bottom one as she attempted to swallow hard and found that her mouth has gone bone dry. Get a hold of yourself, Rachel. Surely you’ve already gotten your fill of Quinn Fabray. You can’t be that aroused from ONE look after a night like last night, can you? She shifts her gaze away and moves across the bed to search between the frame and the nightstand on the other side, one hand clutching at the sheet gathered around her. When she feels a familiar slickness between her thighs, she tries to hide the surprise on her face. Holy Moses- okay. Apparently you can.
Quinn sneaks a glance as Rachel’s arm searches, the sheet slips a little and wow is about all Quinn can think because, it’s Rachel’s back going on (and on, and on) in one smooth, soft looking plane. It occurs to her that it looks positively kissable, and Quinn decides right then to give up on trying not to have these thoughts because obviously she’s going to have them anyway and she kind of likes how delicious they are. (She isn’t quite to the point of admitting that she kind of wants to remember more from last night, since all of it was obviously explosively hot. But she’s close.)
Then she sees more than a few light red scratches running down from Rachel’s shoulder blades to the small of her back and she blushes, twisting her lips and turning away. Leave it to Rachel to be amazing at fucking everything. Or rather, just fucking her, it seems. Rachel rights suddenly and triumphantly, the small metal key that had fallen just behind the nightstand grasped tightly in her fingers.
She gets cleaned up with one of those showers that hurts so bad it had to be really, really good. (Okay, so she’s only remembered some of it, but the rest her imagination gladly fills in from what movies and trashy romance novels have told her occur between two enemies that fall off the edge of hate into unadulterated lust.) As she takes a moment to lean against the shower wall and let hot water sear her skin clean, she sort of vaguely remembers-
being pressed up against the wall and making a sarcastic comment as she loses her balance for a hot second about how not sexy it would be to crack her head open on the tile before Rachel makes an experiment out of the friction between her fingertips, the water, and Quinn’s nipples and she shuts up then for lack of coherent thought
realizing that the sensation of kissing while wet is interesting, to say the least
how she can’t explain how she knows, but there’s a very distinct difference between being wet, and being wet, and she can feel it on her fingers just like she can feel it when it slips past Rachel’s and down her thighs but she’s too busy forgetting how to breathe properly with air catching in her throat as deft fingers slide slickly over her clit, back and forth and backandforthandohfuckohfuckohfuckRachelyesyes
and since when is Rachel strong enough to hold her up?
Well-Jesus! Quinn can’t help but wonder did we debauch the entire room?! What she tries not to think about the most is how they’re likely not the first --or the last-- to do so. This hotel is probably totally sanitary. (That’s what she’s going to keep telling herself. )
As she’s exiting the bathroom scrubbing her hair with a towel, Quinn catches sight of Rachel once she’s put some clothes on, and holy Christ in a picnic basket, does this girl not own any clothes that cover her fucking legs? Because those shorts are probably illegal they’re so short.
And her legs. Her legs.
They're impossible. Really, absolutely fucking impossible, and they make Quinn feel like a pervy creeper because she’s actually licking her lips at the sight of them. She’s not really sure how she’s going to continue to remember things and look at Rachel and not attack her all over again, sober or not, and it’s at that moment she realizes she stopped thinking of this as a sinful mistake she’d need to confess to her priest somewhere around the time she remembered how good everything felt.
Rachel turns around to catch her staring, but she merely grins and skips over to answer the knock on the door that had saved Quinn from conversation with a mouth and throat that had gone completely dry. As she sits down at the table in front of the window in their room for the brunch being set in front of her, Quinn glances out at the skyline and shakes her head.
Fucking Vegas.
Author: lowbatterie , archived here @ substitute_ego
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn
Rating: R/NC-17, eventually.
Word Count: ~3100
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. I do abuse italics quite heavily in this chapter, though.
Summary: That's what they get for waking up in Vegas. (See part one for the full kink_meme prompt.)
Part 1
Rachel is employing every breathing warm-up she can think of to try and calm herself down right now, but considering she knows she had at least six shots independent of the drinks that were shoved into her hands last night by increasingly inebriated teammates, she isn’t particularly surprised that even her iron-willed focus is failing her.
That, and she’s about forty percent sure she’s still in shock, which would also account for her inability to concentrate on any one thought (other than the one that’s been screaming I HOOKED UP WITH QUINN FABRAY since she became conscious of that apparent fact) for more than the time it takes nausea to spin her stomach around from ravenous to on the verge of vomiting and back again. Which is to say about every ten seconds or so.
Staring at the faintly off-white paint of the bathroom ceiling seems to help, and Rachel eventually gives in to the urge to sink to the floor when her legs inform her that they’ve done quite enough standing for now. On the way down she inhales sharply, a muscle in her jaw jumping as her teeth clamp together, stifling a weak, inarticulate sound at the soreness between her legs that aches in a way that says last night was rough, and lengthy, and really, really good.
Something beneath her is hard and uncomfortable, jabbing her right in the thigh, and she tugs a stray high heel out from under herself, finding it tangled in a striped tank-top and a pair of red underwear she recognizes as her own. Both the shoe and shirt belong to Quinn, and Rachel knows because she remembers-
Ripping the shirt off of Quinn as they stumble into the bathroom is easier than Rachel expects, and she delights at the surprise written on the blonde’s face as her golden hair falls into her eyes.
“Weren’t expecting that, were you, Fabray?”
Quinn seems to have recovered herself, because all she does is grab Rachel by the waist and bring her in close for a kiss, thumbs rubbing along the hem of her skirt over her hipbones and making the petite diva squirm. They’re connected at the lips and at the hips and Rachel can’t stop running her hands over Quinn’s skin, which is simply divine and asking for further attention-so Rachel obliges by letting her lips trail down over Quinn’s throat. She wedges a thigh between Quinn’s to stop her discontented murmurs at losing Rachel’s mouth on hers and follows her exploring fingertips with her lips.
“What’re you-“
“Shhh… your skin… tastes amazing,” she whispers between kisses, each press of lips against soft skin more fevered and enthusiastic than the last, until Quinn’s hips are rolling against Rachel’s thigh, which is actually more like her waist until she kicks off her heels (because Rachel had discarded hers the moment they got back to the hotel. “The carpet is SO SOFT-“ “Rachel, shut up, the elevators are this way-“ “Is all the carpet in Vegas this soft? This is AMAZIN-“ Quinn had kissed her then, and finally satisfied a long-dwelled upon notion that Rachel Berry could indeed be quieted by an impromptu kiss) and then she sort of comes down hard in just the right way against a leg Rachel is lifting on purpose and Quinn can’t do anything but moan.
“Holy Christ Almighty…”
Quinn’s finally gone pliable and limp in Rachel’s arms, and Quinn can feel her smile against her skin briefly before she gasps at the sharp, not entirely unwelcome flash of pain that accompanies a nip to her shoulder. Rachel takes that as a cue to bite down harder next time, and when Quinn graduates from gasping to groaning, Rachel knows she’s doing something right.
Being the eager overachiever that she is, she does something right from chin to chest, laying claim to both collarbones and every other square inch of Quinn’s delightfully sensitive neck until the blonde is clutching at her shoulders begging her to stop and put her mouth to better use.
“What do you want me to do, Quinn?” Rachel is playing coy, toying with the bra straps that have begun to slip down pale shoulders, but a wicked grin overtakes Quinn’s mouth and she slides her hands firmly up the backs of Rachel’s thighs beneath her skirt until they meet the lacy edge of underwear and tease along her skin until goosebumps arise.
“I’m thinking maybe I should show you,” is the husky growling suggestion that Rachel can barely believe is coming from Quinn Fabray’s throat, but the blonde’s lips are closing around her earlobe and suddenly the roles are reversed, because Rachel finds herself sitting on the counter looking down at hazel eyes with blown pupils and there’s a denim-clad pelvis nestled snugly between her legs. She’s a little bit breathless and Quinn seems to be silently asking her permission even as her fingers curl around the top of her panties and it’s all Rachel can do to nod frantically and help lift herself up to aid Quinn’s intent.
“Yes, yes I think a demonstration of what you’d like me to do would be most info-oh. Ohhh, Quinn…”
Rachel scrambles to her feet, staring at her reflection in the mirror for a shred of stability as she tries to calm her breathing down from uncontrollable panting again. This was the last time Noah Puckerman (or Santana Lopez, for that matter, delinquents, the both of them!) could goad her into something by simply teasing her with a well-timed and irritatingly-successful, “Don’t be a baby.”
“Never again,” she tells herself aloud as she gulps down oxygen. She turns on the sink to splash a little cool water on her cheeks, which she’s embarrassed to admit (to no one but herself, but it’s embarrassing all the same) have flushed at the mere thought of what must have followed that recollection. Truth be told, she’s really only remembering things in bits and pieces, although some come through with much sharper clarity than others.
The thing is, though, even without a full recollection, she’s pretty sure she knows what she’d do if she had the chance to choose to do last night all over again, questionable drinks included. Because if it resulted in even a fraction of what little she could remember, well…
Her eyes look down at the hand not clutching her sheet-dress to her chest (with that goddamn handcuff on her wrist, she can’t even begin to bring herself to think about that yet) and blink owlishly at Quinn’s silver graduation ring, then back up at her own mussed reflection, teeth worrying her bottom lip.
It’s Vegas. These things happen. …Right?
For once, the brunette isn’t very convinced by her rationalization skills, and she isn’t very happy about it, either. Rachel leaves the sanctuary of the bathroom in a frustrated huff and starts moving around in the main room. By this time, Quinn has been staring at that stupid gold star on that stupid ring long enough to get stupid angry.
“Rachel?”
“No, it’s Sue Sylvester,” she shoots back, an eye roll accompanying the retort. Quinn shudders at the thought. That possibility introduces a whole new level of fucked up she isn't ready to address. Ever.
“What’s your problem, Berry?”
“Are we resorting to last names, now? Well, my problem, Fabray,” she growls, “is that you got me into this mess!”
Quinn rolls to her knees and turns, glaring at the door she’d been leaning against. (Because yes, she is having this conversation through a closed door. Yes, she is sitting in a dark closet. No, she isn't planning on coming out any time soon, thanks.) “Now, don’t blame me for this,” she throws back hotly.
“Oh? Who else do you suggest I blame, hmm?”
“Let’s see, there’s Puck, and Finn, and Kurt, and Tina, and oh, especially Santana and I don’t know, possibly yourself?” she shouts through the door, on her feet and pacing the dark space.
Rachel glares at the door, and Quinn rolls her eyes at the silence.
“Spare me your freaking dirty looks, Berry.”
Quietly seething (and a little unsettled) that Quinn knows her so well, she stomps over to the closet. The blonde braces herself for the door to go flying open with a bang her headache will only use to fuel the fire in her temples, but is instead met with an attack on her retinas as the brunette flicks on the closet light from the switch outside the door. Quinn claps a hand over her eyes immediately, moaning.
“Why are these lights so bright?” is one of the only coherent things that make it out of her mouth besides cursing for a full minute. “Was that really necessary?” she hisses through the wood, once she’s gathered herself and can squint against the devil-powered light bulbs searing her vision. All it earns her is a small noise of indifference and a self-righteous, “Serves you right.”
Quinn growls in response, and while Rachel mostly ignores the sound, some small part of her remembers that sound from last night, only before it was a little less angry and a lot more possessive and the brunette’s heart rate is increasing completely without her permission. Quinn’s next words bring it almost to a stop.
“Well if you’re so sure of this mess, Rachel, then answer me this: did we get hitched last night or not?” Quinn doesn’t realize her heart is thudding in her chest until it’s all she can hear, because Rachel’s silence is deafening. And telling. Either they did, and she knows, or she can’t remember the night clearly either. Which might be just as bad.
The blonde sighs, closing her eyes, and drops the hand that had tangled in her hair to the carpeted ground, sending a small object skittering away from her. Recognizing the sound, she blinks at the bottle as she draws it close and then sends a slew of thankful prayers to God above. Ibuprofen, praise be to Jesus. Quinn downs two capsules dry, her years as an athlete under Coach Sylvester’s instruction making it almost second nature, eager to have the monster headache methodically trying to beat its way out of her head subdued.
Quinn comes out of the closet (with a mental face-to-palm moment at the irony of that statement because apparently she came out last night all over the fucking place) a good ten minutes later feeling significantly more human to find Rachel still wrapped in the sheet, now perched on the edge of the bed by the nightstand, frowning at her wrist.
“Hey,” Quinn says softly, trying not to startle her. Rachel jumps anyway, but only for a second.
“Hey,” she says just as softly, argument already in the past and forgotten. (Well, not really, but as good as.) “I ordered room service.” Quinn must’ve lost control over her eyebrows and given her a look, because she adds, “Well, you’re hungover.” This time she knows she’s giving Rachel a look. “Okay, we’re both hungover.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. Quinn shakes her head and tosses the pill bottle Rachel’s way. “I found ibuprofen in the closet.” Rachel’s taking a swig of water to wash down the tablets when Quinn adds, “Along with a strap-on.”
Cue spluttering choking from the usually composed Rachel Berry as a victorious smirk lodges itself firmly in place on Quinn Fabray’s lips.
“You couldn’t have waited until after I finished drinking?” she chokes out, dark eyes glaring across the room.
The blonde lifts and drops a shoulder. “Couldn’t resist.”
“Fuck, no wonder I can’t walk,” she grumbles to herself. Rachel flicks a glance at Quinn and rolls her eyes. “Oh, quit smirking and help me find the key to these damn handcuffs, because I am not going out in public with these on,” she says, shaking her hand, the metal clasped around her arm clinking for emphasis.
“Maybe I wasn’t planning on letting you out in public,” Quinn replies casually, leaning down to overturn a few pillows that had made it to the floor. When she stands up again to toss them to the bed, she finds Rachel is frozen to the spot with her mouth slightly agape, eyes fixed on her teammate.
Quinn realizes that perhaps there are a few more than four times Rachel Berry has been rendered speechless in the time that Quinn has known her, and a surge of heady pride roars through her with the knowledge (well, okay, fine, vague notion if you wanted to get technical) that she is the one who can render her as such. She readjusts her zebra-comforter-toga and only gives Rachel an impish half-smirk, hazel eyes flashing with something darker for just a moment and sending a jolt of warmth through the brunette’s system.
Oh, hell. Banter is easy enough to maintain. Quinn’s barbs had lost their bite long ago, and Rachel had learned that the ex-Cheerio usually was just looking for a verbal sparring partner. (As a well-read and loquacious young woman with an extensive vocabulary, it was only logical that she step up into that role, and the two had surprised the entire Glee club with their amicable bickering at the beginning of junior year.) But this… those words coupled with that look hinted at the memories that were flashing back and fading in and out and suddenly Rachel understands exactly why she has handcuffs hanging from one wrist and an aching, delicious soreness between her legs that is going to leave her walking a little funny for the rest of the trip.
She blinks rapidly and licks her lips, teeth closing over her bottom one as she attempted to swallow hard and found that her mouth has gone bone dry. Get a hold of yourself, Rachel. Surely you’ve already gotten your fill of Quinn Fabray. You can’t be that aroused from ONE look after a night like last night, can you? She shifts her gaze away and moves across the bed to search between the frame and the nightstand on the other side, one hand clutching at the sheet gathered around her. When she feels a familiar slickness between her thighs, she tries to hide the surprise on her face. Holy Moses- okay. Apparently you can.
Quinn sneaks a glance as Rachel’s arm searches, the sheet slips a little and wow is about all Quinn can think because, it’s Rachel’s back going on (and on, and on) in one smooth, soft looking plane. It occurs to her that it looks positively kissable, and Quinn decides right then to give up on trying not to have these thoughts because obviously she’s going to have them anyway and she kind of likes how delicious they are. (She isn’t quite to the point of admitting that she kind of wants to remember more from last night, since all of it was obviously explosively hot. But she’s close.)
Then she sees more than a few light red scratches running down from Rachel’s shoulder blades to the small of her back and she blushes, twisting her lips and turning away. Leave it to Rachel to be amazing at fucking everything. Or rather, just fucking her, it seems. Rachel rights suddenly and triumphantly, the small metal key that had fallen just behind the nightstand grasped tightly in her fingers.
She gets cleaned up with one of those showers that hurts so bad it had to be really, really good. (Okay, so she’s only remembered some of it, but the rest her imagination gladly fills in from what movies and trashy romance novels have told her occur between two enemies that fall off the edge of hate into unadulterated lust.) As she takes a moment to lean against the shower wall and let hot water sear her skin clean, she sort of vaguely remembers-
being pressed up against the wall and making a sarcastic comment as she loses her balance for a hot second about how not sexy it would be to crack her head open on the tile before Rachel makes an experiment out of the friction between her fingertips, the water, and Quinn’s nipples and she shuts up then for lack of coherent thought
realizing that the sensation of kissing while wet is interesting, to say the least
how she can’t explain how she knows, but there’s a very distinct difference between being wet, and being wet, and she can feel it on her fingers just like she can feel it when it slips past Rachel’s and down her thighs but she’s too busy forgetting how to breathe properly with air catching in her throat as deft fingers slide slickly over her clit, back and forth and backandforthandohfuckohfuckohfuckRachelyesyes
and since when is Rachel strong enough to hold her up?
Well-Jesus! Quinn can’t help but wonder did we debauch the entire room?! What she tries not to think about the most is how they’re likely not the first --or the last-- to do so. This hotel is probably totally sanitary. (That’s what she’s going to keep telling herself. )
As she’s exiting the bathroom scrubbing her hair with a towel, Quinn catches sight of Rachel once she’s put some clothes on, and holy Christ in a picnic basket, does this girl not own any clothes that cover her fucking legs? Because those shorts are probably illegal they’re so short.
And her legs. Her legs.
They're impossible. Really, absolutely fucking impossible, and they make Quinn feel like a pervy creeper because she’s actually licking her lips at the sight of them. She’s not really sure how she’s going to continue to remember things and look at Rachel and not attack her all over again, sober or not, and it’s at that moment she realizes she stopped thinking of this as a sinful mistake she’d need to confess to her priest somewhere around the time she remembered how good everything felt.
Rachel turns around to catch her staring, but she merely grins and skips over to answer the knock on the door that had saved Quinn from conversation with a mouth and throat that had gone completely dry. As she sits down at the table in front of the window in their room for the brunch being set in front of her, Quinn glances out at the skyline and shakes her head.
Fucking Vegas.