Fic: Out Tonight (a Lily-Verse Tale) (1/1)
Title: Out Tonight
Author: cranberry_pi
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Spoilers: Nope!
Summary: Just a PWP-ish one shot. It only vaguely fits into the Lily-Verse, but I imagine it happening a couple of years before "Cravings."
It’s not a surprise when the bartender slides a drink in front of you and gestures to the girl in the corner. It’s hardly the first time you’ve been bought a drink. After all, you’re Quinn Fabray. Whether you’re in a sleazy club or as you are tonight, one of Los Angeles’ trendiest lesbian bars, you’re going to get noticed. What is a surprise is that she doesn’t get up to come and talk to you, but sits there in the corner booth instead with a knowing smirk on her face. She actually thinks you’re going to come to her. She clearly doesn’t know who Quinn Fabray is. You’re not about to rise to the bait - you sit at the bar, nursing the seven and seven she bought you while you watch the sadly obligatory softball game on the big-screen television. You’re actually oddly interested in the game, but only because UCLA is playing.
Finally, after three and a half innings, you feel a warm hand on your shoulder. “Excuse me,” a soft voice says in your ear. “I believe it’s customary to come over and say thank you when someone buys you a drink.”
You don’t even look away from the television. “Lots of people buy me drinks. I’d get tired if I went over to personally thank all of them.”
“That’s awfully conceited of you.”
“Just the truth, sweetheart. But since you’re here now, thanks for the drink.”
She scoffs. “You’re welcome. Could you perhaps look at me when you speak to me?”
“I could,” you sip her drink. “Can’t say I really feel like it.”
“And what if I did this?” she grabs your free hand, pulling it behind your back and putting it on her breast. You can tell she’s braless under her button-up chambray workshirt, and her nipple hardens under your palm.
“Well, now,” you glance over your shoulder at her. She’s brunette, with dark brown eyes. “Now you have my attention. What’s your name?”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not. Do you live near here?”
“No. But I wasn’t thinking about leaving.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Bathroom’s in the corner. Third stall from the left. Five minutes.”
“And what if I don’t show?”
“You’ll never know what you missed,” she wriggles away from your touch and walks to the bathroom with a bit of extra sway in her hips. You watch another half inning, making sure to wait ten minutes rather than her allotted five, and then follow her. As you suspected, the stall is closed and locked when you get there. You knock, and she opens the door. Her lips are turned down in a pout, a dark sultry red against her otherwise pale features.
“You took a long time.”
“I don’t rush for anyone. Least of all someone who buys me a cheap drink and figures that I owe them sex in the bathroom.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“What can I say? I felt like slumming it.”
She grabs you by the neck and pulls you into the stall, slamming the door shut and pushing you against it. There’s no preamble as she grabs the hem of your shirt and pulls it over your head, discarding it behind her. You feel your nipples tighten against the cotton of your bra as the room’s cold air washes over you. She pressed you against the door, kissing you all over. She nips your neck, your collarbone, your chest. Her teeth graze your earlobe, and you jerk backward with a grunt.
“Ooh,” she whispers, her breath soft against the shell of your ear. “Sensitive spot. You need to be quiet, though - I don’t know if we’re alone in here.” Her gaze is smouldering as she reaches down and pulls your bra down to free your breasts. She takes one of them gently in her hand, squeezing and pulling and caressing as her lips crash against yours to stifle your moans. The door handle is digging into your back, her nails are digging into your breast and the small of your back, and her teeth are digging into your bottom lip. You wriggle, trying to find a more comfortable position, but she grabs you hard enough to keep you in place, forcing her tongue into your mouth. The hand on your back wanders around the exposed skin of your stomach to find its way into the waistband of your skirt.
“No panties,” she murmurs against your cheek. “Slut.”
“Look who’s talking,” you gasp as her thumb slips between your slick folds and finds your stiff clit, gently caressing it. Her fingers trace your lips, gathering your arousal, until one slides easily into you. She pumps once, twice, and then adds another. She repeats the process until she’s worked four fingers inside you, and you’re stretched tightly around her. You can feel your sex clutching at her, and there are tears of ecstasy streaming down your cheeks as she covers your mouth with hers to silence your keening cries. Your climax is explosive, and you crash back against the stall door hard enough to know that you’ll have a bruise tomorrow morning. She smirks, withdrawing slowly from you and sticking her fingers in her mouth to lick them slowly, languorously clean inches from your face. You can smell yourself on her hands, see yourself glistening on her lips, and just as suddenly she pulls you aside to open the stall and let herself out, paying no heed to the fact that you’re standing there essentially topless, in full view of anyone who might walk in. You’re too dazed to even protest as she smiles at you over her shoulder, her skyscraper heels clacking on the tile floor as she walks away. “I’ll see you at home, Quinn,” she says with a promise in her voice.
You shut the stall and sit down heavily, readjusting your bra and pulling your shirt back on. Before you stand up to leave, you make a mental note. Never try and one-up Rachel Berry again.
Author: cranberry_pi
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Spoilers: Nope!
Summary: Just a PWP-ish one shot. It only vaguely fits into the Lily-Verse, but I imagine it happening a couple of years before "Cravings."
It’s not a surprise when the bartender slides a drink in front of you and gestures to the girl in the corner. It’s hardly the first time you’ve been bought a drink. After all, you’re Quinn Fabray. Whether you’re in a sleazy club or as you are tonight, one of Los Angeles’ trendiest lesbian bars, you’re going to get noticed. What is a surprise is that she doesn’t get up to come and talk to you, but sits there in the corner booth instead with a knowing smirk on her face. She actually thinks you’re going to come to her. She clearly doesn’t know who Quinn Fabray is. You’re not about to rise to the bait - you sit at the bar, nursing the seven and seven she bought you while you watch the sadly obligatory softball game on the big-screen television. You’re actually oddly interested in the game, but only because UCLA is playing.
Finally, after three and a half innings, you feel a warm hand on your shoulder. “Excuse me,” a soft voice says in your ear. “I believe it’s customary to come over and say thank you when someone buys you a drink.”
You don’t even look away from the television. “Lots of people buy me drinks. I’d get tired if I went over to personally thank all of them.”
“That’s awfully conceited of you.”
“Just the truth, sweetheart. But since you’re here now, thanks for the drink.”
She scoffs. “You’re welcome. Could you perhaps look at me when you speak to me?”
“I could,” you sip her drink. “Can’t say I really feel like it.”
“And what if I did this?” she grabs your free hand, pulling it behind your back and putting it on her breast. You can tell she’s braless under her button-up chambray workshirt, and her nipple hardens under your palm.
“Well, now,” you glance over your shoulder at her. She’s brunette, with dark brown eyes. “Now you have my attention. What’s your name?”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not. Do you live near here?”
“No. But I wasn’t thinking about leaving.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Bathroom’s in the corner. Third stall from the left. Five minutes.”
“And what if I don’t show?”
“You’ll never know what you missed,” she wriggles away from your touch and walks to the bathroom with a bit of extra sway in her hips. You watch another half inning, making sure to wait ten minutes rather than her allotted five, and then follow her. As you suspected, the stall is closed and locked when you get there. You knock, and she opens the door. Her lips are turned down in a pout, a dark sultry red against her otherwise pale features.
“You took a long time.”
“I don’t rush for anyone. Least of all someone who buys me a cheap drink and figures that I owe them sex in the bathroom.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“What can I say? I felt like slumming it.”
She grabs you by the neck and pulls you into the stall, slamming the door shut and pushing you against it. There’s no preamble as she grabs the hem of your shirt and pulls it over your head, discarding it behind her. You feel your nipples tighten against the cotton of your bra as the room’s cold air washes over you. She pressed you against the door, kissing you all over. She nips your neck, your collarbone, your chest. Her teeth graze your earlobe, and you jerk backward with a grunt.
“Ooh,” she whispers, her breath soft against the shell of your ear. “Sensitive spot. You need to be quiet, though - I don’t know if we’re alone in here.” Her gaze is smouldering as she reaches down and pulls your bra down to free your breasts. She takes one of them gently in her hand, squeezing and pulling and caressing as her lips crash against yours to stifle your moans. The door handle is digging into your back, her nails are digging into your breast and the small of your back, and her teeth are digging into your bottom lip. You wriggle, trying to find a more comfortable position, but she grabs you hard enough to keep you in place, forcing her tongue into your mouth. The hand on your back wanders around the exposed skin of your stomach to find its way into the waistband of your skirt.
“No panties,” she murmurs against your cheek. “Slut.”
“Look who’s talking,” you gasp as her thumb slips between your slick folds and finds your stiff clit, gently caressing it. Her fingers trace your lips, gathering your arousal, until one slides easily into you. She pumps once, twice, and then adds another. She repeats the process until she’s worked four fingers inside you, and you’re stretched tightly around her. You can feel your sex clutching at her, and there are tears of ecstasy streaming down your cheeks as she covers your mouth with hers to silence your keening cries. Your climax is explosive, and you crash back against the stall door hard enough to know that you’ll have a bruise tomorrow morning. She smirks, withdrawing slowly from you and sticking her fingers in her mouth to lick them slowly, languorously clean inches from your face. You can smell yourself on her hands, see yourself glistening on her lips, and just as suddenly she pulls you aside to open the stall and let herself out, paying no heed to the fact that you’re standing there essentially topless, in full view of anyone who might walk in. You’re too dazed to even protest as she smiles at you over her shoulder, her skyscraper heels clacking on the tile floor as she walks away. “I’ll see you at home, Quinn,” she says with a promise in her voice.
You shut the stall and sit down heavily, readjusting your bra and pulling your shirt back on. Before you stand up to leave, you make a mental note. Never try and one-up Rachel Berry again.