All The Gold And The Guns And The Girls (Couldn’t Get You Off)
Title: All The Gold And The Guns And The Girls (Couldn’t Get You Off)
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: It happens the way it always does.
It happens the way it always does, with both of them knowing it shouldn’t. Bronze slippery against ivory, they move together-slow, deliberate, taking up the entire meant-for-one bed. The tiny brunette, reclining flat on the mattress, arches up; the slim blonde, sheets curled around her waist, rocks down. Together, they whisper endlessness.
It happens as it has been for weeks, months, forever and ever. It begins with a slow smile, a mistaken brush of hand against hand. It begins with a murmured request, an innocence neither is fit for anymore. It begins, and though they know how it will end, it goes on and on all the same. There is no pause, no hesitation. There is no chance to step back, to reconsider. It will happen. It does happen. This is always the case.
Sometimes, the venue is different. Sometimes, it is a classroom, dark, abandoned for the day. Never during school hours, always under the cover of that last bell-always safe. Long fingers winding through honey-colored hair, a head cast back against a dusty blackboard, a hand tracing well-known curves. A chestnut head buried against a pale throat, sucking firmly. Marking. A quick hand, teasing under a flimsy, ironic sundress. Toned thighs straddling one long leg as the blonde struggles to muffle humming melodies of pleasure.
Sometimes, it is accidental, in the way only these things can be. A chance meeting in a mall, and before they know it, they’re crammed together in a changing room. Brunette locks grow tousled under desperate fingers, running through and through and through again as she moans low, biting her own shoulder. Clutching with her free hand at the girl between her bent knees, a questing tongue delving deep, stroking flushed skin.
Sometimes, it is angry, violent-borderline abusive, even. Hazel eyes burning feral, pink lips tracing curse words into tan shoulder blades, blunt teeth snapping down around skin flushed scarlet from maltreatment. Breasts press unrelentingly into a small, well-postured back, hand pumping between spread legs, short nails tearing at clothing better burned to begin with. There are screams, and sobs, and a madness neither of them knows where to store.
And sometimes, it happens like this. Swaddled in a warm, secure room, behind a locked door. Unhurried, almost casual, stripping down the layers of who they truly are. The blonde, stronger, taller, has the brunette down on the bed in a heartbeat, sliding her sweater over her head, easing her back. The brunette, all serene chocolate eyes and soft, shy smiles, gazes up with trust. With something dangerously like love. The blonde shakes it off.
They press together, bodies warm and comfortable, legs twining. The brunette rakes her bare toes up the blonde’s ankle; the blonde winds an arm beneath the smaller girl’s waist, pressing a palm to the small of her back. Soft kisses drift down a tan collarbone, stinging bites soothed by quick, velvet licks; the brunette sighs approvingly.
They don’t speak on nights like this one. It isn’t that they can’t; certainly, in other settings, words are paramount. Classroom trysts overflow with soft moans and whimpered begging; changing rooms draw forth hissed commands for silence; rage brings insults and swear words, carved shamelessly onto the air between their bodies. Here, though, now, there is nothing but near-soundless gasps. They breathe together, hips rolling, breasts meeting with every labored pant. The blonde sneaks a leg between the brunette’s, grinding down gently against one trim thigh.
Skirts bunch, then slide away entirely, and the brunette’s back bows at the sweet pressure of the other girl against her skin. She trembles, clutching instinctually at the blonde’s back, relishing the wetness dripping down her thigh from the taller girl’s efforts. The blonde thrusts her hips, grunting softly, driving up into the brunette’s center. The tiny girl whines.
Anywhere else, she would pipe up here, send off frantic little pleas for more, and faster, and harder, but right now, she only grips the blonde tighter. She closes her eyes, adrift with the rhythm between their bodies, delighting in every rub and stroke. Tight nipples massage her skin when the body blanketing her own rocks.
The blonde hums into her neck, kissing and kissing until eyelids flutter, each motion more tender than the last. The brunette cranes to offer a longer expanse of skin, thoughtless, mewling when a silky tongue flattens across her flesh. A hand digs through blonde tresses, cradling the base of her skull. She feels the girl smile.
This isn’t something they can understand, or explain to others, or put words to at all. It isn’t planned out; they do not calculate times or locations for clandestine meetings. No texts are exchanged, no phone numbers dialed, and when they see each other outside of these blinding moments of excruciating pleasure, their expressions are blank. This is not love. It is not a bond. It is merely a sort of acceptance, the likes of which they cannot define.
When the brunette opens her eyes, taking in unbroken pale skin, the gentle curves of breasts, the arch of the young woman’s back, she does not have words for the welling within her own body. She feels the push and pull of the girl’s groin against her leg, leaving behind a slick trail, revels in the grind of quivering muscles against her own core. She sees determination in a beautiful brow, in the locks of hair that have swung across the girl’s forehead as she positions herself just so and presses down. She imagines what this all must look like from an angle outside the bed, her naked frame writhing, the sheet slipping lower down the blonde’s body as the taller girl maneuvers her wrist in the most familiar of fashions. She imagines it must look incredibly like something it’s not, and as slender fingers slide slowly, tantalizingly in to stretch tight walls, she feels her face contort with an expression so very much like sadness.
The blonde hesitates, hips still undulating, grasping one tan shoulder to keep her balance. “What?”
The dark head shakes; when brown eyes reappear, they are heavy once more with arousal. “More,” she says simply, biting the inside of her cheek when the blonde runs her tongue across her own lips and adds a third finger smoothly.
She’s gasping, then, throbbing all over as she pushes her body to its furthest limit. The blonde rides her thigh, keeping an impressive rhythm as she pounds in, each stroke sweeter and more intoxicating than the last. She’s panting, running her hands across her own breasts, kneading frantically to the tempo of foreign fingers within her heat. The blonde bears down upon her, arching her own back as with each gyration, another inch of control slips away.
The brunette can hear herself growing louder within her own head, but her voice remains small, lost in her throat. The fingers inside stroke harder, pump deeper, scissor and twist and hit that spot again and again, speeding up with the pace of the blonde’s body as the taller girl bends up and back. She watches hazel eyes clamp shut, soft lips falling open around a note that goes on and on, her thighs closing hard around the brunette’s leg. Her wrist jerks, and the brunette needs only to dig her nails into creamy skin, scratching along the other girl’s hipbone as she splinters. She feels her mind explode, feels her chest heave, hears every meter of her conscious self tinkle like broken glass against the ground. She twists her head up from the pillow, making a mad dive for the blonde’s face with both hands, crushing their mouths together in something frenzied and wildly unwhole.
When she can breathe again, the blonde has dismounted from her thigh and stretched out beside her, fingers still running tiny races over sensitive folds. The brunette swallows hard, willing her body to relax, to not ache so badly for a second release so soon after the first.
After all, they don’t do second times. It’s what they tell themselves each time, anxious attempts to make this all a half-forgotten dream. It will never happen again, they say. It was a fluke, they say. This is the last time, they say.
It’s the dance, and she knows it so well, but tonight, she doesn’t feel like performing the steps. She takes in a deep breath, turns her head to find shrouded hazel eyes staring back.
“What?” the blonde asks gruffly, tracing tiny circles against that throbbing, screaming place she will swear outside their meetings she has never even thought of touching. The brunette’s skin heats, her pulse racing.
“This could be real, you know,” the brunette says softly. She brushes a sweaty lock of hair from the other girl’s forehead. “We could make this something.”
The girl regards her with sad, empty eyes. “You think so?”
She thinks. She wonders. She lets the silence go on too long.
“No,” she says at last, touching two fingers to the girl’s lips with a miserable sort of fondness. Dark eyelashes sink over green-brown orbs. Relief, or loneliness, or self-loathing-she can’t seem to tell the difference anymore, but whatever it is, she hasn’t imagined it there. She sighs, says it again: “No.”
The blonde’s mouth curls into a crooked smile under her fingertips. Her hand rests, heated and promising, drawing out the suspense as only she has ever done. “I know,” she says quietly, crestfallen and serene.
They lay together in silence, watching. Knowing.
The blonde presses down, sparks firing firmly from two fingers.
Rachel weeps.
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: It happens the way it always does.
It happens the way it always does, with both of them knowing it shouldn’t. Bronze slippery against ivory, they move together-slow, deliberate, taking up the entire meant-for-one bed. The tiny brunette, reclining flat on the mattress, arches up; the slim blonde, sheets curled around her waist, rocks down. Together, they whisper endlessness.
It happens as it has been for weeks, months, forever and ever. It begins with a slow smile, a mistaken brush of hand against hand. It begins with a murmured request, an innocence neither is fit for anymore. It begins, and though they know how it will end, it goes on and on all the same. There is no pause, no hesitation. There is no chance to step back, to reconsider. It will happen. It does happen. This is always the case.
Sometimes, the venue is different. Sometimes, it is a classroom, dark, abandoned for the day. Never during school hours, always under the cover of that last bell-always safe. Long fingers winding through honey-colored hair, a head cast back against a dusty blackboard, a hand tracing well-known curves. A chestnut head buried against a pale throat, sucking firmly. Marking. A quick hand, teasing under a flimsy, ironic sundress. Toned thighs straddling one long leg as the blonde struggles to muffle humming melodies of pleasure.
Sometimes, it is accidental, in the way only these things can be. A chance meeting in a mall, and before they know it, they’re crammed together in a changing room. Brunette locks grow tousled under desperate fingers, running through and through and through again as she moans low, biting her own shoulder. Clutching with her free hand at the girl between her bent knees, a questing tongue delving deep, stroking flushed skin.
Sometimes, it is angry, violent-borderline abusive, even. Hazel eyes burning feral, pink lips tracing curse words into tan shoulder blades, blunt teeth snapping down around skin flushed scarlet from maltreatment. Breasts press unrelentingly into a small, well-postured back, hand pumping between spread legs, short nails tearing at clothing better burned to begin with. There are screams, and sobs, and a madness neither of them knows where to store.
And sometimes, it happens like this. Swaddled in a warm, secure room, behind a locked door. Unhurried, almost casual, stripping down the layers of who they truly are. The blonde, stronger, taller, has the brunette down on the bed in a heartbeat, sliding her sweater over her head, easing her back. The brunette, all serene chocolate eyes and soft, shy smiles, gazes up with trust. With something dangerously like love. The blonde shakes it off.
They press together, bodies warm and comfortable, legs twining. The brunette rakes her bare toes up the blonde’s ankle; the blonde winds an arm beneath the smaller girl’s waist, pressing a palm to the small of her back. Soft kisses drift down a tan collarbone, stinging bites soothed by quick, velvet licks; the brunette sighs approvingly.
They don’t speak on nights like this one. It isn’t that they can’t; certainly, in other settings, words are paramount. Classroom trysts overflow with soft moans and whimpered begging; changing rooms draw forth hissed commands for silence; rage brings insults and swear words, carved shamelessly onto the air between their bodies. Here, though, now, there is nothing but near-soundless gasps. They breathe together, hips rolling, breasts meeting with every labored pant. The blonde sneaks a leg between the brunette’s, grinding down gently against one trim thigh.
Skirts bunch, then slide away entirely, and the brunette’s back bows at the sweet pressure of the other girl against her skin. She trembles, clutching instinctually at the blonde’s back, relishing the wetness dripping down her thigh from the taller girl’s efforts. The blonde thrusts her hips, grunting softly, driving up into the brunette’s center. The tiny girl whines.
Anywhere else, she would pipe up here, send off frantic little pleas for more, and faster, and harder, but right now, she only grips the blonde tighter. She closes her eyes, adrift with the rhythm between their bodies, delighting in every rub and stroke. Tight nipples massage her skin when the body blanketing her own rocks.
The blonde hums into her neck, kissing and kissing until eyelids flutter, each motion more tender than the last. The brunette cranes to offer a longer expanse of skin, thoughtless, mewling when a silky tongue flattens across her flesh. A hand digs through blonde tresses, cradling the base of her skull. She feels the girl smile.
This isn’t something they can understand, or explain to others, or put words to at all. It isn’t planned out; they do not calculate times or locations for clandestine meetings. No texts are exchanged, no phone numbers dialed, and when they see each other outside of these blinding moments of excruciating pleasure, their expressions are blank. This is not love. It is not a bond. It is merely a sort of acceptance, the likes of which they cannot define.
When the brunette opens her eyes, taking in unbroken pale skin, the gentle curves of breasts, the arch of the young woman’s back, she does not have words for the welling within her own body. She feels the push and pull of the girl’s groin against her leg, leaving behind a slick trail, revels in the grind of quivering muscles against her own core. She sees determination in a beautiful brow, in the locks of hair that have swung across the girl’s forehead as she positions herself just so and presses down. She imagines what this all must look like from an angle outside the bed, her naked frame writhing, the sheet slipping lower down the blonde’s body as the taller girl maneuvers her wrist in the most familiar of fashions. She imagines it must look incredibly like something it’s not, and as slender fingers slide slowly, tantalizingly in to stretch tight walls, she feels her face contort with an expression so very much like sadness.
The blonde hesitates, hips still undulating, grasping one tan shoulder to keep her balance. “What?”
The dark head shakes; when brown eyes reappear, they are heavy once more with arousal. “More,” she says simply, biting the inside of her cheek when the blonde runs her tongue across her own lips and adds a third finger smoothly.
She’s gasping, then, throbbing all over as she pushes her body to its furthest limit. The blonde rides her thigh, keeping an impressive rhythm as she pounds in, each stroke sweeter and more intoxicating than the last. She’s panting, running her hands across her own breasts, kneading frantically to the tempo of foreign fingers within her heat. The blonde bears down upon her, arching her own back as with each gyration, another inch of control slips away.
The brunette can hear herself growing louder within her own head, but her voice remains small, lost in her throat. The fingers inside stroke harder, pump deeper, scissor and twist and hit that spot again and again, speeding up with the pace of the blonde’s body as the taller girl bends up and back. She watches hazel eyes clamp shut, soft lips falling open around a note that goes on and on, her thighs closing hard around the brunette’s leg. Her wrist jerks, and the brunette needs only to dig her nails into creamy skin, scratching along the other girl’s hipbone as she splinters. She feels her mind explode, feels her chest heave, hears every meter of her conscious self tinkle like broken glass against the ground. She twists her head up from the pillow, making a mad dive for the blonde’s face with both hands, crushing their mouths together in something frenzied and wildly unwhole.
When she can breathe again, the blonde has dismounted from her thigh and stretched out beside her, fingers still running tiny races over sensitive folds. The brunette swallows hard, willing her body to relax, to not ache so badly for a second release so soon after the first.
After all, they don’t do second times. It’s what they tell themselves each time, anxious attempts to make this all a half-forgotten dream. It will never happen again, they say. It was a fluke, they say. This is the last time, they say.
It’s the dance, and she knows it so well, but tonight, she doesn’t feel like performing the steps. She takes in a deep breath, turns her head to find shrouded hazel eyes staring back.
“What?” the blonde asks gruffly, tracing tiny circles against that throbbing, screaming place she will swear outside their meetings she has never even thought of touching. The brunette’s skin heats, her pulse racing.
“This could be real, you know,” the brunette says softly. She brushes a sweaty lock of hair from the other girl’s forehead. “We could make this something.”
The girl regards her with sad, empty eyes. “You think so?”
She thinks. She wonders. She lets the silence go on too long.
“No,” she says at last, touching two fingers to the girl’s lips with a miserable sort of fondness. Dark eyelashes sink over green-brown orbs. Relief, or loneliness, or self-loathing-she can’t seem to tell the difference anymore, but whatever it is, she hasn’t imagined it there. She sighs, says it again: “No.”
The blonde’s mouth curls into a crooked smile under her fingertips. Her hand rests, heated and promising, drawing out the suspense as only she has ever done. “I know,” she says quietly, crestfallen and serene.
They lay together in silence, watching. Knowing.
The blonde presses down, sparks firing firmly from two fingers.
Rachel weeps.