Destination: Vacation || Faberry || (3/3)
Title: Destination: Vacation
Tagging: Rachel Berry (Fabray) /Quinn (Berry) Fabray
Location: Fabray apartment
Notes: This was supposed to be posted forever ago. Vacation time!
Quinn:
Her hands can't stay where they are, not anymore. She's going to tear through the pillowcases. Besides all she wants to do is feel more of Rachel. Her arms move, blunt nails pressing into the skin on Rachel's shoulderblades, gripping tight and holding herself even closer. Her hips are moving, abs burning, working to keep up with Rachel's blistering pace. She feels wanton and open and so, so delirious because Rachel is hitting places no one -- man or woman -- has before, and that's so very appropriate.
Liquid fire scorches through her when Rachel speaks, hips pushing up hard -- hard -- until her clit is flush against Rachel's stomach. Her walls collapse down, holding tight to the toy because her orgasm is right there. It's so fucking close, and she wants it so fucking bad. She doesn't pull back, keeping as much of Rachel inside her as she can, but her hips roll and grind, and the dual sensation makes her whimper and whine.
"Yes." She nods furiously, ready to agree with anything her wife tells her. It's all true anyway. "Yes, yes. God, yes. I'm-- so.. so close... Rachel!"
Rachel:
She’s probably not going to move for the rest of the night, more than likely, but she can barely feel the strain of every breath when all she can focus on--taste; smell; hear; want--is Quinn so shamelessly arching against her. The crack of her mouth and the urgency in her movement is enough to push Rachel, herself, closer and closer to the edge. The hand tanged in her collar yanks her harder up until she can take Quinn’s mouth with her own, needing to taste her, forceful, sucking her tongue and stealing her panting breath. When she pulls back is with a loud noise, unable to stop her hips from still moving even with Quinn so, so close--she’ll be lucky to stop herself after Quinn lets go--and she can’t help her moan at the sound of her name ripping from beautiful, swollen lips. It still makes her stomach clench and every part of her writhe.
“Beg, Quinn.” One hand stays on the collar, still holding her up, while the other moves down to Quinn’s hips, forcing her to thrust up and back into the strap-on even harder--faster--not caring if either one of them can move for the rest of the night. Quinn shouldn’t be able to move. She stops angling up and forcing against her clit, even if she is moving faster. “I want you to beg for me to let you come.” It’s a further domineering role than she’s let herself fall into, before, but her blood yearns for it. Her tongue can still taste it. She pulls Quinn tighter up, careful not to pull her too far, or restrict her too much, even caught in her own burning desire. “Beg me.”
Quinn:
Rachel's kiss is forceful and rough, plundering her mouth with something close to brute force, and it melts everything inside her. They're going to be such a mess when they're finished. So is the bed. Everything. God, she can't remember the last time she was this wet. Her nails unconsciously drag down Rachel's back, digging in at the dip above her ass -- where the harness is resting -- and leaving bright red crescent-shaped marks. She's got to find some way to hold on because it feels like her wife is going to fuck her into the ground. It's glorious.
The command in Rachel's voice, the naked want in it, makes her see stars and she pushes forward, burying her face in the hollow of Rachel's neck. Her tongue laves at salty skin, messy sloppy strokes to taste her, to be as close as she can. Her hands scramble to find purchase, but Rachel is slick and wet and Quinn will probably leave so many scratches and marks that she'll need to treat the brunette's back to prevent scarring.
She's so close she can taste it. Her toes are curling and walls pulsing, tightening. If Rachel will just hit that spot again... If she'll just... "Oh please, baby. Please." She can barely speak, she's delirious with the way she feels. How she's speaking at all she has no idea. "Please let me come. Make me come. I ne-- need it so bad. I'm so close. Please, Rachel. Please make me -- fuck! -- come."
Rachel:
Every single muscle in her entire body is passed the point of burning--passed the point of aching--past the point of exhaustion. They’re splitting and on fire, but it’s nothing compared to the way Quinn’s nails perfectly dig into her skin so tight that Rachel can feel the sharp spike of motivating pain through even the heaviest of fogs and it makes her moan, too wrapped up to wonder whether or not her wife actually just managed to break skin. It’s overwhelming--every single one of her senses is on such an acute overload that she can’t focus on anything but Quinn’s eyes, wrenched shut.
She’s begging her--begging Rachel from such an obviously needing place, and the brunette can only give her what she wants. Quinn deserves everything--so much; everything--and Rachel’s chest is heaving when she thrusts her hips up, again, as hard as her searing muscles will allow her, the muscles flexing underneath desperate fingers. She pulls out all the way just as quick before she thrusts back in, fast and hard and rough, not slowing her rhythm even though she knows Quinn would probably release with just one more thrust.
“Come for me, Quinn.” Her mouth is back on the first spot she ever claimed, teeth wrapping around Quinn’s pulse, hips furiously pumping in and out, knowing, without a doubt, confident and sure, that she’s fucking Quinn better than anyone else ever could. It’s possessive and a tad animalistic and Rachel knows that she’ll tumble off the edge right after Quinn does.
Quinn:
Rachel pulls out -- almost entirely out -- and Quinn feels the loss acutely. She's desperate to be filled again, desperate to hold onto something -- anything-- Rachel, and she cries out against the brunette's neck, nails digging in deeper. If she draws blood, she'll apologize later, but she's past the point of even realizing what she's doing now. All she can think about is that her orgasm is just out of her reach and how desperately she needs it.
"Rachel, baby, p-please--" She's not above crying at this point. But then Rachel slams back into her -- all of it at once -- and Quinn can't... she can't hold on any longer. The staggering amount of force behind the thrust alone is searing and rough and she has no more control over her body at all. Her walls slam down, clenching tightly around the toy, and she comes harder than she has in recent memory, incoherent noises and whines and groans spilling from her lips.
Rachel:
There isn’t a single thought left in her mind--no analysing; no questions; no answers--just Quinn. Her smell--her voice--God, her voice--her fingers, cutting into her, the taste of her. The feel of her. Rachel’s never felt so alive--her whole entire body humming and pushing and arching--than she does in this very moment and it’s...good. It’s so good. Her heart is pounding, the twisted sort of pleasure coursing through her veins, and the moment Quinn comes undone, Rachel does, as well, one last hard thrust more muscle memory than anything else, tongue pressing against a furiously-beating pulse, hands biting into light skin.
Hers doesn’t last as long as Quinn’s does, and she doesn’t dare move--or stop slowly working her way along a perfect neck, breath gasping and body on fire. She can’t help the way her body sags, shaking to keep herself from pressing entirely into her wife, panting against skin, sweat soaking their bodies and sheets. When she feels Quinn start to calm, she raises an aching, shaking hand to brush the hair from her eyes, lightly kissing up her neck to her forehead, not ready for words or any other kind of motion.
Quinn:
She thinks the only time she's ever had a more thorough orgasm was the time she proposed to Rachel mid-sex. For purely sentimental, heartstring reasons, there will never be an orgasm better than that one -- unless of course Rachel proves her wrong on their eventual honeymoon -- but this one might win for sheer power. Most of the time she can't feel her toes after she comes hard enough, or maybe her feet are a little fuzzy. This time she might as well have no legs.
"Oh, Rachel," she finally breathes, breath heavy and hot as her hands finally slacken against Rachel's back to slide up slick skin and curl around her shoulders. "Oh, baby. Oh my God." Yeah, definitely no legs. Does she have them? Are they still there? She can't even lift her head to look. Maybe she has no bones, too.
"Wow."
Rachel:
God, that was--that was definitely different. Good--but different. Rachel’s never been...so dominant, before. She’s been dominant, of course--Quinn and Rachel both, she knows, like her being dominant--but she’s never pushed herself, or her body, specifically, so far. But it certainly had its effects and, God, her whole body is shaking from over-exertion. She tries to gently lower herself onto Quinn--because she can’t roll to the side as that would require her moving the toy inside her wife...or her hips, in general, and she’s not sure that would be the wisest idea at the moment--muscles quivering and breath still coming in pants.
“Yeah.” It’s all that she can really manage, at the moment. She’ll definitely have to work out before she does that, again. She takes another second, gently pecking the blonde on the lips, forehead dropping to the pillow over her shoulder. It’s soaked with sweat. Their whole bed is probably a mess. She laughs, low. “I think we might have to buy new sheets.” She pauses after a moment, “Once I can move, again.” She sighs, pulling her head up, gazing down at the perfect body beneath her before she meets blown hazel eyes. “You’re beautiful.” She hasn’t told Quinn in a while. She should never go too long without telling her.
Quinn:
Rachel has to be lying because she feels disgusting. She feels thoroughly, completely, wonderfully full and loved and fucked and sated, but she also feels sticky and wet and hot and sweaty. She doubts beauty is anywhere in her proximity at the moment. Not that, for once, she really minds. She feels too good to care that she probably looks a hot mess. It's hard to care when she's got Rachel on top of her and inside her.
"You're sweet," she finally answers, hand sliding up to curl around the back of Rachel's neck. The other moves, too, fingers gathering thick dark hair and gently twisting around and lifting up to bare a sweaty neck to the cooler air of the room. "And sweaty," it's accompanied by a gentle giggle.
Rachel:
She sighs when the cool air of the room wraps around her shoulders and up her neck, suddenly debating whether or not she has the facial structure to go bald. Probably not. That’d be awful. She loves her hair. Quinn loves her hair. She’d hate to deny them of something they both love. She’ll just have to stay hot for a little while longer.
“I’m honest.” She replies, one hand trailing down Quinn’s side to curl around her hip, nose burying itself in a long neck, eyes fluttering closed and a long inhale--Quinn’s scent; her sweat; her--settles some of the ache of her lungs in her chest, nuzzling into the mark on her neck and smiling against the collar. “And, yes, very sweaty.” They’re both very sweaty. “I’ve never done anything like that before.” It’s a fact she knows her wife knows and doesn’t need much explaining. “So maybe next time I’ll be able to actually...breathe after.” It’s not that Rachel isn’t athletic--anything but. She makes it a point to keep herself in meticulous shape. But this...definitely pushed her in ways she never expected. It’s a promise to Quinn, more than anything else, lips skimming over the flesh closest to her, still taking in panting breaths.
“You...” She trails off, trying to keep her mind on topic, “Were amazing.” The way Quinn reacted--the way they moved--the way she knew exactly what to do, regardless of the fact that she’d never done it before. It gave her the security to be dominant. “I’m guessing you have no objections to there being a next time.” Her smirk is a little over-confident.
Quinn:
Nope. She definitely has no problems with there being a next time. She wouldn't have a problem with next time being... later tonight. Or in a few minutes. Or just... anytime. She's wide open. Well... so to speak, anyway. Quietly giggling at her own joke, she gently scratches the back of Rachel's neck, bending her legs at the knees and groaning at the way the adjustment shifts the toy still inside her. She's still incredibly sensitive, but it feels... good. Really good.
"A lot of next times," she says. "I'm sure you'll be up to stamina snuff in no time," she teases gently. Her wife is in glorious shape, but she figures doing this requires muscles Rachel might not even have realized she has. Quinn would be a little suspicious if Rachel could've gotten through that without being exhausted. "Or..." she ventures, the suggestion a little tentative. "I could... be on top of you next time." Riding Rachel is certainly a... stimulating idea.
Rachel:
It’s not fair, really, how that image affects her, because she’s still exhausted and a little sensitive and...fuck it, that idea is probably one of the most attractive thoughts she’s ever heard. Rachel, on her back, and Quinn above her. Riding her. Oh, God, riding her. Her smile is downright wolfish, unable to help her body’s reflexive action to flatten her tongue out over the mark on her wife’s neck. “That sounds...” She tries to narrow it down into a word--thousands of possibilities bouncing around in her brain. “Like a very good idea.” She simply states, voice tinted with arousal. Seriously, it’s not fair--it’s not fair at all--that Quinn can make her mind ready for something her body’s obviously not. She doesn’t even think she can move.
Quinn:
Quinn, too, is lost in the idea. She's trying to imagine what it would feel like, to sit astride her wife and have her that deeply inside her and underneath her and-- Her eyes flutter closed, breath hitching and heart skipping a beat or two. Despite the fact that she still can't really feel her legs, she can feel herself clenching around the toy still inside her because riding her wife into an orgasm is just... too appealing. She might be exhausted but she's only human.
"I'm glad..." she breathes out, the strokes of her fingers growing slower and slower but the way her nails drag gets more intent. "We agree on that."
Rachel:
She hisses when Quinn’s nails drag down a little too far, the marks on her back still apparently very fresh. She idly remembers wondering if Quinn had broken skin on her back, during, and she thinks it might be a very real possibility, now. She has no idea--not the first earthly clue--why that just makes her even more aroused, the fact that she could get such an animalistic reaction from her wife.
“If you don’t stop that,” She warns, pulling back, eyes still very, very dark, tongue darting out over her lips. “I’m going to end up winding in the hospital from ignoring the usual wait period.”
Quinn:
Her brows drop as her expression changes, lips quirking in amusement. "You're not a boy, baby," she points out, being the queen of astute observations that she is. Still, she does lessen the force behind her fingers. "There is no usual wait period. Beauties of lesbian sex."
Quinn's entire body is sore, which sort of puzzles her considering she was mostly just lying on her back, but now she's extremely caught up in the idea of switching their positions. She doesn't even know if she could sit up without falling over right now, but it's not very often that the idea of being on top of Rachel appeals to her. There's a fine window here.
"But I'll be good."
Rachel:
Rachel lets out a small groan that turns into a moan when she shifts, just the slightest, and the toy roughly rubs up against herself. She hates admitting that she can’t do something--absolutely loathes it, actually--and the idea that she wouldn’t be ready in time for Quinn unsettles every single bone, muscle, and fiber of being in her body. She’s sore--she’s exhausted--she pushed herself passed the brink of what she thought she was capable of for over half of their last excursion.
And there is a bit of a wait, regardless of gender, that she can’t help but point out, “So if I flipped on my back, right now, you could actually handle a second go?” She challenges, tone a little skeptic. She just...needs a minute. Thirty, maybe, but if Quinn were riding her, the brunt of the work would fall on her wife’s shoulders. Rachel smirks, biting her mark, breath still a little short.
Quinn:
"I--" Rachel's teeth distract her, and she spends a few seconds marveling at how good they still feel against her skin. "I don't know," she finally answers. "But I want to be able to."
It would be painfully embarrassing, even in front of Rachel who has seen her at her absolute worst and most helpless, to try and sit up only to fall over. That would probably ratchet up into the number one slot of least sexy Quinn moments of all time. But she likes to think she could do it. Is it worth the risk though?
Rachel:
“Don’t push yourself, sweetie.” Her tongue runs around the mark before her head lifts, again, meeting eyes that make her stomach clench. Her hands soothingly work up and down Quinn’s stomach, nails gently scratching and palms kneading, hoping to ease and relax the flesh. She gently kisses her wife once--twice. “If you want to ride me into the mattress, I’m right here.” Her smirk spreads, “But if you want to wait five minutes, I’ll still be here.”
Quinn:
Her heart swells with a rush of affection at the gentle press of Rachel's lips. She can be so gentle and kind and caring, and every time it makes Quinn fall a little bit further in love with her. There's something about that duality, the way Rachel can be so aggressive one minute and so achingly tender the next, that Quinn finds so attractive. Her wife is like... the best of everything she could ever want in a lover and a spouse. And a partner. And a friend.
"If you keep touching me," she starts, lips curling and back subtly arching to press more firmly into Rachel's hands. "Your five minutes might turn into about thirty seconds."
Rachel:
Her smile thins in the most sensual way possible, hands continuing exactly what they’re doing. “That doesn’t sound too bad, either.” She offers, teasingly running her tongue along Quinn’s lip before tugging it into her mouth, tilting her head and pulling her wife into a much more promising kiss, her own back arching downwards, accidentally pushing her hips a little further out of reflex, forgetting where, exactly, she’s buried right this moment.
Quinn:
She's so distracted by the slow, deep kiss that Rachel's pulled her into that she's not at all expecting the way the toy inside her shifts and pushes further inside her. The movement is surprising, and she gasps into Rachel's mouth. There's not really any force behind it, and there's only so much further Rachel can go, but it's just enough to make her toes curl. Her hands move immediately, sliding down Rachel's back as her thighs spread to give her the opportunity to curl her hands against her wife's ass, holding her firmly in place.
"Oh God," she murmurs against Rachel's lips, teeth gently nibbling as she undulates once, slowly, against Rachel's hips. "That's so good."
Rachel:
Rachel knows, as soon as Quinn’s hands trail down her back, that the other girl definitely broke skin earlier. Branded her. Claimed her in her own small way while Rachel pushed her over the edge to make her do it. The thought makes her subconsciously rock her hips against Quinn’s movements. There’s something so amazingly beautiful about Quinn when she’s like this--when pleasure takes a keen hold of her--when she’s a little desperate to feel a little more--it’s something so, so very different than the polite, bubbly woman she loves. It’s another side that peaks its head around the corner, always lurking behind hazel eyes if one knows where to look, and it’s so sexy--so perfectly sexy. Her wife’s so sexy--always. She’s always ready, always willing, always wanting, but Rachel’s the only one that will ever see it.
She takes in the feeling of Quinn’s flexing fingers against her ass and her hot breath against her tugged lip before she places her hands on rocking hips, holding them in place, and tenses up the muscles in her body--she knows she won’t regret this tomorrow, no matter how sore she’ll ever be. Without warning, she flips them over onto her back, letting out a small hiss of pleasant pain as raw flesh presses into the mattress, taking Quinn with her, the strap-on no doubt pushing up further into her wife from the bold motion, arms wrapping around her wife to keep her steady. It doesn’t matter if they had five minutes a minute ago to recover, it’s show-time, and Rachel’s always prepared.
“Ride me, Quinn.” The thought of it--even the thought--is definitely making Rachel not regret the screaming her abs will do tomorrow. “I want to watch you fuck me.” It’s not actually her--it’s a toy, obviously--but the notion is the same. It’s currently an extension of herself and Rachel has always had such a great pleasure in watching Quinn. Always watching Quinn.
Quinn:
She's not expecting the switch in position, and the sudden movement startles her out of her sex-induced reverie. She yelps once -- loudly -- before dissolving into slightly embarrassed, girlish giggles. Those, however, only last for a moment because she's then keenly, very keenly, aware of the new angle and the fact that Rachel is inside her all the way to the hilt at this point. It's not a totally unknown feeling, but it's been a long time and it's different because it's Rachel and...
Her thighs are sore already, screaming in protest as she adjusts herself on top of her wife. Every subtle adjustment moves the toy inside her, and she can't help the way she's softly mewling in response. The new position also puts some strain on her knees, but she's determined to ignore and work through it because there's no way this isn't happening now. It is. It definitely -- the first testing roll of her hips is white hot and delightful -- is happening.
Hands move to curl around Rachel's waist, bracing herself, and she lets her wife's words spur her into a slow, lazy rhythm.
Rachel:
The skin on her back complains, but it’s easy to ignore at the sight in front of her. This is new--so, so very new. She’s watched Quinn ride her fingers, before, but this is...different. This is definitely different. It’s a new position--a new feeling--and the look on Quinn’s face is absolutely...delightful. She can already tell before she starts to move with Quinn--pushing up and working into her rhythm--that her muscles are going to hate her--it burns and aches and twists and the sweat is still clinging to her forehead in the remnants of five minutes ago--but so worth it.
So worth it.
Even if they’re moving slow, she watches the arch of Quinn’s body--the way her breasts move, shameless and uninhibited--the way her mouth falls open--the noises that pull from the lowest, most delicious part of her. Sweat is clinging to Quinn’s forehead--her collarbone--her breasts--and when Rachel’s eyes finally meet where they’re connected, she can’t help but moan. They still haven’t cleaned up from before, obviously, and both the toy, and Quinn, are wet--slick--slowly rocking into and against her wife in a sight that makes her moan.
“That’s it, baby.” She gently encourages, taking in every single expression on the face above her--in the twist of her lips and the curve of her eyebrows. In her panting breath. Her hips keep the pace, hands as encouraging as her voice, pushing Quinn just a little deeper.
Quinn:
It's surprisingly easy to find a good pace and rhythm like this. She doesn't want to get ahead of herself and deprive either of them of this experience by coming too quickly, which she knows is always a possibility. The toy is so deeply inside her, and Rachel's hips are working against, creating something slow-burning and delicious between her legs. Her teeth find her bottom lip and work it over as her chin tips back, throat bobbing.
Her hands scoot higher, fingers dipping into the grooves of Rachel's ribcage, giving her better leverage for what she's planning to do next. Her biceps, thankfully, don't actually hurt and she tenses them, groaning as she slowly lifts her hips. The ridges of the toy drag against her walls, and the sensation burns white hot in her stomach, before she drops back down swiftly. And then she repeats again.. and again. And again.
"Fuck, baby."
Rachel:
Oh. “Oh, God.” It comes out as a slow moan, watching where Quinn’s working against the new addition to their sex life, still so, so wet and...that’s...she can’t just sit by and do nothing, not with Quinn moving against her. Not like that. One of her hands moves from Quinn’s hips to the back of her neck, barely tilting her head down so their eyes can meet. God, those eyes. That body. This. All of this. “Arch your back, Quinn. Come down hard.” She gently instructs, thrusting her hips up. Not fast--but slow, working with Quinn’s pace. She doesn’t want to rush her, body she wants this to be good.
And, God, from the look on Quinn’s face, this is going to be good.
“Ride me like you’ve always wanted to.” She doesn’t actually know if Quinn has, but considering the fact that Rachel’s imagined fucking her wife into the bed since the first time they had sex, it’s not a far stretch of her own imagination to wonder if her wife’s wanted the same. “Don’t hold back.” Her hands slip away down the collar to her wife’s moving breasts, taking one in her palm, thumb teasingly working in rhythm over her nipple.
Quinn:
She follows Rachel's instructions as they're given, back arching and adding force behind her downstrokes. Her fingers curl more tightly around Rachel's sides, desperately holding on as her pace gradually begins to change. That slow-burning fire in her stomach is getting hotter and hotter, and she already knows that when it finally explodes she's going to be absolutely useless. It's going to be so good.
Her wife's words -- don't hold back -- tap into Quinn's fantasies and day dreams because yes she has pictured this before. She's pictured riding Rachel with an almost reckless abandon. In her dreams it's always so hot that she wakes up wet and shaking and wanting, and the real thing is shaping up to exceed all expectations. She's not a top by nature but right now, being over her wife, is something glorious.
With one final grunt, she drops down on the toy, moaning at the way it stretches her. Then, without waiting for long at all, she leans forward and lets go. Her hips thrust back and forth, grinding and riding hard and fast, and she's moaning and groaning and whimpering and whispering filthy things as she fucks herself on top of her wife.
Rachel:
“Fuck.” It rips from low in her chest, suddenly working much, much harder to keep up with her wife’s pace, faltering a little because--fuck, she’s gorgeous. The things that are falling out of Quinn’s mouth are downright sinful and she’s moving with reckless abandon. Rachel no longer worries in the slightest about pushing the pace or guiding her, one hand once more moving up to the back of Quinn’s straining neck to actually steady herself while the other moves down between them.
Between the slick sliding of the toy and almost into Quinn’s wet folds, but staying above, circling along the moving--thrusting, undulating--nerves there, matching each rise and fall of her thrusts. She’s not sure what she’s saying--not really; she’s not paying attention to anything but how beautiful and desperate her wife is, right now--but her mouth starts to tag along with every word leaving Quinn’s mouth--pushing her harder; goading her; talking down, just the slightest, while the next breath she’s building her up.
Quinn:
Quinn's muscles are straining, working through the burn to move against Rachel to give herself one hell of an orgasm. Her fingers curl tighter against soft skin, nails pressing and she's sure she's going to leave small crescent-shaped cuts and mottled marks all over her wife's beautiful body today. It stirs the fire in her stomach and makes her clit throb to think, that for once, there will be evidence of her all over Rachel. It's as heady and animalistic a thought as is the growling moan that rips from her throat.
"So cl-close.. Fuck!"
Rachel's fingers against her clit are amazing, and God what is she even saying? She's speaking and the timbre of her voice alone makes Quinn clench, but she can't pick out the specific words. Or maybe she just can't concentrate on anything but riding her wife, thrusting and grinding to get to that one spectacular moment of pure carnal bliss. She herself stopped being coherent as soon as Rachel touched her.
When she comes, with one last final jerking thrust forward, it hits hard. She's absolutely nothing but liquid, white hot and scorching, pouring herself all over her wife. She's messy and wet and sticky and screaming Rachel's name, muscles coiled tight to hold onto this feeling for as long as she can.
Rachel:
God, Quinn’s so beautiful. So, so beautiful. Every single one of her muscles is exhausted, burning, clenching, but it’s obvious all of Quinn’s are clenching in a completely different way. She doesn’t stop arching up to meet her when the orgasm falls over tense shoulders, she keeps pace--always keeps pace--both hands guiding. Rachel’s mouth moves up along the skin her lips can reach--her chest--her collarbone--up her neck--to her cheeks--her parted lips. The hand curled around her neck falls down to her shoulder to anchor herself, forcing her own body up into a tilted sitting position, kissing along each and every sliver of Quinn’s body she can reach, wrapping her arm from shoulder about a craning waist, holding her wife up and against her.
She can feel Quinn, wet and perfect, from her abdomen down to her thighs and she honestly would never have it any other way, the sound of her own name ringing off of the walls for the second time tonight. But she wouldn’t have it any other way. She’d never have it any other way. It’s moments like these, Quinn around her and slowly coming down from a high, that she’s so deliriously in love and sated and so exhausted she can barely hold her body up and blissfully happy.
Quinn:
The overwhelming waves of her orgasm slowly begin to subside, still tickling the edges of her consciousness but mostly leaving her feeling warm and heavy and sleepy. Definitely heavy. Her body feels like it's made of lead. Her eyes are heavy. It's difficult to keep them open. The grip she has on Rachel's ribs finally slackens, and her shoulders and head slump forward until she's resting entirely on Rachel's torso, her cheek pressing against a sweaty collar.
"I..." She breathes, mind blanking. "We--" Words are hard. She still feels raw and wet and deliciously sore. "We'll never... make it... to the beach."
Rachel:
She leans them both back and down, into the bed, her back screaming protest but the rest of her not caring in the slightest. She’s pretty sure, at this point, she couldn’t move if she tried, her entire body--every single fiber--the consistency of jello. “We’ll make it to the beach.” She promises, groaning when she shifts a little too much, the harness digging into her hips. There are worse things, especially considering the fact that there is a beautiful, naked, sweating goddess on top of her.
She already bought the tickets and they already reserved their little private paradise. “If all else fails...” Both of her arms wrap around Quinn, smoothing down her back, working at her fellow-jello’s muscles. “Plane sex is a fantastic motivator.” She giggles, kissing the crown of her head. “I want to spend all vacation in the sun with you.”
Quinn:
Once Rachel leans back fully onto the bed, Quinn knows she's got to get the toy out of her if she has any hopes of really relaxing. Being so full is good, but God she's so sensitive, she feels raw. Her head turns, chin resting against Rachel's breastbone as she dots slow, soft kisses along her wife's collarbone. At the same time, she scoots up, lifting her hips with a weak groan. The toy slides out with a wet pop, and Quinn immediately drops back down, for once not really mindful of the fact that she's putting all of her boneless -- greater -- weight on her smaller wife. She's just so... spent.
"Mmm..." She hums appreciatively. "Sex on the plane. Sex on the beach. Sex in the ocean..."
Rachel:
She’s thankful for the reprieve to unhook the toy, pushing her hips up with a groan and slipping it down and off. It’s probably a little shameful and entirely out of character for her to simply drop it off the side of the bed before she drops her arms to wrap Quinn’s around her, mindlessly sliding their body closer together, curling them closer. She kisses her before she entirely settles into the bed--into Quinn. “Sex on the sand--sex in every single inch of that rented place we can find.” She smiles along with her wife. “And a fantastic tan.” She adds as an afterthought, the cleaner fingers brushing through Quinn’s hair.
Quinn:
She curls against and around her wife, pressing her nose into the brunette's neck and breathing in that uniquely Rachel smell. Sure they're both a little gross and in need of a shower -- objectively -- but she's content to just lie here and take in the purest essence of her love that she knows. Her thighs are aching and sticky, and Rachel is sticky underneath her, but they're together and sated and touching everywhere they can. Why would she want to leave to do anything?
"A tan is something I could only dare to dream about," she answers with a smile. Her fair complexion never handles sun too well. They're going to have to pack some extremely strong sunblock. The last thing she wants is to spend their vacation whining in bed, beet red and slathered in aloe. "But I'll bet you're absolutely stunning after spending time on the beach." Rachel is so flawlessly gorgeous anyway, and her skin is so beautiful.
Rachel:
“I promised to be your lifelong lotion partner.” She reminds, smiling against a mop of blonde, sweaty hair, eyes sliding closed. It’s been nearly a year since she’s been on a beach. Over, actually, now that she thinks about it, and that’s a little unnerving of a thought. “I’ll make sure you don’t peel or burn.” Her fingers trail down, running over a bra line and, lower still, over a panty line. “And are properly and evenly tanned.” Her smile turns into a bit of a smirk. “I promise you will be as loved by the sun as you are by me.” And it’s a wonderful thought, really, her wife stretched out completely naked on an empty, clean, white beach. The smell of the water mixing with the faint hint of her wife's perfume. The look in her eyes a perfect compliment to the sound of the ocean gently gracing the beach's small flecks of sand.
Quinn:
The gentle trail of Rachel's finger leaves a small rising of goosebumps in its wake, and a quick shiver takes hold of her shoulders. The feeling has her burrowing closer into Rachel's neck, a soft kiss pressed against a still-slowing pulse. There's a faint hint of her wife's perfume somewhere under all the sweat and sex and Rachel-smell, and it makes her feel warm all over. It's a good smell, a very good one. It's rather warm itself, and evokes feelings of safety and security in Quinn. Sometimes she feels like absolutely nothing can go wrong as long as she's close enough to smell this.
"I can't be naked on the beach if the boys are around," she pouts. She loves their friends -- she really does -- but they make their hypothetical vacation sex life that much harder. "I mean I guess none of them are attracted to me..." she seems to reconsider the idea. What harm could there be in them seeing?
Rachel:
Rachel’s whole face scrunches at the thought, stomach coiling and shoulders tightening. “No way.” It comes out a little over-possessive and her cheeks tint, trying to propose the idea in a bit less of an over-bearing light. “We’re not going to trounce about the beach naked.” She protests, tone gentler. “The only person who I ever want to see you naked in all your glorious beauty is me.” No boys. No boys ever. Not their friends--not other people who live in Florida--no girls; just Rachel. “And maybe your gynecologist.”
Quinn:
Her nose scrunches then. Thinking about her gynecologist is just sort of... weird, right now. He's a lovely older man, and as weird as she thought it was at first to have a male gynecologist, she's used to him now. He's just a very... lovely person. And a caring doctor and why oh why is she thinking about her gynecologist while she's lying naked on top of her equally naked wife? Bad Rachel. Bad, bad Rachel.
She swats at Rachel's stomach gently, nudging her neck with her nose in an unspoken reprimand.
"Just you," she humors, nodding against damp skin. "I should probably get property of Rachel Fabray tattooed on my ass or something."
Rachel:
She groans when Quinn lightly hits her stomach because--yes, she definitely scratched there, too, didn’t she? Did Quinn mark her everywhere, tonight? She shouldn’t find that idea so, so sexy. But she does. And weirdly humbling and...good. Very good. She shouldn’t, but she does, and Rachel’s too tired to think anything of it. Still, she smiles when Quinn presses further into her neck, once more chastely kissing her forehead.
The idea of Quinn tattooing her name on her shouldn’t be so stirring, either, still. “Please don’t marr your perfect body literally in my name.” She smiles, shaking her head. “Although I wouldn’t mind seeing my name on your ass everytime I bit it.” Another chaste kiss. “I’m pretty sure everyone will know just by looking at your finger.” Or her neck.
Quinn:
"Hmm..." She hums, half-happy and half-thoughtful. That's not... a horrible idea, now is it? Obviously her ring is the most beautiful material possession she's ever had, and she feels honored and proud and loved every time she looks down and sees it on her finger. It's not as showy as Rachel's, but it catches the light just as effectively, marking her as a young woman who has happily been claimed by the love of her life. Still... she'd never be one to turn down something extra. Rachel and their love just inspire it in her. "That's not a bad idea."
Rachel:
Her hand, still conveniently located at the pantyline, skims over a small line in Quinn’s flesh, tracing her own name with her nail. “If you did mine...” She’s sure to put Rachel Fabray, because that’s who she’s certain she’ll be until the day she dies, “I’d have to do yours.” She’s heard that relationship tattoos are like kisses of death, but she highly doubts that. Quinn Fabray is the only person she’s ever met that she would get a tattoo for--because of--with. Perhaps that’s the definition of true love.
Quinn:
She moves then, groaning quietly in response to protesting muscles, turning onto her back and scooting her body just off to one side. Her head stays on Rachel's chest, and she lifts her left leg and situate it between Rachel's, just so they're still touching from head to toe. Her eyes move from the ceiling to the hand she's raised. She points to the finger adorned by her wedding and engagement rings.
"'Rachel,'" she says, indicating the side of her finger. "Or maybe..." The hand falls, fingers trailing over the left side of her collarbone, near her steadily thudding heart. "Here."
Rachel:
She watches her wife intently, eyes focused on each and every movement. Her sigh is content when they’re still connected, bodies pressing in comfort and relief. She leans forward and catches the finger she’s suggested, kissing along the side of it, tongue barely darting out, smiling, and further leans down to etch her name in Quinn’s skin, over her heart, with her lips. She guides Quinn’s hand to her heart, “Lucy, since this is legal property..., she traces her name--Lucy Quinn Berry Fabray--traced along her heart. She moves further down to her side, along her ribs to her stomach, doing the same thing, and then moves lower still, a delighted, low hum leaving her lips when she traces Quinn’s name down the length of her inner thigh.
Quinn:
Her heart feels astonishingly full. It always does. Rachel just does that to her. Nothing about the magic of their relationship has faded, not in the slightest. She feels like everything will still feel this blissful and intense and wonderful years from now. Rachel just... makes every day more beautiful to live in. Now that she's found her, Quinn knows Rachel is behind every smile she has. Every bit of happiness, Rachel has a hand in, just by existing and loving her.
She watches Rachel's hand with rapt attention, smiling as she imagines the way her name would look permanently written against such beautiful skin. She's fond of her wife's other tattoos, but this.. she knows.. would be her favorite. Without question.
"You just want me between your legs all the time," she teases, licking her lips at the idea of her name inked there.
Rachel:
“I do.” She responds without a second thought, smile curling into a smirk at the edges, barely able to hold herself back from pushing Quinn inside of her because that would be a good idea for no one. “If it wouldn’t hurt like hell, I’d just tattoo you inside of me.” She nods, leaning up to gently kiss Quinn’s lips in contrast of her words. “But I’m pretty sure the cheaper alternative to that is to just have a wonderful amount of sex.” Her other fingernail still trails lazily about Quinn’s heart, smiling.
Quinn:
"We've definitely got that covered," she says with a smile and a nod. She's not sure she's ever known any couple to have as much sex as they do, not even the boys. The idea that she has more sex than Puck makes her giggle quietly. And she's proud of course. Damn proud. She gets to share her bed with this beautiful, magnificent woman. Anyone else in her position -- not that anyone else ever will be -- would do the same.
Her fingers trail over soft skin as her brain turns back to the topic of tattoos. Having her wife's name put on her body sounds perfectly wonderful to her. She knows for certain that she'll never belong to anyone else. She's never really thought before that every person has one other person he or she is made for, but Rachel has made her reevaluate some things. And she never has a moment of doubt that Rachel is that person for her.
Still, there are a lot of pressures that say matching tattoos or relationship tattoos are like the death knell in any pairing. She just.. honestly cannot see her life without Rachel in it. "You don't think," she starts quietly. "That getting the tattoo would... jinx us or something, would it?"
Rachel:
The thought of them every being jinxed in anything makes her stomach clench and heart turn in her chest. She pulls back so that she can fully look into her wife’s eyes, her own eyebrows furrowing for a moment, expression suddenly turning very, very serious. “Sweetie...” It comes out very, very softly, hopefully assuring, sincere. She moves, anchoring her hands on either side of Quinn’s head, moving so that they’re eye level. It will probably come out a tad corny, but she’s not worried about that. “Lucy Quinn Berry Fabray,” She kisses her forehead--her left cheek--her right--her nose. “There is nothing in the world that could make me stop loving you.” She promises.
“The only way a tattoo could possibly jinx us is if I somehow managed to get an infection from an improperly cleaned needle.” She smiles against the swell of Quinn’s nose. “I love you. I’m dedicated to you.” Statistically speaking, the only thing that would have jinxed them was getting married, but Rachel’s positive that they’re part of the fifty-percent that will make it. Quinn’s the only person she’s ever met that’s--she’s everything. She’s it. “You--” Her smile widens, “And Billie,” She adds, because she could never forget their little ball of fluff. “Are my everything. So none of that. Stop it. No jinx talk.”
Quinn:
"Billie Holiday." Correcting Rachel on that subject is reflexive at this point. It comes, tonight, with a soft, glowing smile and a roll of hazel eyes even in the midst of her heart swooning. Rachel is, hands down, the absolute best thing to ever happen to her.
She would never like to think of her life -- at any point -- as lacking. Every day is a gift, and every day has something to look forward to. Life is what each person makes of it, and Quinn has always tried to make it the absolute best. But now, looking back, she can safely say she made the best she could. It wasn't until Rachel tumbled -- literally thank God for tumblr -- into her life that it actually became the best it could ever hope to be. Rachel is her rock and her love and her partner and her security. She's never doubted them before, but random bouts of baseless insecurity are bound to happen every now and then. She's only human.
"What," she starts, reaching up to carefully push damp, matted hair from Rachel's forehead. "Did I ever do to deserve you?" It's a rhetorical question, really. She's not looking for an answer. Whatever it was, she's glad she did it. "I love you."
Rachel:
“You were perfect.” She notes with a soft smile, not much caring whether the question was rhetorical or not. All questions are asking because someone, somewhere, intended for them to be answered. She thinks it’s the other way around as far as deserving goes, honestly. Rachel Berry (now awe-inspiringly Fabray) is no particular saint. She’s maybe a decent human, but she never thought she would find this--she never knew this existed. She never knew a human could breathe life into everything she touched like Quinn can--can smile in a way that still catches Rachel’s heart in a stuttering mess--can say the most perfect things when she needs to hear them. She doesn’t know what she’s done to be so lucky--she really doesn’t.
“You still are perfect.” Perfect for Rachel--perfect. She leans into Quinn’s hand, heart clenching in the most beautiful of ways when she looks into sincere hazel eyes. It’s probably some form of romantic whiplash that they go from the messy state of their sheets to meeting each other’s eyes with such intensity, but Rachel...this feeling--this underlying feeling of love and care and intensity--it doesn’t go away simply because Rachel’s shamelessly fucking her wife into the mattress. It just...it solidifies it. It’s always there.
She’s already said it--but she--it’s impossible not to respond back in kind. “I love you, too.” So much. She kisses her again--and again--her body still overly exhausted and heart in her throat, before she rolls onto her back, wincing in small pain, and pulls Quinn back on top of her, tangling their limbs.
