Eventually, this is supposed to be the first half of the first chapter of a Pezberry story, so that is what it’s setting up.. but I think it can stand alone for now as a PWP piece, and honestly this too me so fucking long to write that I need it to be out in the world already.
Dantana —> Dantanchel smut. Implied eventual Pezberry. 7500 words. Untitled so far.
Before Santana could even register the shock of the cold wall against the skin of her bare back, Dani was on top of her, pushing her down on the bed, pulling the pillows out from under her to get her flat on her back.
“I’ve been waiting for this all fucking night,” she murmured into Santana’s ear, sliding her hand inside her panties. The warm, slick spot on Santana’s underwear coated the backs of her knuckles as she filled Santana with two fingers.
2.5K of Pezberry smut, prompted by thesaturnyear.
Title: This Business of Art.
Pairing[s]: Santana/Rachel, Blaine/Rachel.
Word Count: 6,820 words.
Notes: AU. Future fic. There are no explicit references to canon, but characters pop up in new and interesting guises. Inspired in part by the upcoming ‘Frenemies’ episode. Written for and prompted by the lovely nuthintasee, based around this gif (NSFW). Thank you, as ever, to itcameuponamidnightqueer for her beta and cheerleading skills. She’s totally responsible for guiding me towards writing a better ending for this and threw me some great ideas throughout. She’s awesome. I really pleased with how this came out. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
Summary: When longtime Broadway rivals Santana Lopez and Rachel Berry are cast in the same film musical, they’re forced to put their differences aside for the sake of the production. Publicly, they’re America’s favourite new best friends. Privately, they’re much more than that.
“What is it they say? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”
Title: they say you can’t go home again
Summary: Santana and Rachel attend their ten year high school reunion.
"My cupcakes were better than yours."
"I sold more."
"Thats because you showed old men your boobs, Santana."
Santana doesn’t know how they got here, and how they’re working each other out of their clothes even as they continue this ridiculous argument.
(apparently beyonce is now a part of jakeverse. don’t look at me.)
Don’t be mad when you get home. Jake knows it’s not permanent.
Santana squints at her cellphone for a minute, but decides she doesn’t need the indigestion while she’s doing Beyoncé’s hair and shoves her phone back into her pocket.
"When isn’t there?" she sighs, but she usually likes Rachel’s brand of trouble and she ends up smiling like a fool while the most amazing woman on the planet looks at her in the mirror.
Beyoncé just laughs, though. “I know that kind of trouble.”
YOU DON’T JUST GET TO PUT BEYONCÉ AND PEZBERRŸ AND JAKÉ AND A PUPPY IN ONE STORY. STOPPIT RIGHT NOW.
have I told you I love you lately?
she can tell by the short responses in their text exchanges that rachel’s having a shit day, even if she won’t actually say so. auditioning has been kind of a drag for her lately. lots of asshole casting directors, not enough callbacks. it’s the usual lull after a great high, but rachel seems to be taking this stream of losses pretty hard.
santana’s favorite bodega in all of new york is on the corner two blocks from their apartment building. she pops in and grabs an assortment of snacks and two personal pints of ice cream.
the beauty and the beast platinum edition dvd is loaded and ready by the time rachel appears, freshly showered and wrapping her hair in a top knot, the slightest hint of a pout on her face.
"i got snacks and belle is waiting for us," she says, patting the space on the couch next to her. rachel smiles and does that little run in place thing where she taps her fingers against each other before plopping right onto santana’s lap. "i patted an entire space and still…" she starts before shaking her head and pressing play.
where’s the first place they have sex?
god, she can’t get the fucking door open. of course. rachel doesn’t seem to care, anyway. her arms are wrapped low around santana’s waist and one of those teeny tiny hands of hers is slowly running over santana’s abs. she scratches just lightly below santana’s belly button and kisses the back of her neck innocently. it’s all so much and not enough and why can’t she open her own goddamn door?
"can you not?" she says, voice totally betraying her.
rachel’s response is this sound somewhere between a giggle and a growl and it shouldn’t be hot, but it is.
(that’s basically rachel in a nutshell, really.)
the button on her jeans pops open just as the door finally clicks and the hand that slips into her boyshorts surprises her enough to make her trip over the welcome mat, taking rachel and the bag of leftover thai down with her.
she’d be seriously embarrassed, but rachel’s laughing and kissing her eagerly. she can’t help but laugh herself, right there, on the hardwood floor in the narrow hallway that leads to spaces with soft furniture and pillows.
she sends the sole of her hightop dunk into the door. it doesn’t close all the way, but she doesn’t care. there’s an insanely hot, tiny person straddling her waist asking why it took them so long to do this.
what does santana want to name their first child?
"look here, tinytator," santana says. rachel looks up with the kind of frown that says she doesn’t want to be amused by the nickname but definitely is. she’s lying on their bed, turned on her side with a light, but protective hand on her belly. it’s just starting to round out and her tank stretches from the growth just so. santana hates how cute it is. rachel pretends to hate how much santana likes to kiss and touch and talk to it.
"before you start suggesting names from playbills," she continues, rolling her eyes at the indignant look her super cute wife gives her. "clear your browser history, okay? i’m not naming our kid milly or elphaba or annie."
"i shouldn’t have to clear my browser history. you should just not be a sneak," rachel pouts.
santana just waves that off. “i was thinking … well, i always kind of liked the name isabel. it has pretty cool nickname options and there’s only six letters. so, that’ll help solidify her learning to write and spell it by age two. besides, izzy sort of sounds like a good nickname for a small monster and i’m pretty sure that’s what we’re creating here.”
when do they finally get married?
she’s twenty-nine, three months and fifteen days old when they do it. it’s not as small as either of them pretended it would be, but that’s fine because it’s absolutely beautiful.
she cries. of course she cries, but it’s the kind of unexpected overwhelming kind of crying that she’s not used to. she just feels this rush of cool over her scalp and then her legs are shaking and her cheeks are home to a stream of tears.
she’s really happy and really in love with this girl — this woman who has surprised her in the best (and worst) ways since she was fifteen.
she absolutely refuses to spout off sappy vows — mostly because she can’t really talk — but rachel’s always tells her she says so much without ever opening her mouth that she doesn’t know why she won’t shut up.
she’s certain that the fact that she cannot stop looking at her in awe says more than any attempted poetry ever could. for safe measure, she speaks with her hands in the limo on the way to the reception because she honestly can’t help herself.
how many times does one of them end up singing something ~meaningful in public once they’re famous?
if i think about it, i’ll cry.
how many different ways does santana love rachel’s legs and hair and everything?
kaldfajdlfjaldfa. my favorite santana thing is how she doesn’t understand how she didn’t let herself enjoy these things sooner. ;_____;
[1/2; M; rachel/dani, santana/dani, santana/rachel/dani]
"You’re ridiculous," Dani says when she catches her breath, "but it’s cute. I can see why Rachel thought I’d like you."
"Rachel thought you’d— what?"