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Fic: Shock Me (With Your Electric Feel) 1/3 (Brittany/Santana)

Posted on 2012.05.01 at 19:18
Feeling: calmcalm
Throwing Shapes To: Adorn- Miguel
Tags: ,

Title: Shock Me (With Your Electric Feel) 1/3
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Brittany/Santana
Spoilers: None
Summary: Britt confesses her deepest fantasies.
Disclaimer: Very, very brief mention of rape. Trigger warning. Future!Brittana. 

“Forget it,” Britt whimpers, angry at her own mind, “I don’t even know why I brought it up, it’s stupid; it’s horrible, I feel horrible, San-”

“No, no. Baby,” Santana scoots tentatively closer before Britt has a chance to leave, and places her hands on top of Brittany’s own in her lap, squeezing them gently, reassuring her, “don’t, shh, come on. It’s not stupid. It’s not. Hey, look at me.”

She watches Britt carefully; her downcast eyes and red cheeks giving way to full-blown embarrassment.

That breaks Santana’s heart, even if it is hammering in her chest a little.

“It’s okay, I promise. You just caught me off guard, that’s all.”

She reaches up to toy with a loose strand of Britt’s hair, coaxing her, twisting it around her fingers and using the ends to tickle over her jaw. That doesn’t get her to smile so Santana leans in and kisses her hairline.

“I love you Britt-Britt, with all my heart. You’re the only one for me,” Santana whispers like it’s still a secret even though it’s not; like she’s still hiding even though she’s not, even though she’s used to this new, old thing between them. “I feel so comfortable around you, I know I can tell you anything, and you can too.”

Brittany sniffs, brushing a finger under her right eye before daring to look up, a scared bunny rabbit, shifting and shuffling under Santana’s unwavering gaze.

“H-how can you love me when-” she chokes, shaking her head furiously.

Santana strokes her fingers, chest tightening.

“I do. And it’s okay, really. Listen to me Brittany,” she smiles kindly.

Bitt nods.

She takes a deep breath to steel herself, “We’ve never kept things from each other, right?”

Brittany nods again.

“And I adore you, completely. Everything you are is so special to me, every part of you, even things you don’t like about yourself or don’t want to show me. I love you and respect you. The last thing I would ever dream of is making you feel ashamed or unaccepted.”

Santana pauses, waiting for Britt to give her some kind of sign that she’s following. So when Brittany frowns hesitantly, Santana goes on.

“I’m in love with you. Nothing you ever say or do is going to change that. You understand that don’t you?”

“Yeah San. It’s just, it’s awful of me to…I didn’t mean to…I know how hard it is for you to…” Brittany sighs, blinking fast before the tears have a chance to pool.

But they do, and they fall so rapidly, flooding her cheeks and the collar of her sleep shirt in seconds.

Santana wraps her up in her arms, hugging her so close she can feel very breath Britt takes. She can feel her trembling body, shaking with sobs and wracked with guilt, and she cradles her, rocking her, holding her.

Because twenty minutes ago, spooning in the middle of their bed, Santana had feathered soft kisses up to behind Brittany’s ear and quietly asked to know all her deepest fantasies, all the things she yearned for but maybe never considered admitting until that moment.

Brittany didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She’d closed her eyes and pretended Santana wasn’t there at all. But she could feel her, so sturdy and warm against her back, a gentle reminder that she was patiently waiting.

Hesitant, she’d managed to mumble a half-hearted I um, I guess I’ve always really, kind of wanted to…you know, uh and then stopped.

And Santana hadn’t known, so she’d insisted, nuzzling closer, soothing her with more whispering flicks of her tongue and a calm hand on her tummy, It’s okay baby, tell me. Anything.

After a little more cajoling, Britt had stumbled through a confession of how she’d always thought about really having Santana, taking her and dominating her, (maybe with the strap, maybe from behind, maybe roughly), having her give up any and all control completely. Then, when she’d heard herself out loud and instantly realised how very much it sort of bordered on rape (she knows how much Santana needs to be in charge) and how very much she didn’t want that and how terrible she was at expressing herself, she’d pulled away from Santana’s circling arms and refused to look in her direction, let alone directly at her.

She was furious with herself. Her hands were shaking.

“Baby, come on,” Santana coos, shifting to kiss Britt’s cheek, “don’t cry. I know exactly what you meant, I do. I know you’d never hurt me.”

She seeks out Britt’s glazed blue eyes and cups her face so they have to look at each other, so Brittany can’t escape. She’s greeted with the biggest, saddest pout she’s ever seen.

“If it’s something you want,” she touches Britt’s mouth, smoothing until it goes lax, “I think it’s something I could consider. I trust you,” she moves in, glacially, afraid she might scare Britt away again, “I just want to make you happy.”

Truth be told, she’s terrified, of course she is. Despite trying really hard not to let it, Santana’s need to always be on top in whatever she does, always diplomatic and meticulous, had slowly blended into the life she leads behind closed doors.

Brittany accepts it whole-heartedly and without question.

Sometimes Santana can tell Britt’s doing everything to encourage her to let go, to look at her and yield, to really, really put all her faith in them; all the way.

But she knows Britt never doubts the trust between them, not for a second. She’s certain- as certain that the sky is blue or that she’ll wake up to Brittany’s face- that she’d follow Britt to the end of the earth.

When it comes to making love however, to being the vulnerable one, Santana struggles and Brittany knows that part of her fantasy stems from a deep-rooted need to liberate Santana, to crack her and fill her with love and courage and then when she breaks apart, to gather her and put her together stronger than before.

She so much wants, more than anything, for Santana to understand, regardless of whether they go through with it or not.

“I’m going to be happy whatever we do. We don’t have to talk about this ever again. I want both of us to be one-hundred-perfect comfortable. If y-you do think it’s something you might want…to try, I need to stress that I would never ever, do anything to hurt or humiliate you.

Santana nods, mulling it over. And then it hits her.



“Is this,” she sighs, swallowing back her insecurities, “is it something you’ve wanted for a while?”

Brittany shrugs, “On some subconscious level, maybe?” Her bottom lip stays anchored between her teeth, worried and chewed at until it blossoms red. “But I haven’t really thought about it since a few weeks ago.”

“Is it, I mean, are you…do I not…are you satisfied? Am I not doing something that…” She scratches at the cool sheets beneath them. There’s sweat prickling at the back of her neck, nervous, scared sweat, fear-of-abandonment-I’m-not-good-enough sweat.

“No. That’s not it at all. You satisfy me more than anyone else ever could, San, you know that! You are more than enough for me,” Brittany says firmly, looking directly into Santana’s eyes now.

“Okay.” Santana’s not convinced.

“Baby, you make me come so hard sometimes I forget my own name,” Britt runs her fingertips over the lines of Santana’s collar bone, down between her breasts, “you challenge me intellectually and fulfil me spiritually. You totally complete me San.”

Santana manages a small, purse-lipped smile, rubbing at the base of her skull.

“You complete me too.”

“Okay, good,” she breathes out, chuckling.

They’re both still tense as all hell, muscles twitching from straining so hard.

Santana’s the first to break, wrapping her arms around Britt’s neck and burying into her shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Is it okay if I think about it?”

Brittany kisses her temple, scooting them up the bed so they can lay back, “Take as long as you need. Take all the time in the world.”

Fic: Oak Tree Kiss (Brittany/Santana)

Posted on 2012.04.26 at 01:02
Feeling: awake
Throwing Shapes To: Like A Virgin- Vince Kidd
Tags: ,

Title: Oak Tree Kiss
Rating: PG
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Brittany/Santana
Spoilers: None
Summary: The first kiss.

Santana chases after her; sprints across the wet ground in big, sloppy squelches, crushing blankets of papaya leaves as she fights to stay upright.

She feels her throat seize and her lungs strain for air. Her pulse whooshes and surfaces hot in her cheeks, the throb and buzz of it stinging behind her temples.

Her fingers ache with cold. She tries flexing them, only to feel the joints creak in protest.

She still has no idea why they’re doing this. All she knows is that this morning, Brittany had woken her up with a yank out of bed, begging to finally show her how to climb, and Santana, unable to look away from Britt’s pleading blue eyes, had agreed with all her heart and a nervous feeling in her chest.

Now she prays for the concrete sky to open up one more time, to drown her, to wash her away, because then at least she’d have a good excuse not to ever do this again.

“Come on San!” Britt yells over the wind, turning briefly to check Santana’s not far behind before heading for the towering, burly oak at the edge of the park.

Santana runs and runs and runs. She runs until she thinks she can’t; until she’s grateful that she's being caught in the warm refuge of Brittany's arms. She tries to snuggle. But Brittany pulls away.

“See? It wasn’t so hard,” Britt tells her with a catlike grin, keeping her in a loose embrace and craning her neck up to inspect the monstrosity (challenge) stretched out above them.

Santana stares at Brittany, breathless. She doesn’t dare look up.

There’s something about Britt’s smile, wide and excited, that tugs deeply at the burn in her chest and doesn’t let up. She tries to count Britt’s freckles one by one, cluttered with splatters of mud and rain, cheeks smudged pink. She looks into Britt’s eyes and wants to reach in and take, but she’s not sure what.

Britt giggles, poking her in the side, “Look, silly!”

Santana swallows down her breath. She chews on her lip and chances a peek.

Her knees tremble.

She gulps.

If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine she’s standing next to a giant. An evil monster-alien-god with knotted arms splaying in all directions, reaching down to claw at the soil and up at the sky, as if it can’t decide whether to stay grounded or fly away.

(Sometimes she feels like that herself.)

They scare her: the thick, jagged branches, covered with ivy and moss like a camouflage snake-skin. Santana wants to reach out and touch, to see if they feel as scaly as they look.

Britt tugs on her raincoat.

“You ready?”

She panics. Of course she’s ready! She’s not a pansy, she’s tough. If her abuela could see her know, she’d say, Get to it, Santanita, you’re a Lopez for heaven’s sake!

So she nods weakly, eyes flickering back and forth between Brittany and the fat, slippery bark. “Um.”

Brittany seems to notice the way Santana’s Converses shift, squealing against the damp earth. She leans in and whispers, like a secret, “Are you scared?”

“What? No!”  

Brittany pulls her close.

“I can go first,” she offers, leading them right up to the trunk and running a finger down it. Santana copies her unsurely.

“That way I can figure out where to put my feet and all you have to do is follow!”

Santana shrugs, but it's strained and forced. Her heart starts to hammer in her chest- the idea of Britt hurting herself makes her feel sick.

“N-no. It’s okay. I’ll um…”

“Or you could go first,” Brittany side-steps, not letting go of her hand as she leads them all around the tree to examine. She eyes it carefully, trying to figure out where the good cracks and holes are, “and I’ll be right behind to catch you if you get shaky.”

Santana likes this idea. Briefly, she thinks of Britt’s hands on her, on her hips and around her waist, supporting her. She knows Britt will catch her, just like she always does.

She thinks about Britt’s soft hands and forces down the solitary wave of heat that rises through her.




Brittany nods once, pulling her into a tight hug and kissing her cheek, twice in succession, and then it’s all over and her heart sinks and she’s being led quickly away from the trunk.

“It’s no good here- too slippery!” Britt explains to her, “How about we follow one of the branches from the ground and then walk our way up?”

Santana nods mutely, trusting she'll be taken care of. She lets herself be helped up onto a thick limb that looks like a misplaced root more than anything else and closes her eyes.

“You can totally do this San! You’re like a gymnast!”

She entertains the idea for a second, imagining she’s balancing on a high beam in a circus, Britt’s hands in her own (like in Titanic) as she steps up right behind her. She remembers the time her Papi taught her to ride her bike, steadying her on either side as she tried not to wobble. Her heart clenches.

They’re not more than a foot off the ground but they walk slowly- at Santana’s insistence- with Brittany guiding their steps. She whispers quiet words of encouragement in Santana’s ear, holding her firmly until the branch begins to slope upwards and Santana realises they’re going to have to crawl.

“Just like The Jungle Book, San, keep your arms and legs around it and slither up,” Brittany nods.

Santana feels light-headed. When she leans over, all she can see is the ground below her, wind whipping hair around her face. She can’t do this.

“Don’t look down. It’s okay San, just don’t look down,” Brittany tugs softly at her ankle and she glances over her shoulder to see Britt smiling at her.

She takes a deep, shaky breath.

“Okay,” she mutters, “okay, right, okay,” she strangles the branch as she shuffles up an inch at a time, panting through it, clenching her thighs until her muscles twitch.

Brittany scoots up as close as she can, coaxing them higher and higher, seconds crawling by until Santana blindly feels her way in front of her and realises she’s reached bark. Her eyes shoot open and she gasps. “Oh my god!” she squeals, throwing her arms around it and holding on for dear life.

She made it. She's alive. God it feels good to be alive. 

But she doesn’t dare move. Her palms hurt and the wet wood feels rough against her cheek but she’s safe, that's all that matters, and she finally allows herself to exhale the moment Brittany catches up and wraps arms around her.

“You did it San,” she beams, pushing her forehead against Santana’s back.

“Oh god.”

“Come on, we can’t stop,” Brittany looks up, contemplating the branch above them. She doesn’t warn Santana as she leaps up and latches onto it, swinging to get her legs around it and roll herself on top.

 “Britt, what the hell are you doing? Come back here!”

Brittany smiles. She’s like a monkey. She reaches down and offers her hand to Santana who still embraces the trunk, puffs of cold air escaping every time she opens her mouth.


“San, come on!”

Santana shakes her head mutely, squeezing her eyes shut for fear she might cry. She hates crying, most of all when she’s with Brittany. 

She wants Britt to think she’s brave, like Indiana Jones- after all, there was that one time, when she gave Puck a black eye after recess, when he’d threatened to stick chewing gum in Britt’s beautiful blonde hair. That was a while ago though, and Santana knows she has to redeem herself.

She grapples with her nerves.

“I can’t,” she sniffs, scratching at the moist bark. It smells horrible, like mould and damp and bugs. Oh god, ew, the bugs. How did she not realise this sooner?

Brittany stretches down even further, until she can almost touch Santana’s head.

“Yes you can, please San, come up.”

When Santana finally looks up, through bleary, watery vision, she sees Brittany's pout. She also sees the determination in her eyes, the belief that she can do it; they can do it together. 

“Britt, I-I’m scared!” she sobs, rubbing at her cheeks. Her feet swing on either side of where she’s sitting and a fleeting thought that her sneakers might fall off makes her cry harder.

Brittany shuffles awkwardly. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen San cry before.

“It’s okay, I promise. Take my hand.”

“I can’t.”

Please San. It’s super cool up here! I think I can see your house! Trust me.”

Santana swallows. She lets out another sob, now full-out blubbering as she manages to get herself standing, body flush against the tree, feet stuck together. She looks like a boy soldier, so stiff and scared.

“Trust me San. Do you trust me?”

She’s trembling. Part of her wants to get up there as fast as she can, so Britt can hold her and calm her, so she can hush her and whisper to her some more. Part of her wants to run straight into her Mami's arms.

She stretches blindly and takes Brittany’s cool, sticky hand, and then she’s being heaved powerfully up, up, up.

“Perfect! Now swing your leg over!”

She manages to hook her foot onto the branch and twists, Britt’s hand coming up under her arm to hoist her securely beside her. When she feels her butt settle itself, she collapses into Brittany’s waiting arms, wailing in absolute terror.

“I want to go home!”

Brittany laughs softly, hugging her and leaving kisses into her hair. “That was so great, you’re so great San, I’m so proud of you,” she strokes her back, over the polyester of her jacket.

Santana feels hot and cold at the same time. She’s sure her nose is red as a tomato, but the back of her neck prickles with nervous sweat that licks at her with each gust of wind. Her temples are sweaty too- it doesn’t help her headache much.

“You want to go up one more?”

Santana doesn’t need to say anything for Brittany to realize that by the look on her face, it’s a resounding ‘no’. She nods in understanding, sliding back to rest her shoulders against the body of the tree.

They’re about a third of the way to the highest point of the highest branch, at the heart of the oak where the branches split and diverge into all directions.

They both know that’s as high as they’ll go for now (or probably ever). Brittany had secretly hoped she could convince San to go a little higher (it wouldn’t take much; a step across to the next branch and some more shuffling up its incline), like in the movies, so they could watch the sunset.

But this is good enough.

They can see the distant skyline through an opening in the leaves that still cling on, just like Santana clings on to Brittany.

Brittany gathers San up close to her and brackets her with her knees so she doesn’t fall.

“I think I’m having a heart attack Britt,” Santana whispers, pushing her nose into Britt’s jaw. Unlike the mouldy bark, Britt smells like sugar and citrus and warm soap, and Santana lets her eyes flutter shut, immersing herself in the comfort she feels.

“Are you still scared?”

Yes. The hard knot in the pit of her stomach lingers, like someone let a swarm of butterflies fly free inside her and then bagged them all into a tight, suffocating net.

“A little.”

Brittany shrugs, “It's okay. I’d never let anything happen to you.” She tilts her head to one side, nuzzling between Santana’s eyebrows.

“I know.”

Their hands fumble blindly until Santana manages to link her fingers around Brittany’s wrist. She places it in her lap and quietly draws patterns over her lifeline as Britt draws patterns over her scalp.

She thinks of so many things: how and if they’ll manage to get back down, whether they’ll be best friends for ever, what they’ll do when they grow up, if they’ll always live near each other, if they’ll always love each other.

That last part, she doesn’t really know what it means but she’ll figure it out.

She almost falls asleep, lulled by Brittany's whispered Don't worrys and I'll protect yous, when Brittany fingers her hair and manages to clumsily wind locks of it too tight between her fingers.


“It’s okay,” Santana smiles, looking up into Britt’s wide eyes. She’s so pretty; summer-pretty; she’s the prettiest girl Santana’s ever seen (even prettier than Quinn, she thinks secretly).

She tries to count the freckles again. One, two, three, she makes it to seventeen before she realises it’s getting kind of dark. The smattering of mud has dried, tiny specks forming constellations on the high apples of Brittany’s cheeks. She cups them and runs her thumbs over them, smudging and smoothing the slightly damp skin in time with the flicker of Brittany’s pale eyelashes.

Her Mami always taught her that staring was rude and Santana makes it a point to only do so when she needs to stare someone down.

But this doesn't count.

Britt doesn’t seem to mind. She sits statue still, cool as marble, lips quivering a little when Santana strokes over them once.

Her face glows in the fading sun. Santana can see the sky in the corner of her vision, pomegranate pink bleeding into grape-juice purple. She knows it’s beautiful, as any sunset is, but her eyes stay on Britt, on the tentative beginnings of her smile. 

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing. You have mud on your face.”

Brittany’s face falls and she frowns in embarrassment, “Oh. Sorry.”

“I like it. It’s like you have twice as many freckles.”


“Mhmm,” Santana unzips the top of her rain coat and reaches into the front pouch of her dungarees, fishing out a wrinkled tissue. She gives the corner a lick and wipes it just below Brittany’s eye.

Brittany waits patiently.

When she’s done, Santana gives a bashful giggle.

“Thanks San.”

“I wish…I wish I had something to give you; like a flower or- or candy. I don’t have anything,” she digs into every pocket she can find but comes up empty handed.

“But why?”

Why? Santana has seen a lot of movies. On weekends, her Mami lets her crawl into bed with her, into cool, crisp sheets where her Papi should be.

And when he works nights, Santana sneaks in early in the morning and they watch Breakfast At Tiffany’s and Roman Holiday and Some Like It Hot. She takes notes (mentally, of course). She’s seen enough to know that girls like flowers and candy and quick, soft kisses.

She’s never kissed anyone before, not the way boys kiss girls.

“Because. You know,” she scrunches her nose, sniffing at Brittany's curious gaze.

“You don’t have to give me anything.”

The thing is, Santana thinks she might like to. She likes the way Britt makes her feel. Sometimes it scares her and she stays up way past her bedtime, trying to understand it. But mostly she feels giddy and full and she wonders if Britt feels it too.



Santana licks her lips. She notices the way Britt stares at them and her heart thuds.

“Britt, do you want to…”

“What's wrong San?”

“Would it be okay if…I think I want to…”

It’s amazing how obviously realization dawns on Brittany’s face because the moment it happens, she gives a bashful, crooked smile and reaches up to push tiny curls of hair from Santana’s temple, distracting herself, “Yeah. Okay.”

“Do you understand what I’m trying to…” she croaks, watching the way Brittany closes her eyes and leans into her.


And then she whispers ‘I’m going to kiss you’ and does.

She knows she should keep her eyes open until the last moment but she gets nervous and they squeeze shut of their own accord and then their noses bump and their lips meet, closed and innocent in a first kiss.

Santana aims for a mere brush, a slip-slide to mirror the drops she’d seen run off the leaves lower down.

Something keeps her still though; she listens to the evening breeze hush-hush around them; to how hard Britt breathes, or maybe it’s her.

Either way, Britt’s fingers tickle lightly over her temples and into her hair and Santana can do nothing except move impossibly close and wait.

She gets so dizzy, so light.

Brittany pulls away first, slowly, lips popping gently as they part. Her hot breath licks at Santana’s mouth and she gasps.



Santana searches for blue eyes, lids heavy and half-mast.

There’s a dull, pulsing ache in her belly, like she’s done something wrong and wonderful. It blooms up through her until she’s weak and aching all over and only Brittany’s arms can keep her from falling apart.

“Again?” Britt whispers, toying with the string of Santana’s hood.

“Okay, please.”

It’s so huge- Santana knows it- what’s happening between them. It means so much, she can already feel the way it’s changing her and opening her, like an overflowing glass ready to spill.

At the heart of this oak, in the darkness of fall, Santana’s braved so many things but this one thing, this one, might just be the biggest yet.

Fic: Love On Top (Heather Morris/Naya Rivera RPF)

Posted on 2012.03.18 at 17:06
Feeling: relaxedrelaxed
Throwing Shapes To: Jailer- Asa
Tags: , ,

NOTE: Hello! :) I'd like to, for risk of venturing into TMI, mention that I've never actually used a strap-on. But hey. The mind wanders.

Title: Love On Top
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Heather Morris/Naya Rivera
Spoilers: None
Summary: Heather and Naya use a strap-on. 
Disclaimer: You know the drill.

Through some miraculous joke, the cosmic powers that be let the midnight sky open its arms, reach down and cradle the entire city in thick blankets of snow.

When Naya wakes up, with a mouthful of blonde hair and Heather’s sticky hand wedged between her legs, she moans sleepily, squinting at the wind as it dances the streets into a blizzard.

She thinks about reaching over to smudge her feelings into the wet window; secret messages of love and tenderness.

Then, maybe days from now, when it’s late and there’s wine and they make love again and again, when the glass is slippery with perspiration, the shapes will resurface to remind Heather of what they’ve become.

But, no, she just can’t. The sheets are too warm; she’s trapped in a heavy mountain of covers. She can’t leave. Heather’s breathing deeply; moulded wonderfully to her like a second skin, mouth light on her neck and slicker with each exhale. She can’t leave.

When she stretches her toes, they’re cocooned in what feels like a cloud. She still has on a pair of woolly socks that Heather had, after giving her the most nerve-shattering orgasm, put on for her.

She couldn’t be toastier.

She steals her phone from under her pillow, silencing it before it rips through their morning: 1 unread message.

Shooting cancelled! Snow day!!!!!! Enjoy your lie-in ;) xxL

Naya smirks, shuffling closer to the mess of tangled limbs beside her. She manages several open-mouthed kisses against Heather’s moist shoulder before Heather stirs and breaks into a yawn. With that, comes the shift-slide of fingers, curling against her in the most delicious slant.

Her arousal grows. “Oh. Hi.”

She’s greeted by a drowsy gaze and a crooked, boisterous smile that forces everything inside her to weaken. It still amazes her the way Heather’s irises marry up so beautifully with the weather: last night they were dark as the ocean floor and now, now they’re so clear, a cobalt-blue that fractures into an entire spectrum.

“Hey there,” Heather slurs quietly, shifting to accommodate Naya’s tilting hips. She lets Naya’s mouth pant over her own.

The kiss is dry but soft, a little sour and a little bit desperate and Naya can tell, through the haze of exhaustion and the easy slip of Heather against her, she’ll always wake up and want this. “No work, snow day,” she whimpers.

Heather gracefully rolls into her, half on top of her, and chides, “You should’ve woken me up.”

“Mmmh. S-sleep okay?”

Heather answers with a soft kiss to her collarbone, a careful knee to the inside of her thigh. She palms Naya’s ribs, damp and rubbery beneath her wandering fingers, skin yielding further when she lays Naya out. She knows all of Naya’s tells; every sound she makes, tender and loud and barely there; every movement. Like now; the butterfly-quick flutter of her lashes, the flickering pulse at the hollow of her neck.

“Do you want to-”

Yes,” Naya beckons Heather with firm thighs around her waist, bracketing her with layers of duvet wrapped around their shoulders. She pushes up on her elbows so they’re in a half lotus, hips bumping, and then noses, and then lips.

Heather cradles her as they kiss, deeply, with long fingers in hair and in sheets.

“Should I-”

Naya nods a breathless ‘yes’ but makes no move to let Heather go. Heather laughs, dipping to kiss her once more.

“I love you.”

“You too,” Naya scrambles to keep them both sheltered from the cold bedroom air, pressing her lips to the fierce line of Heather’s jaw, “please, now.”

It takes several tries before Heather manages to break away, making quick work of black straps hanging from the foot of the bed.

Naya watches her; watches smooth, blonde hair slide over Heather’s bare, slightly shivering back as she moves, muscles rippling beneath the firm skin of Heather’s thighs, shadowed in the pale morning light. And god, how she moves; like she’s done this a thousand times- Naya certainly wouldn’t mind- like she could do it in her sleep, so graceful and sweet.

She tries to ignore the thudding between her legs, the heat pooling there, wild, aching. When Heather lifts her eyes to smile at her, Naya’s fingers drift from her bellybutton, lower, and she clears her throat as she meets slick skin.

Heather sits back, pulling her knees up to obscure the lilac addition, “What you doing there?”

The fingers tickling inside her thigh shift to a halt and when Naya whispers ‘nothing’, it dies in the back of her throat. Suddenly overcome with shyness, she lets her hand drop beside her and averts her eyes, squeezing her thighs shut and nudging the blankets up her stomach.

“Hey, don’t let me stop you.”


“Yeah, I mean,” Heather begins carefully, “you know I like it Nay,” her voice drops, serious, “you know it makes me hot.”

Naya feels her cheeks set on fire and she coughs nervously, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Keep going, it’s okay,” Heather urges, tipping her head back to look at Naya through hooded eyes, charming her with a lop-sided smile. She pokes under the duvet at Naya’s ankle with her toe. She wants Naya to feel good. It’s probably her favourite thing in the world, watching Naya make herself feel good, fall apart, watching her walls drop regardless of whose hands tear them down.

So when she gives in, reluctantly uncovering herself, Heather sighs in relief and concentrates on Naya touching herself, the same way she touches Heather sometimes; lightly, smoothly, chest rising and falling with every tilt of her wrist.

Her breathing picks up, splintering the minute she looses heat, crisp air kissing her skin. She shudders.

She starts at her hip- she doesn’t press, just sort of strokes idly: up and down, breath, up and down, breath. The tactile circles over her skin grow bigger and bigger; traverse the smooth plateau just below her navel.

Heather can see the twitch in her stomach, the way the muscles meet and diverge beneath her touch. She imagines her mouth there, and on Naya’s neck and collar, on the soft skin of Naya’s breasts, nipples dusky and straining in the thick space of their small bedroom.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispers, “how do you feel?”

Naya’s hips arch, “G-good. Cold.”

Heather crawls to her until she’s settled right in front of her, reaching out to kiss the tip of her nose, eyes never leaving the secret place between them.

“Tell me?” she kisses Naya’s cheekbone, scooting momentarily to wrap them up as much as she can.

The contact coaxes Naya to relax, leg bending at the knee to accommodate as her hand slips further down. Her voice strains. Heather can already see the first signs of restraint in the crease of her brow, the sweat beading there.

“Soft. L-like I broke something--god,” she sighs. She tries to focus on everything she feels but it’s just so much, Heather’s so close that all she wants to do is feel her, or be felt; she wants closer.

Heather moves in between Naya’s legs and circles loose fingers around Naya’s moving wrist, “What else?”

“It hurts.”

“I love you. What else?”

Heather’s voice is firm. It breaks through Naya’s resolve. When her eyes open, all she sees is blonde hair and freckles and a wet, pink mouth. It makes her own water. “Heather, please.”

“Shh,” she runs her fingertips over the back of Naya’s hand, settling over her fingers to feel the tendons move, like the time she let Naya teach her the F major scale.

Naya rubs so slowly, Heather can practically feel it on herself, remembers what it’s like when it’s her fingers directly on Naya, loving her mercilessly, worshipping her head to toe.

The covers let little light through and Heather kind of likes it. She always was good at letting her mind wander.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Naya tells her, in hushed, broken words, how much she wants Heather inside her, how amazing it is when Heather uses her tongue in long, flat swipes, how she’s waiting for Heather to tug at her hair and fuck her into oblivion.

She knows it’s making Naya beyond wet. She can see it; the effortless, frictionless motion of their hands pushing through a glossy sheen. She can smell Naya, her warm sweat and shampoo and something else, something musky and tangy and rich.

If the thing between her legs were real, she’s sure she’d be blue-balling by now.

She cups Naya’s face and kisses her, greedily inhaling.


She sits back against the head of the bed, tugging Naya – she’s begging now- easily into her lap, into a tight embrace. The toy presses insistently between them. Naya touches it; imagines what it could do to her; analyses its masculine shape against Heather’s very womanly form. It’s a dichotomy she devours.

“It’s weird, huh?”

Naya nods, “I like it.” She nudges Heather’s chin with her nose.

Heather blushes, cupping Naya’s cheek, combing back fingers into her dark hair. She tugs lightly, pulls on a curl until it springs back into place. She really likes it, the way it falls all around Naya, frames her eyes.

She squeezes Naya’s hip, “Me too. I like that it leaves my hands free,” she leans in against Naya’s ear, “so I can touch you all over,” she nips Naya’s ear, playfully plucking at a flushed nipple.

The squeak Naya lets out, liquefies into a throaty moan the moment Heather places her entire hand over Naya’s chest, monitoring her heartbeat as it hits her palm in fast, sturdy thumps.

Naya buckles, “I’m gon’a fall.”

Heather latches onto her waist and shifts upwards, feeling Naya shake against her.

She puts arms around Naya’s neck, kissing her and kissing her, gentling her back, between her shoulder blades and down her spine. She slips inside easily, Naya’s entire being burning against her own skin.

It’s heaven.

Naya’s so alive against her, so crucial, melting at every contact point, flowing like water, milk chocolate expanses of skin, skin, skin.

Heather juts her chin out, mouthing at Naya’s shoulder as they breathe in tandem, body and hair blending to share colour.

After a quiet, tense moment, Naya exhales against her, going boneless at the sensations blooming through her bones. She can feel rivulets of sweat racing down her neck, smudged by Heather’s fingers.


The answering ‘yes’ is so hushed, Heather almost doesn’t catch it. But then Naya nods against her neck, grunts at the first jolt of Heather’s hips.


Heather laughs, “Feels good for me too.”

“Huhm,” Naya shifts onto her knees, moving her hips further into the hollow of Heather’s pelvis, and lifting again. Heather meets her half way. She rakes her nails lightly over the goose flesh of Naya’s thighs, cradling her as they sway, up, up, up and down with each swing.

She licks along Naya’s damp breastbone, nosing the underside of her breast and catching a nipple between her teeth. The sharp pull makes Naya jolt.


Yum,” Heather grins, meeting Naya’s eyes. She can barely see them, long lashes fanning out over her cheeks. She thumbs at the nipple, soothing it with an apologetic kiss.

Naya lets it go, elbows already trembling against the headboard, gathering sweat at her biceps. Heather tilts her head to the side and takes a clean lick.

It feels glorious: to have Naya in charge of her own pleasure, to watch her struggle against her own desire, moving on top with stubborn determination. Her pupils blow wide and she pants, moving her head every which way to make room for Heather’s kisses along the column of her neck.

She’s careless and insistent. Heather could take a back seat and look at her all day.

But the strain is clearly too much and somehow not enough; it’s in the tremor of Naya’s thighs, the tension in her shoulders – god forbid she ever admit it- and Heather shapes them together, bucking up to break Naya’s balance.


“Roll over.”

“I don’t-”

“Just roll over for me,” Heather demands, slipping out to scoot down the bed and reposition Naya so she’s facing away, rolled onto her side, “trust me.”

Naya turns to look over her shoulder, “Heather, I’m not sure-”

Heather spoons her, pushing in once more, manoeuvring one arm under Naya’s neck and one around her waist, “See?” She rolls them into a blanket taco and begins to thrust, timed, methodical pushes of her hips against Naya’s backside, every drive followed by a delicious, hiccupped ‘uh’.

She sucks at the back of Naya’s ear, swiping the wetness off her; moves to the veins of her neck, nibbles at them until Naya squirms and folds in on herself.

They carry on for a few minutes, arms outstretched and braided in front of them; Heather’s content to keep pushing, lacing fingers through Naya’s own, palming her waist and abs, squeezing her breasts tenderly, fingers careful on her sensitive nipples and between her thighs.

Naya relaxes completely- she’s in the perfect state of half-sleep-bliss and Heather’s gentle, rhythmic rocking does everything to ease her into euphoria.

When she comes, it happens slowly, soaked in big lazy waves, with Heather’s tongue licking at the corner of her mouth and feather-light circles on her clit.

Heather nuzzles her, “That was fun.” She listens to Naya’s breathing flatten; beading kisses on her shoulder blade and the mild ridges of her spine.

“Holy shit.”

They both giggle, tussling in the sheets until Naya manages to turn, attacking Heather with kisses to her face and chest.

“Think you just got me pregnant."

Heather snorts, "Should probably make an honest woman out of you then."

Naya stretches, curling in, "Mmm. Someday. If you want."

Fic: I Could Start Fires (With What I Feel For You) (Heather Morris/Naya Rivera RPF)

Posted on 2012.01.15 at 18:58
Feeling: blahblah
Throwing Shapes To: Fires- David Ramirez
Tags: , ,
NOTE: I no longer have time to write. I can't remember the last time I took an hour out to sit down and gather my thoughts. I have become scatterbrained.

Also, every day I fall more hopelessly in love with Naya Rivera. Fic is inspired by David Ramirez- Fires.

Be gentle, I'm out of practice.

Title: I Could Start Fires (With What I Feel For You)
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Heather Morris/Naya Rivera
Spoilers: None
Summary: A musing of sorts. Their relationship is a little like a flame.
Disclaimer: You know the drill.

That’s how it feels, when Naya touches her- like a great, roaring fire, growing within her, reaching high from the tips of her toes to the ends of her eyelashes.

That’s how it feels- as if she’s alight, a slow, bone-deep burn she can’t shake away, rooted in her chest, reaching out from her heart to the surface of her skin.

She glows red, cheeks warm, ears too, when Naya touches her.

This is how it is- don’t breathe, not so hard. In the dark, she thinks it might die, this light between them. Sometimes it’s so small, so quiet in her ears, Naya’s voice in her ears, soft and hot and fading.

She knows she has to be careful. She’s not much good at that.

Naya knows too. Just like the back of Heather’s hand, or the ridge of her hip, Naya knows they may not last. She hopes for something different. She breathes a little lighter, a little quicker, fuelling the spark between them, this tiny accident.

It’s hard; to be so delicate, when Heather’s kisses sear through the core of her, when they swallow her whole until she can’t remember herself- who is she? Where are they going? Why, why, why.

They talk when no one listens. They hide behind sets, steal time and glances they’ll never get back. It hurts so viscerally, to dance, to let Heather lead when all she wants is to kiss, to look at her and commit.

The heat is fresh, giddy, yet they scramble for it still. She’s greedy and she wants it all. She hasn’t come this far for any less.

Slow down. Naya, slow down.

It’s hard; when Heather’s hands push down every part of her, anchor her like they belong to each other. No. let me. Please. Let me, just this once. This once turns into one more time and again, please and it’s the last time, I swear.

And then slowly, finally, setting everything ablaze, those three words; whispered into the back of Heather’s neck one night, in the confines of their big-spoon-little-spoon shelter. Heather trembles and sweats, she cries and begs so much Naya thinks, like the Bronte sisters suggested, it might make her sick.

Just like that, with such ease, it slides out in the open, stretching over into the next day and the day after that, and bringing with it a fire-fever Naya knows she won’t escape. It pours through the quick of her, lazily, defining them.

She smoulders, like they warned her. Heather spins and Naya grasps for her, turns away when they come face to face.

That’s how it feels, to keep them alive- like a great, roaring fire, starting small, growing wild.

Fic: The Girl In My Journal (Heather Morris/Naya Rivera RPF)

Posted on 2011.10.30 at 16:26
Feeling: draineddrained
Throwing Shapes To: Somebody That I Used To Know- Gotye
Tags: , ,
NOTE: Potential official-Brittana on Tuesday? God help me.

Title: The Girl In My Journal
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Heather Morris/Naya Rivera
Spoilers: none
Summary: Heather's been looking for her fairy tale.
Disclaimer: You know the drill.

“Shit, seriously,” Heather whispers, rolling over into the curvature of Naya’s side, burying her face into the warm junction of neck and pillow.
“What is it?”
“Ugh. You’ll hate me.”
Naya perks up, turning so that Heather’s blonde hair sticks to her wet lips. “What?”
“It’s just…fuck,” the sharp line of Naya’s hip hits the soft flat of Heather’s thigh and it’s so good, so good, it’s the very thing Heather’s trying to talk about. “It’s like you just fucking ripped out a page from my13-year-old-self journal and…” she sighs, moving back a little to kiss under Naya’s chin.
Heather can hear the shit-eating grin on Naya’s face, “And you thought, ‘Well, fuck, let’s be that; think I’ll be exactly that, exactly what I wrote down.’”
It’s not easy, never has been, to be this open with someone; not Taylor, nor mom, nor Ashley.
“What did you write?” Naya turns to her side, sheets rustling in the grey, early morning light. She’s sweating, because the heating is on full blast and has been all through the night; because Heather hates winter and Naya does everything to make Heather happy.
She can tell it’s cold outside. The windows are wet and clouded and the rain taps against the sill in quiet patterns. “Tell me.”
“Stuff,” Naya smiles, moving her thumb over the flushed skin of Heather’s neck. She wants to kiss her there. So she does. Sweetly. Slowly. “Tell me.” She moves to Heather’s ear, careful to push her hair over her shoulder so it doesn’t hit Heather in the face, “Tell me.”

The breath-to-skin contact makes them both tense.
“Neruda-esque shit. Didn’t make much sense."

"I remember you reading some."

"Yeah. Anyway. I was small.”
“You mean, young?”
“Yeah. And small. Small heart, small mind…you know,” Heather shrugs vaguely.
Sometimes, not often, but more times than she cares to count, Naya finds herself struck by Heather’s depth. She’s poetic and sensitive and it’s a side to her Naya hopes, selfishly, remains hidden from the rest of the world.
She watches the big, concrete wall of defence rise in the blues of Heather’s eyes, and breathes lightly, pressing her nose to the corner of Heather’s mouth. “And how your hair lifts up,” Naya recites reverently, insisting kisses against Heather’s lips, “and how your mouth smiles, light as the water.”
She feels Heather melt beneath her, hot and terrified, “And like this I need you,” she presses just under Heather’s ribs, coaxing a smile, “like this I love you. So tell me.”
Heather swallows. “I guess…ugh. I guess I…I mean, I always wanted the fairytale, you know? All the bullshit.”
“The prince, the happy ending. True love.”
“You think it’s a lie?”
“No. I don’t know. I wanted to be found, and not have to search.”
“Do you feel lost? Like you haven’t been found yet?” Naya says seriously, her heart trembling as Heather contemplates her.
“Um. Not-no. Not any more. What I’m trying to say…I wanted all that stuff, I wanted the boy, it was the right thing to want to have. I wanted it because it was supposed to make me happy. As I got older…”
Naya nods, takes fragile locks of blonde hair and twirls them around her fingers, sweeps the ends along Heather’s jaw, then touches the same places with her hands.
“I kept a journal. The ‘boy’ turned to ‘person’ and the fairytale thing turned into me wanting someone who I could fight with and cry with and love through it all.”
“I don’t think that sounds unreasonable.”
Heather rolls her eyes. “Sorry. I’m being a dickhead.”
When Naya says nothing, Heather leans up and licks at her bottom lip, “It’s you. I wasn’t looking and you were there,” she mouths the words against the faint outlines of a dimple, pokes her tongue there and kisses the high apple of Naya’s cheek. By the time she’s done, Naya’s beaming at her and also looking like she might possibly cry.
“Yeah. You were the person in my journal.”

Fic: Tired (Heather Morris/Naya Rivera RPF)

Posted on 2011.06.16 at 20:02
Feeling: bouncybouncy
Throwing Shapes To: BTSTU- Jai Paul
Tags: , ,

NOTE: SHIT. It's been a while. I've managed to catch up on S2 of Glee! Exams are over! Summer's here! I don't live in the library any more! Life can finally continue.

Title: Tired
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Heather Morris/Naya Rivera
Spoilers: none
Summary: Heather and Naya have a disagreement on tour.
Disclaimer: You know the drill.

Naya’s tired.

No, scratch that, not tired; exhausted. Completely ruined. Annihilated, if you will.

She looks at herself in the back of her iPod- she’s pretty sure she could fit an entire conveyer belt under her eyes, never mind a suitcase. Her mouth feels dry and her throat even more so, tickling unpleasantly for every rubbery swallow she takes a crack at. She knows she’s coming down with something. Best not to think about that. Really though, she’s already falling apart.

She rubs at her neck, lets it click into place and throws her head back against her pillow. Because, fuck.

As much as her feet hurt, as sore as she is, as desperate as she might be for a massage- who it comes from, she doesn’t much care- Naya can’t fall asleep.

She’s been trying. She has. She’s been trying ever since the one blinked to two, red, square numbers burning the backs of her eyelids tauntingly. She tried the counting thing; the sheep thing that always seemed to work for Heather. All she pictures is a bunch of lamb chops. She’s not sure whether she should feel starved or nauseous.

She's become a fucking insomniac. All that real, clinical shit and everything. Really, she should look into that, get some pills or start that Zen Yoga shit or whatever. She cannot fucking sleep.

It’s exactly 2:11. The next time she blinks, the digits change again and she growls. She’s listening to Chopin. Some etude or nocturne or whatever thing Heather had downloaded for her. Fact is, she’s got a full fucking playlist of this shit and instead of real song titles, the ones that slide across her iPod screen are ‘I love you buttface’ and then the next one, ‘No, really” and the next, ‘You are such a sexypants’ until song fourteen which says ‘You better be asleep'.

Naya wants to cry. She rolls over to face the wall. The bus is steady and buzzes beneath her, filling her with a heaviness that locks down her limbs but makes her heart pound faster. They’ll be in another city come morning. There will be new crowds and new lights on new stages.

And some things will remain. Like Heather, she’ll be there too; right by her side. And maybe they’ll hold hands; maybe Naya will get over it. And maybe Heather will look at her like she created the world and Naya will let her.

She almost screams when her bunk dips and a body settles in behind her. But the scent is familiar and the warmth just perfect and then Heather wraps an arm around her waist, kissing her hair. Naya sighs softly; scoots closer. It’s like they’re on the same wavelength or something. At times it scares the shit out of her, how in sync they are. Mostly though, she only feels very safe and very proud and so very helpless.

“No wonder you can’t fall asleep,” Heaher whispers, “it’s like the fucking Red Light District up in this joint.”

Naya laughs. She watches as Heather leans over her and turns the small alarm clock off.

“Mmm, better.”

Hands sneak beneath her shirt and Naya can’t help the flutter that settles at the pit of her stomach. Part of her wishes she’d put on something hotter; something decidedly not consisting of a black, frayed tank top and basic white boy shorts.

Heather doesn't seem to mind though.

Because there are five careful fingers circling her bellybutton in idle strokes.

The other part of Naya, the other part wishes…oh god, fuck, it has been a while hasn’t it?

And yet.


Heather flattens her palm under Naya’s breasts and pulls her closer, spooning her tightly, legs tangling and slipping against each other in practised unison. In other words, just fucking right.

“I said I was sorry.”

The tone cuts harsher than Naya’s prepared for and she instantly bristles, going rigid against Heather’s tentative touch.

“You don’t sound like you are.”

“Nay, come on. All you’ve done is ignore me the whole day,” Heather nestles even closer, stubbornly trying to break through to her. “I’ve missed you. We spent every hour together and I’ve missed you.”

At this, Naya can’t help but soften, moving blindly in the dark until they’re face to face. She reaches up and collides with Heather’s jaw.

“Why did you say it then?”

From the pair of them, Naya has always been the one completely enamoured with the Brittana storyline. From the get go, she’d jumped in head first, embracing their characters’ heart-breaking love affair with zeal and gusto. ‘It’s a story that needs to be told. So many kids are depending on this,’ she’d said.

Heather didn’t like it; didn’t like the idea of Brittany taking her Naya away even if they were one and the same; didn’t like Brittany kissing Naya and Brittany holding her hand and Brittany making her laugh.

She doesn’t want the entire world to see what they have, exactly what they're like. Call her a brat but she doesn’t fucking want to share.

“Because Brit belongs with Artie. They’re two peas in a pod.”

She doesn’t have to lean in to know there are tears on Naya’s cheeks. She can tell because Naya’s breathing changes and quiet hiccups fall from her mouth and all Heather can do is grab her fiercely and cradle the back of her head.

“And because I, belong with you.”

“You just-”

“They’re two different things Naya.”

“N-no. Because y-you said,” Naya struggles and fusses at her face, wiping her nose clumsily, “Artie’s your soulmate.”

“Babe. Brittany is Artie’s soulmate. But just because they’re meant to be together, doesn’t mean that we can’t be. Naya, I love you, so much, you know that. You’re basically my everything. And I want to spend every day with you, I want to work together and mess around together but Fox isn’t ready for this.  I’m not ready.” The words are hushed but clear, washing over Naya in a calm rhythm.

Heather does adore Naya, loves her more than she thought she could love anyone. It's entirely pathetic, how she’d give her anything; let her take everything. But it’s been a hell of a day and right now, right now all she wants, needs, is to curl up with her best friend and let her breathing fall in time with Naya’s until they both pass out.

“I’m in love with you.”

“I’m in love with you too,” Naya whispers, and then after a while, “It was really fucking hard not being able to touch you. I couldn’t stand it.”

“You could’ve touched me.”


“Your silly pride got in the way.”

That earns Heather a slap across her arm and she giggles.

“Oh, okay, yeah, sorry. What pride? My bad,” she grins.

Naya gasps, shoving Heather away playfully until her wrists are circled by Heather’s fingers and she’s being pushed onto her back, snug in what little space they have to move.

“Look at you, half naked. No modesty, let alone pride, I really wonder sometimes, why-”

Their lips come crashing in a burning kiss and Naya almost shuts down at the sweet way Heather wraps her up in a hug, cradling her with a hand on her back and one behind her neck. “-I didn’t come to your bunk sooner.”

They both laugh, feet playing underneath the covers. Naya holds Heather’s hair back and wraps her legs around her waist. It’s so perfect, having this human hot water bottle, with a strong, beating heart and soft skin.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“I know.”

“Never again, I promise.”

“Shh, I know, come here,” she brings Heather down for another kiss, lighter this time, slow, sleepy, “I know. I’m an idiot.”

It’s not always that Heather’s this assertive, this gentle. She’s a dancer in every sense; fast, always moving, always changing, unsettled. Sometimes Naya wonders if maybe Heather may have a mild case of ADD. But with Naya and her blind trust, Heather manages to find peace.


“Hmm?” Naya pushes her nose against Heather’s own, whimpering out a shaky ‘oh’ when she notices a hand sliding beneath her to smooth along the outside of her thigh. Then there are blunt nails trailing up her sensitive skin and a dull thud as Naya’s heels slump against Heather’s lower back.

Hot kisses land on the side of her neck, just below her jaw, down to her collar bones and Heather’s tugging on her tank top, breathing steadily through her mouth and engulfing Naya in a thick, wet haze.

“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” Heather whispers into her ear, trembling the moment Naya lifts her hips and cants them just there, just so they meet completely, just so the heat is painfully. Fucking. Obvious.

“I love you.”

“I wouldn’t trade you for the world. I wouldn’t change you at all,” she continues, voice huskier with every turn of Naya’s head, every tilt so Heather can steal kisses.

Another sighed, ‘I-I love you.’

The way Naya says it makes Heather die a little and each tiny tremor in her chest leaves her dizzy and aching and pulsing all over. Naya’s slick beneath her, sweat beading on her forehead; Heather’s mouth and fingers travel easily against her. She touches everything she can get her hands on, the speed of Naya’s breaths her only guide in the dark.

Naya starts to beg, hot little pleas into the flushed skin of Heather’s shoulder, “I won’t- it won’t take much- I’m…” She loves the foreplay; loves Heather spoiling her and teasing her, torturing her beautifully with slow, slow fingertips kneading curves and plateaus. But it’s not the time nor the place and Naya squeezes her thighs around Heather, eyes fluttering shut the moment it creates friction. “Oh.”

Heather catches on, smiling against Naya’s parted mouth as she slips a hand under the elastic waistband of Naya’s cotton panties. She feels Naya’s whole body tense in anticipation, pink tongue darting out to wet lips, arms coming around in a possessive hug.

Naya’s legs part a little more and the instant Heather sinks deeper, she groans “Fuck,” lazily, mouth watering at the scent of Naya’s musk, sweet like crushed apricot, her perfume, her shampoo. Deep breath.

Heather,” Naya grits out, coiling infinitely tighter until the sole parts of her touching the bed are the crown of her head and her tailbone. The hand on her lower back is flat and unrelenting, pressing Naya up, chest to chest, toes curling at each feverish thrust.

It makes her blood boil, the way Heather’s fingers twist against her; the way she growls ‘oh my fucking god’ in her ear, teeth scraping over sensitive lobes; the way Naya literally tumbles into ecstasy, clinging onto Heather’s shoulders desperately, aware but unable to help her nails from scratching over them.

When she comes, the only sounds are a series of short, jagged gasps and then nothing. It’s the sexiest thing Heather’s ever heard, the whine Naya chokes down as she strains; the way she turns into the pillow to wipe her temple.

“No, it’s okay, let me do that,” Heather dips her head, brushing her lips over Naya’s closed eyes, bringing the backs of her knuckles to dry her cheek.

Heather soaks in the echo of their kiss, the slip of skin on skin, drenched and swollen and delicious, the whisper of her own name on Naya’s lips as she drops back down to earth, shaking but sated. 

She waits patiently for Naya to open her eyes and then there’s a glorious smile across Naya’s face and she’s blinking dopily, trying to clear her head.


“It lives,” Heather giggles, laughing harder when Naya tilts and blows a soft raspberry on the side of her neck.

“I think you broke me.”

There’s a gentle quiet as Heather watches Naya fight sleep, eyelids consistently falling shut and fluttering open. “Had to wear you down somehow.”



“Oh yeah,” Naya grins, squeezing Heather’s waist and pressing her heels into Heather’s butt.

“My work here is done then.” 

“Don’t go?”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Heather scoots down the bed so she can place her head on Naya’s shoulder, ear pressed to the beat of her racing heart, nose nuzzling the salty skin there. It feels good. It feels like a relief, this whole ‘them’ thing.

Naya’s fingers tickle under Heather’s shirt, lazy uneven circles that get smaller and smaller but send Heather into sleep as Naya quickly catches up with her.

Morning will come and the last thought Naya has before going comatose, is that for the first time in a long while, she’ll actually be rested; actually be able to face the day with an energetic smile and Heather’s fingers between her own.

Fic: Cops And Robbers (Jane/Maura)

Posted on 2011.05.01 at 15:50
Feeling: stressedstressed
Throwing Shapes To: Silky- Honeycut
Tags: ,

Cops And Robbers
Rating: PG
Fandom: Rizzoli and Isles
Pairing: Maura Isles/Jane Rizzoli
Spoilers: none
Summary: The Rizzolis have a BBQ. Mindless plot ensues.
Disclaimer: You know the drill.

It was something she had managed to miss almost entirely. Her privileged but decidedly lonesome childhood- an endless source of that which could easily be bought- had always lacked and lagged in human warmth and attention she’d never known she so desperately longed for.

Cops And Robbers.

That was the name of the game and as Maura sprinted across the soft carpet of grass, the summer wind hot on her bare heels and the wonderful scent of a fired up grill not far behind, she narrowly managed to escape the evil clutches of one of Jane’s youngest cousins. The chase left her both thrilled and tired in equal measure.

With the looming air of freedom, unbeknownst to her, she found herself straight in the arms of a very excitable Jane; straight in the arms of the enemy. Out of character, Maura felt herself overcome with a sense of belonging and let out a sweet, surprised burst of a giggle.

Jane was a glorious sight indeed: kitted out in a baggy black t-shirt and shorts, tracks of war paint smudged high on her cheekbones, hair a tangled mess as unruly strands fought their way out of her ponytail.

Jane, with her endless smile and playful eyes, grasping Maura around the waist, yelling ‘Gotcha!’ and ‘Man down, team!’, much to the delight of her little cousins and neighbors, boys and girls racing around and wreaking havoc on the Rizzolis’ poor back yard- they’d been mindful of the flowerbed, Angela’s fourth child.

Jane. Her Jane. A big kid. Her hero. Maura disregarded the fact that Jane was a robber and she quite clearly was not. She quickly came to realise that she liked this, seeing Jane so free of obligation, so completely consumed by the joys of everyday life, surrounded by family and sunlight and a lazy Sunday afternoon.

She did try, futile as it was, to wrestle her way out of Jane’s merciless grip. It only made Jane laugh harder as she called out for back-up, quickly joined by Maggie and Noah who latched onto Maura’s hands, keeping her firmly rooted in her spot. When Jane let go to move away, their eyes met (Jane could pick Maura out in a sea of people) and Maura couldn’t stem down the steady swell of pride and adoration for this tornado of a woman.

“My work here is done kiddos. Take her away!” Jane threw a wink over her shoulder, not oblivious to the way Maura looked at her, beaming, swooning.

“Janie, you gonna stand there all day or you gonna lend a hand? How many times do I gotta tell you? I gotta do everything around here?” Angela called out from her natural habitat by the barbeque, flipping over burgers and rolling over sausages as Frank Sr. and the neighbours clinked bottles, debating the latest Red Sox defeat.

Joe Friday yipped endlessly beside them, weaving in and out and sniffing sneakers and sandals, waiting with bated breath for the moment Angella accidentally dropped a sausage.

Jane had all the intention of helping out. After all, it had been her idea to have a family gathering of sorts, to touch base, ‘nothin’ big Ma, a couple’a beers’ or somethin’’. Needless to say, Angela had almost gone into cardiac arrest at her daughter's changing view on family relations.

Nothing big and several beers had escalated into inviting half the street over for late lunch. Angela did nothing if not with an air of achievement and an underlying drive for competition.

Mere hours ago, she had been teetering on the edge of a breakdown, fussing over Frankie as she watched him vacuum the living room. “I’m a hostess! It’s what I do Janie. Now go get the buns,” she’d patted Jane’s arm, ushering her out the front door as she threw the car keys at her.

Now, well, now Jane was torn between Maura, the vision of her playing with the kids- it had surprised them both how naturally she took to the role. She looked happy and breathtaking, her summer dress billowing just beneath her knees, the straps delicate on her sun-kissed shoulders, hair half-up as it fell across her slender back. That and the incandescent picture of her mother, sweating over the grill in her attempt to juggle her drink and the arduous task of burning the peppers to perfection.

But a choice had to be made.

“Five more minutes Ma!” Jane swallowed down her rising fear, acutely aware that there would be hell to pay later. She turned back, greeted by the sight of a stack of bodies in the middle of the yard. As she walked closer, wiping her sweaty forehead with the back of her arm, she found Maura at the bottom of the pile-up, struggling to stave off the onslaught of tickles from Jane’s cousins and the neighbors’ grandchildren. Cops and robbers alike, took it upon themselves to playfully torture Jane’s new friend.

Maura was not exactly an unwilling participant. Despite feeling incredibly hot, she welcomed it all, poking the small boy by her side and smiling when he buried his face against her arm. He had to be the littlest one. He was her favourite.

Frankie was also somewhat in the middle of it all, trying to pluck the children off, picking them up under his arms and spinning them around as they kicked and punched. They were in hysterics by the time he was done with them, giving the boys noogies and chasing the girls until they’d all fallen about in an exhausted heap.

It wouldn’t be long before Frankie was going after them all with the water guns.

And Maura was there, still on the ground with the little boy, letting him look at her bracelet as he touched gentle, clumsy fingers to it.

“Ah, I see you’ve met Danny boy,” Jane grinned, “the Dannytron, Dan-wise, Danish, the Dannynator,” she lowered her voice until it was almost menacing. Danny instantly looked up at her, eyes widening as Jane bent down and scooped him up, blowing raspberries into the side of his neck. He tried to bat her away.

He can’t have been older than three. Maura could tell by his deciduous teeth.

She analysed the pair of them, taking careful note of the way Jane softened her tone, how she pushed the boy’s hair back and tenderly adjusted his collar. It made her stomach flutter. She stood up to brush grass off her dress.

“His shoe is undone,” she said quietly, pointed and Jane nodded, holding him in her arms so Maura could tie the laces. The teamwork brought about great fear for Jane, but also determination and a steadfast look to the future.

Angela Rizzoli shook her head. “Janie, for the love of God-”

Jane rolled her eyes, watching Danny toddle off as soon as he was put down and briefly pressing her lips to the side of Maura’s head, “Alright, alright, jeez Ma, I’m comin’,” she laughed, catching Maura’s hand with her own to lead her back to the house.

It was only then that Maura noticed the sweet imperfection of it all: the wonky basketball hoop as it dangled precariously from the back of the house, the deflated ball tumbling between Joe’s little paws and then wheezing as Joe bit into it, the skewed fence and unfinished birdhouse. It really was all beautiful.

“Get the lemonade from inside will ya? Fridge, top shelf. Try not to spill any. In fact, let Maura-”

“Yes ma’am,” Jane playfully saluted her mother, Maura right behind her as they made their way inside, a welcome refuge from the heat.

Maura sighed.

“This is nice.”


“Very much so,” Maura watched the way Jane commanded the kitchen, much akin to a bull in a china shop. Nevertheless, Jane found the jug of lemonade and took out several bottles of beer to go with it.

She thrust the pitcher at Maura, “Here, suits you more,” she smirked as Maura gave her a knowing look. “I’ll handle the beers…for Pops, y’know?”

Jane was a good person. She was kind. It was the initial thing that had drawn Maura to her. Aside from her boyish good looks and headstrong stance on the world, Jane had a good heart and Maura loved her for it.

She placed the lemonade on the counter, stepping into Jane’s personal space. It dawned on her, just how great Jane looked all dishevelled, dirty, care-free. “Your family is wonderful.”

The reply was a raised eyebrow and one very confused expression. “What?”

“I know you may not see it but,” Maura cupped Jane’s face, “your mother is an incredible woman. And Frank? I can see why Frankie looks up to him so much. And you?”

Jane groaned. “Don’t. Come on Maur, don’t do it.”

“You Detective,” Maura touched Jane’s lips, “they raised you, didn’t they? They did a pretty phenomenal job.”

“Well, Doctor Isles,” she laughed, “you sure know what to say to a girl, don’t you? I guess I’m meant to come up with somethin’ like, ‘Aw shucks, I may be the robber here but you stole my heart Maur’, right?”

It was cliché. It was sweet. It was delivered with just the right amount of sarcasm so Maura knew that on some other level, Jane did in fact mean it.

“The lemonade will get warm Jane.”

Jane grinned, leaning in and sneaking a brief kiss to the corner of Maura’s mouth, “You know you’re always welcome here. You're my family.”

Maura nodded, swallowing her sudden urge to cry. Instead, she led Jane out of the kitchen, wincing as the sun hit them once again.

“And Jane?”


“You're mine too.”

Fic: The Unruly Thoughts Of One Jane Rizzoli (Jane/Maura)

Posted on 2011.04.21 at 18:58
Feeling: highhigh
Throwing Shapes To: The Magic- Joan As Police Woman
Tags: ,
NOTE: Ever get that feeling where just the thought of seeing the person you like is enough to make you almost stall at a roundabout, then almost get run over once you've actually made it out of your car alive?
Yeah. It's certainly something.

The Unruly Thoughts Of One Jane Rizzoli
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Fandom: Rizzoli and Isles
Pairing: Maura Isles/Jane Rizzoli
Spoilers: none
Summary: Jane's brain.
Disclaimer: You know the drill.

Know what I love? I fucking love that. That right there; her twitchy nose and that sigh she sometimes- yeah, there you go- and her hand, magically finding its way right under her cheek, neat and tucked in. Like a sardine. Like it knows exactly what to do. Like a fucking princess.

Oh wow Rizzoli. That is some real gay shit there. You’ve really outdone yourself. Now shut the fuck up and get a good grip on your balls. You, are one whipped motherfucker.

Maura hums contently.

Lord have mercy, fuck Maura. What the hell are you doing to me woman?

Jane rolls her eyes. She then remembers no one can see her (pining away and being the girl Ma had always begged of her) and proceeds to do not a damn thing about her current predicament.

She reaches out, pushing locks of hair out of Maura’s eyes, sheepishly letting her fingers slide against the firm contour of a jaw, grazing sheets in the process. They smell like Maura. Hell, everything smells like Maura.

She smells un-be-lievable. She smells like Mother Nature took a dump and then sprinkled it with lavender or pomegranate or whatever the fuck kinda shower gel Maura’s using this week.

“I love you. It makes me want to jump off a goddamn cliff but I love you, Maur. Shit,” Jane whispers, unable to help from laughing when Maura nods her approval and scoots closer, abandoning her side of the bed and intruding on Jane’s, entirely and with no objection.

It’s so good, so very good to feel a body by her side and not be phased by hard, jagged edges of harder muscle. Maura is delightfully soft. And warm. She’s soft when she’s sleeping and softer still when she’s holding Jane down and confessing words right into her mouth.

“If I could say it better, I would. You know that, right?”

Maura whimpers, tilting her head, lazy lips catching against the side of Jane’s neck. And Jane, for all her bravado and blunt charm, does nothing but swoon. Because there are millions of butterflies hammering through her stomach, up to her chest and it feels like one of them might set off a grenade and she might die.

“And I’d tell you the sun shines outta your ass, and I kinda wanna be with you ‘til I’m eighty-five and you gotta change my diaper.”

This time, when Maura doesn’t make a sound, Jane shuts her eyes and yawns, wrapping a firm arm around Maura’s waist, ready to fall asleep again.

She’s almost there, almost willing to forget the whole thing, unscathed, pride intact. But Maura finds it in herself to stir, sneaking a hand under the covers, under the thin material of Jane's tank top, nails raking over the taught skin she finds there.

“They have nurses for that, Jane,” she mumbles sleepily, rolling over onto her back with all the nonchalance of someone who has, for lack of a better term, had their cake and eaten it too.

Jane grunts. 

Next time, admire only with your mouth shut. 

Fic: Child (original)

Posted on 2011.04.17 at 00:02
Feeling: sleepysleepy
Throwing Shapes To: Falling Or Flying- Grace Potter And The Nocturnals
Tags: , ,

Title: Child
Rating: G
Fandom: original
Pairing: none
Spoilers: none
Summary: Not a story. Just a thought.
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine!


I hope to be a child again. This is what I thought today, when I walked to the sun with my friend and my bag by my side.

I want to be a new thing.

I want to know very little, no, not stupid, just curious.

All that space.

If I were small, no, not short- but I miss the maze of knees and shoes- if I were small, with all of my heart and both hands out; I would trust the biggest of fish. I may wave or run or shriek with joy. I would be fearless and I would be scared.

And kind too. As I now try. 

I would be good.

Today I am older: older than yesterday, much older than before.

I am not a new thing. I know less than I am able. I forget things.

Fic: You Are Everything (Jane/Maura)

Posted on 2011.04.09 at 16:55
Feeling: flirtyflirty
Throwing Shapes To: Overlap- Ani DiFranco
Tags: ,

NOTE: There's this cute, blue-eyed Irish girl that works at my local Starbucks and I'm 10000etc.% sure she's gay. I got so nervous telling her my order I forgot to buy food and left off the 'vanilla' part of my latte haha. Oh if only I knew how to let her know I'm totally into her. Fml.

Title: You Are Everything
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Rizzoli and Isles
Pairing: Maura Isles/Jane Rizzoli
Spoilers: none
Summary: Sex in the car.
Disclaimer: You know the drill.

The warm breeze sweeps in through rolled down windows, riding on the light that fractures through Maura’s hair, caressing it, whispering into it.

The steering wheel’s hot against her back, searing through the thin material of her silk blouse. She leans away from it, once again, into Jane’s eager mouth. It too is hot - the kiss- and Maura’s eyes flutter at the brisk contact, at the way Jane devours her with quick tongue and fumbling hands.

“C’mere,” Jane tugs her closer, sliding the driver’s seat back as far as it’ll go, jolted by the click of metal against metal. Maura hikes her skirt up in what can only be described as sophisticated cock-teasing if ever there were such a contradiction and Jane reclines, wanton, hooded eyes taking in the various states of undress Maura presents her with.

First, the skirt, folded at her waist. Then, the small, delicate buttons, starting at the junction of her collar bones, down, down, down until all there is left is sun-kissed skin, glowing at the forefront of a clear blue sky.

Jane grunts. “You always gotta do that?”

Maura appraises her with a quirked brow, smiling sweetly as she drops the blouse onto the passenger seat. “Do what Jane?”

That,” she lets her hands climb up Maura’s stomach, licking her lips as they traverse the thin lace of Maura’s white bra. She squeezes. It’s lovely; the way Maura instantly comes to her, tipping her head just a little, indicating for Jane to step up. “With the slow and the buttons and,” Jane kisses the damp skin at Maura’s neck, nipping at the soft part of her earlobe, “the fuck-me eyes.”

At that, Maura laughs, adjusting herself in Jane’s lap so her arms come around either side of Jane’s headrest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”


“Certainly not,” Maura bites her lip, staring Jane in the eye. Her cheeks are flushed, gaze piercing green then clouding at the feel of Jane’s hands on her thighs, on her waist, her back, toying with the snap of her bra, mouth tight on her shoulder.

Jane’s voice drops, gritty, hard and before Maura has time to register it, Jane’s got her pinned, underwear pushed to one side, hand firm on the dashboard as she makes the first thrust, “Still not getting it?” She drops her right hand to the gear stick, grunting as the wind picks up, cooling the sweat on her forehead.

“Mmh. Explain it to me.”

There’s nothing Jane likes more than when Maura’s playful with her; when she’s eager and tender and wet. She bucks her hips, slipping in the seat until her knee collides with the radio. She holds her breath, lip unsnapping from between her teeth when the music doesn’t come on. Good. The only sound she wants is the ebb and flow of birdsong, the rhythmic slap of skin on skin and Maura’s orgasm as she watches her gasp through it.

“I could fuck you ‘til the sun comes down,” Jane explains it concisely and clearly, keeping to her word and bringing Maura one step closer. But Maura hums and sighs and Jane’s lungs constrict that little bit more. She’s pretty sure Maura doesn’t know it but should the situation arise, Jane would risk her life for this in a heart-beat.

Still, it’s welcome relief sometimes, to be free in other ways. To have the option of taking a drive together, of leaving work behind and tending to these things: intimacy, joy?

When Maura opens her eyes and leans in for a kiss, the rush of want appears in a burst. Each time she lifts and lowers to meet Jane’s touch, there’s an undeniable creak in the leather, drenched with sweat just like the front of Jane’s work shirt. Maura feels it rub against her shins and the pain distracts wonderfully from Jane’s persistent force.

“You ever get scared?”

Maura replies with a moan and a frown, hooking her fingers into Jane’s collar, “You don’t scare me.”

The answer slices right through her, the ache it brings sends Jane into a half-fury and she bends Maura forwards until she’s certain it’s beginning to hurt. She’d never even considered herself in that way and the mere thought of it makes her want to vomit.

“I didn’t mean of me, but gee, thanks.”

Maura wants to explore this further. She knows she needs to, knows it’s a big red flag waving in front of her face. Instead, the thing Jane’s doing with her thumb proves too much and she barely gets out “What did you mean?” before bunching Jane’s shirt as she strains against her. She’s close. Jane’s holding it off expertly.

“Of this. All of it.”

She doesn’t think. She can’t. Jane’s hand pushing against her chest now feels loose and flat against her and Maura realises she’s held to the wheel entirely on her own. Her elbow snags the side and the single sweep of the windscreen wipers against a dry windshield comes perfectly timed with Jane’s final thrust.

Yes. Yes. Oh- sometimes- God, Jane.”


“Terrified,” her voice breaks and she slumps into Jane’s arms, shuddering at Jane’s fleeting fingers in her hair, tugging and holding her. “That was-”

Confusing. Jane wants to say confusing, because she doesn’t quite understand it all. Not yet anyway. She stares out at the open field.

“-something I can’t lose Jane. Not just the…” Maura takes a deep breath, lazily reaching for the hand by the gears, drawing patterns around Jane’s scar.

Jane nods, part of her thrilled at Maura’s trembling, sated form, breaths even as they hit against her open collar. The other part, wants to cry; for happiness, for sorrow, maybe both. In the back of her mind, her own arousal becomes apparent and it doesn’t tempt her half as much as it should.

Now’s not the time. Now is Maura and now is something she wants to save.

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