i may never sleep tonight [fierce&brittana&quinntana angstiness]
title: I May Never Sleep Tonight
rating: PG-13.
fandom/pairing: Glee. Quinn/Brittany, with implied established Brittany/Santana and Santana/Quinn friendship.
spoilers: Santana and Brittany date? Sort of?
warnings: Implied infidelity; implied ~sexual activity; possibly unkind impression of Brittany's intelligence or seeming lack thereof; uh.
summary: It's too depressing to be just because of the thrill.
words: 240.
disclaimer: I do not own Glee, or Panic! at the Disco's "Trade Mistakes." which is beautiful like if you haven't heard it go listen now
a/n: For the femslash100prompt word "burn". Y'know, I don't write it much, but I like this ship. I don't know if it's just because Blonds Are Better Than You, or what, but I really dig 'em a lot. It makes me wish I could write Brittany better.
It’s dangerous, like playing with matches, but instead of a burnt-down house, the consequences are legitimately terrifying.
Brittany arches her back; presses into Quinn’s palm; pants with hitched speech, “You’re really good at this, Quinn,” like it’s just an innocent compliment. And since it’s Brittany, it probably is just that.
Smiling cautiously, Quinn murmurs an uncertain, “Thanks,” against the crook of Brittany’s neck. She kisses the sweat-slick flesh; worries the skin between her teeth; soothes over the bite with her tongue when Brittany gasps, and kisses it again when Brittany moans. She pulls back slowly, praying that there won’t be a mark left there in the morning - and then praying that there will be; that it’ll be a flaming red color that will make Santana stop and stare because she’ll know she didn’t put it there.
They reach their peaks in near-unison; Brittany first, and then Quinn. In the flickering afterglow of an act of rebellion and betrayal, Quinn grins at the ceiling, and tries to imagine what it would be like if Santana were to walk in, right then.
The resulting mental images are unpleasant - sad - and things are instantly uncomfortable. Quinn guiltily rolls off the bed; gathers up her clothes.
She feels Brittany’s eyes on her - confused, genuinely not sure what the problem is - and feels guiltier still.
It’s like playing with matches, and Quinn doesn’t know why she keeps doing it even when she’s so burnt out.
rating: PG-13.
fandom/pairing: Glee. Quinn/Brittany, with implied established Brittany/Santana and Santana/Quinn friendship.
spoilers: Santana and Brittany date? Sort of?
warnings: Implied infidelity; implied ~sexual activity; possibly unkind impression of Brittany's intelligence or seeming lack thereof; uh.
summary: It's too depressing to be just because of the thrill.
words: 240.
disclaimer: I do not own Glee, or Panic! at the Disco's "Trade Mistakes." which is beautiful like if you haven't heard it go listen now
a/n: For the femslash100prompt word "burn". Y'know, I don't write it much, but I like this ship. I don't know if it's just because Blonds Are Better Than You, or what, but I really dig 'em a lot. It makes me wish I could write Brittany better.
It’s dangerous, like playing with matches, but instead of a burnt-down house, the consequences are legitimately terrifying.
Brittany arches her back; presses into Quinn’s palm; pants with hitched speech, “You’re really good at this, Quinn,” like it’s just an innocent compliment. And since it’s Brittany, it probably is just that.
Smiling cautiously, Quinn murmurs an uncertain, “Thanks,” against the crook of Brittany’s neck. She kisses the sweat-slick flesh; worries the skin between her teeth; soothes over the bite with her tongue when Brittany gasps, and kisses it again when Brittany moans. She pulls back slowly, praying that there won’t be a mark left there in the morning - and then praying that there will be; that it’ll be a flaming red color that will make Santana stop and stare because she’ll know she didn’t put it there.
They reach their peaks in near-unison; Brittany first, and then Quinn. In the flickering afterglow of an act of rebellion and betrayal, Quinn grins at the ceiling, and tries to imagine what it would be like if Santana were to walk in, right then.
The resulting mental images are unpleasant - sad - and things are instantly uncomfortable. Quinn guiltily rolls off the bed; gathers up her clothes.
She feels Brittany’s eyes on her - confused, genuinely not sure what the problem is - and feels guiltier still.
It’s like playing with matches, and Quinn doesn’t know why she keeps doing it even when she’s so burnt out.