Volcano.
Title: Volcano.
Rating: R.
Pairing: Quinn/Santana.
Summary: Based on a glee_kink_meme prompt. Quinn calls Santana out.
Spoilers: For 2x13.
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Quinn walked out of the choir room that day shaking. It was weird and dramatic and not at all like her, but she couldn’t help it. The way Santana had combed her fingers through Sam’s hair-the smile on his lips-the proud look on her face-and most of all, for reasons Quinn couldn’t explain, Santana’s be-stockinged legs thrown over Sam’s-all these things ghosted through her mind as she walked through the busy hallways. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. God, she wanted to, but she couldn’t. Everything sucked. She’d ruined everything.
“You’re in my way,” complained a voice behind her, and Quinn realized how slowly she’d been walking. She shifted to the side and fixed the person with a glare just because she-oh my god.
Santana watched her, hands on hips, eyebrows raised, a little smile playing around her lips. Even in a carousel horse sweater she managed to look like Catwoman. “Hey there, sad sack. How’s things?”
“Don’t push me, Santana,” Quinn growled, looking around to make sure no one was listening. “I already hit you once, don’t make me do it again.”
“Umm, I hit you, Mike Tyson.” The smile grew, Cheshire-style. “So how you feeling? Especially now that blonde-haired-and-bushy-tailed found a new place to call home!” Santana leaned in and whispered, relishing every syllable in that obnoxious way she did when she wanted to get a rise out of someone: “My glory hole, specifically.”
“God, what is wrong with you?” Quinn turned on her heel and started to walk away, and then heard Santana’s penny loafer’s click-clacking after her and groaned. “What do you want?”
“I want to torture you a little bit more about this, obviously! You broke that poor boy’s heart. I mean, have you not realized that everyone knows about you and Finn? If they didn’t already know that you were Slutty McGee, I’m sure everyone would have been really surprised.”
Quinn sped up, shutting her eyes. “Stop following me. I’m going to my car, and I’m driving home, and then I don’t want to see your cheap-prostitute face ever again.”
“Rude.” They turned a corner towards the foyer. Santana wouldn’t shut up. “Ugh, you walk too fast, it’s pissing me off. He doesn’t miss you all that much, ya know. In fact, he seems kinda glad to be with someone who isn’t pushing him away all the time.” Quinn slammed open the doors to the parking lot and, squinting in the sun, headed to the approximate location of her car. Santana trotted along behind. “That’s your problem, white girl-you’re so goddamn fenced-in. Like you’re too good for people. Like you won’t let them near you. And he is glaaaad as hell to be with someone who appreciates him. And hoo boy, do I ever.”
“Please go away.” Wondering why everything suddenly looked so muddled, Quinn looked around for her car and realized that she was crying. Like actual, legitimate tears.
“I appreciate him so much it’s a wonder he can even stand up. I don’t know if you ever-you were probably too busy fastening your chastity belt ‘round about those child-bearing hips of yours-but he is gifted like Christmas morning. We fucked”-Quinn flinched, and she heard Santana giggle a bit-“we fucked a little bit while you guys were still dating. Did you know that? I bet you didn’t-”
Quinn wheeled around and slapped Santana’s face, harder than she’d ever hit anyone before. Santana reared back, red-painted mouth open, pressing a hand to her stinging cheek. Breathing heavily, Quinn pointed a finger in her face. “Stay away from me, you freak. You fucking freak. Something is wrong with you. You are messed up. In your head. Do you get off on this? Does hurting other people turn you on?”
Santana started to fire back a retort, but Quinn moved towards her as if to hit her again, and she winced. Power roared through Quinn’s bloodstream, accompanied by fury and fresh grief. “Shut up. Shut up and get the hell away. If we were ever friends, we aren’t now.”
Santana stared at her, not really doing much of anything but clutching her books to her sweatered chest. Glaring, dizzy with rage, Quinn swiveled and walked towards her car. With one angry jerk of her arm, she opened the door.
“Wait!” Santana’s voice sounded small.
“What?” Quinn shouted. “What else could you possibly want from me?” She was really crying now, her shoulders shaking and her voice trembling. It was really freaking embarrassing, but she couldn’t make it stop and instead just hoped that Santana couldn’t see.
“I-I don’t have a ride home.”
They stood watching each other. Quinn’s arm fell limp on the door handle. “Are you serious?”
Santana looked at the pavement, scowling like a petulant child. “I missed the bus to talk to you.”
“You mean you missed the bus to torment me.” Santana looked back up, an unreadable look in her dark eyes. Quinn shook her head in disbelief. “Whatever. You live close to here, I remember that much from back when you used to be an actual person. Get in.”
Looking down at the ground, Santana walked over the passenger’s side and pulled on the door. “It’s locked.”
“I’m getting to it,” Quinn snapped. She slid into the car, set her bag on the backseat of the roomy hybrid, and pressed the unlock button on the door. Santana opened the door and sat down, still holding her books on her lap. She was eerily quiet now, especially considering the flood of words that had just come spilling out of her. Quinn sucked in a breath and started her car. “What’s your address, exactly?”
“What, are you gonna make me say it, rich girl?” Santana snapped, but it had little of the fire of her previous comments.
“Lima Heights Adjacent. I know that much.” Glancing over her shoulder, Quinn pulled out of the parking lot and started for the road.
“I’ll point it out to you once we’re there.” Santana looked out the window.
They drove in silence for some time, no one moving to turn the radio on. Quinn felt a deep, cold sadness settle over her. The comfortable way Santana threw her legs over Sam’s kept floating through her mind, and the ease with which she talked about having-sex? With Sam? That hadn’t happened. It couldn’t have happened. Sam was too good.
But then, Quinn thought, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel, anyone would have said Quinn was too good. And she’d kissed Finn-god, she’d kissed him, and colors burst around her. She couldn’t help it. She liked it too much, she liked skin too much. She liked it. Noticing that tears were starting in the corners of her eyes again, Quinn tilted the rearview mirror down to check her mascara and saw Santana staring at her. “What?” she said furiously, praying that Santana wouldn’t notice the way her voice shook.
“Are you seriously crying?” Santana laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
In a white-hot rage, Quinn swerved her car onto a side road and parked there. Santana shrieked, and Quinn unlocked the doors. “Get out.” She nodded towards the passenger door.
“What-”
“You heard what I said. Get out of my car. You couldn’t even go fifteen minutes without being a colossal bitch. Get out.” Damn it, these fucking tears.
“Quinn, I can’t walk to my house from here! It’s like another ten minutes by car!”
Quinn swallowed and shook her head. “Not my problem.”
“Don’t-look, I’ll be good or whatever, okay? I promise. Just-drive me home.”
“You know what? No! Not until you-” A car pulled onto the side road and stopped behind Quinn with a honk. “Oh, damn it.” Quinn heaved the car into drive again and drove down the side road until she spotted an empty parking lot behind a movie theater. She parked out of the sun and in the shadow of the theater, which appeared to be unoccupied in the afternoon. “No. I’m not taking you home until you explain to me why you’re doing this.”
Quinn would always remember how Santana looked at that moment-the sun glowing behind her head, illuminating the tousled outlines of her black hair, her eyes wide with shock, her eyebrows furrowed, her pretty lips open with words unsaid. Even in that brown sweater-even in that unspeakably stupid sweater, she looked like a fucking supermodel.
“I don’t-listen, Barbie, I don’t know what you want me to say.” Santana’s claws were back out. Her lip curled. “I just plain don’t like you.”
“Oh my god, that’s not good enough!” Quinn reached up to her face and wiped underneath her eyes. Her fingertips came away smudged with black. When she looked back up, Santana was staring at her with something strange in her eyes. Hunger? Quinn ignored it. “That’s not good enough. People don’t just do this because they don’t like other people. That’s bullshit. Please. Please tell me why.”
“I-” Santana’s lips came together tightly, as if to keep something from getting out. “I-”
Quinn sighed and sat back heavily. “Great. Now you can’t talk. That would have been really helpful earlier.”
“It’s-look, I wouldn’t expect you to understand this? But do you know what it’s like to never, ever get what you want?”
“What?” Quinn looked at Santana, who stared back. The first thing Quinn noticed was that Santana was breathing heavily, and then she saw Santana’s hands balled up in her schoolgirl skirt, the knuckles turning white. “What are you-”
Santana’s voice was quiet, tight with unhappiness. “I mean, I figured you wouldn’t get it. You live in Middle-Upper-Classville, and you were cheer captain, and you’ve never not had a boyfriend. Girls like you-” Santana’s voice broke, and she looked away at the clear blue sky. When she spoke again, it was almost inaudible. “Girls like you don’t ever have to worry about not having things. Girls like you don’t have to steal. Girls like me-girls like me have to grab what they can get.”
“Santana, if you wanted a boyfriend, you could have gotten one. You’re like one of the hottest girls on the Cheerios. It wouldn’t have been hard.”
The blue sky was reflected in Santana’s dark, dark eyes. “That’s not what I wanted,” she murmured. “That’s not what I meant at all.”
Quinn stared at her, heart thumping, something like realization bearing down on her. She folded her hands in her lap and cleared her throat. Santana still watched the sky. “What did you mean, then?”
The sky in Santana’s eyes wavered, trembled, clouded over with rain. “I meant-god, are you really this dense? Did you never-god damn it.” Santana shut her eyes, and Quinn saw tears sprinkling out of under her thick eyelashes.
“Oh my god…” Quinn bit her lip and leaned forward. “Santana, are you gonna be-”
Abruptly, Santana leaned forward, cupped Quinn’s face in her hands, and pushed a frantic, needful, wet-warm kiss onto her mouth. Quinn’s eyes fluttered shut. When they opened again, Santana had pulled away and had her forehead pressed against the window, an utterly miserable look in her eyes. “Sorry,” she muttered, her voice musky with crying.
Quinn’s hand moved slowly to her mouth and pressed against her lips, feeling them still hot from the kiss. The city rumbled quietly outside the quiet car. A bird flew overhead. For once in her life, Santana was utterly silent. “Santana, I-”
“It’s not a big deal.” Santana still wouldn’t look at her. “I mean, I get it. You’re straight. You’re like a fucking yardstick. And you’re celibant or whatever.”
“Celibate.”
“Yeah, that. And you always have a boyfriend. And you’re cheer captain. And you’re rich and white. And I’m me. I’m a fucking lizard.” Quinn frowned, not understanding, but let her continue. “I’m brown and poor and a girl and I’m fucked up, Quinn, you don’t get it. We’ve been best friends since second grade, and I’ve always wanted to do that.” Santana covered her face with her hands. “Do you realize how crazy that is? I’ve always wanted to do that. You turned me gay or bi or whatever the fuck I am, and now I’m all messed up inside. I can’t ever, ever get what I want. Everyone gets what they want sometimes, but not me. All I get is Brittany, and I don’t even love her. I don’t-” She looked sideways at Quinn all of a sudden, as if realizing what she’d admitted, in a roundabout way. “Shit,” she said flatly. “I should just walk home, huh? This isn’t even making sense to-”
“Santana.” Quinn reached out and put her hands on either side of Santana’s face and smiled a beatific smile. “Shut up.” Their lips slid together, a perfect match.
Santana broke away with a gasp. “What are you even doing? You don’t do girls. You don’t do anyone.”
“Yeah, but… This is different, right? You’re a girl. I’m still a guy virgin. Or whatever.”
“That’s messed up. I don’t want Sam’s sloppy seconds.”
“You wanted my sloppy seconds.”
“Because they’re your sloppy seconds. Sam’s just a pair of lips. A magnificent pair of lips, but still just lips. You’re… you.”
“Oh my god, you’re totally into me!” It hit Quinn then, hit her hard. Santana wanted her, and Santana had always wanted her. What the fuck, what the fucking fuck.
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m totally into you. Get over yourself already.” They both laughed a little, and then things felt better.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Quinn’s hands were still on Santana’s face, but she didn’t mind.
“Um, for every reason I just freaking listed. Like an impassable wall of reasons.”
“Okay.” Quinn leaned in to kiss her again without even really thinking about it, but Santana pushed her away.
“I don’t want you to pity kiss me. That’s not what I want.”
“I know. I don’t want to pity kiss you either.”
“Isn’t that what this is? You’re like the farthest thing from queer.”
“I guess so. But-I mean-my boyfriend just dumped me, and I need a little bit of… nookie.” Santana laughed, disbelieving. Quinn continued, amazed at herself and amazed at how badly she suddenly wanted it, wanted Santana, wanted this. “Besides, girls are different, right? You can teach me. They’re nice and soft and stuff. They don’t want it all from you right then. They’re not… pushy.”
“Watch me,” Santana growled, and she ran her long fingers into Quinn’s blonde hair, pulled her face closer, and ran her tongue over the pout of her lower lip. Unwittingly, Quinn moaned. Santana was at least as good a kisser as Finn, even if there weren’t fireworks so much as waves of pleasure. It really wasn’t the same, Quinn reflected, letting Santana’s tongue work its way expertly into her mouth. Santana tasted nicer than a boy, and her skin was smoother, and she felt… secret. Safe.
“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Santana asked, panting. Her headband had come askew in her hair. They stared into each other’s eyes, both breathing heavily with excitement and terror.
“Should I?”
“I’m not exactly an unbiased party.”
Quinn closed her eyes, thinking back. Finn. Puck. Sam. Tall, strong, imposing, innocent but threatening, not asking but always pushing, careful with her body but not with her heart. Sex had knocked her up, pushed her down, and gotten her in deep shit.
She opened her eyes. Santana’s hand was rubbing a strand of her hair, and her berry-red lips were open and waiting. She was small and slender, dangerous but vulnerable, asking but not pushing, poised carefully. She wanted Quinn-not an idea of Quinn that she’d gotten from a porno, but Quinn, the actual person. Santana wanted Quinn. And Quinn wanted what Santana was offering-sex, skin, no-holds-barred, no-strings-attached, pure, simple sex. It was perfect.
Slowly, slowly, Quinn Fabray nodded. And that small, proud, sly smile crept across Santana’s face again.
They got out of the car in tandem, Quinn shielding her eyes from the sun, and slipped into the just-roomy-enough backseat, closing the doors behind them. They sat facing each other, working on each other’s clothes. Quinn pulled the headband out of Santana’s hair, letting her fingers trail through the smooth darkness of her straightened hair and then whispering, “I can’t wait to mess you up.”
Santana responded, laughing and a little breathless, “Girl, let’s see you try,” untied the ascot from around Quinn’s neck, and sank her mouth down on the curve between Quinn’s throat and her shoulder. Quinn gasped and let her eyes close, clinging to Santana’s body, rubbing her hands up and down the small of her back. Santana was good at this, good at knowing just the right place to lick and suck and bite and make Quinn melt just a little bit in her arms…
“Take off this stupid sweater,” Santana growled, and she pushed Quinn back into the leather seat and pulled the red sweater off over her head. Soon Santana’s hands were on her breasts, squeezing them, pinching them, and then Santana’s head was between them, and her lips were nibbling and sucking and just generally sending cascades of wonderfulness all over Quinn’s skin.
“Come here,” Quinn breathed, and their faces collided, and nothing felt as good as kissing Santana-nothing that Quinn could think of. Santana unhooked Quinn’s bra and threw it into the front seat, and Quinn grasped the hem of Santana’s sweater and yanked it over her head.
“This is like the first time I’ve had sex and haven’t made the guy buy me something at Breadstix yet.” Santana removed her bra, tossed her hair back, and leaned over Quinn, whose hands moved of their own accord to Santana’s soft brown chest.
“Am I the guy here?”
Santana smirked and shut Quinn up with a kiss. Santana’s naked skin was on hers now, and nothing in the world felt more right. Santana was warm and smooth and smelled like lotion, and her hand-which was kneading one of Quinn’s breasts-was rapidly making Quinn very dizzy. She pulled away for a moment, her face still perilously close to Santana’s. “This is the farthest I’ve ever gone with anyone. Except Puckerman.”
Santana’s eyes glinted. “Good,” she said fiercely, and she kissed Quinn again, her mouth hot and ferocious with desire. Quinn’s hands traveled over Santana’s back and to her ass, which she squeezed lightly, reveling in the groan it drew out of Santana. Santana’s other hand wandered up Quinn’s thigh and slid underneath her skirt, teasing out a small cry that surprised both of them. Santana smiled wickedly and kissed her way down Quinn’s body, from collarbone to breasts to stomach to hips.
It was the first time Quinn had ever really come, and when Santana’s tongue worked her over the edge, her back arched and her head jerked back and she cried out something between Santana’s name and a wordless shout. It was like-oh god, there weren’t enough words for what it was like. She looked down, panting, at Santana’s head resting against her leg. “Oh my god,” she whispered. Santana laughed and slid, reptilian, to lay on top of Quinn, their bodies fitting perfectly together. “Maybe if we ever do this again, you can teach me how to do that to you.” Quinn spanked Santana’s ass lightly.
Santana didn’t say anything for a long time, and Quinn was starting to wonder what was the matter when she said, very softly, “There’s probably not going to be a next time, huh?”
Quinn frowned. “You don’t know that.”
Santana lifted her chin up and looked Quinn dead in the eyes. “Remember what I said about girls like you? And girls like me?”
“Yeah.” Quinn looked down. “Yeah, I remember.”
Santana reached up, touched Quinn’s cheek, and kissed her, feather-soft and delicate. It was another moment Quinn would always remember, and it shocked her. It shocked her because there was only one word for the sensation it erupted in her skin and mind and heart, and that was-fireworks.
“We should get home,” Santana said.
Quinn looked at her, trying to guess what was going on in her head, but Santana had retreated back into the cold, hard, unreadable part of herself again. “You’re right, we probably should.”
They helped each other put their clothes back on, and when their hands touched it was suddenly strange and awkward. They drove home with the radio on so that neither of them would have to talk.
And when Santana got out of the car, she didn’t turn back to look at Quinn, but Quinn watched her all the way to her front door and wondered what it would have been like, what her life would have been like, if she had followed her inside.
Rating: R.
Pairing: Quinn/Santana.
Summary: Based on a glee_kink_meme prompt. Quinn calls Santana out.
Spoilers: For 2x13.
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Quinn walked out of the choir room that day shaking. It was weird and dramatic and not at all like her, but she couldn’t help it. The way Santana had combed her fingers through Sam’s hair-the smile on his lips-the proud look on her face-and most of all, for reasons Quinn couldn’t explain, Santana’s be-stockinged legs thrown over Sam’s-all these things ghosted through her mind as she walked through the busy hallways. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. God, she wanted to, but she couldn’t. Everything sucked. She’d ruined everything.
“You’re in my way,” complained a voice behind her, and Quinn realized how slowly she’d been walking. She shifted to the side and fixed the person with a glare just because she-oh my god.
Santana watched her, hands on hips, eyebrows raised, a little smile playing around her lips. Even in a carousel horse sweater she managed to look like Catwoman. “Hey there, sad sack. How’s things?”
“Don’t push me, Santana,” Quinn growled, looking around to make sure no one was listening. “I already hit you once, don’t make me do it again.”
“Umm, I hit you, Mike Tyson.” The smile grew, Cheshire-style. “So how you feeling? Especially now that blonde-haired-and-bushy-tailed found a new place to call home!” Santana leaned in and whispered, relishing every syllable in that obnoxious way she did when she wanted to get a rise out of someone: “My glory hole, specifically.”
“God, what is wrong with you?” Quinn turned on her heel and started to walk away, and then heard Santana’s penny loafer’s click-clacking after her and groaned. “What do you want?”
“I want to torture you a little bit more about this, obviously! You broke that poor boy’s heart. I mean, have you not realized that everyone knows about you and Finn? If they didn’t already know that you were Slutty McGee, I’m sure everyone would have been really surprised.”
Quinn sped up, shutting her eyes. “Stop following me. I’m going to my car, and I’m driving home, and then I don’t want to see your cheap-prostitute face ever again.”
“Rude.” They turned a corner towards the foyer. Santana wouldn’t shut up. “Ugh, you walk too fast, it’s pissing me off. He doesn’t miss you all that much, ya know. In fact, he seems kinda glad to be with someone who isn’t pushing him away all the time.” Quinn slammed open the doors to the parking lot and, squinting in the sun, headed to the approximate location of her car. Santana trotted along behind. “That’s your problem, white girl-you’re so goddamn fenced-in. Like you’re too good for people. Like you won’t let them near you. And he is glaaaad as hell to be with someone who appreciates him. And hoo boy, do I ever.”
“Please go away.” Wondering why everything suddenly looked so muddled, Quinn looked around for her car and realized that she was crying. Like actual, legitimate tears.
“I appreciate him so much it’s a wonder he can even stand up. I don’t know if you ever-you were probably too busy fastening your chastity belt ‘round about those child-bearing hips of yours-but he is gifted like Christmas morning. We fucked”-Quinn flinched, and she heard Santana giggle a bit-“we fucked a little bit while you guys were still dating. Did you know that? I bet you didn’t-”
Quinn wheeled around and slapped Santana’s face, harder than she’d ever hit anyone before. Santana reared back, red-painted mouth open, pressing a hand to her stinging cheek. Breathing heavily, Quinn pointed a finger in her face. “Stay away from me, you freak. You fucking freak. Something is wrong with you. You are messed up. In your head. Do you get off on this? Does hurting other people turn you on?”
Santana started to fire back a retort, but Quinn moved towards her as if to hit her again, and she winced. Power roared through Quinn’s bloodstream, accompanied by fury and fresh grief. “Shut up. Shut up and get the hell away. If we were ever friends, we aren’t now.”
Santana stared at her, not really doing much of anything but clutching her books to her sweatered chest. Glaring, dizzy with rage, Quinn swiveled and walked towards her car. With one angry jerk of her arm, she opened the door.
“Wait!” Santana’s voice sounded small.
“What?” Quinn shouted. “What else could you possibly want from me?” She was really crying now, her shoulders shaking and her voice trembling. It was really freaking embarrassing, but she couldn’t make it stop and instead just hoped that Santana couldn’t see.
“I-I don’t have a ride home.”
They stood watching each other. Quinn’s arm fell limp on the door handle. “Are you serious?”
Santana looked at the pavement, scowling like a petulant child. “I missed the bus to talk to you.”
“You mean you missed the bus to torment me.” Santana looked back up, an unreadable look in her dark eyes. Quinn shook her head in disbelief. “Whatever. You live close to here, I remember that much from back when you used to be an actual person. Get in.”
Looking down at the ground, Santana walked over the passenger’s side and pulled on the door. “It’s locked.”
“I’m getting to it,” Quinn snapped. She slid into the car, set her bag on the backseat of the roomy hybrid, and pressed the unlock button on the door. Santana opened the door and sat down, still holding her books on her lap. She was eerily quiet now, especially considering the flood of words that had just come spilling out of her. Quinn sucked in a breath and started her car. “What’s your address, exactly?”
“What, are you gonna make me say it, rich girl?” Santana snapped, but it had little of the fire of her previous comments.
“Lima Heights Adjacent. I know that much.” Glancing over her shoulder, Quinn pulled out of the parking lot and started for the road.
“I’ll point it out to you once we’re there.” Santana looked out the window.
They drove in silence for some time, no one moving to turn the radio on. Quinn felt a deep, cold sadness settle over her. The comfortable way Santana threw her legs over Sam’s kept floating through her mind, and the ease with which she talked about having-sex? With Sam? That hadn’t happened. It couldn’t have happened. Sam was too good.
But then, Quinn thought, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel, anyone would have said Quinn was too good. And she’d kissed Finn-god, she’d kissed him, and colors burst around her. She couldn’t help it. She liked it too much, she liked skin too much. She liked it. Noticing that tears were starting in the corners of her eyes again, Quinn tilted the rearview mirror down to check her mascara and saw Santana staring at her. “What?” she said furiously, praying that Santana wouldn’t notice the way her voice shook.
“Are you seriously crying?” Santana laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
In a white-hot rage, Quinn swerved her car onto a side road and parked there. Santana shrieked, and Quinn unlocked the doors. “Get out.” She nodded towards the passenger door.
“What-”
“You heard what I said. Get out of my car. You couldn’t even go fifteen minutes without being a colossal bitch. Get out.” Damn it, these fucking tears.
“Quinn, I can’t walk to my house from here! It’s like another ten minutes by car!”
Quinn swallowed and shook her head. “Not my problem.”
“Don’t-look, I’ll be good or whatever, okay? I promise. Just-drive me home.”
“You know what? No! Not until you-” A car pulled onto the side road and stopped behind Quinn with a honk. “Oh, damn it.” Quinn heaved the car into drive again and drove down the side road until she spotted an empty parking lot behind a movie theater. She parked out of the sun and in the shadow of the theater, which appeared to be unoccupied in the afternoon. “No. I’m not taking you home until you explain to me why you’re doing this.”
Quinn would always remember how Santana looked at that moment-the sun glowing behind her head, illuminating the tousled outlines of her black hair, her eyes wide with shock, her eyebrows furrowed, her pretty lips open with words unsaid. Even in that brown sweater-even in that unspeakably stupid sweater, she looked like a fucking supermodel.
“I don’t-listen, Barbie, I don’t know what you want me to say.” Santana’s claws were back out. Her lip curled. “I just plain don’t like you.”
“Oh my god, that’s not good enough!” Quinn reached up to her face and wiped underneath her eyes. Her fingertips came away smudged with black. When she looked back up, Santana was staring at her with something strange in her eyes. Hunger? Quinn ignored it. “That’s not good enough. People don’t just do this because they don’t like other people. That’s bullshit. Please. Please tell me why.”
“I-” Santana’s lips came together tightly, as if to keep something from getting out. “I-”
Quinn sighed and sat back heavily. “Great. Now you can’t talk. That would have been really helpful earlier.”
“It’s-look, I wouldn’t expect you to understand this? But do you know what it’s like to never, ever get what you want?”
“What?” Quinn looked at Santana, who stared back. The first thing Quinn noticed was that Santana was breathing heavily, and then she saw Santana’s hands balled up in her schoolgirl skirt, the knuckles turning white. “What are you-”
Santana’s voice was quiet, tight with unhappiness. “I mean, I figured you wouldn’t get it. You live in Middle-Upper-Classville, and you were cheer captain, and you’ve never not had a boyfriend. Girls like you-” Santana’s voice broke, and she looked away at the clear blue sky. When she spoke again, it was almost inaudible. “Girls like you don’t ever have to worry about not having things. Girls like you don’t have to steal. Girls like me-girls like me have to grab what they can get.”
“Santana, if you wanted a boyfriend, you could have gotten one. You’re like one of the hottest girls on the Cheerios. It wouldn’t have been hard.”
The blue sky was reflected in Santana’s dark, dark eyes. “That’s not what I wanted,” she murmured. “That’s not what I meant at all.”
Quinn stared at her, heart thumping, something like realization bearing down on her. She folded her hands in her lap and cleared her throat. Santana still watched the sky. “What did you mean, then?”
The sky in Santana’s eyes wavered, trembled, clouded over with rain. “I meant-god, are you really this dense? Did you never-god damn it.” Santana shut her eyes, and Quinn saw tears sprinkling out of under her thick eyelashes.
“Oh my god…” Quinn bit her lip and leaned forward. “Santana, are you gonna be-”
Abruptly, Santana leaned forward, cupped Quinn’s face in her hands, and pushed a frantic, needful, wet-warm kiss onto her mouth. Quinn’s eyes fluttered shut. When they opened again, Santana had pulled away and had her forehead pressed against the window, an utterly miserable look in her eyes. “Sorry,” she muttered, her voice musky with crying.
Quinn’s hand moved slowly to her mouth and pressed against her lips, feeling them still hot from the kiss. The city rumbled quietly outside the quiet car. A bird flew overhead. For once in her life, Santana was utterly silent. “Santana, I-”
“It’s not a big deal.” Santana still wouldn’t look at her. “I mean, I get it. You’re straight. You’re like a fucking yardstick. And you’re celibant or whatever.”
“Celibate.”
“Yeah, that. And you always have a boyfriend. And you’re cheer captain. And you’re rich and white. And I’m me. I’m a fucking lizard.” Quinn frowned, not understanding, but let her continue. “I’m brown and poor and a girl and I’m fucked up, Quinn, you don’t get it. We’ve been best friends since second grade, and I’ve always wanted to do that.” Santana covered her face with her hands. “Do you realize how crazy that is? I’ve always wanted to do that. You turned me gay or bi or whatever the fuck I am, and now I’m all messed up inside. I can’t ever, ever get what I want. Everyone gets what they want sometimes, but not me. All I get is Brittany, and I don’t even love her. I don’t-” She looked sideways at Quinn all of a sudden, as if realizing what she’d admitted, in a roundabout way. “Shit,” she said flatly. “I should just walk home, huh? This isn’t even making sense to-”
“Santana.” Quinn reached out and put her hands on either side of Santana’s face and smiled a beatific smile. “Shut up.” Their lips slid together, a perfect match.
Santana broke away with a gasp. “What are you even doing? You don’t do girls. You don’t do anyone.”
“Yeah, but… This is different, right? You’re a girl. I’m still a guy virgin. Or whatever.”
“That’s messed up. I don’t want Sam’s sloppy seconds.”
“You wanted my sloppy seconds.”
“Because they’re your sloppy seconds. Sam’s just a pair of lips. A magnificent pair of lips, but still just lips. You’re… you.”
“Oh my god, you’re totally into me!” It hit Quinn then, hit her hard. Santana wanted her, and Santana had always wanted her. What the fuck, what the fucking fuck.
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m totally into you. Get over yourself already.” They both laughed a little, and then things felt better.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Quinn’s hands were still on Santana’s face, but she didn’t mind.
“Um, for every reason I just freaking listed. Like an impassable wall of reasons.”
“Okay.” Quinn leaned in to kiss her again without even really thinking about it, but Santana pushed her away.
“I don’t want you to pity kiss me. That’s not what I want.”
“I know. I don’t want to pity kiss you either.”
“Isn’t that what this is? You’re like the farthest thing from queer.”
“I guess so. But-I mean-my boyfriend just dumped me, and I need a little bit of… nookie.” Santana laughed, disbelieving. Quinn continued, amazed at herself and amazed at how badly she suddenly wanted it, wanted Santana, wanted this. “Besides, girls are different, right? You can teach me. They’re nice and soft and stuff. They don’t want it all from you right then. They’re not… pushy.”
“Watch me,” Santana growled, and she ran her long fingers into Quinn’s blonde hair, pulled her face closer, and ran her tongue over the pout of her lower lip. Unwittingly, Quinn moaned. Santana was at least as good a kisser as Finn, even if there weren’t fireworks so much as waves of pleasure. It really wasn’t the same, Quinn reflected, letting Santana’s tongue work its way expertly into her mouth. Santana tasted nicer than a boy, and her skin was smoother, and she felt… secret. Safe.
“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Santana asked, panting. Her headband had come askew in her hair. They stared into each other’s eyes, both breathing heavily with excitement and terror.
“Should I?”
“I’m not exactly an unbiased party.”
Quinn closed her eyes, thinking back. Finn. Puck. Sam. Tall, strong, imposing, innocent but threatening, not asking but always pushing, careful with her body but not with her heart. Sex had knocked her up, pushed her down, and gotten her in deep shit.
She opened her eyes. Santana’s hand was rubbing a strand of her hair, and her berry-red lips were open and waiting. She was small and slender, dangerous but vulnerable, asking but not pushing, poised carefully. She wanted Quinn-not an idea of Quinn that she’d gotten from a porno, but Quinn, the actual person. Santana wanted Quinn. And Quinn wanted what Santana was offering-sex, skin, no-holds-barred, no-strings-attached, pure, simple sex. It was perfect.
Slowly, slowly, Quinn Fabray nodded. And that small, proud, sly smile crept across Santana’s face again.
They got out of the car in tandem, Quinn shielding her eyes from the sun, and slipped into the just-roomy-enough backseat, closing the doors behind them. They sat facing each other, working on each other’s clothes. Quinn pulled the headband out of Santana’s hair, letting her fingers trail through the smooth darkness of her straightened hair and then whispering, “I can’t wait to mess you up.”
Santana responded, laughing and a little breathless, “Girl, let’s see you try,” untied the ascot from around Quinn’s neck, and sank her mouth down on the curve between Quinn’s throat and her shoulder. Quinn gasped and let her eyes close, clinging to Santana’s body, rubbing her hands up and down the small of her back. Santana was good at this, good at knowing just the right place to lick and suck and bite and make Quinn melt just a little bit in her arms…
“Take off this stupid sweater,” Santana growled, and she pushed Quinn back into the leather seat and pulled the red sweater off over her head. Soon Santana’s hands were on her breasts, squeezing them, pinching them, and then Santana’s head was between them, and her lips were nibbling and sucking and just generally sending cascades of wonderfulness all over Quinn’s skin.
“Come here,” Quinn breathed, and their faces collided, and nothing felt as good as kissing Santana-nothing that Quinn could think of. Santana unhooked Quinn’s bra and threw it into the front seat, and Quinn grasped the hem of Santana’s sweater and yanked it over her head.
“This is like the first time I’ve had sex and haven’t made the guy buy me something at Breadstix yet.” Santana removed her bra, tossed her hair back, and leaned over Quinn, whose hands moved of their own accord to Santana’s soft brown chest.
“Am I the guy here?”
Santana smirked and shut Quinn up with a kiss. Santana’s naked skin was on hers now, and nothing in the world felt more right. Santana was warm and smooth and smelled like lotion, and her hand-which was kneading one of Quinn’s breasts-was rapidly making Quinn very dizzy. She pulled away for a moment, her face still perilously close to Santana’s. “This is the farthest I’ve ever gone with anyone. Except Puckerman.”
Santana’s eyes glinted. “Good,” she said fiercely, and she kissed Quinn again, her mouth hot and ferocious with desire. Quinn’s hands traveled over Santana’s back and to her ass, which she squeezed lightly, reveling in the groan it drew out of Santana. Santana’s other hand wandered up Quinn’s thigh and slid underneath her skirt, teasing out a small cry that surprised both of them. Santana smiled wickedly and kissed her way down Quinn’s body, from collarbone to breasts to stomach to hips.
It was the first time Quinn had ever really come, and when Santana’s tongue worked her over the edge, her back arched and her head jerked back and she cried out something between Santana’s name and a wordless shout. It was like-oh god, there weren’t enough words for what it was like. She looked down, panting, at Santana’s head resting against her leg. “Oh my god,” she whispered. Santana laughed and slid, reptilian, to lay on top of Quinn, their bodies fitting perfectly together. “Maybe if we ever do this again, you can teach me how to do that to you.” Quinn spanked Santana’s ass lightly.
Santana didn’t say anything for a long time, and Quinn was starting to wonder what was the matter when she said, very softly, “There’s probably not going to be a next time, huh?”
Quinn frowned. “You don’t know that.”
Santana lifted her chin up and looked Quinn dead in the eyes. “Remember what I said about girls like you? And girls like me?”
“Yeah.” Quinn looked down. “Yeah, I remember.”
Santana reached up, touched Quinn’s cheek, and kissed her, feather-soft and delicate. It was another moment Quinn would always remember, and it shocked her. It shocked her because there was only one word for the sensation it erupted in her skin and mind and heart, and that was-fireworks.
“We should get home,” Santana said.
Quinn looked at her, trying to guess what was going on in her head, but Santana had retreated back into the cold, hard, unreadable part of herself again. “You’re right, we probably should.”
They helped each other put their clothes back on, and when their hands touched it was suddenly strange and awkward. They drove home with the radio on so that neither of them would have to talk.
And when Santana got out of the car, she didn’t turn back to look at Quinn, but Quinn watched her all the way to her front door and wondered what it would have been like, what her life would have been like, if she had followed her inside.