[GFS Exchange Fic] and those three small words by kkieslowski for thelastpen
Title: And Those Three Small Words
Author: kkieslowski
Written For: thelastpen
Prompt: “I hate that I love you.”
Pairing: Santana/Quinn
Rating/Warnings: Hard R for language and sex.
Spoilers: Up through “New York.”
Summary: Santana’s never wanted to feel this way for anyone but Brittany.
Fingertips move seamlessly in a line up her forearm, snake around her shoulder, and dig insistently into her shoulder blade.
“Fuck,” Santana hisses through clenched teeth when the sharp sting of nails split the skin around the curve of her shoulder.
The sounds of heavy panting, of air being sucked in and forced out in one hasty huff as limbs tangle and twist into a spider web of flesh, hang in the air like background music of a charged affair. A moan, rich and deep, guttural almost, wrenches itself from the girl’s throat beneath her when Santana’s teeth nip and tease unmercilessly at the soft column of white flesh near the base of the girl’s throat.
Santana lifts her head to survey the person writing underneath her body. Blonde hair shines bright in the moonlight framing the pale, beautiful face and gorgeous eyes that are staring back at her with a loaded gaze; the weight of it is nearly too much for Santana to handle.
Santana senses her gut churn and gurgle. She isn’t ready for this feeling. It’s warm, confusing, hard, soft, familiar, and strange all at the same time and it is driving her insane. No, she can’t do this, love someone. But, sex? Well, that’s different. Sex Santana knows; it’s something she’s good at. Scratch that. She’s fucking awesome at it, which is why she should be getting back to it instead of distracting herself with illusory feelings.
Santana bites down extra hard onto the area where the quivering girl’s neck met her shoulder. The whimper of pain and excitement it elicits sends a wave of satisfaction down Santana’s spine. It’s confirmation she’s still in charge.
Her lips and fingertips dot wet hot trails across a known body, traversing skin she must of have mapped countless times, until she rests them at the hem of a yellow night shirt. She plays with the frayed edges of the worn shirt, eyes skimming past the holes and faint discoloration connecting with a bed warm gaze.
Santana’s heart lurches and she hides her focus. If only she wouldn’t look at me like that, maybe it would be easier not too… She can’t even indulge that line of thought without a clamor inside of her stomach that rivals an acrobat’s set at Ringling Brothers.
She’s fortunate that a groan rumbling underneath her reverberates through her chest when her thumb absently caresses an already piqued nipple and pulls her away from the murkiness inside her mind.
An arched back beckons Santana to continue to traverse supple breasts and taut skin. A heaving chest, a high pitched whine, nails clawing down her back to the base of her spine all spell out the urgency of the squirming thighs beneath her.
She fingers the thick rim of soft underwear before flashing a devilish smirk upwards. Slowly, deliberately, she peels the garment off of toned thighs before burying her face between them. The wetness she finds inside them screams: yes; the quivers and shakes of muscles jerking around her head: more; and the keening and rapid breathing clearly state: now.
It’s a heady feeling, so much control and openness, the fact that the person she’s currently licking and sucking until they scream and come apart is willing to display herself bare and vulnerable suddenly serves as an uncomfortable reminder that this isn’t just sex. This person loves her. Santana doesn’t want that, because the person yelling her name as she comes isn’t Brittany.
Santana loathes the satisfaction she gets as Quinn’s body wracks itself, straightens, lets out one final shudder, and then mellows.
It was never supposed to get this far. Santana wipes the remainder of Quinn’s come from her lips. She glances down and watches as Quinn’s eyelashes flutter. If she wasn’t feeling so damn disgusted with herself it would almost be peaceful and sweet.
Santana hadn’t expected to have Quinn become her best friend, let alone bed the once proud leader of the Christ Crusaders. However, one night she realized that Quinn was that into that when she felt Quinn’s tongue worm her way into her mouth. It’s taken Santana over a month to get to this point and the lack of regret she feels burns like a slap across her face.
It’s just sex her mind repeats in another futile attempt to convince her that what she is feeling is anything other than affection. But the lie is so diaphanous that it’s easily dismissed the moment Quinn crawls on top of her.
If it were just sex she’d be able to stop. She would say, “Wait. Stop. You’re not Brittany. I can’t want this. I don’t want this.” Instead, her fingers are flying up Quinn’s flank with the speed of a nimble spider. Quinn’s tongue is hot and heavy in her mouth and her head is dizzy from the lack of air. She breathes in deeply but lets out a startled yelp when Quinn’s already grabbing for her, hard and incessant, like a man.
Santana’s body won’t let her prematurely end what Quinn’s hands have begun to uncoil inside of her with each constant stroke of pleasure. Steady fingers are causing her to betray herself as they probe the deepest part of her until she can’t bear it any longer. As her body releases its tension in one shivering mess the truth falls from her mouth, “I love you.”
She can’t peg down when that sickening feeling burrowed down and made a permanent place in her heart, but it’s there, glaring in her face with every thump of blood pounding in her veins.
It’s quiet for just a moment, creating a false pretense of serenity. The smell of sex and the overwhelming presence of sweat sting her nose. Then Santana repeats her undeniable realization. “I love you.”
Quinn smiles eagerly and nestles her head into the crook of Santana’s neck. “Say it again,” Quinn whispers happily.
Santana does and she hates herself for it, because Quinn isn’t Brittany, because Santana doesn’t want to love anyone, but most importantly, because she means it.
Author: kkieslowski
Written For: thelastpen
Prompt: “I hate that I love you.”
Pairing: Santana/Quinn
Rating/Warnings: Hard R for language and sex.
Spoilers: Up through “New York.”
Summary: Santana’s never wanted to feel this way for anyone but Brittany.
Fingertips move seamlessly in a line up her forearm, snake around her shoulder, and dig insistently into her shoulder blade.
“Fuck,” Santana hisses through clenched teeth when the sharp sting of nails split the skin around the curve of her shoulder.
The sounds of heavy panting, of air being sucked in and forced out in one hasty huff as limbs tangle and twist into a spider web of flesh, hang in the air like background music of a charged affair. A moan, rich and deep, guttural almost, wrenches itself from the girl’s throat beneath her when Santana’s teeth nip and tease unmercilessly at the soft column of white flesh near the base of the girl’s throat.
Santana lifts her head to survey the person writing underneath her body. Blonde hair shines bright in the moonlight framing the pale, beautiful face and gorgeous eyes that are staring back at her with a loaded gaze; the weight of it is nearly too much for Santana to handle.
Santana senses her gut churn and gurgle. She isn’t ready for this feeling. It’s warm, confusing, hard, soft, familiar, and strange all at the same time and it is driving her insane. No, she can’t do this, love someone. But, sex? Well, that’s different. Sex Santana knows; it’s something she’s good at. Scratch that. She’s fucking awesome at it, which is why she should be getting back to it instead of distracting herself with illusory feelings.
Santana bites down extra hard onto the area where the quivering girl’s neck met her shoulder. The whimper of pain and excitement it elicits sends a wave of satisfaction down Santana’s spine. It’s confirmation she’s still in charge.
Her lips and fingertips dot wet hot trails across a known body, traversing skin she must of have mapped countless times, until she rests them at the hem of a yellow night shirt. She plays with the frayed edges of the worn shirt, eyes skimming past the holes and faint discoloration connecting with a bed warm gaze.
Santana’s heart lurches and she hides her focus. If only she wouldn’t look at me like that, maybe it would be easier not too… She can’t even indulge that line of thought without a clamor inside of her stomach that rivals an acrobat’s set at Ringling Brothers.
She’s fortunate that a groan rumbling underneath her reverberates through her chest when her thumb absently caresses an already piqued nipple and pulls her away from the murkiness inside her mind.
An arched back beckons Santana to continue to traverse supple breasts and taut skin. A heaving chest, a high pitched whine, nails clawing down her back to the base of her spine all spell out the urgency of the squirming thighs beneath her.
She fingers the thick rim of soft underwear before flashing a devilish smirk upwards. Slowly, deliberately, she peels the garment off of toned thighs before burying her face between them. The wetness she finds inside them screams: yes; the quivers and shakes of muscles jerking around her head: more; and the keening and rapid breathing clearly state: now.
It’s a heady feeling, so much control and openness, the fact that the person she’s currently licking and sucking until they scream and come apart is willing to display herself bare and vulnerable suddenly serves as an uncomfortable reminder that this isn’t just sex. This person loves her. Santana doesn’t want that, because the person yelling her name as she comes isn’t Brittany.
Santana loathes the satisfaction she gets as Quinn’s body wracks itself, straightens, lets out one final shudder, and then mellows.
It was never supposed to get this far. Santana wipes the remainder of Quinn’s come from her lips. She glances down and watches as Quinn’s eyelashes flutter. If she wasn’t feeling so damn disgusted with herself it would almost be peaceful and sweet.
Santana hadn’t expected to have Quinn become her best friend, let alone bed the once proud leader of the Christ Crusaders. However, one night she realized that Quinn was that into that when she felt Quinn’s tongue worm her way into her mouth. It’s taken Santana over a month to get to this point and the lack of regret she feels burns like a slap across her face.
It’s just sex her mind repeats in another futile attempt to convince her that what she is feeling is anything other than affection. But the lie is so diaphanous that it’s easily dismissed the moment Quinn crawls on top of her.
If it were just sex she’d be able to stop. She would say, “Wait. Stop. You’re not Brittany. I can’t want this. I don’t want this.” Instead, her fingers are flying up Quinn’s flank with the speed of a nimble spider. Quinn’s tongue is hot and heavy in her mouth and her head is dizzy from the lack of air. She breathes in deeply but lets out a startled yelp when Quinn’s already grabbing for her, hard and incessant, like a man.
Santana’s body won’t let her prematurely end what Quinn’s hands have begun to uncoil inside of her with each constant stroke of pleasure. Steady fingers are causing her to betray herself as they probe the deepest part of her until she can’t bear it any longer. As her body releases its tension in one shivering mess the truth falls from her mouth, “I love you.”
She can’t peg down when that sickening feeling burrowed down and made a permanent place in her heart, but it’s there, glaring in her face with every thump of blood pounding in her veins.
It’s quiet for just a moment, creating a false pretense of serenity. The smell of sex and the overwhelming presence of sweat sting her nose. Then Santana repeats her undeniable realization. “I love you.”
Quinn smiles eagerly and nestles her head into the crook of Santana’s neck. “Say it again,” Quinn whispers happily.
Santana does and she hates herself for it, because Quinn isn’t Brittany, because Santana doesn’t want to love anyone, but most importantly, because she means it.