Glee Fic: Push and Pull, Quinntana, 1/1
Title: Push and Pull
Author: Me (glittergron)
Pairing: Quinn/Santana, mentions of Santana/Brittany.
Type: One shot.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Santana tastes like cherry lipgloss and the lingering touch of cigarette smoke.
Spoilers: Up to and including Quinn's drastic punk reinvention.
Warnings: PWP, femslash, somewhat AU.
A/N: I've never written such… smutty smut. It's been posted on ff.net and on tumblr for a while, but I'm only just putting it up here. Feedback is much appreciated.
Santana Lopez tastes like cherry lipgloss and the lingering touch of cigarette smoke, soft and smooth on her tongue. Her hands are strong and knowing as they move confidently down the lines of Quinn’s waist, fingers finding crevices and hollows and curves that someone else might miss. Her attention to detail is what keeps Quinn enthralled, ready to return to the rakish cheerleader.
Every time she kisses Santana it’s an experience, sometimes not always a good one. She has a tendency for grabbing and getting aggressive, and if Quinn had a little less nerves and wasn’t half as turned on she might stop this before Santana’s sure hand can finish travelling up her leg.
They’re crammed into the backseat of Quinn’s car, the rain on the roof sounding like water drops in an empty tin bucket. The sound is white noise that stoppers their ears and keeps them stuck in the moment.
Someone could be watching them, for all they know. But the parking lot outside is grey and empty and no one wants to get caught too long in the downpour. So they’re safe, even if they don’t feel it.
Quinn’s hands are everywhere and nowhere at once; one is gripping a fistful of Santana’s thick hair and the other has been tangled in her bra strap for a while now. She could undo it with a flick of her wrist and then Santana’s breasts could be there, pressing against her chest through the barrier of their shirts.
Santana is garbed in red and white, and Quinn’s comfortable in black. She thinks there’s a safety clip somewhere on her person, maybe tucked through the sleeve of her shirt, and up until Santana’s hand squeezed her knee and slid itself between her thighs she actually worried it might stab the girl crushed against her. Now she can’t think straight or care at all.
A moan grips the air, and neither girl is sure who made the sound. Santana needs her release and Quinn needs the rush, and they’re both pushing at each other to find the edge and topple over it.
It’s Santana that throws the rulebook out the window. She hates this making out, these hot and heavy sessions that leave her panting but frustrated because her nipples are hard and she’s soaking wet. Quinn never seems bothered by it, no more rumpled than usual after, when she pulls back and decides their time together is done for now... but in this moment Quinn’s eyes are cloudy and half-closed and Santana needs to make sure this girl with the bubblegum pink hair can actually live up to her appearance.
She pushes her hand the rest of the way, until it meets the juncture between Quinn’s legs. There’s yet more material barring her way, but she’s damp and so hot, warm against Santana’s palm when she roughly pushes the heel of her hand against Quinn. The girl gasps and jerks suddenly, hips thrusting in surprise.
“What the hell,” she croaks. Santana doesn’t give a shit. She wriggles around, using her free hand to push Quinn down on the seat. The girl’s shoulders are hunched against the car door and she glowers at Santana, but by now she looks ridiculous with her shirt skewed and riding up over her flat stomach.
Santana smirks. “Shut it, Joan Jett,” she growls. “I promise you, this will feel great.”
With a dubious eyebrow raise, Quinn stiffens when Santana’s hand moves again, still trapped between her legs. A fire burns in Quinn’s belly at the touch, suddenly turning all her attention to that aching spot. Santana has the same idea; she pushes Quinn’s legs apart and shifts forward, kneeling on the backseat as she wedges herself between the girl’s legs.
Quinn’s eyes roll lazily until she’s staring up at the ceiling with her jaw slack and lips parted, Santana watching her face eagerly as she rubs the palm of her hand against Quinn’s clit, the swollen bud of flesh trying to meet her skin to skin.
Santana’s never felt so powerful before, not even when her and Brittany lie entwined and spent during sleepovers. Maybe it’s because Quinn is this daunting figure that struts down the hallways with all the magnitude of her crackling stare forcing people to their knees. She was never so intimidating as a cheerleader, wearing the same uniform Santana has on now. Quinn has found a new look, a new identity, and she wears it the same way she once more the school colours: as armor.
Now there’s nothing Quinn can do to hide her face or shrink behind mystery, because she’s been revealed in the backseat of her car with a girl’s hand flush against her. She gasps and squirms as Santana drags her palm down the curve of her ass, cupping a cheek and digging her fingernails in as Quinn’s hips rise off the seat to allow Santana’s touches.
The brunette leans forward and presses her mouth against Quinn’s inner thigh, briefly, and she can smell Quinn. The girl is hot as a furnace and her black panties - because she’s cloaked in the color from the neck down - are wet with need. She doesn’t smell like Brittany; the scent is thicker, stronger. It goes straight to Santana’s head.
Hooking her fingers around the sides of Quinn’s underwear, she yanks them down in a swift motion that catches the other girl by surprise. She’s starting to like the indignation that clashes with the lust on Quinn’s face. She might start pulling the rug out from under her feet more often if that expression is the response she gets.
Santana grunts as Quinn tries to prop herself up on her elbow, all too aware that the Latina’s eyes have drifted down to stare at her. To stare there. It’s too much too soon, despite the several months they’ve spent fondling and kissing each other.
“Hey,” Santana says, her eyes snapping back up to Quinn’s. “Trust me.”
Quinn doesn’t know if she does. Exploring her sexuality is different to this. This feels like she’s confirming something, like if she bends and breaks with the feel of Santana inside her it might be she’ll lose her sense of fluidity. No one can hold her or catch her when she tastes them all equally.
But Santana’s voice has lulled her somehow, and she flares her nostrils but doesn’t move. She swallows hard when Santana gives her a slow smile and bends down to kiss her again, to slide her tongue along her thigh and nip the skin between her teeth.
The focus is on her mouth, so Quinn doesn’t notice Santana’s fingers until they’re brushing her mound and her thumb is sliding down to press something explosive. Quinn almost cries out, but she only just holds it in. The pad of Santana’s thumb flicks something, rolls it, kneads it, and then the digit is stroking between her wet lips, teasing but enticing and Quinn couldn’t stop her even if she wanted to.
Santana’s still kissing her thighs, moving to the other and then back again to lay her mouth against her, oddly gentle. Quinn lets her eyes shut and tries to remember how to breath, and Santana is kicked into a higher gear at the approval she senses. She brings both hands to the fore, using one to continue stroking Quinn’s throbbing clit. It dances under her skin even as she slides the index finger of her other hand past Quinn’s lips.
She pushes her finger in to the second knuckle and draws it out again. The motion is familiar and she’s restless so she pushes back in hard and then a few more times until Quinn’s beginning to pant. Santana adds a second finger, and the result is a tighter squeeze, Quinn’s walls gripping Santana fiercely.
The whimper Quinn releases shoots straight to Santana’s sex, a static roar filling her head for a blind moment. She’s dripping wet herself, she can feel it. Every time she moves her underwear rubs against her and she can’t take it, and the only thing she can do is thrust into Quinn like that’s all she needs to get her to that higher place.
Santana pushes her fingers in and out of Quinn without remorse, until the girl is squirming and panting and trying to grasp at her own breasts over her shirt. The addition of a third finger and a twist of her wrist sends Quinn shooting up with a cry of pleasure.
She hardly registers how Quinn straddled her but now Santana’s hand is trapped beneath her and she’s been shoved hard against the seat.
Santana shifts her gaze up and she looks into Quinn’s face, sees how close she is, mouth open and frown severe as though she’s thinking hard, and Santana pumps her fingers faster. The sound is wet and it’s filling her ears and Quinn is starting to rock against her hand.
Both girls are gasping, Santana wishing she could reach down and touch herself because staring up into Quinn’s eyes is one of the most intense experiences she’s ever had. They may be half-mast and lost, but the hazel is a yellow glow like that of a wild animal’s. She’s never been so free before, and Santana’s witnessing it firsthand.
Quinn grabs Santana’s shoulders tight and she rolls. Rolls down hard against Santana’s hand and the knuckle of her thumb grazes her clit and she almost melts. Several more thrusts from Santana combined with the continued friction on that little knot of flesh, and Quinn is shaking and trembling and she’s hissing out Santana’s name, though she doesn’t get past the first letter.
Santana’s fingers stay sunk in her as Quinn comes, a violent orgasm that makes Santana shudder too. The walls of Quinn’s sex are quivering and when Santana tries to shift her hand tentatively another wave of pleasure crashes over the girl atop her.
A long moment passes before Quinn stills, though inside her it’s burning hot and wetter than ever. Quinn’s head drops down on Santana’s shoulder, her chest against hers as she sinks and deflates and laughs softly in Santana’s ear.
“Shit,” she says breathlessly, reaching her hand down to grip Santana’s wrist to ensure she won’t remove those fingers buried to the hilt in her. She’s too nervous and raw and Santana knows, so she keeps her hand still and kisses Quinn’s neck, her own sexual release forgotten or maybe already fulfilled.
“You alright?” Santana asks, and Quinn nods her head against Santana’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “You weren’t wrong. That felt... great.”
Author: Me (glittergron)
Pairing: Quinn/Santana, mentions of Santana/Brittany.
Type: One shot.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Santana tastes like cherry lipgloss and the lingering touch of cigarette smoke.
Spoilers: Up to and including Quinn's drastic punk reinvention.
Warnings: PWP, femslash, somewhat AU.
A/N: I've never written such… smutty smut. It's been posted on ff.net and on tumblr for a while, but I'm only just putting it up here. Feedback is much appreciated.
Santana Lopez tastes like cherry lipgloss and the lingering touch of cigarette smoke, soft and smooth on her tongue. Her hands are strong and knowing as they move confidently down the lines of Quinn’s waist, fingers finding crevices and hollows and curves that someone else might miss. Her attention to detail is what keeps Quinn enthralled, ready to return to the rakish cheerleader.
Every time she kisses Santana it’s an experience, sometimes not always a good one. She has a tendency for grabbing and getting aggressive, and if Quinn had a little less nerves and wasn’t half as turned on she might stop this before Santana’s sure hand can finish travelling up her leg.
They’re crammed into the backseat of Quinn’s car, the rain on the roof sounding like water drops in an empty tin bucket. The sound is white noise that stoppers their ears and keeps them stuck in the moment.
Someone could be watching them, for all they know. But the parking lot outside is grey and empty and no one wants to get caught too long in the downpour. So they’re safe, even if they don’t feel it.
Quinn’s hands are everywhere and nowhere at once; one is gripping a fistful of Santana’s thick hair and the other has been tangled in her bra strap for a while now. She could undo it with a flick of her wrist and then Santana’s breasts could be there, pressing against her chest through the barrier of their shirts.
Santana is garbed in red and white, and Quinn’s comfortable in black. She thinks there’s a safety clip somewhere on her person, maybe tucked through the sleeve of her shirt, and up until Santana’s hand squeezed her knee and slid itself between her thighs she actually worried it might stab the girl crushed against her. Now she can’t think straight or care at all.
A moan grips the air, and neither girl is sure who made the sound. Santana needs her release and Quinn needs the rush, and they’re both pushing at each other to find the edge and topple over it.
It’s Santana that throws the rulebook out the window. She hates this making out, these hot and heavy sessions that leave her panting but frustrated because her nipples are hard and she’s soaking wet. Quinn never seems bothered by it, no more rumpled than usual after, when she pulls back and decides their time together is done for now... but in this moment Quinn’s eyes are cloudy and half-closed and Santana needs to make sure this girl with the bubblegum pink hair can actually live up to her appearance.
She pushes her hand the rest of the way, until it meets the juncture between Quinn’s legs. There’s yet more material barring her way, but she’s damp and so hot, warm against Santana’s palm when she roughly pushes the heel of her hand against Quinn. The girl gasps and jerks suddenly, hips thrusting in surprise.
“What the hell,” she croaks. Santana doesn’t give a shit. She wriggles around, using her free hand to push Quinn down on the seat. The girl’s shoulders are hunched against the car door and she glowers at Santana, but by now she looks ridiculous with her shirt skewed and riding up over her flat stomach.
Santana smirks. “Shut it, Joan Jett,” she growls. “I promise you, this will feel great.”
With a dubious eyebrow raise, Quinn stiffens when Santana’s hand moves again, still trapped between her legs. A fire burns in Quinn’s belly at the touch, suddenly turning all her attention to that aching spot. Santana has the same idea; she pushes Quinn’s legs apart and shifts forward, kneeling on the backseat as she wedges herself between the girl’s legs.
Quinn’s eyes roll lazily until she’s staring up at the ceiling with her jaw slack and lips parted, Santana watching her face eagerly as she rubs the palm of her hand against Quinn’s clit, the swollen bud of flesh trying to meet her skin to skin.
Santana’s never felt so powerful before, not even when her and Brittany lie entwined and spent during sleepovers. Maybe it’s because Quinn is this daunting figure that struts down the hallways with all the magnitude of her crackling stare forcing people to their knees. She was never so intimidating as a cheerleader, wearing the same uniform Santana has on now. Quinn has found a new look, a new identity, and she wears it the same way she once more the school colours: as armor.
Now there’s nothing Quinn can do to hide her face or shrink behind mystery, because she’s been revealed in the backseat of her car with a girl’s hand flush against her. She gasps and squirms as Santana drags her palm down the curve of her ass, cupping a cheek and digging her fingernails in as Quinn’s hips rise off the seat to allow Santana’s touches.
The brunette leans forward and presses her mouth against Quinn’s inner thigh, briefly, and she can smell Quinn. The girl is hot as a furnace and her black panties - because she’s cloaked in the color from the neck down - are wet with need. She doesn’t smell like Brittany; the scent is thicker, stronger. It goes straight to Santana’s head.
Hooking her fingers around the sides of Quinn’s underwear, she yanks them down in a swift motion that catches the other girl by surprise. She’s starting to like the indignation that clashes with the lust on Quinn’s face. She might start pulling the rug out from under her feet more often if that expression is the response she gets.
Santana grunts as Quinn tries to prop herself up on her elbow, all too aware that the Latina’s eyes have drifted down to stare at her. To stare there. It’s too much too soon, despite the several months they’ve spent fondling and kissing each other.
“Hey,” Santana says, her eyes snapping back up to Quinn’s. “Trust me.”
Quinn doesn’t know if she does. Exploring her sexuality is different to this. This feels like she’s confirming something, like if she bends and breaks with the feel of Santana inside her it might be she’ll lose her sense of fluidity. No one can hold her or catch her when she tastes them all equally.
But Santana’s voice has lulled her somehow, and she flares her nostrils but doesn’t move. She swallows hard when Santana gives her a slow smile and bends down to kiss her again, to slide her tongue along her thigh and nip the skin between her teeth.
The focus is on her mouth, so Quinn doesn’t notice Santana’s fingers until they’re brushing her mound and her thumb is sliding down to press something explosive. Quinn almost cries out, but she only just holds it in. The pad of Santana’s thumb flicks something, rolls it, kneads it, and then the digit is stroking between her wet lips, teasing but enticing and Quinn couldn’t stop her even if she wanted to.
Santana’s still kissing her thighs, moving to the other and then back again to lay her mouth against her, oddly gentle. Quinn lets her eyes shut and tries to remember how to breath, and Santana is kicked into a higher gear at the approval she senses. She brings both hands to the fore, using one to continue stroking Quinn’s throbbing clit. It dances under her skin even as she slides the index finger of her other hand past Quinn’s lips.
She pushes her finger in to the second knuckle and draws it out again. The motion is familiar and she’s restless so she pushes back in hard and then a few more times until Quinn’s beginning to pant. Santana adds a second finger, and the result is a tighter squeeze, Quinn’s walls gripping Santana fiercely.
The whimper Quinn releases shoots straight to Santana’s sex, a static roar filling her head for a blind moment. She’s dripping wet herself, she can feel it. Every time she moves her underwear rubs against her and she can’t take it, and the only thing she can do is thrust into Quinn like that’s all she needs to get her to that higher place.
Santana pushes her fingers in and out of Quinn without remorse, until the girl is squirming and panting and trying to grasp at her own breasts over her shirt. The addition of a third finger and a twist of her wrist sends Quinn shooting up with a cry of pleasure.
She hardly registers how Quinn straddled her but now Santana’s hand is trapped beneath her and she’s been shoved hard against the seat.
Santana shifts her gaze up and she looks into Quinn’s face, sees how close she is, mouth open and frown severe as though she’s thinking hard, and Santana pumps her fingers faster. The sound is wet and it’s filling her ears and Quinn is starting to rock against her hand.
Both girls are gasping, Santana wishing she could reach down and touch herself because staring up into Quinn’s eyes is one of the most intense experiences she’s ever had. They may be half-mast and lost, but the hazel is a yellow glow like that of a wild animal’s. She’s never been so free before, and Santana’s witnessing it firsthand.
Quinn grabs Santana’s shoulders tight and she rolls. Rolls down hard against Santana’s hand and the knuckle of her thumb grazes her clit and she almost melts. Several more thrusts from Santana combined with the continued friction on that little knot of flesh, and Quinn is shaking and trembling and she’s hissing out Santana’s name, though she doesn’t get past the first letter.
Santana’s fingers stay sunk in her as Quinn comes, a violent orgasm that makes Santana shudder too. The walls of Quinn’s sex are quivering and when Santana tries to shift her hand tentatively another wave of pleasure crashes over the girl atop her.
A long moment passes before Quinn stills, though inside her it’s burning hot and wetter than ever. Quinn’s head drops down on Santana’s shoulder, her chest against hers as she sinks and deflates and laughs softly in Santana’s ear.
“Shit,” she says breathlessly, reaching her hand down to grip Santana’s wrist to ensure she won’t remove those fingers buried to the hilt in her. She’s too nervous and raw and Santana knows, so she keeps her hand still and kisses Quinn’s neck, her own sexual release forgotten or maybe already fulfilled.
“You alright?” Santana asks, and Quinn nods her head against Santana’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “You weren’t wrong. That felt... great.”