You'll Never Get The Best Of Me (...Never Again)
Title: You'll Never Get The Best Of Me (...Never Again)
Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S2.
Summary: Sometimes, it's like a game they play. And lately, Santana's been winning.
A/N: A fill for the rare-pairing fic exchange. Prompt: Quinn/Santana-public fingering. Title from Hedley's "I Don't Believe It". Because...it felt snarky and I couldn't find anything better...
At first, she barely registers what the hand slinking up her thigh means. It’s such a strange thing to feel at a high school basketball game that she doesn’t recognize it at all-it slinks in as part of the white noise around her, the screaming and sneakers squealing and thumping of feet against wooden bleachers.
She doesn’t think it so odd that she’d be caught off guard by the sensation. Who feels somebody up at a basketball game, anyway? She’s at the top of the bleachers, back against the white-and-red painted wall, about as close to privacy as humanly possible-but that isn’t exactly a locked door and a shaded window.
Hell, it’s not even as heavily guarded as a blanket tossed over her lap in the backseat of her car.
Still, that hand is unmistakably interested, carefully maintained black nails reflecting the shoddy fluorescent lighting as they trace patterns into her skin. Every second nudges that hand half an inch higher, until Quinn finds herself holding her breath.
They’re here to watch the game, she reminds herself, because next year, they are going to be on the varsity squad. Next year, they’ll be able to cover real sports-football, basketball, baseball-instead of uttering unappreciated cheers on the tennis sidelines. They’re here to support the Cheerios with whom they’ll be parading next year, and to keep a close eye on the likes of Finn Hudson and Noah Puckerman, both of whom are on their way to becoming exceedingly solid eye candy. This time next year, those two goons will be perfect boyfriend material, fitting her best friend and herself like a pair of extremely dense, testosterone-riddled gloves.
They’re here, in short, because of the social imperatives, not so Santana Lopez can slide a hand slyly under her skirt.
She wants to hiss a question, demand to know what Santana thinks she’s doing, but speaking out loud would only garner attention faster. And it isn’t like she doesn’t know Santana’s game; they’ve been best friends for years, and playing through this little routine for long enough besides. Quinn knows it’s about the ruthless combination of libido and sheer power, and by commenting, she’ll be giving Santana exactly what gets her off best.
She closes her eyes, shoulders stiffening in preparation. Santana wants to prove a point, stake a claim-in public, no less-and there is absolutely no way she can give in so easily. Not if she wants to retain any authority next year when she coyly slips into that head cheerleader uniform.
All the same, it’s wildly difficult not to make a sound when those nails scratch delicately up the inside of her right thigh. Her skin vibrates, going instantly hot in the wake of the teasing motion; she can’t stop her legs from falling slightly further apart. Still ladylike, still in control-but out of the corner of her eye, she can see Santana’s lips twist in a hungry grin, and she has to wonder how long this game can remain her own.
Down on the court, Mike Chang passes the ball to Matt Rutherford, who executes a perfect left-fake layup. The crowd goes into its usual frenzy, whistling and chanting. Santana takes the opportunity to trail her middle finger smoothly up the front of Quinn’s underwear. Her whole body shudders instinctively, toes curling in an effort to stay calm.
Thank God there’s no one up on this level with them, she thinks desperately as Santana gives another, slightly firmer stroke. Thank God the lighting up here is pathetic, thank God for Principal Figgins’ money-grubbing refusal to fix it, thank God Ohio is the kind of state where sports hold the undivided attention of high school audiences. She would never live it down if someone were to notice Russell Fabray’s little girl up here, eyes clenched shut and lips parted as her best friend lightly rubs the dampening crotch of her panties under a flower-patterned skirt.
It’s just dim enough for Santana to feel secure leaning in, pressing a painfully erotic kiss to the side of Quinn’s neck. She gasps, hips jerking forward into adventurous fingertips, and tilts her head back against the wall.
Fighting. That’s what she’s supposed to be doing right now, fighting every second of this so Santana doesn’t feel as though she’s got the upper hand. She needs to keep control, keep the higher ground, really make Santana work for the satisfaction…
She whimpers as Santana drags two fingers slowly up, tracing the line of skin above her waistband. Judging by the rough lick Santana proceeds to bestow upon her pulse point, her own excitement is building at a wicked velocity. Quinn bites down on her bottom lip, quashing the temptation to pin the other girl and speed this whole thing along.
Her legs have moved even further, dangerously spread now, just the way she knows Santana wants her. Her panties are rapidly reaching the point of no return, soaked through until she knows she’ll have to wrap them in a shirt and sneak the whole package into the bottom of the laundry basket. She can feel Santana smile against her neck, thumb hooking under the elastic even as those two sinful fingers curl, cupping her. She groans softly, muffling the sound with the back of her hand brushing across her mouth.
Santana doesn’t say a word, which is particularly unusual, but Quinn doesn’t care. She doesn’t need dirty words and muttered commands today, not when the thrill of being so very visible sends sharp bursts of heat from the pit of her stomach down between her legs every couple of seconds. She doesn’t need much of anything, apart from Santana’s tongue lapping hot and sweet against her skin, Santana’s fingers stroking her slowly through ruined cotton, Santana’s breath coming quicker as her hand works.
The thud of her skull against the concrete wall isn’t overly pleasant, but Quinn doesn’t care; the only thing she can feel is the heat of Santana against her core, pressing the drenched fabric upwards. It takes a second for her to realize that Santana is actually trying to finger her through her underwear, which is unbelievably arousing-but not nearly contact enough for Quinn.
Her fingers sneak down, wrapping around the other girl’s left wrist and stilling her movements momentarily. Eyelashes flickering, struggling to stay open, Quinn musters the best glare she can under the circumstances. If Santana wants to play this game here, now, she had better be intending to go all the way with it.
The smirk she receives, coupled with lusty dark eyes and the brush of that evil tongue across a pouty bottom lip, suggests Santana knows exactly what she’s thinking. A heartbeat later, her head is thudding back against the wall again, a whimper fluttering on her lips as Santana works her whole hand under the waistband at last.
One finger enters her without further preamble, and it takes every ounce of Quinn’s energy not to spread her legs as far as they will go and buck her hips obscenely. Santana gives a murmur that could be a laugh or a moan; Quinn finds she cares less about deconstructing the noise and more about forcing the girl to fill and fuck her immediately. This teasing thing Santana loves to do-it isn’t nice, and when they’re sitting in a crowded gymnasium, it isn’t appreciated.
As subtly as she knows how, Quinn rocks against that finger, silently begging more, more, more. Face buried once again in her neck, mouth nipping and sucking just cautiously enough to avoid marking, Santana takes the hint and plunges another inside, thrusting in all the way and pulling back out again. Quinn feels the smile broaden against her skin as her back arches, her hands desperately gripping the wood beneath her thighs.
It’s mean, she thinks, for Santana to do this here, but the girl is so damn good at it that Quinn finds herself forgetting everything. How sinful their activities are, how revolted and appalled her parents would be if they knew, how completely insane it is to allow her best friend to fingerfuck her at all, much less in public-it all drains away with the steady pumping of Santana’s fingers. She loses track of the game raging below them, the cheering crowd, the flickering lamps, her entire focal point shrinking to the sensation of each calculated thrust. She groans again, a little more recklessly this time, losing herself in the series of overwhelming sensations.
It’s amazing, she thinks frantically, the things Santana can do. It’s amazing how wet she is, how fiercely the girl is kissing along her neck, how effortlessly those fingers are sliding in and out, building her higher and higher until she feels like every nerve ending is on fire.
Santana, clearly sensing how fast she is barreling towards that magnificent cliff, gives a low growl and speeds up, the heel of her hand pressed firmly to Quinn’s clit. She thrusts almost painfully hard, curling forcefully at the last minute, and bites down on Quinn’s shoulder. That, combined with the realization that Santana has shifted so that her own heat is angled against Quinn’s thigh, hurtles her over the edge.
She comes more loudly than she should, crying out against Santana’s hair as her stomach tightens and her legs tremble. Luckily, the Titans have just missed a three-pointer, sending the crowd into a furious tizzy, and not a single person takes notice of Santana withdrawing her fingers and having the abject audacity to suck them off with one eyebrow arched.
“You’re vile,” Quinn gasps, unable to inject the words with her usual acid. Santana grins.
“And your panties are trashed. Want me to toss them in my purse for you, princess?”
Quinn shakes her head; the both of them know she will be walking out of here wearing everything she came in with, regardless of how sticky and uncomfortable. To do otherwise would be the same as admitting it happened in the first place.
Again.
She sighs a little as the feeling slowly seeps back into her limbs, wondering if she will ever have the strength to stop this bizarre train they’re on. There isn’t any kind of future here, not if she wants to remain a Fabray, lead the Cheerios, and make Prom Queen by junior year. Besides, unless she very much misunderstands her best friend, Santana isn’t interested in making anything of this besides sex. That much isn’t unexpected; Santana doesn’t tend to have much of an interest in anyone outside of sex.
(She does shoot some awfully impenetrable, weighty glances at the newest girl on the squad sometimes, a leggy blonde with more rhythm than brains, but Quinn doubts it means anything. For Santana to care, Santana would have to have a soul-and Quinn has yet to see proof of that.)
The final buzzer blasts, the teams lining up to graciously shake hands. McKinley 56, Guest 48. As she shakily follows Santana down, Quinn can't help but see the score reflecting their own ongoing game. Lopez 8, Fabray 4. It's embarrassing how far behind she has fallen, the pathetic victim to Santana's ungodly high sex drive and shockingly ambiguous social code.
It's getting out of hand. Eyes glued to that familiar glossy ponytail, she resolves to spend tonight thinking up something creative for next time, if only to beat Santana to the punch.
Power struggle aside, it is definitely her turn.
Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S2.
Summary: Sometimes, it's like a game they play. And lately, Santana's been winning.
A/N: A fill for the rare-pairing fic exchange. Prompt: Quinn/Santana-public fingering. Title from Hedley's "I Don't Believe It". Because...it felt snarky and I couldn't find anything better...
At first, she barely registers what the hand slinking up her thigh means. It’s such a strange thing to feel at a high school basketball game that she doesn’t recognize it at all-it slinks in as part of the white noise around her, the screaming and sneakers squealing and thumping of feet against wooden bleachers.
She doesn’t think it so odd that she’d be caught off guard by the sensation. Who feels somebody up at a basketball game, anyway? She’s at the top of the bleachers, back against the white-and-red painted wall, about as close to privacy as humanly possible-but that isn’t exactly a locked door and a shaded window.
Hell, it’s not even as heavily guarded as a blanket tossed over her lap in the backseat of her car.
Still, that hand is unmistakably interested, carefully maintained black nails reflecting the shoddy fluorescent lighting as they trace patterns into her skin. Every second nudges that hand half an inch higher, until Quinn finds herself holding her breath.
They’re here to watch the game, she reminds herself, because next year, they are going to be on the varsity squad. Next year, they’ll be able to cover real sports-football, basketball, baseball-instead of uttering unappreciated cheers on the tennis sidelines. They’re here to support the Cheerios with whom they’ll be parading next year, and to keep a close eye on the likes of Finn Hudson and Noah Puckerman, both of whom are on their way to becoming exceedingly solid eye candy. This time next year, those two goons will be perfect boyfriend material, fitting her best friend and herself like a pair of extremely dense, testosterone-riddled gloves.
They’re here, in short, because of the social imperatives, not so Santana Lopez can slide a hand slyly under her skirt.
She wants to hiss a question, demand to know what Santana thinks she’s doing, but speaking out loud would only garner attention faster. And it isn’t like she doesn’t know Santana’s game; they’ve been best friends for years, and playing through this little routine for long enough besides. Quinn knows it’s about the ruthless combination of libido and sheer power, and by commenting, she’ll be giving Santana exactly what gets her off best.
She closes her eyes, shoulders stiffening in preparation. Santana wants to prove a point, stake a claim-in public, no less-and there is absolutely no way she can give in so easily. Not if she wants to retain any authority next year when she coyly slips into that head cheerleader uniform.
All the same, it’s wildly difficult not to make a sound when those nails scratch delicately up the inside of her right thigh. Her skin vibrates, going instantly hot in the wake of the teasing motion; she can’t stop her legs from falling slightly further apart. Still ladylike, still in control-but out of the corner of her eye, she can see Santana’s lips twist in a hungry grin, and she has to wonder how long this game can remain her own.
Down on the court, Mike Chang passes the ball to Matt Rutherford, who executes a perfect left-fake layup. The crowd goes into its usual frenzy, whistling and chanting. Santana takes the opportunity to trail her middle finger smoothly up the front of Quinn’s underwear. Her whole body shudders instinctively, toes curling in an effort to stay calm.
Thank God there’s no one up on this level with them, she thinks desperately as Santana gives another, slightly firmer stroke. Thank God the lighting up here is pathetic, thank God for Principal Figgins’ money-grubbing refusal to fix it, thank God Ohio is the kind of state where sports hold the undivided attention of high school audiences. She would never live it down if someone were to notice Russell Fabray’s little girl up here, eyes clenched shut and lips parted as her best friend lightly rubs the dampening crotch of her panties under a flower-patterned skirt.
It’s just dim enough for Santana to feel secure leaning in, pressing a painfully erotic kiss to the side of Quinn’s neck. She gasps, hips jerking forward into adventurous fingertips, and tilts her head back against the wall.
Fighting. That’s what she’s supposed to be doing right now, fighting every second of this so Santana doesn’t feel as though she’s got the upper hand. She needs to keep control, keep the higher ground, really make Santana work for the satisfaction…
She whimpers as Santana drags two fingers slowly up, tracing the line of skin above her waistband. Judging by the rough lick Santana proceeds to bestow upon her pulse point, her own excitement is building at a wicked velocity. Quinn bites down on her bottom lip, quashing the temptation to pin the other girl and speed this whole thing along.
Her legs have moved even further, dangerously spread now, just the way she knows Santana wants her. Her panties are rapidly reaching the point of no return, soaked through until she knows she’ll have to wrap them in a shirt and sneak the whole package into the bottom of the laundry basket. She can feel Santana smile against her neck, thumb hooking under the elastic even as those two sinful fingers curl, cupping her. She groans softly, muffling the sound with the back of her hand brushing across her mouth.
Santana doesn’t say a word, which is particularly unusual, but Quinn doesn’t care. She doesn’t need dirty words and muttered commands today, not when the thrill of being so very visible sends sharp bursts of heat from the pit of her stomach down between her legs every couple of seconds. She doesn’t need much of anything, apart from Santana’s tongue lapping hot and sweet against her skin, Santana’s fingers stroking her slowly through ruined cotton, Santana’s breath coming quicker as her hand works.
The thud of her skull against the concrete wall isn’t overly pleasant, but Quinn doesn’t care; the only thing she can feel is the heat of Santana against her core, pressing the drenched fabric upwards. It takes a second for her to realize that Santana is actually trying to finger her through her underwear, which is unbelievably arousing-but not nearly contact enough for Quinn.
Her fingers sneak down, wrapping around the other girl’s left wrist and stilling her movements momentarily. Eyelashes flickering, struggling to stay open, Quinn musters the best glare she can under the circumstances. If Santana wants to play this game here, now, she had better be intending to go all the way with it.
The smirk she receives, coupled with lusty dark eyes and the brush of that evil tongue across a pouty bottom lip, suggests Santana knows exactly what she’s thinking. A heartbeat later, her head is thudding back against the wall again, a whimper fluttering on her lips as Santana works her whole hand under the waistband at last.
One finger enters her without further preamble, and it takes every ounce of Quinn’s energy not to spread her legs as far as they will go and buck her hips obscenely. Santana gives a murmur that could be a laugh or a moan; Quinn finds she cares less about deconstructing the noise and more about forcing the girl to fill and fuck her immediately. This teasing thing Santana loves to do-it isn’t nice, and when they’re sitting in a crowded gymnasium, it isn’t appreciated.
As subtly as she knows how, Quinn rocks against that finger, silently begging more, more, more. Face buried once again in her neck, mouth nipping and sucking just cautiously enough to avoid marking, Santana takes the hint and plunges another inside, thrusting in all the way and pulling back out again. Quinn feels the smile broaden against her skin as her back arches, her hands desperately gripping the wood beneath her thighs.
It’s mean, she thinks, for Santana to do this here, but the girl is so damn good at it that Quinn finds herself forgetting everything. How sinful their activities are, how revolted and appalled her parents would be if they knew, how completely insane it is to allow her best friend to fingerfuck her at all, much less in public-it all drains away with the steady pumping of Santana’s fingers. She loses track of the game raging below them, the cheering crowd, the flickering lamps, her entire focal point shrinking to the sensation of each calculated thrust. She groans again, a little more recklessly this time, losing herself in the series of overwhelming sensations.
It’s amazing, she thinks frantically, the things Santana can do. It’s amazing how wet she is, how fiercely the girl is kissing along her neck, how effortlessly those fingers are sliding in and out, building her higher and higher until she feels like every nerve ending is on fire.
Santana, clearly sensing how fast she is barreling towards that magnificent cliff, gives a low growl and speeds up, the heel of her hand pressed firmly to Quinn’s clit. She thrusts almost painfully hard, curling forcefully at the last minute, and bites down on Quinn’s shoulder. That, combined with the realization that Santana has shifted so that her own heat is angled against Quinn’s thigh, hurtles her over the edge.
She comes more loudly than she should, crying out against Santana’s hair as her stomach tightens and her legs tremble. Luckily, the Titans have just missed a three-pointer, sending the crowd into a furious tizzy, and not a single person takes notice of Santana withdrawing her fingers and having the abject audacity to suck them off with one eyebrow arched.
“You’re vile,” Quinn gasps, unable to inject the words with her usual acid. Santana grins.
“And your panties are trashed. Want me to toss them in my purse for you, princess?”
Quinn shakes her head; the both of them know she will be walking out of here wearing everything she came in with, regardless of how sticky and uncomfortable. To do otherwise would be the same as admitting it happened in the first place.
Again.
She sighs a little as the feeling slowly seeps back into her limbs, wondering if she will ever have the strength to stop this bizarre train they’re on. There isn’t any kind of future here, not if she wants to remain a Fabray, lead the Cheerios, and make Prom Queen by junior year. Besides, unless she very much misunderstands her best friend, Santana isn’t interested in making anything of this besides sex. That much isn’t unexpected; Santana doesn’t tend to have much of an interest in anyone outside of sex.
(She does shoot some awfully impenetrable, weighty glances at the newest girl on the squad sometimes, a leggy blonde with more rhythm than brains, but Quinn doubts it means anything. For Santana to care, Santana would have to have a soul-and Quinn has yet to see proof of that.)
The final buzzer blasts, the teams lining up to graciously shake hands. McKinley 56, Guest 48. As she shakily follows Santana down, Quinn can't help but see the score reflecting their own ongoing game. Lopez 8, Fabray 4. It's embarrassing how far behind she has fallen, the pathetic victim to Santana's ungodly high sex drive and shockingly ambiguous social code.
It's getting out of hand. Eyes glued to that familiar glossy ponytail, she resolves to spend tonight thinking up something creative for next time, if only to beat Santana to the punch.
Power struggle aside, it is definitely her turn.