FIC: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo) (9/?)
Title: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo)
Author: Misty Flores
Genre: Glee
Pairing: Quinn/Santana (some Brittany/Santana implied)
Rating: M
Teaser: Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and with limbs so tangled Quinn can’t sleep, she’ll think back and wonder why it’ll never be marshmallows and fluff for them.
Spoilers: Glee S4 through ep 10
Prompt: from Jskuriou: Santana is being too passive and Quinn decides it's her mission to get an honest reaction out of her. No matter what it takes. Looking for the real Santana under the calm, mature veneer she's hiding behind. Could be set at Christmas or New Years.
Chapters 1 & 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8
Part Nine. But I’ll Only Stay Here One More Night, Pt. 2
There’s a part of Quinn that understands exactly what it is she’s doing. She’s studying to be an actor, and with that comes all sorts of introspection and discussion about motivation and actions. Quinn may not have always been beautiful, but she has always been smart. She doesn’t limit that study to her dramatic scenes in a classroom, but can’t help but extend it to her real life as well.
Quinn knows she is drawing lines in the sand and then erasing them, only to draw them in again. She’s banking so much on the supposed ‘magic’ of New Year’s Eve, using what is honestly just another day as an excuse to move past her own boundaries and indulge herself.
And yes, it’s not a good idea, and yes, Quinn understands there is so much about this that’s unhealthy, but she has always been determined. And truthfully, even if there were no paltry excuses, Quinn knows that she would have regrets either way.
At least with this choice, she gets to feel good for an evening.
The NYADA crowd is eccentric and loud and all too theatric, but she’s a drama major and a Glee alum and there’s something about all this that feel refreshingly familiar and dangerously like home.
Quinn spends the majority of this evening vastly amused, and yet it feels even deeper than that. She’s… happy.
The joy and anticipation that escalates through the crowded bar with every tick on the clock as midnight draws nearer is hard to ignore. Quinn feels the pleasant buzz of wine and laughter; it flows through her veins with a mellow sweetness. Her mouth aches from smiling, because a tipsy Kurt is absolutely hilarious and a tipsy Rachel is even more hilarious and more than a little clingy. And unlike Finn, who always seemed a little annoyed at Rachel’s cackling and the way Rachel seems to lose her volume button when she has more than one drink in her, Brody seems to be in that honeymoon stage of the budding relationship where everything his girlfriend does, even while drunk, is sexy and adorable.
She’s not sure if that relationship has a prayer of going anywhere serious, but for right now it seems… right for Rachel. Her sometimes overly-dramatic (though really who is she to talk?) friend is finally living in the present, without an engagement ring on her finger or the pressure of worrying at every moment what next step will determine her future. She’s on the right path and for the moment, that’s good enough.
It makes Quinn want to follow her example.
Santana’s body is warm and solid against her. She’s loud and boisterous; her eyes sparkle with her own form of joy. And though they are here with her friends, it’s understood, more importantly, that Santana is here with her.
It’s different than it used to be. Senior year, back when Santana was with Brittany and Quinn was, for the moment, at peace with who she had become and where she was going, she and Santana had reconnected. She remembered casual touches, sweet little smiles begotten from the nostalgia of it all.
Now there is intention behind every caress; a bold declaration that states to everyone in this bar that they are more than friends. Quinn’s fingers thread lightly through Santana’s, idly caressing as they sit and watch Brody perform ‘Float On’ on that tiny stage. The lyrics are so happy-go-lucky and free they seem to define Brody completely, but that’s not what Quinn thinks about.
Instead, she thinks about slender fingers and the tingles they produce and how they leave her a little breathless and a lot turned on. She thinks about the way Santana’s smaller, feminine form settles in against her and how it seems so natural for them to sit so intimately. It should feel strange, shouldn’t it? Quinn’s had boyfriends all her life; she knows what men feel like. She appreciates their broad shoulders and solid physique, and the way they smell differently than she does. She used to like being cradled, curled into bulky arms. She used to be fine with running fingers across big forearms with coarse hair and feeling blunt fingernails across her own delicate fingers.
It made her feel safe.
This… doesn’t feel the same. And yet…
It’s intoxicating.
This is unique. It’s Quinn who does the cradling. It’s Quinn who curls her own arms around Santana’s feminine shoulders, who runs fingers over soft skin and shoulders bare except for that tiny strap. Who shivers as manicured fingernails scratch lightly against her smooth forearm in response. Santana’s scented hairspray and her perfume linger in her nostrils, because Quinn’s so close her chin brushes against Santana’s scalp, and every time she laughs, Quinn feels the vibration back against her own chest. Santana’s free hand, the one not currently tangled loosely with Quinn’s, once again palms her bare thigh, burning heat into her skin, intimately unaware. They whisper together; Santana’s lips brush against her cheek and then her ear every time she reaches back to say something meant for her ears only.
If no one knew them, if they were total strangers, they would look at Quinn and Santana and the way they’re tangled up in each other, and they would think they were girlfriends. It’s secretly thrilling.
And it’s funny. She holds Santana the way Sam and Finn used to hold her, years ago in an old choir room. God… she can’t imagine this ever happening in Glee Club.
But it’s happening here in New York, and Quinn doesn’t know why it feels so SPECIAL to be the one doing the holding.
Maybe it’s because Santana is actually letting her. Maybe it’s because for once this seems easy, and nothing with Santana has ever been easy.
Fingers curl against her inner thigh, scratching lightly in such a way Quinn finds herself biting down on her lower lip and shifting in her seat. The way she does it causes Santana’s hand to fall further in between her legs.
“What’s going on?” she hears. The fingers skim again, further under her skirt. Quinn sucks in her breath. Her head lifts sharply to discover Santana watching her carefully with dancing brown eyes.
Kurt has long since abandoned them to go flirt with a group of boys across the room. Rachel is in that state of intoxication where she is blissfully unaware of anything but Brody leading the crowd through the rousing chorus of his classic pop tune.
It gives them a sort of private bubble, even in this crowded bar.
“What do you mean?” she asks, but her tone is low… coated in a way that makes it completely obvious how Santana’s touch is affecting her.
That dangerous smirk widens. Long fingers slide further underneath, to the point where they’re now drawing light circles at the edge of her thong. “You’re zoning, and leaving me to have to deal with the horror of this ‘performance’ on my own.”
A knuckle brushes up directly against her.
Quinn’s teeth clamp down on her lower lip. Her fingers tighten against Santana’s; the flush of wetness that has now become stickily obvious to her makes it… difficult to concentrate.
Her eyes widen with the shock of it, but Santana’s hooded look is unrepentant. “Look at the stage, Q. It’s gross.”
Quinn’s wonders how she can be aware of anything now, not with the way that single digit teasingly skims across the fabric of her thong, pressing in ever so lightly. Still, she somehow manages to obey.
On stage, Brody has been replaced by Kurt and a group of NYADA dorks that have launched quite readily into a piano performance of ‘I Was Made For Loving You’.
“Oh God,” she half-whispers, unsure if she can even trust her voice. “… Is he really singing KISS?”
“It’s like Gay KidzBop,” Santana says airly, noses against her cheek until she reaches her ear. Quietly, for Quinn only, she whispers, “I can smell how wet you are for me.”
“Fuck.” It’s an unfortunate outburst, but by now the bar is rowdy and loud, and her moan is drowned out by the cheer of the crowd. Kurt is doing this weird thrust-shimmy combination, and it’s nearly horrific enough to give her back SOME measure of control.
But all Santana betrays is an uneven chuckle, before that knuckle retreats, giving her just a bit of relief before the palm spreads wide and squeezes her thigh hard.
It’s all she can do to keep from bucking her hips.
“Santana!” she hisses. Rachel woops hard and loud, slamming hard down on the rickety table, nearly overturning their drinks.
“DO THE CHANT!” she shrieks, and gives them both a wild, glassy eyed grin. Flushed and breathless, Quinn can only manage a shaky smile back. That seems to be good enough for Rachel, because she shouts, “I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH.”
“You know what else you love?” Santana remarks, infuriatingly calm against her. “Vodka.”
“YES!” Rachel agrees vehemently. “Vodka is AMAZING.” Two fingers press in against her now, directly over her clit, smoothing deliberately on her. “Quinn, are you okay?” Rachel asks, nose scrunching and eyes narrowing. “You look really flushed!”
“The bar is really hot,” is what she manages, and it’s a terribly lame excuse, but Rachel’s also drunk so…
“You do look flushed, Quinn,” Santana says, leaning back to inspect her face with mock concern. “Are you okay?” Quinn lips press together. Her legs tremble and she’s sure she’s gripping Santana’s fingers so tightly that it must hurt. Still, Santana’s fingers dart back and skim teasingly against the lining of her underwear. “Because I’m sure Rachel’s Plastic Ken Doll will be happy to go get you some water.”
Quinn grits her teeth and breathes hard out of her nose, glaring hard at the gorgeous woman who is so easily dismantling her with fingers against her soaked, barely clothed sex.
God, the thong was such a horrible idea.
“Yes!” Rachel squeals, and swivels in her chair, snapping her fingers for Brody. “Brody! Water! Water for everyone!”
Rachel is distracted. Santana chooses that exact moment to dig her fingers underneath the fabric of the thong. Quinn’s eyes roll back and she gasps, and it’s just enough for Santana to plant her mouth against hers, and slide her tongue against her lips at the same time as her fingers mimic the action, lower down.
Her outburst is garbled. The world falls away, and Quinn’s awareness falls away. Her mind is splintered, and every nerve is on fire, because Santana tongue is rubbing insistently against her own and her fingers slip and slide through her wetness, unable to find purchase because of all the moisture.
Santana’s moan vibrates against her mouth; she breathes hard through her nose and licks against Quinn’s teeth, fingers bold and searching, cupping against her and GOD-
The table scrapes forward, it’s legs knocking on her knees, just as a cold liquid splashes on the hand that’s gripping the edge of it.
Quinn’s eyes open dizzily, struggling to focus as her mouth rips away from Santana and she processes a cup of water has been placed on her side of the table. Brody’s smile shows all his teeth. He’s settling into his chair, cheeks ruddy and flushed, beside Rachel who stares with an open-mouthed expression. Quinn has no ability to discern whether she’s annoyed, flabbergasted, or turned on.
Santana’s forearm flexes; trips a nail directly up her slit and she doesn’t fucking care.
“There’s your water,” Rachel says in a tone that seems much less carefree or happy as it was a moment ago. Deprived of her mouth, Santana’s lips now suckle and nip a path along Quinn’s jaw, journey south until she’s placing wet, lewd kisses against the sensitive column of her throat.
She’s overwhelmed. Quinn’s heart pounds and her body is heated. Blood rushes in her ears and every nerve is tingling, ready to explode. Her brain, usually so aware and careful, is mellowed with liquor and lit on fire by Santana’s touch, and it begs her to open her legs wide, give Santana the room she needs to dip down further-
“Quinn.”
Rachel. Right. “Thanks,” she manages, doing her best to smile politely. The water actually looks amazing. Quinn is suddenly really, really parched and she wishes she trusted herself to be able to pick up that delicious looking cup and drink from it without tipping it all over herself with her failing motor functions.
“Santana,” Rachel snaps, but Santana is completely one note and ignores her, lifting her head and untangling her fingers from Quinn’s to take hold of her jaw and turn her mouth back into her own.
“Wow.”
“Santana, you’re mauling her- Quinn - GUYS.”
Santana’s taste features the salty sweat of her skin mingled with lingering remnants of salt and tequila. Quinn loves it. She captures Santana’s bottom lip with her teeth, groaning because she’s practically dripping now, and Santana can feel all of it.
There’s a blast of heat and a sudden roar of applause, so much louder than before.
“SANTANA,” Rachel says again, only to be followed with a much louder-
“SANTANA LOPEZ.” Kurt. A very loud Kurt. Quinn opens her eyes.
It’s not just Brody and Rachel staring at them now. It’s the entire bar, including Kurt, who is holding a microphone to his mouth, staring at them with wide, amused eyes.
The crowd is clapping at whistling at THEM. At their display.
And Santana is fingering her under the table.
Santana is practically FUCKING her under this table.
Shit.
“Santana,” she hisses, and slaps her hand from the table to between her legs, stilling Santana’s movement and forcing her attention off of her.
“Finally!” Kurt laughs, loud and obnoxious because of the damn microphone.
“What the hell is going on?” Santana snaps, voice so thick with arousal Quinn’s jaw clamps in reaction.
Rachel doesn’t respond. Her eyes are instead fixed on the edge of the table, the way Quinn’s hand disappears beneath it… the way Santana’s does the same.
“We’ve been calling you,” Brody answers instead, laughing and shaking his head. “It’s your turn to sing!”
“What?” Santana asks dumbly. Though she stays close, her fingers slip from underneath Quinn’s thong, coating her inner thigh with her own wetness. Quinn struggles not to grimace. Rachel notices the expression with a frown. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Quinn’s heart is beating frantically. She swallows hard and reaches with shaking hands as subtly as she can for the tattered cocktail napkin that rests underneath her water.
Rachel’s eyes widen.
“It’s roommate initiation time!” Kurt announces to the crowd, MC-like. “Ladies and gents, tonight is a special night for many reasons, but a BIG one is that as of tonight, Rachel and I may have a new roommate! Please welcome New York’s newest hellraiser and obvious lady lover, Santana Lopez!”
There’s thunderous applause. Santana’s pupils are dilated, her eyes are hooded and dark, and she still looks winded. She licks her swollen lips and blinks, trying to make sense of the situation. Quinn’s flushed, dizzy emotion has not gone away, but it feels almost like a trip that’s gone very bad.
“Fucking Kurt,” Santana whispers.
She reaches underneath to stuff the napkin against Santana’s hand and feels her own wetness in the process. “Go,” she whispers hoarsely, because Santana looks stuck, and they have no choice.
The crowd is still applauding, getting louder by the second, and so Santana pulls away from her, the napkin crumbled in and around her fingertips as she smiles mutely at Quinn and weaves around Brody and Rachel to head for the stage.
*********
The crowd is quiet. They’re transfixed on Santana, who whispers quietly to the piano player and runs fingers through her mussed hair.
Quinn needs to go to the bathroom. Now.
She can’t move.
Rachel’s dark eyes have fixated on her. She seems to be the only person who is not staring at the dark-haired vixen in the red dress.
Quinn doesn’t want to know what she is thinking.
Every bit of energy she has is focused on trying desperately not to panic, to calm her flushed body down, to keep herself from moaning in actual physical pain because though her mind has caught up, her groin has not quite gotten over the interruption and she’s swollen and wet and it HURTS.
“Well, thank you Lady Hummel,” she hears Santana say, and lifts her eyes to discover Santana settling on a stool. “For the interruption and the invitation.”
The crowd laughs. Heads turn at her, like she’s in on the joke. Quinn forces a smile.
“I’mma mellow this place down a bit,” Santana says, and the piano man starts playing a tinkering of notes that Santana immediately begins to hum to.
“I may not always love you…” The second Santana begins to sing, the room silences. “But long as there are stars above you… You never need to doubt it… I'll make you so sure about it…”
It’s God Only Knows. Quinn recognizes the version, a cover arrangement by Joss Stone that is tailor made of Santana’s husky lower register.
Quinn’s racing heart skips. Her mouth opens in a sweet exhalation, because Santana is beautiful. She captures the room with her sheer presence, that dark-haired devil with the voice of an angel.
Long lashes flutter as Santana carries those notes. Emotion resonates with every lyric, because Santana means those words… it’s written all over her face as she lifts sparkling eyes to the room and twists her hands in front of her, physically reaching for those perfect notes.
“If you should ever leave me… Though life would still go on believe me…”
Santana is raw… she doesn’t carry Rachel’s perfect pitch or Kurt’s flamboyant showmanship. She’s naked on that stage. It’s just the girl and the song and those simple, quiet lyrics.
“…The world could show nothing to me… So what good would living do me…”
It’s devastating, but Santana is bleeding out her soul, and the audience can see it. This is why Santana belongs in New York, belongs on any stage at all. She has made that tiny stage her home, and the patrons, NYADA students who all carry talent like most people carry wallets, are transfixed, spellbound in the same way Quinn is.
”God only knows what I’d be without you.”
No… not the same way.
Quinn’s eyes sting with tears, and she sucks in a harsh breath. Her chest rises and falls as she stares helplessly at Santana.
It’s not the same way at all.
They’re falling in love with a star.
Quinn is already in love. Helplessly, desperately in love with a woman and a naked heart who is bleeding words for a long lost love that could never be her.
A hand presses down on her palm. Quinn’s glistening eyes open, as Rachel takes hold of her hand and with a quiet, somber expression, tugs and lifts away from her seat.
Once again, Quinn takes her strength from Rachel.
She allows Rachel to pull her to the back of the bar; towards the bathroom.
Santana’s lost in her song. In those words.
Quinn knows she doesn’t see them leave.
*********
Author: Misty Flores
Genre: Glee
Pairing: Quinn/Santana (some Brittany/Santana implied)
Rating: M
Teaser: Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and with limbs so tangled Quinn can’t sleep, she’ll think back and wonder why it’ll never be marshmallows and fluff for them.
Spoilers: Glee S4 through ep 10
Prompt: from Jskuriou: Santana is being too passive and Quinn decides it's her mission to get an honest reaction out of her. No matter what it takes. Looking for the real Santana under the calm, mature veneer she's hiding behind. Could be set at Christmas or New Years.
Chapters 1 & 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8
Part Nine. But I’ll Only Stay Here One More Night, Pt. 2
There’s a part of Quinn that understands exactly what it is she’s doing. She’s studying to be an actor, and with that comes all sorts of introspection and discussion about motivation and actions. Quinn may not have always been beautiful, but she has always been smart. She doesn’t limit that study to her dramatic scenes in a classroom, but can’t help but extend it to her real life as well.
Quinn knows she is drawing lines in the sand and then erasing them, only to draw them in again. She’s banking so much on the supposed ‘magic’ of New Year’s Eve, using what is honestly just another day as an excuse to move past her own boundaries and indulge herself.
And yes, it’s not a good idea, and yes, Quinn understands there is so much about this that’s unhealthy, but she has always been determined. And truthfully, even if there were no paltry excuses, Quinn knows that she would have regrets either way.
At least with this choice, she gets to feel good for an evening.
The NYADA crowd is eccentric and loud and all too theatric, but she’s a drama major and a Glee alum and there’s something about all this that feel refreshingly familiar and dangerously like home.
Quinn spends the majority of this evening vastly amused, and yet it feels even deeper than that. She’s… happy.
The joy and anticipation that escalates through the crowded bar with every tick on the clock as midnight draws nearer is hard to ignore. Quinn feels the pleasant buzz of wine and laughter; it flows through her veins with a mellow sweetness. Her mouth aches from smiling, because a tipsy Kurt is absolutely hilarious and a tipsy Rachel is even more hilarious and more than a little clingy. And unlike Finn, who always seemed a little annoyed at Rachel’s cackling and the way Rachel seems to lose her volume button when she has more than one drink in her, Brody seems to be in that honeymoon stage of the budding relationship where everything his girlfriend does, even while drunk, is sexy and adorable.
She’s not sure if that relationship has a prayer of going anywhere serious, but for right now it seems… right for Rachel. Her sometimes overly-dramatic (though really who is she to talk?) friend is finally living in the present, without an engagement ring on her finger or the pressure of worrying at every moment what next step will determine her future. She’s on the right path and for the moment, that’s good enough.
It makes Quinn want to follow her example.
Santana’s body is warm and solid against her. She’s loud and boisterous; her eyes sparkle with her own form of joy. And though they are here with her friends, it’s understood, more importantly, that Santana is here with her.
It’s different than it used to be. Senior year, back when Santana was with Brittany and Quinn was, for the moment, at peace with who she had become and where she was going, she and Santana had reconnected. She remembered casual touches, sweet little smiles begotten from the nostalgia of it all.
Now there is intention behind every caress; a bold declaration that states to everyone in this bar that they are more than friends. Quinn’s fingers thread lightly through Santana’s, idly caressing as they sit and watch Brody perform ‘Float On’ on that tiny stage. The lyrics are so happy-go-lucky and free they seem to define Brody completely, but that’s not what Quinn thinks about.
Instead, she thinks about slender fingers and the tingles they produce and how they leave her a little breathless and a lot turned on. She thinks about the way Santana’s smaller, feminine form settles in against her and how it seems so natural for them to sit so intimately. It should feel strange, shouldn’t it? Quinn’s had boyfriends all her life; she knows what men feel like. She appreciates their broad shoulders and solid physique, and the way they smell differently than she does. She used to like being cradled, curled into bulky arms. She used to be fine with running fingers across big forearms with coarse hair and feeling blunt fingernails across her own delicate fingers.
It made her feel safe.
This… doesn’t feel the same. And yet…
It’s intoxicating.
This is unique. It’s Quinn who does the cradling. It’s Quinn who curls her own arms around Santana’s feminine shoulders, who runs fingers over soft skin and shoulders bare except for that tiny strap. Who shivers as manicured fingernails scratch lightly against her smooth forearm in response. Santana’s scented hairspray and her perfume linger in her nostrils, because Quinn’s so close her chin brushes against Santana’s scalp, and every time she laughs, Quinn feels the vibration back against her own chest. Santana’s free hand, the one not currently tangled loosely with Quinn’s, once again palms her bare thigh, burning heat into her skin, intimately unaware. They whisper together; Santana’s lips brush against her cheek and then her ear every time she reaches back to say something meant for her ears only.
If no one knew them, if they were total strangers, they would look at Quinn and Santana and the way they’re tangled up in each other, and they would think they were girlfriends. It’s secretly thrilling.
And it’s funny. She holds Santana the way Sam and Finn used to hold her, years ago in an old choir room. God… she can’t imagine this ever happening in Glee Club.
But it’s happening here in New York, and Quinn doesn’t know why it feels so SPECIAL to be the one doing the holding.
Maybe it’s because Santana is actually letting her. Maybe it’s because for once this seems easy, and nothing with Santana has ever been easy.
Fingers curl against her inner thigh, scratching lightly in such a way Quinn finds herself biting down on her lower lip and shifting in her seat. The way she does it causes Santana’s hand to fall further in between her legs.
“What’s going on?” she hears. The fingers skim again, further under her skirt. Quinn sucks in her breath. Her head lifts sharply to discover Santana watching her carefully with dancing brown eyes.
Kurt has long since abandoned them to go flirt with a group of boys across the room. Rachel is in that state of intoxication where she is blissfully unaware of anything but Brody leading the crowd through the rousing chorus of his classic pop tune.
It gives them a sort of private bubble, even in this crowded bar.
“What do you mean?” she asks, but her tone is low… coated in a way that makes it completely obvious how Santana’s touch is affecting her.
That dangerous smirk widens. Long fingers slide further underneath, to the point where they’re now drawing light circles at the edge of her thong. “You’re zoning, and leaving me to have to deal with the horror of this ‘performance’ on my own.”
A knuckle brushes up directly against her.
Quinn’s teeth clamp down on her lower lip. Her fingers tighten against Santana’s; the flush of wetness that has now become stickily obvious to her makes it… difficult to concentrate.
Her eyes widen with the shock of it, but Santana’s hooded look is unrepentant. “Look at the stage, Q. It’s gross.”
Quinn’s wonders how she can be aware of anything now, not with the way that single digit teasingly skims across the fabric of her thong, pressing in ever so lightly. Still, she somehow manages to obey.
On stage, Brody has been replaced by Kurt and a group of NYADA dorks that have launched quite readily into a piano performance of ‘I Was Made For Loving You’.
“Oh God,” she half-whispers, unsure if she can even trust her voice. “… Is he really singing KISS?”
“It’s like Gay KidzBop,” Santana says airly, noses against her cheek until she reaches her ear. Quietly, for Quinn only, she whispers, “I can smell how wet you are for me.”
“Fuck.” It’s an unfortunate outburst, but by now the bar is rowdy and loud, and her moan is drowned out by the cheer of the crowd. Kurt is doing this weird thrust-shimmy combination, and it’s nearly horrific enough to give her back SOME measure of control.
But all Santana betrays is an uneven chuckle, before that knuckle retreats, giving her just a bit of relief before the palm spreads wide and squeezes her thigh hard.
It’s all she can do to keep from bucking her hips.
“Santana!” she hisses. Rachel woops hard and loud, slamming hard down on the rickety table, nearly overturning their drinks.
“DO THE CHANT!” she shrieks, and gives them both a wild, glassy eyed grin. Flushed and breathless, Quinn can only manage a shaky smile back. That seems to be good enough for Rachel, because she shouts, “I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH.”
“You know what else you love?” Santana remarks, infuriatingly calm against her. “Vodka.”
“YES!” Rachel agrees vehemently. “Vodka is AMAZING.” Two fingers press in against her now, directly over her clit, smoothing deliberately on her. “Quinn, are you okay?” Rachel asks, nose scrunching and eyes narrowing. “You look really flushed!”
“The bar is really hot,” is what she manages, and it’s a terribly lame excuse, but Rachel’s also drunk so…
“You do look flushed, Quinn,” Santana says, leaning back to inspect her face with mock concern. “Are you okay?” Quinn lips press together. Her legs tremble and she’s sure she’s gripping Santana’s fingers so tightly that it must hurt. Still, Santana’s fingers dart back and skim teasingly against the lining of her underwear. “Because I’m sure Rachel’s Plastic Ken Doll will be happy to go get you some water.”
Quinn grits her teeth and breathes hard out of her nose, glaring hard at the gorgeous woman who is so easily dismantling her with fingers against her soaked, barely clothed sex.
God, the thong was such a horrible idea.
“Yes!” Rachel squeals, and swivels in her chair, snapping her fingers for Brody. “Brody! Water! Water for everyone!”
Rachel is distracted. Santana chooses that exact moment to dig her fingers underneath the fabric of the thong. Quinn’s eyes roll back and she gasps, and it’s just enough for Santana to plant her mouth against hers, and slide her tongue against her lips at the same time as her fingers mimic the action, lower down.
Her outburst is garbled. The world falls away, and Quinn’s awareness falls away. Her mind is splintered, and every nerve is on fire, because Santana tongue is rubbing insistently against her own and her fingers slip and slide through her wetness, unable to find purchase because of all the moisture.
Santana’s moan vibrates against her mouth; she breathes hard through her nose and licks against Quinn’s teeth, fingers bold and searching, cupping against her and GOD-
The table scrapes forward, it’s legs knocking on her knees, just as a cold liquid splashes on the hand that’s gripping the edge of it.
Quinn’s eyes open dizzily, struggling to focus as her mouth rips away from Santana and she processes a cup of water has been placed on her side of the table. Brody’s smile shows all his teeth. He’s settling into his chair, cheeks ruddy and flushed, beside Rachel who stares with an open-mouthed expression. Quinn has no ability to discern whether she’s annoyed, flabbergasted, or turned on.
Santana’s forearm flexes; trips a nail directly up her slit and she doesn’t fucking care.
“There’s your water,” Rachel says in a tone that seems much less carefree or happy as it was a moment ago. Deprived of her mouth, Santana’s lips now suckle and nip a path along Quinn’s jaw, journey south until she’s placing wet, lewd kisses against the sensitive column of her throat.
She’s overwhelmed. Quinn’s heart pounds and her body is heated. Blood rushes in her ears and every nerve is tingling, ready to explode. Her brain, usually so aware and careful, is mellowed with liquor and lit on fire by Santana’s touch, and it begs her to open her legs wide, give Santana the room she needs to dip down further-
“Quinn.”
Rachel. Right. “Thanks,” she manages, doing her best to smile politely. The water actually looks amazing. Quinn is suddenly really, really parched and she wishes she trusted herself to be able to pick up that delicious looking cup and drink from it without tipping it all over herself with her failing motor functions.
“Santana,” Rachel snaps, but Santana is completely one note and ignores her, lifting her head and untangling her fingers from Quinn’s to take hold of her jaw and turn her mouth back into her own.
“Wow.”
“Santana, you’re mauling her- Quinn - GUYS.”
Santana’s taste features the salty sweat of her skin mingled with lingering remnants of salt and tequila. Quinn loves it. She captures Santana’s bottom lip with her teeth, groaning because she’s practically dripping now, and Santana can feel all of it.
There’s a blast of heat and a sudden roar of applause, so much louder than before.
“SANTANA,” Rachel says again, only to be followed with a much louder-
“SANTANA LOPEZ.” Kurt. A very loud Kurt. Quinn opens her eyes.
It’s not just Brody and Rachel staring at them now. It’s the entire bar, including Kurt, who is holding a microphone to his mouth, staring at them with wide, amused eyes.
The crowd is clapping at whistling at THEM. At their display.
And Santana is fingering her under the table.
Santana is practically FUCKING her under this table.
Shit.
“Santana,” she hisses, and slaps her hand from the table to between her legs, stilling Santana’s movement and forcing her attention off of her.
“Finally!” Kurt laughs, loud and obnoxious because of the damn microphone.
“What the hell is going on?” Santana snaps, voice so thick with arousal Quinn’s jaw clamps in reaction.
Rachel doesn’t respond. Her eyes are instead fixed on the edge of the table, the way Quinn’s hand disappears beneath it… the way Santana’s does the same.
“We’ve been calling you,” Brody answers instead, laughing and shaking his head. “It’s your turn to sing!”
“What?” Santana asks dumbly. Though she stays close, her fingers slip from underneath Quinn’s thong, coating her inner thigh with her own wetness. Quinn struggles not to grimace. Rachel notices the expression with a frown. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Quinn’s heart is beating frantically. She swallows hard and reaches with shaking hands as subtly as she can for the tattered cocktail napkin that rests underneath her water.
Rachel’s eyes widen.
“It’s roommate initiation time!” Kurt announces to the crowd, MC-like. “Ladies and gents, tonight is a special night for many reasons, but a BIG one is that as of tonight, Rachel and I may have a new roommate! Please welcome New York’s newest hellraiser and obvious lady lover, Santana Lopez!”
There’s thunderous applause. Santana’s pupils are dilated, her eyes are hooded and dark, and she still looks winded. She licks her swollen lips and blinks, trying to make sense of the situation. Quinn’s flushed, dizzy emotion has not gone away, but it feels almost like a trip that’s gone very bad.
“Fucking Kurt,” Santana whispers.
She reaches underneath to stuff the napkin against Santana’s hand and feels her own wetness in the process. “Go,” she whispers hoarsely, because Santana looks stuck, and they have no choice.
The crowd is still applauding, getting louder by the second, and so Santana pulls away from her, the napkin crumbled in and around her fingertips as she smiles mutely at Quinn and weaves around Brody and Rachel to head for the stage.
*********
The crowd is quiet. They’re transfixed on Santana, who whispers quietly to the piano player and runs fingers through her mussed hair.
Quinn needs to go to the bathroom. Now.
She can’t move.
Rachel’s dark eyes have fixated on her. She seems to be the only person who is not staring at the dark-haired vixen in the red dress.
Quinn doesn’t want to know what she is thinking.
Every bit of energy she has is focused on trying desperately not to panic, to calm her flushed body down, to keep herself from moaning in actual physical pain because though her mind has caught up, her groin has not quite gotten over the interruption and she’s swollen and wet and it HURTS.
“Well, thank you Lady Hummel,” she hears Santana say, and lifts her eyes to discover Santana settling on a stool. “For the interruption and the invitation.”
The crowd laughs. Heads turn at her, like she’s in on the joke. Quinn forces a smile.
“I’mma mellow this place down a bit,” Santana says, and the piano man starts playing a tinkering of notes that Santana immediately begins to hum to.
“I may not always love you…” The second Santana begins to sing, the room silences. “But long as there are stars above you… You never need to doubt it… I'll make you so sure about it…”
It’s God Only Knows. Quinn recognizes the version, a cover arrangement by Joss Stone that is tailor made of Santana’s husky lower register.
Quinn’s racing heart skips. Her mouth opens in a sweet exhalation, because Santana is beautiful. She captures the room with her sheer presence, that dark-haired devil with the voice of an angel.
Long lashes flutter as Santana carries those notes. Emotion resonates with every lyric, because Santana means those words… it’s written all over her face as she lifts sparkling eyes to the room and twists her hands in front of her, physically reaching for those perfect notes.
“If you should ever leave me… Though life would still go on believe me…”
Santana is raw… she doesn’t carry Rachel’s perfect pitch or Kurt’s flamboyant showmanship. She’s naked on that stage. It’s just the girl and the song and those simple, quiet lyrics.
“…The world could show nothing to me… So what good would living do me…”
It’s devastating, but Santana is bleeding out her soul, and the audience can see it. This is why Santana belongs in New York, belongs on any stage at all. She has made that tiny stage her home, and the patrons, NYADA students who all carry talent like most people carry wallets, are transfixed, spellbound in the same way Quinn is.
”God only knows what I’d be without you.”
No… not the same way.
Quinn’s eyes sting with tears, and she sucks in a harsh breath. Her chest rises and falls as she stares helplessly at Santana.
It’s not the same way at all.
They’re falling in love with a star.
Quinn is already in love. Helplessly, desperately in love with a woman and a naked heart who is bleeding words for a long lost love that could never be her.
A hand presses down on her palm. Quinn’s glistening eyes open, as Rachel takes hold of her hand and with a quiet, somber expression, tugs and lifts away from her seat.
Once again, Quinn takes her strength from Rachel.
She allows Rachel to pull her to the back of the bar; towards the bathroom.
Santana’s lost in her song. In those words.
Quinn knows she doesn’t see them leave.
*********