FIC: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo) (11/?)
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 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10
Part Eleven. But I’ll Only Stay Here One More Night, Pt. 4
It’s amazing that in a city that is filled to the brim with so many people, Quinn can still feel as if there is no one else in the world.
Even as Santana’s lips move gently against hers, even as Quinn’s heart beats increasingly faster, pumping blood into every part of her body with a rush that leaves her breathless and dizzy, she finds her mind contining to work, cataloging every single sense and emotion that flows through her as desperately and diligently as a court reporter.
She files away the feel of the delicate rasp of Santana’s tongue, gently flicking against her swollen bottom lip. The way Santana tastes earthy and warm at first, but as each kiss gets deeper, Quinn gets just a little bit more tequila and citrus floating against her tongue. Santana has kicked off her heels sometime since they have arrived and as a result is significantly shorter than she is. Quinn is never more aware of that as she is now as they press tightly together with only the lights of the city to illuminate the dark room. It’s exhilarating, and it’s odd that she feels that way. Quinn used to think she preferred taller partners.
And yet there’s something amazing about the fact that it’s her leaning down, chin nudging against Santana’s, head tilting as she manipulates the kiss with an open mouth and gentle hands. Fingers slide along Santana’s cheek and dig firmly into the thick raven hair at her nape, keeping Santana close - demanding it. Air puffs out of Santana’s nose, and a whimper lifts out of her throat that tells Quinn she has no complaints.
It’s heated now - the languid, slow kisses that began this have progressed to a wet, searching tongue digging deep into Santana’s mouth. Quinn’s body has begun to move, shimmies with want against Santana’s firm form, and when Santana’s knuckles brush against the side of Quinn’s breast on their way past her hip to press in against the small of her back, Quinn shudders. She is suddenly very aware of Santana’s breasts fitted just underneath her own; Santana’s thigh that has found itself between Quinn’s, bouncing pressure against the core of her in such a way her knees nearly buckle.
“God,” she mumbles, because it’s torture - this light friction, and yet she doesn’t want to give up her position just yet, not when Santana is kissing her so delicately, so intensely, not when they’re pressed together SO intimately. She’s ravaging Santana - she’s TREASURING Santana, and at the same time she wants to fuck her. It’s an animal type of possession; this sudden need to be INSIDE her, to lay claim to this body and mark it and brand it as her own. It’s unlike anything she’s felt before - it feels almost foreign and yet Quinn can feel the need coiling deep within her.
This is her at her most basic feral instincts, and it seems fitting somehow, that Santana is the one who brought this out.
She always seems to get a rise out of her; to blur the lines and make Quinn lose control one way or another.
The thought alone brings with it such a flush of want so overpowering Quinn feels her teeth dig sharply into Santana’s plump lower lip, causing the other woman to gasp before Quinn lifts and shifts, latching onto the strong column of Santana’s throat.
“Fuck - Augh- Quinn-“
Fingernails clamp hard at her bicep, dig in so deep Quinn feels the pinch of them. She pays them no heed. She’s intoxicated by the taste of Santana's skin, the salty sweet combined with the stinging bitterness of her perfume, filling her nostrils with the seductive scent.
Her tongue drags against Santana before she closes her mouth against a particularly spot, sucking in harder when Santana bucks up against her.
“Quinn-“
Santana’s fingers are now in her hair, tangling quickly and pulling with an insistent pressure that forces Quinn’s lips to retreat and instead begin another assault on Santana’s hungry and open mouth.
Santana matches her with equal intensity, and it’s exhilarating. For once, Quinn has no qualms, no Alice inside of her wondering about rabbit holes and how she’ll possibly dig herself out of them, no narrator shouting lyrics at her from inside her own head. Instead, all that exists is her own need, desperation and lust, that aching pressure in the pit of her stomach, her chest, and between her legs that has her nearly rutting against Santana, desperate to worship and be worshiped in return.
But those fingers dig in again and pull once again, and this time, the pain is enough to make her gasp and her eyes water. “Quinn.” Hooded eyes open to meet Santana's dark stare, only centimeters away. Though her mouth still lingers breathlessly on Santana’s, she is intensely aware of her beating heart and heavy panting - as if the rest of her has not gotten the message that a pause has been put in place. Her fingers continue to stroke against Santana’s bare shoulders, desperate to keep contact.
“What?” she manages because Santana’s fingers are firm, though the rest of her trembles in obvious emotion.
“What are we doing?”
For a moment, Quinn feels utterly stupid. Her brain is already fragmented with lust, and despite its determination to remain lucid and commit this all to memory, it leaves her with little reasoning skills. Isn't it obvious what they’re doing?
This is a hotel room. Santana’s dress straps are already hanging off her shoulders and though it’s dark, Quinn’s reasonably sure that that is a mark on Santana’s neck produced by her own mouth. They’re standing together intimately in a strange room and Quinn is pretty damn sure that Santana booked it with the expressed purpose of fucking her. More than once.
“Huh?” she blurts, and it’s quite possibly the stupidest thing she’s ever uttered in her life, but it seems fitting because Santana’s question might be the dumbest she’s ever asked. "What do you mean, what are we doing?"
Fingers close over her own, stilling her palm as it drifts distractedly along Santana's collarbone. The darkness in Santana's eyes seem unfathomly deep, but there is a hardness in her voice that wasn't there just a moment ago. "I mean what are we doing, Quinn." She's exasperated. " What is this?"
It's difficult not to lose patience. "It's sex, Santana," because obviously.
Santana looks like she's been struck. That hand that was only keeping her palm from moving now pushes it off Santana's shoulder completely, and the other girl takes nearly a full step back. Quinn instantly feels a chill of regret.
"... Is that all it is?"
God, she can't handle this. Not the expression on Santana's face: vulnerable doe eyes that shine at her through the darkness accompanied with a trembling mouth. Not the way she looks so SMALL thanks to their exaggerated height difference.
She's beautiful and fragile in a way that tears at Quinn and her lust, leaving behind those damn FEELINGS that have only intensified since their first drunken, ill-advised kiss.
She senses the danger; sees the precipice she's standing on. The way her heart contracts in terror, how her breath hitches, it all tells her that she's so close to confessing everything, and then what will become of her? "Santana," she begins, throat tight in an effort not to beg. "Don't-"
"Why not?" Santana asks, because she's a bitch and she's stubborn and she never learns when to just stop. "Why can't we fucking just TALK about this, Quinn?!"
“What’s wrong with just sex?” she rasps, because that much at least, she's prepared to give. That much she can handle. Her heart, her mind, her body; it wants that physical manifestation of love - but only if she can mask it. If she can take what this really is and manipulate it, transform it enough to make believe it's just carnal, then once it's over, once she leaves and goes back to New Haven alone, she'll be okay.
If she can't do that, if her raw bleeding heart remains vulnerable and open, if Santana digs into this deep chasm in her chest and fills it, and cementing her place inside of her like she belongs there-
No... Quinn has lost so much in her life... there is only so much a heart can take before it will be irreparably broken.
“What’s wrong with more?!”
Santana just doesn't... she doesn't GET it. "You and I can't HAVE more," she snaps, and it sounds so empty now.
"Can't or won't?"
A harsh laugh escapes from her as she turns away from Santana and her disquieting presence. "You tell me," she answers quietly, and watches as lights blink at her from a nearby building - a strobe light from a party in progress, most likely. "Tell me you didn't rent this room with the express purpose of getting IN me, Santana."
Santana doesn't respond, and Quinn's mouth quirks bitterly, because the evidence is damning. It's at least, the one truth about Santana she absolutely knows. Santana wants her body. She wants to claim it as badly as Quinn wants to be claimed.
She reaches out to run her fingers against the thick cloth of the curtain, running it along the rails back and forth. The sound it produces could be grating amidst the quiet, but instead the intrusion is almost soothing.
"If you think that's all I want from you, then you're an idiot, Quinn." Maybe the liquor isn't quite out of her system yet, because Quinn finds that answer intensely funny. "Quinn, I've only been with one other girl and I can't handle just sex. Not with you."
It's not funny anymore. Quinn stops playing with the curtain, but can't quite bring herself to turn around. She instead absorbs what Santana is saying in that intensely vulnerable tone, and oddly, finally seems to hear it.
It's as if a piece from a complicated puzzle has turned and finally fit itself into its slot. So much about herself and Santana in high school was superficial; each protected themselves with a false front to keep the world from seeing the soft underbelly of their worst truths. For Quinn, it was Lucy. For Santana: her sexuality.
So she lied - she overcompensated. Where Quinn was pious and cold, she was loose and free, and once told Rachel to never say no to boys that wanted her. The more boys Santana had, the less gay she could be.
Now Quinn knows better. Maybe she always knew. The Santana who emerged after she accepted the truth of her feelings for Brittany was not the loose, slutty Santana that was presented before. Santana's true nature was monogamous, protective and sweet. Santana in love was romantic and devoted, and though her very public outing had given her more than her share of internet fame and lesbian admirers, what Quinn imagined would be catnip to a newly out lesbian, Santana had always remained steadfast in her relationship.
God, just the idea that she COULD be attracted to another woman had frightened her so much she confessed it to Brittany as if that was as bad as cheating.
For all of Santana's experience with loveless sex and lust, she was just so... new.
Boys meant nothing so the sex meant nothing for Santana...but for Santana the lesbian... sex with women is not meaningless.
And here they are, and it's happening again. With her other best friend. With Quinn.
On top of that, Santana has no home, no plan, no idea of what her life will be when just two months ago she probably had every dream in the world and every single part of her life laid out before her like a blueprint: a life with Brittany, a cheerleading scholarship, a hot and cold platonic friendship with Quinn-
Every single constant in her life has changed in such a short amount of time.
Quinn's eyes water as she realizes suddenly that for Santana, there is too much shift. Too much is changing all at once and Quinn has no idea how to help her or guide her.
And she can't. She can't help her. Not when she is one of those constantly changing factors.
She feels so powerless, and she hates that feeling. Quinn has taken so many extremes in an effort to manipulate her life to her appropriate endgame and for what? She has a daughter who is being raised by another mother. A barely healed body that still keeps her up at night.
Even when it comes to love, she has prodded and pushed and threatened and the result has always been the same.
Now here she is with Santana, who stares at her as if she has every answer in the world.
She doesn't have any answers.
All she has is love. This selfless love that tells her Santana deserves to be happy.
So she smiles a trembling grin that seems to frighten Santana at first, and with a painful exhale, whispers into the night, "Whatever happens between us, Santana, you're my best friend." Santana's eyes narrow, unsure what to do with it. Quinn's watery eyes glisten, and she finds herself surprisingly bold and oddly at peace as she reaches forward to take Santana's palm in hers, caressing the fingertips with sweet affection. She takes in this feeling, revels in it as she weighs her words carefully. "I know that this is new... but maybe we're not supposed to figure it out right now - no, listen to me-" she continues, when Santana huffs in exasperated frustration and attempts to pull away. "Listen." The fingers tighten; keep Santana in place until those dark eyes look at her one more time. Quinn takes a breath, and tries again. "Are you honestly telling me that you're over Brittany?" Santana's jaw clenches. Quinn's smile trembles. "That you know exactly what you want from me?" A heavy sigh erupts from Santana. She shifts, lost in her own tumultuous emotions.
"Quinn-"
"That right here, right now - you want to be my girlfriend?"
They’re hard questions she's been too terrified to ask, and honestly she has no idea why she has the bravery to ask them now. Perhaps because she knows, deep down, that Santana doesn't have the answers either.
"I just-"
She lets go of Santana's palms to press a soothing touch against her friend’s chin, gentle as she lifts it so Santana can look her in the eye. She knows her eyes are shimmering in the darkness, but her smile is genuine. Santana stares at her like she's beautiful. "It's okay, Santana," she answers quietly, saving her friend from her own confusion. "There's no time limit on figuring things out. That's all I'm saying."
She knows, deep down, that what they share is intimate and deep. They've always been two-of-a-kind, two bitch-slash-goddesses on the same love-hate spectrum.
Santana's eyes flutter closed. Her forehead falls forward, gently pressing against Quinn's, as if she's gathering strength from her. "I meant what I said before," she whispers.
Quinn sucks in a harsh breath; feels her heart tremble in response. "I know. So did I."
"Quinn." Her eyes open. She lifts back just enough to see the way Santana looks at her, grateful and affectionate. "You're my best friend too." Some of the anxiety has lifted, at least, and Quinn's breath hitches at the scampy, gorgeous grin that suddenly graces Santana's features. "My really hot bestie that I really want to kiss right now. "
She says it playfully, but the emotion behind it is so sincere. Santana's lids have grown heavy; eyes obviously focused on her mouth. Santana's tongue darts along her bottom lip in anticipation. Along with the playfulness the lust has returned. Quinn finds she's infected by it too. Her hand lingers against Santana's neck, palming possessively. The skin feels warm under her touch, and she wants to feel more of it.
They're two best friends who love each other and are insanely attracted to each other. Maybe for tonight, that's enough.
"Then what are you waiting for?" she asks, but it comes out husky; a demand instead of a question.
Santana’s smile quirks, fades, and with a heavy breath she leans in. Quinn’s ready and eager to meet her half way when the muffled sounds of Meredith Brooks' 'Bitch' begin to blare from Santana's boobs.
Quinn blinks, thrown until she realizes that the buzzing vibration against her own nipple is actually Santana's phone hidden in Santana's cleavage, signaling an incoming call.
Santana seems to be just as confused. "What the fuck is that?" she asks, looking down between them with wide, startled eyes.
"It's your phone," Quinn says dryly, brow arching as it finally registers for Santana.
"Oh," she says, blinking for a minute, before her eyes twinkle with mischief. "Wanna get it for me, Q?"
It's a silly challenge, but Quinn's brow lifts anyway, smirk turning upward as her shoulders straighten and she boldly and without reservation curves her fingers between the clingy fabric and soft skin of Santana's cleavage to fish out the ringing mobile.
Santana’s eyes darken, her mouth opens at the flutter of movement and with a sound that sounds like devastatingly sexy growl, she lunges forward. Quinn has discovered she's in a teasing mood, and she leans back just far enough away to avoid the tempting, plumps lips, to observe the caller instead.
"It's Kurt," she says, laughing at the way Santana whines like a puppy deprived of a treat. "Should I get it?"
"Oh, fuck Kurt-" Santana begins, palms already around her waist and mouth ghosting along her jaw, pulling insistently just as a pop from outside their window startles them both.
A splash of color illuminates the night sky, and it's then that Quinn with an indrawn gasp realizes what's happening. "Santana, it's midnight."
Santana's fingers twitch against Quinn's hip, keeping her close, but she watches the distant fireworks as they pop with fantastic brilliance. She seems dazed by their beauty. Quinn finds she's more absorbed by the wonder on Santana's face.
Santana's phone buzzes in her hand, and Quinn goes with her instinct and answers the call, clicking on the speaker option.
"Happy New Year!" She can barely make out Kurt's loud upper register because of all the noise of cheering and shouting in the background.
Santana's eyes finally tear from the display outside the window to eye the phone amusedly. "Happy New Year, Lady Hummel," she drawls, and then frowns when Kurt immediately shushes her.
"Rachel wanted you two to hear this," he says, and then by some miracle the background noise quiets suddenly.
No, it's not a miracle, Quinn realizes with an indrawn breath. It's Rachel singing 'Auld Lang Syne', with her perfect pitch and vibrato. Even through the tinny phone speaker, her voice proves magnetic and joyous. It's not long before the crowd at Callbacks has joined in, and still, Rachel's voice rises above them all.
Rachel once mentioned to Quinn that Santana told her she liked it when she sang, and looking at her friend now, Quinn wonders how she ever thought differently. Santana's eyes are shining, and she's listening with such intensity and joy, it appears almost the picture of rapture.
It’s oddly heartwarming, to see Santana affected so easily by the power of Rachel’s voice.
The little window above the call on Santana's phone says it's 12:01AM.
The song's ending is drowned out by the cheers that follow it, and Quinn takes it as her cue to disconnect the call.
Santana seems put out by the action. "Quinn-"
But Quinn is overwhelmed with emotion and affection, and she’s done waiting. She kisses Santana, lips pressing softly against her mouth, lingering with an exhalation of pleasure that makes Santana hum along with her. Instantly her heart stutters with excitement, her body hums as if it’s been shocked. Still, Quinn feels almost lazy as she explores Santana's mouth with a tempered passion that seems more profound and restrained than any kiss that has occurred between them. She continues her unhurried, exploratory assault, nipping lightly at Santana's swollen lips and running her teeth teasingly over Santana's perfect teeth.
One long moment later, she pulls away, just enough to study the beautiful face across from her own, to truly absorb this moment.
This is real. This is happening. If nothing else, they will have always have this moment.
"Happy New Years, Santana," she whispers, breath ghosting against those lips that then pillow immediately into her own. Santana murmurs those words back at her, but they lose their meaning when their mouths open hungrily against each other.
She’s not sure how long they keep up the deep, searching kisses. She does know that her thighs have begun to tremble and that she’s so wet it’s almost distracting. She’s so aware of it that she finds it hard to focus on almost anything else.
It's not until her back presses up suddenly against cold glass that she discovers they have been making their way to the window. Santana's fingers have lost any hesitation. She's spread them open to palms Quinn's hips and waist with unbridled enthusiasm, gripping her tightly to gather fistfuls of material, tugging and pulling. It as if Santana can’t decide whether she should continue the journey up or down.
Quinn doesn’t know where she wants her more.
For her part, Quinn discovers herself handicapped. Though one hand is once again digging into Santana’s raven locks, she still holds Santana's phone in her other hand. She’s flushed now, and still somehow half-afraid she’s going to drop the phone and break it. Already, Santana's smooth hands have yanked harder at her dress and managed to reach into her cleavage, flicking fingers against a sensitive nipple with such unbridled enthusiasm Quinn yelps and shudders, clawing at Santana's neck and nearly knocking her own phone against her friend's head.
She flails for a moment before she gives up and tosses her arm over Santana’s shoulder, using her forearm to yank Santana in closer, crushing her mouth against Santana’s lips.
Santana uses both palms to go around Quinn’s waist, tongue sinking deep into Quinn’s mouth as she fudges with Quinn’s zipper.
Quinn feels wanton, out of control. There’s enough of that Christian girl inside of her that abstractly looks on with horror as she shifts to help, lifting away from the glass to give Santana the room she needs to loosen the dress around her shoulders. She’s giving herself so freely - no pulling away, no boundaries. Her legs are spread and Santana’s pumping her hips between them, grinding into her with such enthusiasm Quinn finds herself uttering a steady stream of moans.
It’s this lust, this desperate need, that keeps her from being her usual self-conscious self. She doesn’t care about the stretch marks that skim against her breasts, or how her arms feel less than toned, or the way her nipples always seemed too big for her own comfort.
All she cares about is the look on Santana’s face when she sees them, gasping so loudly it’s impossible to ignore. “Fuck, Quinn,” she hears, and then Santana roughly palms a nipple, plucking at it and nearly mauling the breast. “Where the hell have you been hiding these?”
"Ass," she laughs, but it's an empty word when her hips buck, seeking the friction of Santana's waist and her chest arches wantonly into Santana's hand. The cold of the glass is a striking contrast to the heat of Santana pressed so tightly against her but Quinn finds she doesn't mind either. It's only with dim awareness that she even registers that the fireworks are still happening, and it seems impossible to care about that manufactured beauty when her neck and collarbone are currently being laved with wet kisses and a hot tongue. Santana takes her time. The dress has pooled along her waist, she’s half naked and she can only deal with the frigid class because of the heat of Santana’s mouth, sucking and nipping down her chest to drag her teeth along her right breast.
When the phone buzzes once again, Quinn nearly drops it in her surprise. She jerks her head back and momentarily sees stars when she bangs hard against the glass of the window.
"Quinn!"
It’d be seriously funny if she wasn’t so annoyed with the interruption. "Your damn phone,” she gasps and clutches at it awkwardly as she tilts it against Santana's shoulder to read the caller. “Probably Kurt and Rachel again-“
“Tell them to fuck off. We’re not in their bathroom.”
She’s actually quite prepared to tell them just that when she looks at the blinking name of the incoming caller.
It’s not Kurt or Rachel.
"Quinn. Are you okay?"
The cold that seeps into her bare back and shoulders from the glass now seems to overtake her completely.
Her heartbeat slows. Her head rings.
It's with valiant effort that she turns the phone and shows the caller to Santana.
Santana's expression is hooded and hard to read. The phone continues to buzz, and Quinn doesn't know what to do, sitting there with a phone that's ringing with a call for Santana.
"You should answer it,” she says with a quiet, tortured rasp, because it means something that Brittany is calling at midnight on New Year’s Eve. It’ll mean something to Santana. And she’ll keep quiet when Santana does answer the call, because she knows that Brittany is probably unaware of where Santana is spending her New Years, and even if she were, chances are she would not suspect they were together alone, with Quinn half naked and arching underneath Santana’s mouth.
Santana doesn’t move. She looks as frozen as the wall of glass at Quinn’s back.
Once again, she’s lost as to what to do, torn between her heart and her lust.
Quinn sucks in a soldiering breath, and though she feels stupid standing there with her breasts on display and her lips swollen, her hair mussed, she draws her arm back over Santana's shoulder and prepares to connect the call.
This is how their evening will end, and Quinn will hate it, but she promised to be Santana’s friend, and she knows she loves her.
She reaches with her thumb, and discovers with a rush of pain that Santana has now ripped the phone out of her palm with a viciousness that startles her.
Quinn swallows hard, but doesn’t say a word.
Santana never looks at the phone. She just stares at Quinn, that same frozen lost girl.
Suddenly, a different button is pressed and the phone goes silent.
Brittany’s call is ignored, and Santana’s phone is tossed onto a nearby sofa.
Dizzy, out of breath and cold, Quinn doesn’t know what’s happened. This time it’s her that offers the silent, questioning gaze, eyes flickering from the dark sofa to the blazing fury in Santana’s eyes.
Santana answers her with a shrug that seems so loaded despite the simplicity of the movement. "Tonight is about us, Quinn."
Then her lips are on Quinn’s again, her arms wrap around her shoulders, and Quinn is being kissed with a fervent passion that cements Santana’s words.
Brittany’s call changes the momentum. The lazy exploration, the sweet lovemaking - it’s overwhelmed, like a match that has been lit and burned away. Santana’s lovemaking is rough and dominating. She opens her mouth over Quinn’s breasts and sucks her nipple into her mouth almost harshly. Quinn cries out, feels the pleasure as fiercely as she would feel any sort of pain, and it makes her a slave to it. She begins to claw with her own fingers, dragging the straps of Santana’s dress further down her body until it’s pushed past her hips and Santana’s kicking it awkwardly past her feet.
There’s so much skin to explore, but Quinn discovers she can do nothing but whimper. There’s been weeks of wanting, of desire and foreplay and FINALLY now there’s nothing between them - no bathrooms and Kurt or roommates or Brittany or even their own doubts.
Quinn can’t wait anymore. She shoves at her own dress, feeling it slide down her legs and nearly trips on her wedges as she leans forward to capture Santana’s lips once more.
She feels almost possessed as she reaches up to grab hold of Santana’s palm and drags it from her breast, down her trembling stomach and beneath her thong.
“AUGH,” she hears, and nearly sobs at the same time because FINALLY, Santana’s there, sinking between her soaked lips to trip over her clit, circling it slowly. “Fuck Quinn,” Santana whispers, so lost in the movement she’s stopped kissing her and instead just pants against her mouth. Santana fingers slide through her wetness, causing her hips to convulse and Quinn’s hands to flail, searching for purchase as Santana explores her.
It’s not enough. Quinn needs more. She’s tired of the teasing. “Santana,” she whimpers and doesn’t care if it comes off as desperate. She pulls at her own thong, jerking it past her thighs, struggling until Santana helps her, until she’s naked but for her wedges, splayed against the window with Santana pressed up against her, hand between her spread legs, feeling Quinn buck into her. “Fuck. Me,” Quinn manages, because it’s what she needs. She wants Santana inside her. She wants this to be REAL.
No more teasing. No more wishing. She wants carnal and raw and pleasure and pain.
“Quinn, fuck-“
Her fingers slip, slide almost too easily inside of Quinn. Quinn feels the invasion, nearly sobs with the relief of it. Santana’s tongue coaxes her mouth open, and Quinn sucks on it gladly, hips pumping wildly to keep Santana inside of her, keep her pumping.
There’s more - Santana’s added another finger - it feels fucking amazing.
She’s taken against the window by her best friend, with her heart pumping so furiously she’s sure she may die from a heart attack before the coil that builds tightens to the point of release. But God, it would be worth it. It would be WORTH IT.
She feels herself clench - even in lovemaking she’s selfish, wanting to keep Santana’s fingers inside of her, despite how GOOD it feels when she pumps in and slides out, mashing her palm against Quinn’s clit with every thrust.
“Please don’t stop,” she pleads and Santana grunts ‘Never’ in response and it makes her eyes water because that’s exactly what she wants.
Her orgasm hits her before she’s ready and in her head all she hears is ‘Forever’ and ‘Never’ and it all mashes together until the words lose all meaning and all that’s left is Santana and this feeling.
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 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10
Part Eleven. But I’ll Only Stay Here One More Night, Pt. 4
It’s amazing that in a city that is filled to the brim with so many people, Quinn can still feel as if there is no one else in the world.
Even as Santana’s lips move gently against hers, even as Quinn’s heart beats increasingly faster, pumping blood into every part of her body with a rush that leaves her breathless and dizzy, she finds her mind contining to work, cataloging every single sense and emotion that flows through her as desperately and diligently as a court reporter.
She files away the feel of the delicate rasp of Santana’s tongue, gently flicking against her swollen bottom lip. The way Santana tastes earthy and warm at first, but as each kiss gets deeper, Quinn gets just a little bit more tequila and citrus floating against her tongue. Santana has kicked off her heels sometime since they have arrived and as a result is significantly shorter than she is. Quinn is never more aware of that as she is now as they press tightly together with only the lights of the city to illuminate the dark room. It’s exhilarating, and it’s odd that she feels that way. Quinn used to think she preferred taller partners.
And yet there’s something amazing about the fact that it’s her leaning down, chin nudging against Santana’s, head tilting as she manipulates the kiss with an open mouth and gentle hands. Fingers slide along Santana’s cheek and dig firmly into the thick raven hair at her nape, keeping Santana close - demanding it. Air puffs out of Santana’s nose, and a whimper lifts out of her throat that tells Quinn she has no complaints.
It’s heated now - the languid, slow kisses that began this have progressed to a wet, searching tongue digging deep into Santana’s mouth. Quinn’s body has begun to move, shimmies with want against Santana’s firm form, and when Santana’s knuckles brush against the side of Quinn’s breast on their way past her hip to press in against the small of her back, Quinn shudders. She is suddenly very aware of Santana’s breasts fitted just underneath her own; Santana’s thigh that has found itself between Quinn’s, bouncing pressure against the core of her in such a way her knees nearly buckle.
“God,” she mumbles, because it’s torture - this light friction, and yet she doesn’t want to give up her position just yet, not when Santana is kissing her so delicately, so intensely, not when they’re pressed together SO intimately. She’s ravaging Santana - she’s TREASURING Santana, and at the same time she wants to fuck her. It’s an animal type of possession; this sudden need to be INSIDE her, to lay claim to this body and mark it and brand it as her own. It’s unlike anything she’s felt before - it feels almost foreign and yet Quinn can feel the need coiling deep within her.
This is her at her most basic feral instincts, and it seems fitting somehow, that Santana is the one who brought this out.
She always seems to get a rise out of her; to blur the lines and make Quinn lose control one way or another.
The thought alone brings with it such a flush of want so overpowering Quinn feels her teeth dig sharply into Santana’s plump lower lip, causing the other woman to gasp before Quinn lifts and shifts, latching onto the strong column of Santana’s throat.
“Fuck - Augh- Quinn-“
Fingernails clamp hard at her bicep, dig in so deep Quinn feels the pinch of them. She pays them no heed. She’s intoxicated by the taste of Santana's skin, the salty sweet combined with the stinging bitterness of her perfume, filling her nostrils with the seductive scent.
Her tongue drags against Santana before she closes her mouth against a particularly spot, sucking in harder when Santana bucks up against her.
“Quinn-“
Santana’s fingers are now in her hair, tangling quickly and pulling with an insistent pressure that forces Quinn’s lips to retreat and instead begin another assault on Santana’s hungry and open mouth.
Santana matches her with equal intensity, and it’s exhilarating. For once, Quinn has no qualms, no Alice inside of her wondering about rabbit holes and how she’ll possibly dig herself out of them, no narrator shouting lyrics at her from inside her own head. Instead, all that exists is her own need, desperation and lust, that aching pressure in the pit of her stomach, her chest, and between her legs that has her nearly rutting against Santana, desperate to worship and be worshiped in return.
But those fingers dig in again and pull once again, and this time, the pain is enough to make her gasp and her eyes water. “Quinn.” Hooded eyes open to meet Santana's dark stare, only centimeters away. Though her mouth still lingers breathlessly on Santana’s, she is intensely aware of her beating heart and heavy panting - as if the rest of her has not gotten the message that a pause has been put in place. Her fingers continue to stroke against Santana’s bare shoulders, desperate to keep contact.
“What?” she manages because Santana’s fingers are firm, though the rest of her trembles in obvious emotion.
“What are we doing?”
For a moment, Quinn feels utterly stupid. Her brain is already fragmented with lust, and despite its determination to remain lucid and commit this all to memory, it leaves her with little reasoning skills. Isn't it obvious what they’re doing?
This is a hotel room. Santana’s dress straps are already hanging off her shoulders and though it’s dark, Quinn’s reasonably sure that that is a mark on Santana’s neck produced by her own mouth. They’re standing together intimately in a strange room and Quinn is pretty damn sure that Santana booked it with the expressed purpose of fucking her. More than once.
“Huh?” she blurts, and it’s quite possibly the stupidest thing she’s ever uttered in her life, but it seems fitting because Santana’s question might be the dumbest she’s ever asked. "What do you mean, what are we doing?"
Fingers close over her own, stilling her palm as it drifts distractedly along Santana's collarbone. The darkness in Santana's eyes seem unfathomly deep, but there is a hardness in her voice that wasn't there just a moment ago. "I mean what are we doing, Quinn." She's exasperated. " What is this?"
It's difficult not to lose patience. "It's sex, Santana," because obviously.
Santana looks like she's been struck. That hand that was only keeping her palm from moving now pushes it off Santana's shoulder completely, and the other girl takes nearly a full step back. Quinn instantly feels a chill of regret.
"... Is that all it is?"
God, she can't handle this. Not the expression on Santana's face: vulnerable doe eyes that shine at her through the darkness accompanied with a trembling mouth. Not the way she looks so SMALL thanks to their exaggerated height difference.
She's beautiful and fragile in a way that tears at Quinn and her lust, leaving behind those damn FEELINGS that have only intensified since their first drunken, ill-advised kiss.
She senses the danger; sees the precipice she's standing on. The way her heart contracts in terror, how her breath hitches, it all tells her that she's so close to confessing everything, and then what will become of her? "Santana," she begins, throat tight in an effort not to beg. "Don't-"
"Why not?" Santana asks, because she's a bitch and she's stubborn and she never learns when to just stop. "Why can't we fucking just TALK about this, Quinn?!"
“What’s wrong with just sex?” she rasps, because that much at least, she's prepared to give. That much she can handle. Her heart, her mind, her body; it wants that physical manifestation of love - but only if she can mask it. If she can take what this really is and manipulate it, transform it enough to make believe it's just carnal, then once it's over, once she leaves and goes back to New Haven alone, she'll be okay.
If she can't do that, if her raw bleeding heart remains vulnerable and open, if Santana digs into this deep chasm in her chest and fills it, and cementing her place inside of her like she belongs there-
No... Quinn has lost so much in her life... there is only so much a heart can take before it will be irreparably broken.
“What’s wrong with more?!”
Santana just doesn't... she doesn't GET it. "You and I can't HAVE more," she snaps, and it sounds so empty now.
"Can't or won't?"
A harsh laugh escapes from her as she turns away from Santana and her disquieting presence. "You tell me," she answers quietly, and watches as lights blink at her from a nearby building - a strobe light from a party in progress, most likely. "Tell me you didn't rent this room with the express purpose of getting IN me, Santana."
Santana doesn't respond, and Quinn's mouth quirks bitterly, because the evidence is damning. It's at least, the one truth about Santana she absolutely knows. Santana wants her body. She wants to claim it as badly as Quinn wants to be claimed.
She reaches out to run her fingers against the thick cloth of the curtain, running it along the rails back and forth. The sound it produces could be grating amidst the quiet, but instead the intrusion is almost soothing.
"If you think that's all I want from you, then you're an idiot, Quinn." Maybe the liquor isn't quite out of her system yet, because Quinn finds that answer intensely funny. "Quinn, I've only been with one other girl and I can't handle just sex. Not with you."
It's not funny anymore. Quinn stops playing with the curtain, but can't quite bring herself to turn around. She instead absorbs what Santana is saying in that intensely vulnerable tone, and oddly, finally seems to hear it.
It's as if a piece from a complicated puzzle has turned and finally fit itself into its slot. So much about herself and Santana in high school was superficial; each protected themselves with a false front to keep the world from seeing the soft underbelly of their worst truths. For Quinn, it was Lucy. For Santana: her sexuality.
So she lied - she overcompensated. Where Quinn was pious and cold, she was loose and free, and once told Rachel to never say no to boys that wanted her. The more boys Santana had, the less gay she could be.
Now Quinn knows better. Maybe she always knew. The Santana who emerged after she accepted the truth of her feelings for Brittany was not the loose, slutty Santana that was presented before. Santana's true nature was monogamous, protective and sweet. Santana in love was romantic and devoted, and though her very public outing had given her more than her share of internet fame and lesbian admirers, what Quinn imagined would be catnip to a newly out lesbian, Santana had always remained steadfast in her relationship.
God, just the idea that she COULD be attracted to another woman had frightened her so much she confessed it to Brittany as if that was as bad as cheating.
For all of Santana's experience with loveless sex and lust, she was just so... new.
Boys meant nothing so the sex meant nothing for Santana...but for Santana the lesbian... sex with women is not meaningless.
And here they are, and it's happening again. With her other best friend. With Quinn.
On top of that, Santana has no home, no plan, no idea of what her life will be when just two months ago she probably had every dream in the world and every single part of her life laid out before her like a blueprint: a life with Brittany, a cheerleading scholarship, a hot and cold platonic friendship with Quinn-
Every single constant in her life has changed in such a short amount of time.
Quinn's eyes water as she realizes suddenly that for Santana, there is too much shift. Too much is changing all at once and Quinn has no idea how to help her or guide her.
And she can't. She can't help her. Not when she is one of those constantly changing factors.
She feels so powerless, and she hates that feeling. Quinn has taken so many extremes in an effort to manipulate her life to her appropriate endgame and for what? She has a daughter who is being raised by another mother. A barely healed body that still keeps her up at night.
Even when it comes to love, she has prodded and pushed and threatened and the result has always been the same.
Now here she is with Santana, who stares at her as if she has every answer in the world.
She doesn't have any answers.
All she has is love. This selfless love that tells her Santana deserves to be happy.
So she smiles a trembling grin that seems to frighten Santana at first, and with a painful exhale, whispers into the night, "Whatever happens between us, Santana, you're my best friend." Santana's eyes narrow, unsure what to do with it. Quinn's watery eyes glisten, and she finds herself surprisingly bold and oddly at peace as she reaches forward to take Santana's palm in hers, caressing the fingertips with sweet affection. She takes in this feeling, revels in it as she weighs her words carefully. "I know that this is new... but maybe we're not supposed to figure it out right now - no, listen to me-" she continues, when Santana huffs in exasperated frustration and attempts to pull away. "Listen." The fingers tighten; keep Santana in place until those dark eyes look at her one more time. Quinn takes a breath, and tries again. "Are you honestly telling me that you're over Brittany?" Santana's jaw clenches. Quinn's smile trembles. "That you know exactly what you want from me?" A heavy sigh erupts from Santana. She shifts, lost in her own tumultuous emotions.
"Quinn-"
"That right here, right now - you want to be my girlfriend?"
They’re hard questions she's been too terrified to ask, and honestly she has no idea why she has the bravery to ask them now. Perhaps because she knows, deep down, that Santana doesn't have the answers either.
"I just-"
She lets go of Santana's palms to press a soothing touch against her friend’s chin, gentle as she lifts it so Santana can look her in the eye. She knows her eyes are shimmering in the darkness, but her smile is genuine. Santana stares at her like she's beautiful. "It's okay, Santana," she answers quietly, saving her friend from her own confusion. "There's no time limit on figuring things out. That's all I'm saying."
She knows, deep down, that what they share is intimate and deep. They've always been two-of-a-kind, two bitch-slash-goddesses on the same love-hate spectrum.
Santana's eyes flutter closed. Her forehead falls forward, gently pressing against Quinn's, as if she's gathering strength from her. "I meant what I said before," she whispers.
Quinn sucks in a harsh breath; feels her heart tremble in response. "I know. So did I."
"Quinn." Her eyes open. She lifts back just enough to see the way Santana looks at her, grateful and affectionate. "You're my best friend too." Some of the anxiety has lifted, at least, and Quinn's breath hitches at the scampy, gorgeous grin that suddenly graces Santana's features. "My really hot bestie that I really want to kiss right now. "
She says it playfully, but the emotion behind it is so sincere. Santana's lids have grown heavy; eyes obviously focused on her mouth. Santana's tongue darts along her bottom lip in anticipation. Along with the playfulness the lust has returned. Quinn finds she's infected by it too. Her hand lingers against Santana's neck, palming possessively. The skin feels warm under her touch, and she wants to feel more of it.
They're two best friends who love each other and are insanely attracted to each other. Maybe for tonight, that's enough.
"Then what are you waiting for?" she asks, but it comes out husky; a demand instead of a question.
Santana’s smile quirks, fades, and with a heavy breath she leans in. Quinn’s ready and eager to meet her half way when the muffled sounds of Meredith Brooks' 'Bitch' begin to blare from Santana's boobs.
Quinn blinks, thrown until she realizes that the buzzing vibration against her own nipple is actually Santana's phone hidden in Santana's cleavage, signaling an incoming call.
Santana seems to be just as confused. "What the fuck is that?" she asks, looking down between them with wide, startled eyes.
"It's your phone," Quinn says dryly, brow arching as it finally registers for Santana.
"Oh," she says, blinking for a minute, before her eyes twinkle with mischief. "Wanna get it for me, Q?"
It's a silly challenge, but Quinn's brow lifts anyway, smirk turning upward as her shoulders straighten and she boldly and without reservation curves her fingers between the clingy fabric and soft skin of Santana's cleavage to fish out the ringing mobile.
Santana’s eyes darken, her mouth opens at the flutter of movement and with a sound that sounds like devastatingly sexy growl, she lunges forward. Quinn has discovered she's in a teasing mood, and she leans back just far enough away to avoid the tempting, plumps lips, to observe the caller instead.
"It's Kurt," she says, laughing at the way Santana whines like a puppy deprived of a treat. "Should I get it?"
"Oh, fuck Kurt-" Santana begins, palms already around her waist and mouth ghosting along her jaw, pulling insistently just as a pop from outside their window startles them both.
A splash of color illuminates the night sky, and it's then that Quinn with an indrawn gasp realizes what's happening. "Santana, it's midnight."
Santana's fingers twitch against Quinn's hip, keeping her close, but she watches the distant fireworks as they pop with fantastic brilliance. She seems dazed by their beauty. Quinn finds she's more absorbed by the wonder on Santana's face.
Santana's phone buzzes in her hand, and Quinn goes with her instinct and answers the call, clicking on the speaker option.
"Happy New Year!" She can barely make out Kurt's loud upper register because of all the noise of cheering and shouting in the background.
Santana's eyes finally tear from the display outside the window to eye the phone amusedly. "Happy New Year, Lady Hummel," she drawls, and then frowns when Kurt immediately shushes her.
"Rachel wanted you two to hear this," he says, and then by some miracle the background noise quiets suddenly.
No, it's not a miracle, Quinn realizes with an indrawn breath. It's Rachel singing 'Auld Lang Syne', with her perfect pitch and vibrato. Even through the tinny phone speaker, her voice proves magnetic and joyous. It's not long before the crowd at Callbacks has joined in, and still, Rachel's voice rises above them all.
Rachel once mentioned to Quinn that Santana told her she liked it when she sang, and looking at her friend now, Quinn wonders how she ever thought differently. Santana's eyes are shining, and she's listening with such intensity and joy, it appears almost the picture of rapture.
It’s oddly heartwarming, to see Santana affected so easily by the power of Rachel’s voice.
The little window above the call on Santana's phone says it's 12:01AM.
The song's ending is drowned out by the cheers that follow it, and Quinn takes it as her cue to disconnect the call.
Santana seems put out by the action. "Quinn-"
But Quinn is overwhelmed with emotion and affection, and she’s done waiting. She kisses Santana, lips pressing softly against her mouth, lingering with an exhalation of pleasure that makes Santana hum along with her. Instantly her heart stutters with excitement, her body hums as if it’s been shocked. Still, Quinn feels almost lazy as she explores Santana's mouth with a tempered passion that seems more profound and restrained than any kiss that has occurred between them. She continues her unhurried, exploratory assault, nipping lightly at Santana's swollen lips and running her teeth teasingly over Santana's perfect teeth.
One long moment later, she pulls away, just enough to study the beautiful face across from her own, to truly absorb this moment.
This is real. This is happening. If nothing else, they will have always have this moment.
"Happy New Years, Santana," she whispers, breath ghosting against those lips that then pillow immediately into her own. Santana murmurs those words back at her, but they lose their meaning when their mouths open hungrily against each other.
She’s not sure how long they keep up the deep, searching kisses. She does know that her thighs have begun to tremble and that she’s so wet it’s almost distracting. She’s so aware of it that she finds it hard to focus on almost anything else.
It's not until her back presses up suddenly against cold glass that she discovers they have been making their way to the window. Santana's fingers have lost any hesitation. She's spread them open to palms Quinn's hips and waist with unbridled enthusiasm, gripping her tightly to gather fistfuls of material, tugging and pulling. It as if Santana can’t decide whether she should continue the journey up or down.
Quinn doesn’t know where she wants her more.
For her part, Quinn discovers herself handicapped. Though one hand is once again digging into Santana’s raven locks, she still holds Santana's phone in her other hand. She’s flushed now, and still somehow half-afraid she’s going to drop the phone and break it. Already, Santana's smooth hands have yanked harder at her dress and managed to reach into her cleavage, flicking fingers against a sensitive nipple with such unbridled enthusiasm Quinn yelps and shudders, clawing at Santana's neck and nearly knocking her own phone against her friend's head.
She flails for a moment before she gives up and tosses her arm over Santana’s shoulder, using her forearm to yank Santana in closer, crushing her mouth against Santana’s lips.
Santana uses both palms to go around Quinn’s waist, tongue sinking deep into Quinn’s mouth as she fudges with Quinn’s zipper.
Quinn feels wanton, out of control. There’s enough of that Christian girl inside of her that abstractly looks on with horror as she shifts to help, lifting away from the glass to give Santana the room she needs to loosen the dress around her shoulders. She’s giving herself so freely - no pulling away, no boundaries. Her legs are spread and Santana’s pumping her hips between them, grinding into her with such enthusiasm Quinn finds herself uttering a steady stream of moans.
It’s this lust, this desperate need, that keeps her from being her usual self-conscious self. She doesn’t care about the stretch marks that skim against her breasts, or how her arms feel less than toned, or the way her nipples always seemed too big for her own comfort.
All she cares about is the look on Santana’s face when she sees them, gasping so loudly it’s impossible to ignore. “Fuck, Quinn,” she hears, and then Santana roughly palms a nipple, plucking at it and nearly mauling the breast. “Where the hell have you been hiding these?”
"Ass," she laughs, but it's an empty word when her hips buck, seeking the friction of Santana's waist and her chest arches wantonly into Santana's hand. The cold of the glass is a striking contrast to the heat of Santana pressed so tightly against her but Quinn finds she doesn't mind either. It's only with dim awareness that she even registers that the fireworks are still happening, and it seems impossible to care about that manufactured beauty when her neck and collarbone are currently being laved with wet kisses and a hot tongue. Santana takes her time. The dress has pooled along her waist, she’s half naked and she can only deal with the frigid class because of the heat of Santana’s mouth, sucking and nipping down her chest to drag her teeth along her right breast.
When the phone buzzes once again, Quinn nearly drops it in her surprise. She jerks her head back and momentarily sees stars when she bangs hard against the glass of the window.
"Quinn!"
It’d be seriously funny if she wasn’t so annoyed with the interruption. "Your damn phone,” she gasps and clutches at it awkwardly as she tilts it against Santana's shoulder to read the caller. “Probably Kurt and Rachel again-“
“Tell them to fuck off. We’re not in their bathroom.”
She’s actually quite prepared to tell them just that when she looks at the blinking name of the incoming caller.
It’s not Kurt or Rachel.
"Quinn. Are you okay?"
The cold that seeps into her bare back and shoulders from the glass now seems to overtake her completely.
Her heartbeat slows. Her head rings.
It's with valiant effort that she turns the phone and shows the caller to Santana.
Santana's expression is hooded and hard to read. The phone continues to buzz, and Quinn doesn't know what to do, sitting there with a phone that's ringing with a call for Santana.
"You should answer it,” she says with a quiet, tortured rasp, because it means something that Brittany is calling at midnight on New Year’s Eve. It’ll mean something to Santana. And she’ll keep quiet when Santana does answer the call, because she knows that Brittany is probably unaware of where Santana is spending her New Years, and even if she were, chances are she would not suspect they were together alone, with Quinn half naked and arching underneath Santana’s mouth.
Santana doesn’t move. She looks as frozen as the wall of glass at Quinn’s back.
Once again, she’s lost as to what to do, torn between her heart and her lust.
Quinn sucks in a soldiering breath, and though she feels stupid standing there with her breasts on display and her lips swollen, her hair mussed, she draws her arm back over Santana's shoulder and prepares to connect the call.
This is how their evening will end, and Quinn will hate it, but she promised to be Santana’s friend, and she knows she loves her.
She reaches with her thumb, and discovers with a rush of pain that Santana has now ripped the phone out of her palm with a viciousness that startles her.
Quinn swallows hard, but doesn’t say a word.
Santana never looks at the phone. She just stares at Quinn, that same frozen lost girl.
Suddenly, a different button is pressed and the phone goes silent.
Brittany’s call is ignored, and Santana’s phone is tossed onto a nearby sofa.
Dizzy, out of breath and cold, Quinn doesn’t know what’s happened. This time it’s her that offers the silent, questioning gaze, eyes flickering from the dark sofa to the blazing fury in Santana’s eyes.
Santana answers her with a shrug that seems so loaded despite the simplicity of the movement. "Tonight is about us, Quinn."
Then her lips are on Quinn’s again, her arms wrap around her shoulders, and Quinn is being kissed with a fervent passion that cements Santana’s words.
Brittany’s call changes the momentum. The lazy exploration, the sweet lovemaking - it’s overwhelmed, like a match that has been lit and burned away. Santana’s lovemaking is rough and dominating. She opens her mouth over Quinn’s breasts and sucks her nipple into her mouth almost harshly. Quinn cries out, feels the pleasure as fiercely as she would feel any sort of pain, and it makes her a slave to it. She begins to claw with her own fingers, dragging the straps of Santana’s dress further down her body until it’s pushed past her hips and Santana’s kicking it awkwardly past her feet.
There’s so much skin to explore, but Quinn discovers she can do nothing but whimper. There’s been weeks of wanting, of desire and foreplay and FINALLY now there’s nothing between them - no bathrooms and Kurt or roommates or Brittany or even their own doubts.
Quinn can’t wait anymore. She shoves at her own dress, feeling it slide down her legs and nearly trips on her wedges as she leans forward to capture Santana’s lips once more.
She feels almost possessed as she reaches up to grab hold of Santana’s palm and drags it from her breast, down her trembling stomach and beneath her thong.
“AUGH,” she hears, and nearly sobs at the same time because FINALLY, Santana’s there, sinking between her soaked lips to trip over her clit, circling it slowly. “Fuck Quinn,” Santana whispers, so lost in the movement she’s stopped kissing her and instead just pants against her mouth. Santana fingers slide through her wetness, causing her hips to convulse and Quinn’s hands to flail, searching for purchase as Santana explores her.
It’s not enough. Quinn needs more. She’s tired of the teasing. “Santana,” she whimpers and doesn’t care if it comes off as desperate. She pulls at her own thong, jerking it past her thighs, struggling until Santana helps her, until she’s naked but for her wedges, splayed against the window with Santana pressed up against her, hand between her spread legs, feeling Quinn buck into her. “Fuck. Me,” Quinn manages, because it’s what she needs. She wants Santana inside her. She wants this to be REAL.
No more teasing. No more wishing. She wants carnal and raw and pleasure and pain.
“Quinn, fuck-“
Her fingers slip, slide almost too easily inside of Quinn. Quinn feels the invasion, nearly sobs with the relief of it. Santana’s tongue coaxes her mouth open, and Quinn sucks on it gladly, hips pumping wildly to keep Santana inside of her, keep her pumping.
There’s more - Santana’s added another finger - it feels fucking amazing.
She’s taken against the window by her best friend, with her heart pumping so furiously she’s sure she may die from a heart attack before the coil that builds tightens to the point of release. But God, it would be worth it. It would be WORTH IT.
She feels herself clench - even in lovemaking she’s selfish, wanting to keep Santana’s fingers inside of her, despite how GOOD it feels when she pumps in and slides out, mashing her palm against Quinn’s clit with every thrust.
“Please don’t stop,” she pleads and Santana grunts ‘Never’ in response and it makes her eyes water because that’s exactly what she wants.
Her orgasm hits her before she’s ready and in her head all she hears is ‘Forever’ and ‘Never’ and it all mashes together until the words lose all meaning and all that’s left is Santana and this feeling.