santana's scheme - part one
Title: Santana's Scheme
Author:
kalexico
Pairing, Character(s): Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Rating: NC
Word Count: 2618
Summary: Santana has a hard time controlling her lust for Quinn. After a particularly heated party with a drunk Quinn, Santana decides it's time to start her scheme. Rated NC for language. FEMSLASH.
_______
The music is loud, pounding in her ears, making her head throb. She doesn't care in the least. The world is foggy and slow, but she can feel the bass shaking up her insides. Sound and vision are out of sync. Voices, loud echoing voices. Cackling laughter. People shouting, the sound of someone throwing up. It all blends before it reaches her ears, blended into one mix of sounds, the separate ingredients not recognisable to her. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.
She tries to focus her eyes on the figure in front of her. She squints her eyes and smiles goofily as the image sharpens. A blur of blonde hair comes into focus. The hair looks sweaty and stuck to her dance partner's forehead, tiny curls framing her face. The light, perfectly sculpted eyebrows, then the hazel eyes that seem so far away, just as much in an entirely different world as she is. That straight, beautiful nose. Those pink lips she has been wanting to kiss ever since she knows kissing is what people in love do. That body, moving to the bass that is ripping through her, grinding hips into her. That body she's been aching for ever since she knows having sex is what people in love do.
Suddenly, she's back, snapped out of her trance as she feels an undeniable throbbing between her legs. She blinks, head still pounding, trying to fucking kill her. She looks at the girl in front of her, who is still miles away. Quinn is beyond drunk. She's lost all self-control and Santana knows that she should stop her friend now, that she should take her home and put her to bed and pretend like tonight never happened, like they haven't been grinding their hips into each other as if the loss of contact would be the death of them, causing a friction that feels so right and so wrong at the same time. Honestly, she knows. There's only one problem: she can't.
All those years she has been waiting for Quinn Fabray to let go, to let go of her fucked up values, to stop being such a goddamn goodie two shoes and for once just release herself from the impossible boundaries she sets upon herself. And now that she has, Santana simply can't find that part of her that would do the right thing. The bitchy Santana people know is not the true one, but part of that Santana is real or she wouldn't be there in the first place.
She continues to convince herself that she's entitled to this as she lifts her thigh against Quinn's sex, her arms wrapped thightly around the blonde's waist, hands resting on her ass, squeezing it, kneading the flesh through the jeans, pushing their sweaty bodies closer together. Quinn flings her arms around Santana's neck, eyes cast to the floor, shamelessly riding her thigh as a dance move. Santana sighs, relents, but only slightly, by pushing Quinn away a little bit, yet maintaining their position.
Santana hears the hollering. She knows that guys are watching them, taking a mental picture to jerk off to later, when they're alone and realise that their asinine behaviour won't ever get them anywhere. When they realise that as long as they keep going the way they're going, the only girls they're going to sleep with are those sluts with no self-respect, the lack whereof originating in those same guys' habit of objectifying them day after fucking day and if that isn't enough, there are always the magazines and the TV shows to make the girls feel bad about themselves, even if they had thirty-seven surgeries to "improve" their body.
She bites her lip on the inside, so hard that she thinks she might feel the blood running in her mouth. The metallic taste can't be mistaken. Quinn is just so fucking sexy and she wants her, now. She needs her like she needs air, she needs to feel her, taste her, touch her. It's almost painful how much her body aches to melt into Quinn's and just take her, over and over again. Santana doesn't even want to think about how much easier her life would be if Quinn wouldn't be so damn intoxicating and if Brittany wouldn't be so eager to sleep with Santana even though they both know it isn't really Brittany that Santana is having sex with. There's a reason for the lack of eye contact.
Santana is pathetic, but she hasn't gone as far as to ask Britanny to wear hazel contact lenses when they're having sex. Santana is sure the girl wouldn't mind, but even though she is a straight-up bitch, she refuses to be like those guys. She refuses to demand Brittany to change her appearance, even if it's something as futile as eye colour. Even if really, imagining to have sex with someone else is not that honourable either. Yes, Brittany isn't the one Santana is fucking, but it doesn't mean that she wants Brittany to change who she is. She loves Brittany as she is - as a friend, but does that matter when it comes down to it? Love is love and fucking is fucking and they're two different things.
Santana doesn't fuck all those guys because she likes to. She doesn't fuck them because she enjoys the feeling. She fucks them to convince herself that that is what she wants. She fucks them because they're so very different from Quinn physically. And if she really can't deal, she still has Brittany. Oh, Santana knows she's abusing people, but she's Santana Lopez. Nobody expects her to care.
The flash of a camera brings Santana back to the party. The noises aren't filtered anymore, she can hear everything clearly. See everything clearly. A crowd has gathered and some are taking out their iPhones and cameras to send this to Jacob Ben fucking Israel, to put it on Twitter, Facebook, tumblr, MySpace, whatever the hell it is that is out there. That is when Santana fully sees the entire picture. That is when Santana stops. She pushes Quinn away, grabs her arm and pulls her away, away from the cameras, the boners, the laughter, the gossip mill that is starting. Santana hates Quinn for being so Quinn, for being so perfect and so sexy and so infuriating, but she loves her too much to do this to her.
Before they leave the house of whoever it is that is hosting this party, Santana goes to the stereo system and switches it off. Loud protest ensues, but Santana refuses to let it get to her, to even hear it. Instead, she takes a deep breath and shouts: "If I see one picture of Quinn Fabray and me on the internet or in any kind of paper tomorrow, or ever for that matter, whoever did it is fucking dead. I'm not shitting you, I'm from Lima Heights and I know people so I swear to God if I see anything, you're done with! Your life is over in every single fucking way! Is that understood?"
A few dumb nods, some murmuring. Blank stares.
"IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?" she yells at the top of her lungs. She knows she's overdoing it, but she's drunk and so is everyone.
"Yeah!" a few people shout, and she stalks off, Quinn in her wake. Santana realises that neither of them is in a state to drive. If she would be alone, she'd just take her car home, but Quinn is with her. She'd kill herself if something happened to her Quinn.
She gets out her iPhone and dials his number. Ever since he and Man-Hands are dating, he's become a total pussy, doesn't go to every party to get wasted anymore like he used to. It's the first time Santana sees the advantage.
"Puck, come pick me up. Yeah. At the party. How the hell should I know? Wait a second." She walks up to the front door, squints her eyes to read the label underneath the doorbell. "Jenkins. Thanks."
"Whaiwegohng?" Quinn slurs when Santana is back with her. They sit down on the pavement, waiting for Puck to pick them up.
"You are coming to my place," Santana says, resting her head in her hands in an attempt to stop all the fucking throbbing. "I know your parents don't give a shit about you anymore, but trust me, they will when they see the state that you're in."
Quinn shrugs and smirks lopsidedly. "Noh my fauwt."
"Bull," Santana hisses. "Maybe they've been treating you like crap, but they didn't put you in the car and drive you here, they didn't pour that first drink for you and they sure as hell didn't make you drink all those... whatever it is you've had."
Quinn has already fallen asleep, her head hanging in front of her. Santana puts her arm around Quinn's shoulder and pulls her close. The intoxicated blonde's head falls on Santana's shoulder. She snores ligtly. Santana takes a strand of blonde hair between her fingers and absent-mindedly starts playing with it. She represses the thought of how perfect this would be if they would both be at another place and sober. She kisses Quinn's hair and then she makes herself stop. She knows that if she doesn't stop now, she never will.
That is when a car honk invades her brain and nearly makes it explode. She curses, pulling Quinn up. Quinn is still sound asleep. Santana motions to Puck to open the back door. He jumps out of his seat and does so as the Latina scoops her friend up and carries her to the car effortlessly. She lies her down and can't help it, she has to, she has no choice but to cup her jaw, stroke her thumb over the soft flesh of her red cheek. Her fingertips wander over her sweaty brow, tentatively touching her pale skin. The pale skin seems to burn through her fingertips in the knowledge of how wrong her desires are. Almost as if it knows everything and is reprimanding Santana. Quinn stinks of sweat, alcohol and whatever it is the people in there smoke that night, but it doesn't stop Santana's need, her intense need to do things to the blonde she'll never forget.
"Come on, Lopez," Puck mumbles, scratching his mohawk. "Rachel will kill me if she finds the bed empty and frankly, I'm tired as hell."
Santana doesn't answer. She climbs in the passenger seat next to Puck, slumps down, her fingers drumming on the arm rest. The burning feeling won't go away Puck casts another look at her, worry etched on his face. She pretends not to notice.
"You'll have to tell her some day, you know," he says as he starts the car and turns the wheel. He doesn't look at her. He doesn't explain. They both know what he means, but Santana refuses to acknowledge that. Knowing what he means makes it real.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Santana mumbles. "And I didn't call you to get a fucking lecture, I called you for a ride."
Puck says nothing. He knows Santana well enough to know that now is not the time to get into an argument with her, that now is not the time to try and make her face the goddamn truth for once. He's not exactly a saint either, but he doesn't think he could live a lie the way she does.
He drops them off at Santana's house. It doesn't surprise him that nobody's there. He offers to help her bring Quinn inside, but she snarls that she doesn't need him anymore and Quinn sure as hell doesn't need him anymore. He decides not to break his head over Santana's behaviour anymore and return to his girlfriend, hoping she hasn't woken up in his absence.
Santana opens the doors and carries Quinn inside. Quinn has always been a heavy sleeper and notices nothing. Santana doesn't know if she's grateful for that fact because Quinn would ask too many questions, or if she regrets it because this side of her is one that Quinn hardly ever gets to see, the side of her that cares so much for her friend that it tears her apart. The lengths she would go to to protect this blonde - it's ridiculous. Santana kicks the door closed behind her and curses herself mentally. She's just pathetic, pining over a girl she'll never get. Observing this behaviour in anyone else would disgust her and it disgusts her that she's being like this, but she can't help it.
Once upstairs, Santana carefully places Quinn on her bed. She hesitates a second, then quickly undresses Quinn until she's in her underwear. She pulls a shirt over the blonde's head, struggling with the limp body. She tries to avoid touching her as much as she can. She averts her eyes. She doesn't want to look at her because she doesn't know what her eyes, her hands, her lips are going to do if she lets her gaze linger too long.
She changes into her nightwear and lies down beside Quinn. She grits her teeth, curls her toes, bores her nails into the palms of her hands, breathes heavily through her nose. She cannot touch Quinn, even though she is so close. Too close. She slowly releases the fingers of her right hand and brings it to Quinn's side. The blonde is facing away from her. She stretches her hand until it's flat and lets it hover mere inches above Quinn's skin. From her cheek to her shoulder to her side, over her breasts and her stomach and her legs. Mere inches. One sound to give her a fright and she would be touching her. She does everything she can to keep in mind the imaginary glass barrier between Quinn's body and the palm of her hand. Her biceps ache from the self control she forces herself to maintain. Her hand is shaking.
She mentally cries out in frustration. She is so. Royally. Fucked. Maybe if she could just... just for once... she's only human. Granted, she's Santana fucking Lopez but she's only fucking human, so her fingers fumble with the hem of Quinn's shirt, pushing it up just a little bit. For years, she has been able to refrain herself from doing the things she kept picturing at night. For years, she's never let anything on. A sigh escapes her full lips when the palm of her hand meets Quinn's stomach. She barely touches her, but it's the most intimate touch she's ever shared with her friend. She slowly moves her fingers, carefully. Maybe if she could just inch her hand up a little and... she quickly retracts her hand when Quinn mumbles something and moves a little.
She blushes furiously in the dark and realises she was fucking groping Quinn Fabray in her sleep. How is that any better than the hollering pervs at that party? That's when she knows that the next day, she has to. It's been sizzling in her brain since April and now that Summer is there, she simply has to try. It's her only shot. It's her only shot of ever kissing those pink lips, devouring them. Her only shot of ever killing the 'What if' and the 'How soft' or the 'How good'.
The next day, she has to start her scheme. She can't anymore. She simply can't. With that promise to herself, she rolls on her back and tries to sleep. She lies awake all night, listening to Quinn's even breathing, wondering if her life will be the same 24 hours from now.
>> next
Author:
kalexico
Pairing, Character(s): Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Rating: NC
Word Count: 2618
Summary: Santana has a hard time controlling her lust for Quinn. After a particularly heated party with a drunk Quinn, Santana decides it's time to start her scheme. Rated NC for language. FEMSLASH.
_______
The music is loud, pounding in her ears, making her head throb. She doesn't care in the least. The world is foggy and slow, but she can feel the bass shaking up her insides. Sound and vision are out of sync. Voices, loud echoing voices. Cackling laughter. People shouting, the sound of someone throwing up. It all blends before it reaches her ears, blended into one mix of sounds, the separate ingredients not recognisable to her. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.
She tries to focus her eyes on the figure in front of her. She squints her eyes and smiles goofily as the image sharpens. A blur of blonde hair comes into focus. The hair looks sweaty and stuck to her dance partner's forehead, tiny curls framing her face. The light, perfectly sculpted eyebrows, then the hazel eyes that seem so far away, just as much in an entirely different world as she is. That straight, beautiful nose. Those pink lips she has been wanting to kiss ever since she knows kissing is what people in love do. That body, moving to the bass that is ripping through her, grinding hips into her. That body she's been aching for ever since she knows having sex is what people in love do.
Suddenly, she's back, snapped out of her trance as she feels an undeniable throbbing between her legs. She blinks, head still pounding, trying to fucking kill her. She looks at the girl in front of her, who is still miles away. Quinn is beyond drunk. She's lost all self-control and Santana knows that she should stop her friend now, that she should take her home and put her to bed and pretend like tonight never happened, like they haven't been grinding their hips into each other as if the loss of contact would be the death of them, causing a friction that feels so right and so wrong at the same time. Honestly, she knows. There's only one problem: she can't.
All those years she has been waiting for Quinn Fabray to let go, to let go of her fucked up values, to stop being such a goddamn goodie two shoes and for once just release herself from the impossible boundaries she sets upon herself. And now that she has, Santana simply can't find that part of her that would do the right thing. The bitchy Santana people know is not the true one, but part of that Santana is real or she wouldn't be there in the first place.
She continues to convince herself that she's entitled to this as she lifts her thigh against Quinn's sex, her arms wrapped thightly around the blonde's waist, hands resting on her ass, squeezing it, kneading the flesh through the jeans, pushing their sweaty bodies closer together. Quinn flings her arms around Santana's neck, eyes cast to the floor, shamelessly riding her thigh as a dance move. Santana sighs, relents, but only slightly, by pushing Quinn away a little bit, yet maintaining their position.
Santana hears the hollering. She knows that guys are watching them, taking a mental picture to jerk off to later, when they're alone and realise that their asinine behaviour won't ever get them anywhere. When they realise that as long as they keep going the way they're going, the only girls they're going to sleep with are those sluts with no self-respect, the lack whereof originating in those same guys' habit of objectifying them day after fucking day and if that isn't enough, there are always the magazines and the TV shows to make the girls feel bad about themselves, even if they had thirty-seven surgeries to "improve" their body.
She bites her lip on the inside, so hard that she thinks she might feel the blood running in her mouth. The metallic taste can't be mistaken. Quinn is just so fucking sexy and she wants her, now. She needs her like she needs air, she needs to feel her, taste her, touch her. It's almost painful how much her body aches to melt into Quinn's and just take her, over and over again. Santana doesn't even want to think about how much easier her life would be if Quinn wouldn't be so damn intoxicating and if Brittany wouldn't be so eager to sleep with Santana even though they both know it isn't really Brittany that Santana is having sex with. There's a reason for the lack of eye contact.
Santana is pathetic, but she hasn't gone as far as to ask Britanny to wear hazel contact lenses when they're having sex. Santana is sure the girl wouldn't mind, but even though she is a straight-up bitch, she refuses to be like those guys. She refuses to demand Brittany to change her appearance, even if it's something as futile as eye colour. Even if really, imagining to have sex with someone else is not that honourable either. Yes, Brittany isn't the one Santana is fucking, but it doesn't mean that she wants Brittany to change who she is. She loves Brittany as she is - as a friend, but does that matter when it comes down to it? Love is love and fucking is fucking and they're two different things.
Santana doesn't fuck all those guys because she likes to. She doesn't fuck them because she enjoys the feeling. She fucks them to convince herself that that is what she wants. She fucks them because they're so very different from Quinn physically. And if she really can't deal, she still has Brittany. Oh, Santana knows she's abusing people, but she's Santana Lopez. Nobody expects her to care.
The flash of a camera brings Santana back to the party. The noises aren't filtered anymore, she can hear everything clearly. See everything clearly. A crowd has gathered and some are taking out their iPhones and cameras to send this to Jacob Ben fucking Israel, to put it on Twitter, Facebook, tumblr, MySpace, whatever the hell it is that is out there. That is when Santana fully sees the entire picture. That is when Santana stops. She pushes Quinn away, grabs her arm and pulls her away, away from the cameras, the boners, the laughter, the gossip mill that is starting. Santana hates Quinn for being so Quinn, for being so perfect and so sexy and so infuriating, but she loves her too much to do this to her.
Before they leave the house of whoever it is that is hosting this party, Santana goes to the stereo system and switches it off. Loud protest ensues, but Santana refuses to let it get to her, to even hear it. Instead, she takes a deep breath and shouts: "If I see one picture of Quinn Fabray and me on the internet or in any kind of paper tomorrow, or ever for that matter, whoever did it is fucking dead. I'm not shitting you, I'm from Lima Heights and I know people so I swear to God if I see anything, you're done with! Your life is over in every single fucking way! Is that understood?"
A few dumb nods, some murmuring. Blank stares.
"IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?" she yells at the top of her lungs. She knows she's overdoing it, but she's drunk and so is everyone.
"Yeah!" a few people shout, and she stalks off, Quinn in her wake. Santana realises that neither of them is in a state to drive. If she would be alone, she'd just take her car home, but Quinn is with her. She'd kill herself if something happened to her Quinn.
She gets out her iPhone and dials his number. Ever since he and Man-Hands are dating, he's become a total pussy, doesn't go to every party to get wasted anymore like he used to. It's the first time Santana sees the advantage.
"Puck, come pick me up. Yeah. At the party. How the hell should I know? Wait a second." She walks up to the front door, squints her eyes to read the label underneath the doorbell. "Jenkins. Thanks."
"Whaiwegohng?" Quinn slurs when Santana is back with her. They sit down on the pavement, waiting for Puck to pick them up.
"You are coming to my place," Santana says, resting her head in her hands in an attempt to stop all the fucking throbbing. "I know your parents don't give a shit about you anymore, but trust me, they will when they see the state that you're in."
Quinn shrugs and smirks lopsidedly. "Noh my fauwt."
"Bull," Santana hisses. "Maybe they've been treating you like crap, but they didn't put you in the car and drive you here, they didn't pour that first drink for you and they sure as hell didn't make you drink all those... whatever it is you've had."
Quinn has already fallen asleep, her head hanging in front of her. Santana puts her arm around Quinn's shoulder and pulls her close. The intoxicated blonde's head falls on Santana's shoulder. She snores ligtly. Santana takes a strand of blonde hair between her fingers and absent-mindedly starts playing with it. She represses the thought of how perfect this would be if they would both be at another place and sober. She kisses Quinn's hair and then she makes herself stop. She knows that if she doesn't stop now, she never will.
That is when a car honk invades her brain and nearly makes it explode. She curses, pulling Quinn up. Quinn is still sound asleep. Santana motions to Puck to open the back door. He jumps out of his seat and does so as the Latina scoops her friend up and carries her to the car effortlessly. She lies her down and can't help it, she has to, she has no choice but to cup her jaw, stroke her thumb over the soft flesh of her red cheek. Her fingertips wander over her sweaty brow, tentatively touching her pale skin. The pale skin seems to burn through her fingertips in the knowledge of how wrong her desires are. Almost as if it knows everything and is reprimanding Santana. Quinn stinks of sweat, alcohol and whatever it is the people in there smoke that night, but it doesn't stop Santana's need, her intense need to do things to the blonde she'll never forget.
"Come on, Lopez," Puck mumbles, scratching his mohawk. "Rachel will kill me if she finds the bed empty and frankly, I'm tired as hell."
Santana doesn't answer. She climbs in the passenger seat next to Puck, slumps down, her fingers drumming on the arm rest. The burning feeling won't go away Puck casts another look at her, worry etched on his face. She pretends not to notice.
"You'll have to tell her some day, you know," he says as he starts the car and turns the wheel. He doesn't look at her. He doesn't explain. They both know what he means, but Santana refuses to acknowledge that. Knowing what he means makes it real.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Santana mumbles. "And I didn't call you to get a fucking lecture, I called you for a ride."
Puck says nothing. He knows Santana well enough to know that now is not the time to get into an argument with her, that now is not the time to try and make her face the goddamn truth for once. He's not exactly a saint either, but he doesn't think he could live a lie the way she does.
He drops them off at Santana's house. It doesn't surprise him that nobody's there. He offers to help her bring Quinn inside, but she snarls that she doesn't need him anymore and Quinn sure as hell doesn't need him anymore. He decides not to break his head over Santana's behaviour anymore and return to his girlfriend, hoping she hasn't woken up in his absence.
Santana opens the doors and carries Quinn inside. Quinn has always been a heavy sleeper and notices nothing. Santana doesn't know if she's grateful for that fact because Quinn would ask too many questions, or if she regrets it because this side of her is one that Quinn hardly ever gets to see, the side of her that cares so much for her friend that it tears her apart. The lengths she would go to to protect this blonde - it's ridiculous. Santana kicks the door closed behind her and curses herself mentally. She's just pathetic, pining over a girl she'll never get. Observing this behaviour in anyone else would disgust her and it disgusts her that she's being like this, but she can't help it.
Once upstairs, Santana carefully places Quinn on her bed. She hesitates a second, then quickly undresses Quinn until she's in her underwear. She pulls a shirt over the blonde's head, struggling with the limp body. She tries to avoid touching her as much as she can. She averts her eyes. She doesn't want to look at her because she doesn't know what her eyes, her hands, her lips are going to do if she lets her gaze linger too long.
She changes into her nightwear and lies down beside Quinn. She grits her teeth, curls her toes, bores her nails into the palms of her hands, breathes heavily through her nose. She cannot touch Quinn, even though she is so close. Too close. She slowly releases the fingers of her right hand and brings it to Quinn's side. The blonde is facing away from her. She stretches her hand until it's flat and lets it hover mere inches above Quinn's skin. From her cheek to her shoulder to her side, over her breasts and her stomach and her legs. Mere inches. One sound to give her a fright and she would be touching her. She does everything she can to keep in mind the imaginary glass barrier between Quinn's body and the palm of her hand. Her biceps ache from the self control she forces herself to maintain. Her hand is shaking.
She mentally cries out in frustration. She is so. Royally. Fucked. Maybe if she could just... just for once... she's only human. Granted, she's Santana fucking Lopez but she's only fucking human, so her fingers fumble with the hem of Quinn's shirt, pushing it up just a little bit. For years, she has been able to refrain herself from doing the things she kept picturing at night. For years, she's never let anything on. A sigh escapes her full lips when the palm of her hand meets Quinn's stomach. She barely touches her, but it's the most intimate touch she's ever shared with her friend. She slowly moves her fingers, carefully. Maybe if she could just inch her hand up a little and... she quickly retracts her hand when Quinn mumbles something and moves a little.
She blushes furiously in the dark and realises she was fucking groping Quinn Fabray in her sleep. How is that any better than the hollering pervs at that party? That's when she knows that the next day, she has to. It's been sizzling in her brain since April and now that Summer is there, she simply has to try. It's her only shot. It's her only shot of ever kissing those pink lips, devouring them. Her only shot of ever killing the 'What if' and the 'How soft' or the 'How good'.
The next day, she has to start her scheme. She can't anymore. She simply can't. With that promise to herself, she rolls on her back and tries to sleep. She lies awake all night, listening to Quinn's even breathing, wondering if her life will be the same 24 hours from now.
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