my dirty little secret - part one
Title: My Dirty Little Secret
Author: kalexico
Pairing, Character(s): Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1840
Summary: "I remember falling in love with Santana Lopez..."
________
A/N: This is my first foray into Quinntana. I've "met" the ship through fanfic and love it more every day. Let me know if you want more of this or if this should remain a one shot. Reviews are appreciated, as is constructive criticism.
English is not my native language, so I apologise for spelling mistakes, grammatical errors and cultural things I didn't get right. I "research" through the internet as much as possible, but something will always slip through.
If you have cool Quinntana ideas, let me know!
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. The show would be not so primetime-friendly, if you catch my drift.
Read & review! I send cookies.
________
I remember falling in love with Santana Lopez.
Santana and I were friends long before either of us knew that life isn't as simple as it seems. People always expected us together; they knew that when they got Santana, they inevitably had to take Quinn as well.
When we were 13, we were both into poetry - well, that's what we called it. In hindsight, it was nothing more than cheesiness. We then decided that our souls had to be twins, that we had to be connected emotionally somehow, that what we had transcended friendship. Well, to be completely honest, I told her that it felt like that for me and she agreed. But then Santana never has been one to talk her feelings through.
I know her like nobody does, I get to see the side of her that even Brittany isn't aware of. I love her regardless - in fact, it only contributed to my love for her. I read once that Plato said that before we're born, we exist of two parts: a male part and a female part. We get torn at birth and subsequently spend our entire lives searching for our other half and when we have, we feel whole. Santana and I feel like that. Of course the whole male/female thing doesn't work out for us, but it's the thought behind it.
I'm digressing. It happens to me all the time when I'm talking about Santana, or thinking about her, which must be nearly every second of the day.
So, as I've just established, we've always been best friends. Now I know that when I tell her that I love her, I don't mean it in the way that she thinks I do. I remember falling in love with her.
It was on a Tuesday afternoon in English class. Ms Stephens was talking to us about some poet she greatly admired and had a hard time containing herself. Ms Stephens pretty much admires every published poet. I suspect she wants to be on herself. Anyway, the class was boring. I wasn't sitting next to Santana because our teacher wouldn't let us. She was boring, but not stupid. As I said, our friendship is legendary and she'd heard from her colleagues not to place us next to each other because we would most likely keep busy with anything but the lesson.
Santana was sitting in the row to my left, diagonally before me. She let her hair flow to the front from her left side, granting me a full view of her profile. She was wearing a tight white V-neck that stood in contrast with her skin and a pair of jeans that hugged her hips just as tightly. Sue had thrown her off the Cheerios temporarily because she had been caught eating a cheeseburger. Secretly, I enjoyed this. Of course I felt bad for Santana - I know what being part of the cheerleading squad means to her - but I like seeing her in her casual clothes. She looks that much hotter, and we're speaking Santana Lopez here.
As if she felt my stare, she turned her head slightly and smirked. My heart stopped a beat. If I could, I would have grabbed a camera and eternalised that moment. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, one of them pointing upwards. Her smoldering dark eyes beholding a mix of brutality, a no-nonsense attitude, boredom and understanding that we were both on the same page. Her flawless skin, so smooth that it was physically hard for me not to reach out to her and touch it. Her sharp-but-not-too sharp nose. Her lips - oh God, her lips. They were heaven on Earth, and I knew it because I had once pretended to drown just after her parents had forced her to take a First Aid course. Just to have her do mouth-on-mouth. Her lips have been a source of fascination for me since forever and I just wanted to feel them on mine once. Now, one corner of her mouth was also pointing upwards, revealing her white teeth slightly. My eyes traveled the length of her neck, her collarbones, the swell of her breasts, her stomach (and the hint of abs I knew were there), her hips, her legs. She winked at me, rolled her eyes at Ms Stephen's rant and turned to the piece of paper in front of her again. I rested my head on my desk, trying my best to suppress a groan.
I looked up again and saw her scribbling something. I raised an eyebrow - Santana never took notes. She always had a way of getting the perfect notes when she needed to study. I watched her pen and a small smile graced my lips.
I had bought that pen for her five years ago. Nobody knows this, but Santana likes to write. She has developed her very own style over the years, it's not poetry but not entirely prose either. It's something in between, but immediately recognisable as hers. Nobody knows she writes, so of course nobody gets to read it. She's so scared of losing her status as HBIC. Sometimes I wish that people would get to see the real Santana, the Santana that I know.
Anyway, I bought that pen for her in New York when I was 12. My mom has relatives there, pretty influential people and my dad had thought it high time to visit them. It was in the summer from 6th to 7th grade. I didn't want to go, I wanted to stay home and hang out with Santana. But my parents were still trying to uphold the image of a perfect family, so it was manditory I tagged along. The sad thing was that it had always been a dream of Santana's to see New York and now I was going without her. I'd asked my parents if she could join us, but they don't like her very much. They don't like her non-apologetic attitude, her refusal to play by the rules. I love that about her.
So there I was, in New York. My parents were getting as much out of the trip as they could and were constantly networking and socialising. I was left with a sitter who would drag me along to museums, because she was an art major. It was boring as hell. I decided to take a souvenir for Santana with me. We were rarely apart for such long periods of time and I missed her terribly. I had managed to convince my sitter to take a break from the museums and visit the bookshops around the city. To be completely honest - I threatened that I'd tell my parents that she dumped me in trashy diners or cafés and spent her time with boyfriends if she didn't take me.
We came across this place where you could design your own pen and they'd make it for you. I was of course a very cute child and the owner was immediately taken with me. She ensured that I'd get my pen as soon as possible. I designed a red, white and black pen with Santana's name on it in a badass handwriting and some ink splats. Around it was also a small band that was a film strip with in it a picture of her and me in black and white - tiny, of course, but there. I also made sure it said 'New York'. Santana was so happy when I gave that pen to her. She barely shows any emotion, but then she jumped on me and I fell back on the bed. She enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug, peppering my face with kisses. To this day I swear I saw a tear trickling down her cheek. And she still uses it. She told me that even if it would break, she'd always keep it.
I was distracted by a flash that only lasted a second. It was the sunlight touching Santana's necklace, a small heart attached to it. Inside was a tiny picture of me. I automatically felt for my own, of course with a tiny picture of her inside it. It had taken me a lot of hard work to convince her to do something as sappy as wear necklaces with each other's picture in it. In the end, it had been the famous Fabray pout combined with the just as famous Fabray puppy eyes that had done the trick.
A sigh escaped my lips as I noticed her shoes. We'd bought those the first time we were allowed to go to the mall together by ourselves. They still fit her and didn't even look that old because she rarely wore them. That's just because she has so many pairs of shoes. As un-girlish as she can be in her mannerisms and concerning emotions, she is very much a woman when it comes to shoes. I think she could provide for the entire population of Ohio.
I was awoken from my thoughts by the soft thud of a folded piece of paper on my desk. I didn't have to look up to know who it came from. I slipped it to my lap and opened it. I looked up and noticed that Ms Stephens was writing something on the blackboard. I read the note.
Having a 'Bitch, be glad I walked in'-moment. She needs to get laid. Maybe we could ask Mr Schue, or Berry to do the job. They could both use it.
x Tana
My heart jumped up in delight. I was the only one allowed to give her a nickname and she rarely referred to herself using it. I recalled the moment that the first line of http://kalexico.livejournal.com/972.html the note referred to. Two years ago, she had walked into Mr Walters' class, noticed that he was replaced by a substitute and turned on her heels. When the substitute had called out to her, telling her that she didn't think she could just walk out of there like that, "Bitch, be glad I walked in" had been Santana's still famous response. We used this to refer to moments that they really wished they hadn't entered a classroom, or another place. I took my pen and wrote:
The mental images are beyond disturbing. Let's skip government later. I could give a fuck about it and Mr Jamison isn't even hot.
x Q
I waited until Ms Stephens turned her back again, stretched to tap Santana on the shoulder and handed her the note. She discreetly read it, looked at me and nodded.
The thought of spending time with her alone did a lot of things to my body. I felt like my insides had dropped, I felt happy, excited, like I was floating. When class ended, she gave me her sexy smirk and the ground vanished from beneath my feet. It was then that I knew.
I, Lucy Quinn Fabray, am and will always be completely and irrevocably in love with Santana Rosa Maria Lopez.
>> next
Author: kalexico
Pairing, Character(s): Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1840
Summary: "I remember falling in love with Santana Lopez..."
________
A/N: This is my first foray into Quinntana. I've "met" the ship through fanfic and love it more every day. Let me know if you want more of this or if this should remain a one shot. Reviews are appreciated, as is constructive criticism.
English is not my native language, so I apologise for spelling mistakes, grammatical errors and cultural things I didn't get right. I "research" through the internet as much as possible, but something will always slip through.
If you have cool Quinntana ideas, let me know!
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. The show would be not so primetime-friendly, if you catch my drift.
Read & review! I send cookies.
________
I remember falling in love with Santana Lopez.
Santana and I were friends long before either of us knew that life isn't as simple as it seems. People always expected us together; they knew that when they got Santana, they inevitably had to take Quinn as well.
When we were 13, we were both into poetry - well, that's what we called it. In hindsight, it was nothing more than cheesiness. We then decided that our souls had to be twins, that we had to be connected emotionally somehow, that what we had transcended friendship. Well, to be completely honest, I told her that it felt like that for me and she agreed. But then Santana never has been one to talk her feelings through.
I know her like nobody does, I get to see the side of her that even Brittany isn't aware of. I love her regardless - in fact, it only contributed to my love for her. I read once that Plato said that before we're born, we exist of two parts: a male part and a female part. We get torn at birth and subsequently spend our entire lives searching for our other half and when we have, we feel whole. Santana and I feel like that. Of course the whole male/female thing doesn't work out for us, but it's the thought behind it.
I'm digressing. It happens to me all the time when I'm talking about Santana, or thinking about her, which must be nearly every second of the day.
So, as I've just established, we've always been best friends. Now I know that when I tell her that I love her, I don't mean it in the way that she thinks I do. I remember falling in love with her.
It was on a Tuesday afternoon in English class. Ms Stephens was talking to us about some poet she greatly admired and had a hard time containing herself. Ms Stephens pretty much admires every published poet. I suspect she wants to be on herself. Anyway, the class was boring. I wasn't sitting next to Santana because our teacher wouldn't let us. She was boring, but not stupid. As I said, our friendship is legendary and she'd heard from her colleagues not to place us next to each other because we would most likely keep busy with anything but the lesson.
Santana was sitting in the row to my left, diagonally before me. She let her hair flow to the front from her left side, granting me a full view of her profile. She was wearing a tight white V-neck that stood in contrast with her skin and a pair of jeans that hugged her hips just as tightly. Sue had thrown her off the Cheerios temporarily because she had been caught eating a cheeseburger. Secretly, I enjoyed this. Of course I felt bad for Santana - I know what being part of the cheerleading squad means to her - but I like seeing her in her casual clothes. She looks that much hotter, and we're speaking Santana Lopez here.
As if she felt my stare, she turned her head slightly and smirked. My heart stopped a beat. If I could, I would have grabbed a camera and eternalised that moment. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, one of them pointing upwards. Her smoldering dark eyes beholding a mix of brutality, a no-nonsense attitude, boredom and understanding that we were both on the same page. Her flawless skin, so smooth that it was physically hard for me not to reach out to her and touch it. Her sharp-but-not-too sharp nose. Her lips - oh God, her lips. They were heaven on Earth, and I knew it because I had once pretended to drown just after her parents had forced her to take a First Aid course. Just to have her do mouth-on-mouth. Her lips have been a source of fascination for me since forever and I just wanted to feel them on mine once. Now, one corner of her mouth was also pointing upwards, revealing her white teeth slightly. My eyes traveled the length of her neck, her collarbones, the swell of her breasts, her stomach (and the hint of abs I knew were there), her hips, her legs. She winked at me, rolled her eyes at Ms Stephen's rant and turned to the piece of paper in front of her again. I rested my head on my desk, trying my best to suppress a groan.
I looked up again and saw her scribbling something. I raised an eyebrow - Santana never took notes. She always had a way of getting the perfect notes when she needed to study. I watched her pen and a small smile graced my lips.
I had bought that pen for her five years ago. Nobody knows this, but Santana likes to write. She has developed her very own style over the years, it's not poetry but not entirely prose either. It's something in between, but immediately recognisable as hers. Nobody knows she writes, so of course nobody gets to read it. She's so scared of losing her status as HBIC. Sometimes I wish that people would get to see the real Santana, the Santana that I know.
Anyway, I bought that pen for her in New York when I was 12. My mom has relatives there, pretty influential people and my dad had thought it high time to visit them. It was in the summer from 6th to 7th grade. I didn't want to go, I wanted to stay home and hang out with Santana. But my parents were still trying to uphold the image of a perfect family, so it was manditory I tagged along. The sad thing was that it had always been a dream of Santana's to see New York and now I was going without her. I'd asked my parents if she could join us, but they don't like her very much. They don't like her non-apologetic attitude, her refusal to play by the rules. I love that about her.
So there I was, in New York. My parents were getting as much out of the trip as they could and were constantly networking and socialising. I was left with a sitter who would drag me along to museums, because she was an art major. It was boring as hell. I decided to take a souvenir for Santana with me. We were rarely apart for such long periods of time and I missed her terribly. I had managed to convince my sitter to take a break from the museums and visit the bookshops around the city. To be completely honest - I threatened that I'd tell my parents that she dumped me in trashy diners or cafés and spent her time with boyfriends if she didn't take me.
We came across this place where you could design your own pen and they'd make it for you. I was of course a very cute child and the owner was immediately taken with me. She ensured that I'd get my pen as soon as possible. I designed a red, white and black pen with Santana's name on it in a badass handwriting and some ink splats. Around it was also a small band that was a film strip with in it a picture of her and me in black and white - tiny, of course, but there. I also made sure it said 'New York'. Santana was so happy when I gave that pen to her. She barely shows any emotion, but then she jumped on me and I fell back on the bed. She enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug, peppering my face with kisses. To this day I swear I saw a tear trickling down her cheek. And she still uses it. She told me that even if it would break, she'd always keep it.
I was distracted by a flash that only lasted a second. It was the sunlight touching Santana's necklace, a small heart attached to it. Inside was a tiny picture of me. I automatically felt for my own, of course with a tiny picture of her inside it. It had taken me a lot of hard work to convince her to do something as sappy as wear necklaces with each other's picture in it. In the end, it had been the famous Fabray pout combined with the just as famous Fabray puppy eyes that had done the trick.
A sigh escaped my lips as I noticed her shoes. We'd bought those the first time we were allowed to go to the mall together by ourselves. They still fit her and didn't even look that old because she rarely wore them. That's just because she has so many pairs of shoes. As un-girlish as she can be in her mannerisms and concerning emotions, she is very much a woman when it comes to shoes. I think she could provide for the entire population of Ohio.
I was awoken from my thoughts by the soft thud of a folded piece of paper on my desk. I didn't have to look up to know who it came from. I slipped it to my lap and opened it. I looked up and noticed that Ms Stephens was writing something on the blackboard. I read the note.
Having a 'Bitch, be glad I walked in'-moment. She needs to get laid. Maybe we could ask Mr Schue, or Berry to do the job. They could both use it.
x Tana
My heart jumped up in delight. I was the only one allowed to give her a nickname and she rarely referred to herself using it. I recalled the moment that the first line of http://kalexico.livejournal.com/972.html the note referred to. Two years ago, she had walked into Mr Walters' class, noticed that he was replaced by a substitute and turned on her heels. When the substitute had called out to her, telling her that she didn't think she could just walk out of there like that, "Bitch, be glad I walked in" had been Santana's still famous response. We used this to refer to moments that they really wished they hadn't entered a classroom, or another place. I took my pen and wrote:
The mental images are beyond disturbing. Let's skip government later. I could give a fuck about it and Mr Jamison isn't even hot.
x Q
I waited until Ms Stephens turned her back again, stretched to tap Santana on the shoulder and handed her the note. She discreetly read it, looked at me and nodded.
The thought of spending time with her alone did a lot of things to my body. I felt like my insides had dropped, I felt happy, excited, like I was floating. When class ended, she gave me her sexy smirk and the ground vanished from beneath my feet. It was then that I knew.
I, Lucy Quinn Fabray, am and will always be completely and irrevocably in love with Santana Rosa Maria Lopez.
>> next