FIC: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo) (4/?)
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.
AN: Inspired very much by Maroon 5’s ‘One More Night’. Thanks for jskurious for the prompt. This is a shorter fic that should be finished up sometime this week.
Chapters 1 & 2 | Chapter 3
Part Four. I Stopped Using My Head
Quinn isn't an actual dreamer. She has had moments of fantasy just like anyone else, when she's given in to her own weakness and allowed herself to forget all her scheming and calculating and just wish, but those moments have been few and far between. And quite honestly, those few and far between moments almost never turn out the way she thinks a dream should.
Very brief moments of introspection have caused her to admit (only if she absolutely has to), that sometimes that's because of her own actions. Quinn has never been the big believer of karma that some of her friends are, but she knows that at least some of her own misfortune could be considered a consequence for her own bad deeds.
And honestly, the same could very well be said for Santana. They weren't exactly saints in high school.
Rachel, their upcoming New York host, would be the first to witness to the amount of cruelty that both she and Santana are capable of when they truly try to be heinous.
She still doesn't know what it was about Rachel Berry back then that was so threatening. Rachel Berry was loud and annoying in all the obvious ways, but so were many awkward high school kids. And still Rachel stood out; such an the easy target - so easy to hate. Thinking back on it, maybe it was the fact that the Argyle-wearing-brunette was always so damn sure of herself. Rachel had purpose, even then, and was so proud of it, so open and unashamed, right at a time when Quinn (and Santana, it turns out) was so unsure, so lost, so terrified of her true identity hiding so delicately behind her hard perfect mask.
It was just too easy to see that confidence and resent it; attempt to break it.
Turns out, it's just as easy to admire it.
There does however, remain a tiny bit of herself that will always be perplexed that the first person she thinks to call and confide in is Rachel Berry.
It's not that she and Rachel are close... exactly. But there's an intimacy with Rachel that's happened almost despite herself. Sometimes it frightens Quinn, so she tries to ignore it.
Right now, she's so busy ignoring so much else she doesn't have the strength to do that with Rachel.
"So she's just... staying with you." Rachel's voice is hesitant, obviously trying to make sense of the situation.
Quinn can't exactly blame her. It's December 29th, and Santana has been with her nearly 4 days.
Enough of Santana's old habits have remained that they come back to Quinn easily. It means Quinn has time for this conversation. When Santana showers, if she's in the mood, she lingers.
Santana likes to takes her time.
Quinn finds herself shifting on the bed uncomfortably at the mental image that all too eagerly jumps into her head at the thought.
That's been happening much too often.
She casts a look on the door and feels her cheek flush hot against the phone plastered against it. "Basically," she admits. "My roommate's still out for her break so... Santana's just been sleeping in her bed."
It may require some effort to explain to Tabitha, her amiable but distant science-driven roommate who claims not to 'get' Quinn's major, why her sheets now seem permanently scented with a gorgeous brunette's Kate Spade perfume, but Quinn has decided to climb that mountain when it appears before her.
At least they smell nice.
"Okay," Rachel answers, still thinking this through. She sighs, all earnest dictation and thinly veiled confusion, "How does that quite... work?"
She gnaws on her bottom lip and considers the question. "Honestly Rachel?" Quinn hesitates, but can't help being truthful. "It's been kind of nice."
"Nice?" Rachel is audibly skeptical, because 'nice' and Santana don't usually belong in the same sentence.
Still...
Quinn glances toward the other bed, and notes the rumpled, sheets tossed haphazardly. It's something Santana has never quite lost, despite how 'mature' she seems to have become: her utter messiness. Brittany used to be lovingly amused by it. Quinn? Not so much. It's only been four days, but Santana's presence has already started to spill into nearly every part Quinn's dorm room. Just this morning, she found herself pulling out one of Santana's discarded bras from behind her desk, a barely there piece of expensive lace that Quinn has now had the pleasure of seeing ON Santana very recently in a very intimate way.
Not that it’s the first time Quinn has seen Santana undressed, but it never seemed to undo her the way it seems to do now.
The tension that exists between them has more than a little sexual connotation and it's maddening. Quinn has always been aware of Santana's body. The other woman may lack Brittany's curves, but she more than makes up for it in toned muscle, ample (man-made, but still, even before the surgery Santana wasn't exactly lacking) cleavage, and an ass that's so magnetic Quinn has even caught Nina staring.
Because Santana is damn gorgeous, and apparently not even a straight German is immune because her friend appears to leak pheromones.
It's worse now. That awareness has taken hold of her in a way that it feels like an actual drug. Santana licks her lips and Quinn suddenly vividly remembers the way they tasted, hungrily suckling on her own. Santana leans in too close and Quinn is haunted by the way she smells, remembers breathing it in as she so wantonly pressed back against the hard plastic of her door. Santana types on her phone with her fingers and Quinn is struck with the memory of sucking those digits into her mouth, dragging her tongue against short fingernails, hearing Santana's breath quiver in response.
It won't go away and it's maddening and it makes Quinn think that her heterosexuality has been seriously undermined.
They don't talk about it. An unspoken understanding exists now, that even if eyes linger too long, even if glances cause accidental goose bumps, what happened between them should not be discussed. Not now. Maybe not ever.
But Quinn knows it happened, and she knows Santana does too.
In the time since, Santana has not once mentioned going to a bar for a drink.
Still, something has happened in the wake of that quiet, quasi-magical Christmas day. Quinn isn't really sure what it is or what it means, but the calm that befell them on that couch, when they were buried under a sleeping German co-ed and had no one but each other on, has never quite lifted.
It's a bubble that has lingered and not yet burst. Santana smiles now, quiet silly smiles that she shares with Quinn. They talk about anything but Brittany or Santana's lost scholarship and Quinn has quite purposely avoided any talk of David.
It's just the two of them now, in their little empty dorm at Yale, and it's not like it was, it never will be again, but it's been a long time since it's been just Quinn and Santana.
"It's hard to explain," she allows, because despite the many, many thoughts running through her brain, Quinn is still private and astute enough to understand that Rachel may not quite get it.
"I see." But God bless Rachel for trying. "Quinn," she hears, a brief moment later. "Please don't take this the wrong way. I think what you're doing for Santana is ... really amazing. She clearly needs a friend right now and it's only fitting that it's you."
Teeth dig into her lower lip, because it's obvious that Rachel is building up to something. "But?" she asks, nails digging into her palm in anticipation.
"But Quinn, what are you doing?" Rachel's tone is incredulous. Firm. "What is she doing? Has she even talked about what she's going to do?" Quinn swallows hard, eyes floating back to what she is now beginning to think of Santana's side of the bed. Santana's cell phone remains there, sparkly cover catching what little there is of the bleary New Haven light that shines in from her tiny window. "She can't stay in your dorm forever."
"I know that," she snaps, because obviously she does. She's not stupid."
"Does she have any sort of plan? What happens when your roommate comes back?"
The irritation is hard to quell, but Quinn tries. Rachel is just trying to help, in that Rachel Berry way of hers, and she's asking very valid questions that are exactly the questions that have been lurking in the back of Quinn's mind this entire time.
"We'll figure it out after New Years," she decides. She can hear Rachel's indrawn breath, readying for another argument. "Rachel, believe me the last time I tried to talk to her about it, it didn't go so well."
Much of what happened on Christmas Eve may have been attributed to the copious amounts of alcohol involved, and the fact that whatever Santana was feeling was raw and unfiltered. But Quinn isn't ready to take the chance that it won't happen again.
Not when she has the sneaking dreaded suspicion that if Santana suggests going to that bar again, she would say yes.
"This isn't a problem you guys can actually ignore. I get her not wanting to go to Lima, but..."
"But what?" she finds herself snapping. "Rachel what am I supposed to tell her? Her life sucks right now."
"It doesn't -"
"Yeah it does. It sucks." Rachel shuts up, and Quinn fights the heated flush of emotion that courses through her at just of the thought of the situation that Santana is now faced with. "I don't have the answers. I don't know how to fix it. It's..." she loses her strength, and her sentence dies off as a result. "You just don't get it, Rachel," she begins again. And why should she? Rachel was exactly where she was meant to be: at NYADA, a rising star. "You've always known who you are. You've never been lost."
It's a surprise when in response, Rachel issues a dry, sad laugh. "Quinn, of course I have. God, the amount of times that I've second guessed myself since I've come to New York-" she cuts herself off before Quinn can truly hear what she means. Instead, Quinn hears a sigh, a moment of introspection, before Rachel speaks up. "But I remember very distinctly Santana's words when I choked at my NYADA audition. 'It sucks, and I'm sorry. But these things happen.'It's part of growing up, and it's something we all have to do."
Quinn fights the bitter smirk that floats onto her lips as she closes her eyes. She thinks of Brittany; the way she's clinging so desperately to her youth and carefree immaturity. "Yeah, I guess."
"Santana is an amazing, strong, talented young woman. She'll figure it out, Quinn."
Everything Rachel is saying is the absolute truth. Quinn finds herself able to breathe, exhaling as her eyes open and she stares at her cluttered, Santana-infested room. "Right. Well, until she does, I'm not going to abandon her. We've done that to each other too many times. And now I'm all she has."
"You're not all she has," Rachel feels the need to point out. "She has other friends."
"Not like me," she says stubbornly, and she's not even sure what possesses her to say it.
It catches Rachel off guard. "No," she acquiesces with a soft sigh. "I guess not." There's a moment, a tiny beat, where Quinn isn't quite sure what Rachel is thinking, until the other woman sucks in a diaphragm full of air and rushes into her next thought. "New Years Eve is just two days away. Come up early if you want, it's not as if Kurt and I don't have the room. And we're excited to see you! Maybe once we're all together, we can all help Santana figure it out."
And she means it. Quinn knows she does. Rachel is sincere and happy and despite all that Quinn and Santana have put her through, completely ready and anxious to open her home and her heart to her two old Glee Club friends.
Quinn is overcome. "Rachel?"
"Yes, Quinn?"
"Thank you," she says, and means it absolutely. "You're an amazing friend."
Even now, Rachel seems unsure what to do with such blatant affection. Quinn can practically HEAR her blush and it makes her smile. "Well so are you," she finally responds warmly.
The door opens with purpose and without hesitation, because Santana may as well live here now.
Despite the fact that she knows she was coming back from the shower, for some reason Quinn is absolutely flabbergasted that Santana isn't wearing any clothes.
The shock that breezes through her causes her mouth to flop open like she’s some character in an old cartoon. She very quickly takes in the sight of the other woman draped in a towel and nothing else. Santana’s dark brown hair is so damp it's nearly black, and drops of water drip down the sodden strands, past her shoulders, before dangling from her pronounced clavicles to disappear between the valley of Santana's breasts that are only covered by a flimsy towel that looks ready to fly open from the strain of holding in her ‘rambunctious twins’.
Holy cr-
"Give my love to Santana, okay? I'm so excited to see you guys." Rachel, she realizes dizzily. Rachel is on the phone. Quinn blinks, sucks in her breath and thanks her Christian God vehemently for Rachel Berry as she tears her eyes away from her pornographic friend.
"Kay, bye Rach," she mutters, and disconnects the call. She feels like an idiot, but Santana doesn’t seem to notice. She just hisses that annoyed cluck of hers as she squeezes her sopping hair over her shoulder, letting the water drip on Quinn’s carpet. It’s irritating.
“You couldn’t do that in the bathroom?”
“Ha. And give those horny perverts a free show? That’s the last time freaking time I go freebird in your damn showers,” she snaps, glaring at Quinn like she’s responsible for the state of the Yale dorm showers. “Why the hell didn’t you warn me this place is Co-ed?”
Oh. Quinn’s flushed cheeks crease with an amused smile. It’s true that she, Santana and Nina have had this floor more or less to themselves for the past few days, but it’s almost impossible to notice some of the other dorms, even with their closed doors, tend to emanate a rank ‘boy’ type of smell. Eventually, they would be back. And apparently Santana has given some of them a free show.
Serves her right.
“I thought it was obvious. And you never asked.”
Santana shudders, tugging at her towel and flashing Quinn a lot of toned upper thigh while she does it. “Disgusting. You know, when I came out, I thought I was finally able to give up seeing any sort of dick that isn’t made out of silicone.”
And that’s… that’s just too much information. Way too much information.
Because now there are visuals, and remembering every single time Santana’s thrust her hips a little too enthusiastically in Glee Club-
A sharp tingle races through Quinn so powerfully she’s momentarily stunned by it. Santana has yet to actually put on her clothes. Her focus is instead on combing fingers through her wet hair, dripping on Quinn’s carpet, and almost flashing her every few seconds.
Quinn decides it’s time for a change in topic. "Rachel gives her love,” she says with forced flippancy, reaching for her book.
"How sad is it that I'm actually really excited to see her?" Santana’s got an embarrassed flush on her cheeks that Quinn used to think was just amiably charming and now fills her with so much conflicted affection her heart may actually burst.
“It’s been years,” is her dry response. “We gave up Prom Queen for her. I think we’re allowed to say she’s become a good friend.”
“Um, wrong. YOU gave up Prom Queen for her. I just kept my trap shut about it. And if that ever comes up ever, I’ll deny it.” The warning glare that Santana gives her would be a lot more effective if the girl wasn’t nearly naked and shaking a frilly lace thong at her.
Quinn smiles reluctantly. “Fine, we’ll take that secret to the grave.”
Santana nods, but she’s distracted, looking all over the room, a lost expression on her face as she stares quizzically at her thong and then back to the bed.
With a muted sigh, Quinn reaches for the lost article of clothing she has recovered. “Are you looking for this?” she asks, holding up Santana’s missing bra.
The other woman blinks, registers the article and immediately leans forward, snatching it from Quinn’s fingertips.
“Where the hell was it?”
She’s got a smile on her face, crooked and charming, with just enough sweetness to make Quinn catch her eyes and grin back.
Santana's phone buzzes and chimes with a familiar ringtone, insistent and demanding not to be ignored.
Quinn’s eyes tear away from Santana as she watches the phone ring, hears the familiar tune of a song she had gotten to know very well when Santana and Brittany were dating.
Songbird.
Even after their breakup, Santana has not had the heart to change Brittany's ringtone.
And she’s there again. The third of the Unholy Trinity, making her presence known so easily. She fills this room, makes it hers; claims it with the same amount of ease that she’s claimed Santana’s heart.
Perhaps it’s a moment of weakness; of jealousy, but Quinn suddenly hates Brittany for it.
It’s such a strong emotion, so powerful it makes her breathless. But those shackles have been slipping from Santana’s wrists, and with a ringtone, they’ve snapped back into place. Just like that.
Just so easy.
Love.
Quinn can’t look at Santana. She doesn’t know what to do. There is an unspoken agreement to not talk about this, but Brittany is calling and Santana is just standing there, looking at her phone with this expression on her face that is so haunted and conflicted.
Brittany is her best friend. Brittany is her soul mate. Brittany broke her heart.
She should encourage Santana to answer it. Brittany’s call means the girl wants to talk to Santana, and Quinn knows that Brittany loves her. Santana sure as hell still loves Brittany. They could work it out. Somehow.
Quinn stays mute, and then suddenly the song isn’t playing anymore.
Santana’s let the call go to voicemail.
Quinn just sits, absorbed in the silence that follows.
“Heard from the horny professor lately?” Santana’s turned away from her. She’s lost the towel, along with her modesty.
Santana’s back is all hard lines and smooth skin. Toned muscle ripples underneath it as Santana moves. She’s in the middle of clasping the snaps of the bra closed, flicking the strap into place on her shoulder. Her thong is just a slip of white against tan skin and legs that look longer than they should be.
Her question sounds flippant and unconcerned. It sounds like just a question.
But there’s no such thing as just a question with Santana. Though Santana sometimes loses control of herself and lashes out with violence, most of the time she battles with words, and this question, right now at this exact moment, means something.
Quinn doesn’t know what it means or what Santana wants it to mean.
All she knows is that Santana’s naked in her room, and Quinn is so very aware of it, but that longing that's begun to ache inside of her is physically painful thanks to the haunting ghost of Brittany, who lingers in the form of an ignored telephone call.
She’s mine, Brittany’s ghost seems to whisper in her ear. She’ll always be mine. She'll always choose me. What are you doing, Quinn? Why do you always want to be second best?
“No,” she finally answers. “I haven’t. Don’t really care to, either.”
It’s an answer. Just an answer.
But wet tendrils flips off of shoulders and dark eyes blaze heatedly in her direction.
Quinn ignores the look, opens her book and does her very best to stare at the page, focus on the words and hopes like hell that some of it will actually sink in.
*********
She's two chapters away from finishing her book. The climax has been building for quite some time, and when it happens, it explodes all over the pages. To Quinn, it came too early. The set up feels unsatisfying. There’s so much in the world that’s left to explore, and it feels like the author shot her load too soon, a premature ejaculation that feels unsatisfying.
Her eyes drift up, across the room to where Santana settles against her roommate’s bed, playing Bejeweled Blitz on her phone with a lazy carelessness and sense of comfort that suddenly bothers Quinn terribly.
It’s one more day, one more night, and this stupid bubble that’s been waiting to burst.
“Have you thought about what you’re going to do?"
Santana's fingers still. “What do you mean?” she asks, with such vulnerability and dread Quinn almost feels guilty over it. She's breaking their unspoken rules, and she hasn't wanted to.
There was something to this perfect little bubble of theirs, a heady peace that soothed Quinn in a way she doesn't quite want to understand yet.
She’s so good at ignoring the obvious; demanding that it change to suit her.
She did it all through high school.
She can’t do it anymore. Rachel's words ring in her ears and Brittany's ghost lingers and because of them, Quinn demands action.
The real world has entered this room despite everything and maybe it's time it did.
The book lowers into her lap, and she lifts her head to regard Santana with a quietly neutral expression. “I mean, what are you going to do?" Santana doesn't answer. Her friend just stares at her uncomprehendingly, like Quinn is suddenly speaking some sort of made up language; a deer stuck in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Quinn doesn't have the patience for that. Not right now. "Santana," she sighs. "You can’t hide in my dorm room forever.”
“You don’t think I know that?”
Here comes the anger. Santana practically spits her reply. Quinn swallows hard and keeps her tone even. “Do your parents even know what happened?”
Santana's eyes return to her phone. Her game has long since been forfeited, but Santana plucks at the screen anyway, watching the little diamonds and circles and squares shift and tick into place.
Quinn can't stand it. "Santana. It’s not the end of the world. You still have your mom’s nest egg. Maybe-"
“Maybe I should just go.” She pushes off the rumpled bedspread and grabs hold of her scattered jeans, tossing them on the bed without a second though. To them she adds a single Playboy minted sock, and begins to search for the other one. Santana’s cell phone falls off the bed and lands with a thump on the carpeted floor.
Quinn finds her focus on that damn phone, and it breaks her from her quiet spectating. With an exasperated sigh she tosses her book and shuffles off her bed, crossing the room quickly and plucking up Santana’s phone, depositing it on her desk. “Santana-“
The woman shrugs her off.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m coming up with a plan,” is the short reply.
“Storming out in a completely idiotic huff is a plan?”
"No!" Santana's luggage back is now open, and she's tossing in pants, shirts... another bra. "But it's obvious I've overstayed my welcome. And you know what?” she snaps, eyes stormy and dark with hurt. “Who the hell are you to tell me what to do, Quinn!? Because from where I've standing, your life isn't such hot shit now either. Unless you're hiding that stupid lesbian sorority in a closet somewhere, or wherever the hell Jodie Foster's clambake was supposed to be."
She's defensive and hurt and avoiding the point. Santana's acting exactly in character - backed into a corner, she's looking for an escape route. She's looking to run.
She’s lashing out and waiting for Quinn to lash back.
Quinn's so fucking TIRED OF THAT. "Stop it," she growls in irritation, snatching a pair of shoes that Santana's just thrown into her luggage and flinging them off the bed. "Why do you always have to be such a bitch?!"
"It takes one to know one doesn't it, Q Ball?"
It does. Of course it does. This is what they do, snap and poke at each other like vipers because no one in the world will ever understand Santana better than Quinn, and vice versa.
It's terrifying to know that.
But she understands it. She does.
She understands her. God, she wishes she didn't.
"Santana." Quinn's eyes are pinned on the frightened and angry woman beside her. When she reaches out, it's because of instinct. Her fingers close against Santana's wrists. The brunette jerks like she's been burnt. Quinn only holds on tighter. "You know I don’t want you to go.”
It takes only a moment of pregnant silence before Santana whirls, testing Quinn's sincerity with flashing watery eyes and a brilliant, cracked sneer. “And why do you care so much, Quinn?"
Santana is so captivatingly beautiful in the most haunted, terrifying way.
It’s a testament to her diminished capacities that Quinn actually forgets that Tabitha is due to be back today until her roommate actually walks in the door, bringing with her such a cold chill that it freezes Quinn into place.
Tabitha holds a duffel bag and is chewing on a stick of gum, standing uncertainly as she stares at the two of them standing so closely together and the state of her usually immaculate dorm room. “Quinn?” she asks, looking for sense in this.
Quinn finds she has none to offer.
*********
All things considered, Tabitha takes it pretty well. Quinn thinks her willingness to accept the situation has more to do with her travel induced exhaustion than anything else. She crashes early, and in the wake of what just happened with Santana, Quinn follows suit.
Displaced, she has no choice but to offer to share her bed with Santana. There's a third person now in this room, and it feels like they're characters in a play, exchanging civilities and polite conversation until the light turns off and they're left in silence.
Quinn keeps her eyes closed. She can feel the heat of Santana beside her. It's a twin bed, and there is no room and Quinn is suddenly exhausted.
She's too exhausted to think, too exhausted to do much of anything but sigh into her pillow and press back further against the wall. She's offering space as a gesture of good will, and after a moment, Santana takes it, shifting forward until long bare legs brush against Quinn's and fingers swipe delicately against Quinn's forearm.
She feels heavier than she's felt in a long time, and despite the haunting awareness of the body beside her, sleep comes to Quinn without effort.
*********
For an unknown reason, Quinn's eyes open.
It's dark. She's momentarily lost as to why she's woken so readily, but it's then that she sees her. Quinn doesn't move, but she watches Santana, who has just been caught watching her.
Santana is on her side, face half buried in her pillow. As Quinn’s eyes adjust to the darkness, she notices dark eyes that shine at her, naked and open and vulnerable in such a way it doesn’t seem real at first.
Maybe Quinn is dreaming. But the way Santana hitches in her breath, exhales it… the way Quinn feels it flutter across her face only inches away, it doesn’t feel like a dream.
Quinn’s heart thuds erratically. It makes her breathless. Santana just looks at her.
They’re just staring at each other, and for once, Quinn is at a complete loss.
Bare legs slide across sheets, over her thigh. She’s been hooked, Santana’s calf smoothing against her own.
A pregnant moment, and then Santana reaches the tiny distance between them and carefully takes hold of her own fingers. They thread easily, intimately.
In the quiet of the darkest part of the night, Santana looks at her, touches her… feels her.
She says nothing, but the affection that shines for Quinn in those eyes causes a tremor that leaves Quinn frazzled and spellbound.
She knows it’s going to happen, she watches with open eyes as Santana hesitates only a moment before she shifts to close the distance between them, and then they are pressed together. Quinn watches until the last possible moment, when lips settle tenderly against her own.
Quinn’s eyes close, and then there is nothing but feeling. The taste of Santana as she exhales against her lips and presses deeper, mouth moving insistently against her own. The primal feel of possession when Santana slides an open, seeking hand against her skin, spreading against her waist to curl into the small of her back. The barely there pump of Santana’s hips that causes the most amazing sensation within her, causing her body to arch and ripping a longing moan out of her throat.
She loses control, fans fingers against Santana’s cheek and digs them into Santana’s hair. She licks against swollen lips and forgets everything but the way Santana whimpers.
There is nothing more intimate than the way Santana slides her tongue inside of her mouth, the way Santana rolls her body, breasts mashing against hers, legs tangling with the insistent need to get closer.
It’s too hot, too heavy. Quinn gasps with the need to breathe and Santana rips her mouth away to trail scorching, burning kisses across her jaw, her cheek, until she’s buried in her neck, licking up the column of Quinn’s throat.
A cough, foreign and so intrusive it feels like a literal stab against her, opens her eyes.
Tabitha shifts in her bed.
Quinn’s is panting. Santana is settled heavily against her. The other woman still has her nose against her neck; Quinn can feel the heavy breath, the way Santana’s heart thuds against her chest.
But they aren’t alone.
Santana’s head lifts. She stares at her, like Quinn should know what to do.
Quinn doesn’t know what they should do.
She does know what they shouldn’t. It doesn’t stop her from offering the insecure girl a trembling smile and a kiss against the corner of Santana’s mouth, before she pushes gently at the body on top of her, until Santana lifts just enough to allow Quinn to turn in her arms and back in against her.
Her heartbeat still thuds with the excitement of her aggression; her body screams for release.
Instead, Santana settles in around her, enveloping her with strong arms. Quinn closes her eyes, feels the press of a mouth against her bare shoulder.
It’s barely reassurance, but it feels like enough for now.
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.
AN: Inspired very much by Maroon 5’s ‘One More Night’. Thanks for jskurious for the prompt. This is a shorter fic that should be finished up sometime this week.
Chapters 1 & 2 | Chapter 3
Part Four. I Stopped Using My Head
Quinn isn't an actual dreamer. She has had moments of fantasy just like anyone else, when she's given in to her own weakness and allowed herself to forget all her scheming and calculating and just wish, but those moments have been few and far between. And quite honestly, those few and far between moments almost never turn out the way she thinks a dream should.
Very brief moments of introspection have caused her to admit (only if she absolutely has to), that sometimes that's because of her own actions. Quinn has never been the big believer of karma that some of her friends are, but she knows that at least some of her own misfortune could be considered a consequence for her own bad deeds.
And honestly, the same could very well be said for Santana. They weren't exactly saints in high school.
Rachel, their upcoming New York host, would be the first to witness to the amount of cruelty that both she and Santana are capable of when they truly try to be heinous.
She still doesn't know what it was about Rachel Berry back then that was so threatening. Rachel Berry was loud and annoying in all the obvious ways, but so were many awkward high school kids. And still Rachel stood out; such an the easy target - so easy to hate. Thinking back on it, maybe it was the fact that the Argyle-wearing-brunette was always so damn sure of herself. Rachel had purpose, even then, and was so proud of it, so open and unashamed, right at a time when Quinn (and Santana, it turns out) was so unsure, so lost, so terrified of her true identity hiding so delicately behind her hard perfect mask.
It was just too easy to see that confidence and resent it; attempt to break it.
Turns out, it's just as easy to admire it.
There does however, remain a tiny bit of herself that will always be perplexed that the first person she thinks to call and confide in is Rachel Berry.
It's not that she and Rachel are close... exactly. But there's an intimacy with Rachel that's happened almost despite herself. Sometimes it frightens Quinn, so she tries to ignore it.
Right now, she's so busy ignoring so much else she doesn't have the strength to do that with Rachel.
"So she's just... staying with you." Rachel's voice is hesitant, obviously trying to make sense of the situation.
Quinn can't exactly blame her. It's December 29th, and Santana has been with her nearly 4 days.
Enough of Santana's old habits have remained that they come back to Quinn easily. It means Quinn has time for this conversation. When Santana showers, if she's in the mood, she lingers.
Santana likes to takes her time.
Quinn finds herself shifting on the bed uncomfortably at the mental image that all too eagerly jumps into her head at the thought.
That's been happening much too often.
She casts a look on the door and feels her cheek flush hot against the phone plastered against it. "Basically," she admits. "My roommate's still out for her break so... Santana's just been sleeping in her bed."
It may require some effort to explain to Tabitha, her amiable but distant science-driven roommate who claims not to 'get' Quinn's major, why her sheets now seem permanently scented with a gorgeous brunette's Kate Spade perfume, but Quinn has decided to climb that mountain when it appears before her.
At least they smell nice.
"Okay," Rachel answers, still thinking this through. She sighs, all earnest dictation and thinly veiled confusion, "How does that quite... work?"
She gnaws on her bottom lip and considers the question. "Honestly Rachel?" Quinn hesitates, but can't help being truthful. "It's been kind of nice."
"Nice?" Rachel is audibly skeptical, because 'nice' and Santana don't usually belong in the same sentence.
Still...
Quinn glances toward the other bed, and notes the rumpled, sheets tossed haphazardly. It's something Santana has never quite lost, despite how 'mature' she seems to have become: her utter messiness. Brittany used to be lovingly amused by it. Quinn? Not so much. It's only been four days, but Santana's presence has already started to spill into nearly every part Quinn's dorm room. Just this morning, she found herself pulling out one of Santana's discarded bras from behind her desk, a barely there piece of expensive lace that Quinn has now had the pleasure of seeing ON Santana very recently in a very intimate way.
Not that it’s the first time Quinn has seen Santana undressed, but it never seemed to undo her the way it seems to do now.
The tension that exists between them has more than a little sexual connotation and it's maddening. Quinn has always been aware of Santana's body. The other woman may lack Brittany's curves, but she more than makes up for it in toned muscle, ample (man-made, but still, even before the surgery Santana wasn't exactly lacking) cleavage, and an ass that's so magnetic Quinn has even caught Nina staring.
Because Santana is damn gorgeous, and apparently not even a straight German is immune because her friend appears to leak pheromones.
It's worse now. That awareness has taken hold of her in a way that it feels like an actual drug. Santana licks her lips and Quinn suddenly vividly remembers the way they tasted, hungrily suckling on her own. Santana leans in too close and Quinn is haunted by the way she smells, remembers breathing it in as she so wantonly pressed back against the hard plastic of her door. Santana types on her phone with her fingers and Quinn is struck with the memory of sucking those digits into her mouth, dragging her tongue against short fingernails, hearing Santana's breath quiver in response.
It won't go away and it's maddening and it makes Quinn think that her heterosexuality has been seriously undermined.
They don't talk about it. An unspoken understanding exists now, that even if eyes linger too long, even if glances cause accidental goose bumps, what happened between them should not be discussed. Not now. Maybe not ever.
But Quinn knows it happened, and she knows Santana does too.
In the time since, Santana has not once mentioned going to a bar for a drink.
Still, something has happened in the wake of that quiet, quasi-magical Christmas day. Quinn isn't really sure what it is or what it means, but the calm that befell them on that couch, when they were buried under a sleeping German co-ed and had no one but each other on, has never quite lifted.
It's a bubble that has lingered and not yet burst. Santana smiles now, quiet silly smiles that she shares with Quinn. They talk about anything but Brittany or Santana's lost scholarship and Quinn has quite purposely avoided any talk of David.
It's just the two of them now, in their little empty dorm at Yale, and it's not like it was, it never will be again, but it's been a long time since it's been just Quinn and Santana.
"It's hard to explain," she allows, because despite the many, many thoughts running through her brain, Quinn is still private and astute enough to understand that Rachel may not quite get it.
"I see." But God bless Rachel for trying. "Quinn," she hears, a brief moment later. "Please don't take this the wrong way. I think what you're doing for Santana is ... really amazing. She clearly needs a friend right now and it's only fitting that it's you."
Teeth dig into her lower lip, because it's obvious that Rachel is building up to something. "But?" she asks, nails digging into her palm in anticipation.
"But Quinn, what are you doing?" Rachel's tone is incredulous. Firm. "What is she doing? Has she even talked about what she's going to do?" Quinn swallows hard, eyes floating back to what she is now beginning to think of Santana's side of the bed. Santana's cell phone remains there, sparkly cover catching what little there is of the bleary New Haven light that shines in from her tiny window. "She can't stay in your dorm forever."
"I know that," she snaps, because obviously she does. She's not stupid."
"Does she have any sort of plan? What happens when your roommate comes back?"
The irritation is hard to quell, but Quinn tries. Rachel is just trying to help, in that Rachel Berry way of hers, and she's asking very valid questions that are exactly the questions that have been lurking in the back of Quinn's mind this entire time.
"We'll figure it out after New Years," she decides. She can hear Rachel's indrawn breath, readying for another argument. "Rachel, believe me the last time I tried to talk to her about it, it didn't go so well."
Much of what happened on Christmas Eve may have been attributed to the copious amounts of alcohol involved, and the fact that whatever Santana was feeling was raw and unfiltered. But Quinn isn't ready to take the chance that it won't happen again.
Not when she has the sneaking dreaded suspicion that if Santana suggests going to that bar again, she would say yes.
"This isn't a problem you guys can actually ignore. I get her not wanting to go to Lima, but..."
"But what?" she finds herself snapping. "Rachel what am I supposed to tell her? Her life sucks right now."
"It doesn't -"
"Yeah it does. It sucks." Rachel shuts up, and Quinn fights the heated flush of emotion that courses through her at just of the thought of the situation that Santana is now faced with. "I don't have the answers. I don't know how to fix it. It's..." she loses her strength, and her sentence dies off as a result. "You just don't get it, Rachel," she begins again. And why should she? Rachel was exactly where she was meant to be: at NYADA, a rising star. "You've always known who you are. You've never been lost."
It's a surprise when in response, Rachel issues a dry, sad laugh. "Quinn, of course I have. God, the amount of times that I've second guessed myself since I've come to New York-" she cuts herself off before Quinn can truly hear what she means. Instead, Quinn hears a sigh, a moment of introspection, before Rachel speaks up. "But I remember very distinctly Santana's words when I choked at my NYADA audition. 'It sucks, and I'm sorry. But these things happen.'It's part of growing up, and it's something we all have to do."
Quinn fights the bitter smirk that floats onto her lips as she closes her eyes. She thinks of Brittany; the way she's clinging so desperately to her youth and carefree immaturity. "Yeah, I guess."
"Santana is an amazing, strong, talented young woman. She'll figure it out, Quinn."
Everything Rachel is saying is the absolute truth. Quinn finds herself able to breathe, exhaling as her eyes open and she stares at her cluttered, Santana-infested room. "Right. Well, until she does, I'm not going to abandon her. We've done that to each other too many times. And now I'm all she has."
"You're not all she has," Rachel feels the need to point out. "She has other friends."
"Not like me," she says stubbornly, and she's not even sure what possesses her to say it.
It catches Rachel off guard. "No," she acquiesces with a soft sigh. "I guess not." There's a moment, a tiny beat, where Quinn isn't quite sure what Rachel is thinking, until the other woman sucks in a diaphragm full of air and rushes into her next thought. "New Years Eve is just two days away. Come up early if you want, it's not as if Kurt and I don't have the room. And we're excited to see you! Maybe once we're all together, we can all help Santana figure it out."
And she means it. Quinn knows she does. Rachel is sincere and happy and despite all that Quinn and Santana have put her through, completely ready and anxious to open her home and her heart to her two old Glee Club friends.
Quinn is overcome. "Rachel?"
"Yes, Quinn?"
"Thank you," she says, and means it absolutely. "You're an amazing friend."
Even now, Rachel seems unsure what to do with such blatant affection. Quinn can practically HEAR her blush and it makes her smile. "Well so are you," she finally responds warmly.
The door opens with purpose and without hesitation, because Santana may as well live here now.
Despite the fact that she knows she was coming back from the shower, for some reason Quinn is absolutely flabbergasted that Santana isn't wearing any clothes.
The shock that breezes through her causes her mouth to flop open like she’s some character in an old cartoon. She very quickly takes in the sight of the other woman draped in a towel and nothing else. Santana’s dark brown hair is so damp it's nearly black, and drops of water drip down the sodden strands, past her shoulders, before dangling from her pronounced clavicles to disappear between the valley of Santana's breasts that are only covered by a flimsy towel that looks ready to fly open from the strain of holding in her ‘rambunctious twins’.
Holy cr-
"Give my love to Santana, okay? I'm so excited to see you guys." Rachel, she realizes dizzily. Rachel is on the phone. Quinn blinks, sucks in her breath and thanks her Christian God vehemently for Rachel Berry as she tears her eyes away from her pornographic friend.
"Kay, bye Rach," she mutters, and disconnects the call. She feels like an idiot, but Santana doesn’t seem to notice. She just hisses that annoyed cluck of hers as she squeezes her sopping hair over her shoulder, letting the water drip on Quinn’s carpet. It’s irritating.
“You couldn’t do that in the bathroom?”
“Ha. And give those horny perverts a free show? That’s the last time freaking time I go freebird in your damn showers,” she snaps, glaring at Quinn like she’s responsible for the state of the Yale dorm showers. “Why the hell didn’t you warn me this place is Co-ed?”
Oh. Quinn’s flushed cheeks crease with an amused smile. It’s true that she, Santana and Nina have had this floor more or less to themselves for the past few days, but it’s almost impossible to notice some of the other dorms, even with their closed doors, tend to emanate a rank ‘boy’ type of smell. Eventually, they would be back. And apparently Santana has given some of them a free show.
Serves her right.
“I thought it was obvious. And you never asked.”
Santana shudders, tugging at her towel and flashing Quinn a lot of toned upper thigh while she does it. “Disgusting. You know, when I came out, I thought I was finally able to give up seeing any sort of dick that isn’t made out of silicone.”
And that’s… that’s just too much information. Way too much information.
Because now there are visuals, and remembering every single time Santana’s thrust her hips a little too enthusiastically in Glee Club-
A sharp tingle races through Quinn so powerfully she’s momentarily stunned by it. Santana has yet to actually put on her clothes. Her focus is instead on combing fingers through her wet hair, dripping on Quinn’s carpet, and almost flashing her every few seconds.
Quinn decides it’s time for a change in topic. "Rachel gives her love,” she says with forced flippancy, reaching for her book.
"How sad is it that I'm actually really excited to see her?" Santana’s got an embarrassed flush on her cheeks that Quinn used to think was just amiably charming and now fills her with so much conflicted affection her heart may actually burst.
“It’s been years,” is her dry response. “We gave up Prom Queen for her. I think we’re allowed to say she’s become a good friend.”
“Um, wrong. YOU gave up Prom Queen for her. I just kept my trap shut about it. And if that ever comes up ever, I’ll deny it.” The warning glare that Santana gives her would be a lot more effective if the girl wasn’t nearly naked and shaking a frilly lace thong at her.
Quinn smiles reluctantly. “Fine, we’ll take that secret to the grave.”
Santana nods, but she’s distracted, looking all over the room, a lost expression on her face as she stares quizzically at her thong and then back to the bed.
With a muted sigh, Quinn reaches for the lost article of clothing she has recovered. “Are you looking for this?” she asks, holding up Santana’s missing bra.
The other woman blinks, registers the article and immediately leans forward, snatching it from Quinn’s fingertips.
“Where the hell was it?”
She’s got a smile on her face, crooked and charming, with just enough sweetness to make Quinn catch her eyes and grin back.
Santana's phone buzzes and chimes with a familiar ringtone, insistent and demanding not to be ignored.
Quinn’s eyes tear away from Santana as she watches the phone ring, hears the familiar tune of a song she had gotten to know very well when Santana and Brittany were dating.
Songbird.
Even after their breakup, Santana has not had the heart to change Brittany's ringtone.
And she’s there again. The third of the Unholy Trinity, making her presence known so easily. She fills this room, makes it hers; claims it with the same amount of ease that she’s claimed Santana’s heart.
Perhaps it’s a moment of weakness; of jealousy, but Quinn suddenly hates Brittany for it.
It’s such a strong emotion, so powerful it makes her breathless. But those shackles have been slipping from Santana’s wrists, and with a ringtone, they’ve snapped back into place. Just like that.
Just so easy.
Love.
Quinn can’t look at Santana. She doesn’t know what to do. There is an unspoken agreement to not talk about this, but Brittany is calling and Santana is just standing there, looking at her phone with this expression on her face that is so haunted and conflicted.
Brittany is her best friend. Brittany is her soul mate. Brittany broke her heart.
She should encourage Santana to answer it. Brittany’s call means the girl wants to talk to Santana, and Quinn knows that Brittany loves her. Santana sure as hell still loves Brittany. They could work it out. Somehow.
Quinn stays mute, and then suddenly the song isn’t playing anymore.
Santana’s let the call go to voicemail.
Quinn just sits, absorbed in the silence that follows.
“Heard from the horny professor lately?” Santana’s turned away from her. She’s lost the towel, along with her modesty.
Santana’s back is all hard lines and smooth skin. Toned muscle ripples underneath it as Santana moves. She’s in the middle of clasping the snaps of the bra closed, flicking the strap into place on her shoulder. Her thong is just a slip of white against tan skin and legs that look longer than they should be.
Her question sounds flippant and unconcerned. It sounds like just a question.
But there’s no such thing as just a question with Santana. Though Santana sometimes loses control of herself and lashes out with violence, most of the time she battles with words, and this question, right now at this exact moment, means something.
Quinn doesn’t know what it means or what Santana wants it to mean.
All she knows is that Santana’s naked in her room, and Quinn is so very aware of it, but that longing that's begun to ache inside of her is physically painful thanks to the haunting ghost of Brittany, who lingers in the form of an ignored telephone call.
She’s mine, Brittany’s ghost seems to whisper in her ear. She’ll always be mine. She'll always choose me. What are you doing, Quinn? Why do you always want to be second best?
“No,” she finally answers. “I haven’t. Don’t really care to, either.”
It’s an answer. Just an answer.
But wet tendrils flips off of shoulders and dark eyes blaze heatedly in her direction.
Quinn ignores the look, opens her book and does her very best to stare at the page, focus on the words and hopes like hell that some of it will actually sink in.
*********
She's two chapters away from finishing her book. The climax has been building for quite some time, and when it happens, it explodes all over the pages. To Quinn, it came too early. The set up feels unsatisfying. There’s so much in the world that’s left to explore, and it feels like the author shot her load too soon, a premature ejaculation that feels unsatisfying.
Her eyes drift up, across the room to where Santana settles against her roommate’s bed, playing Bejeweled Blitz on her phone with a lazy carelessness and sense of comfort that suddenly bothers Quinn terribly.
It’s one more day, one more night, and this stupid bubble that’s been waiting to burst.
“Have you thought about what you’re going to do?"
Santana's fingers still. “What do you mean?” she asks, with such vulnerability and dread Quinn almost feels guilty over it. She's breaking their unspoken rules, and she hasn't wanted to.
There was something to this perfect little bubble of theirs, a heady peace that soothed Quinn in a way she doesn't quite want to understand yet.
She’s so good at ignoring the obvious; demanding that it change to suit her.
She did it all through high school.
She can’t do it anymore. Rachel's words ring in her ears and Brittany's ghost lingers and because of them, Quinn demands action.
The real world has entered this room despite everything and maybe it's time it did.
The book lowers into her lap, and she lifts her head to regard Santana with a quietly neutral expression. “I mean, what are you going to do?" Santana doesn't answer. Her friend just stares at her uncomprehendingly, like Quinn is suddenly speaking some sort of made up language; a deer stuck in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Quinn doesn't have the patience for that. Not right now. "Santana," she sighs. "You can’t hide in my dorm room forever.”
“You don’t think I know that?”
Here comes the anger. Santana practically spits her reply. Quinn swallows hard and keeps her tone even. “Do your parents even know what happened?”
Santana's eyes return to her phone. Her game has long since been forfeited, but Santana plucks at the screen anyway, watching the little diamonds and circles and squares shift and tick into place.
Quinn can't stand it. "Santana. It’s not the end of the world. You still have your mom’s nest egg. Maybe-"
“Maybe I should just go.” She pushes off the rumpled bedspread and grabs hold of her scattered jeans, tossing them on the bed without a second though. To them she adds a single Playboy minted sock, and begins to search for the other one. Santana’s cell phone falls off the bed and lands with a thump on the carpeted floor.
Quinn finds her focus on that damn phone, and it breaks her from her quiet spectating. With an exasperated sigh she tosses her book and shuffles off her bed, crossing the room quickly and plucking up Santana’s phone, depositing it on her desk. “Santana-“
The woman shrugs her off.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m coming up with a plan,” is the short reply.
“Storming out in a completely idiotic huff is a plan?”
"No!" Santana's luggage back is now open, and she's tossing in pants, shirts... another bra. "But it's obvious I've overstayed my welcome. And you know what?” she snaps, eyes stormy and dark with hurt. “Who the hell are you to tell me what to do, Quinn!? Because from where I've standing, your life isn't such hot shit now either. Unless you're hiding that stupid lesbian sorority in a closet somewhere, or wherever the hell Jodie Foster's clambake was supposed to be."
She's defensive and hurt and avoiding the point. Santana's acting exactly in character - backed into a corner, she's looking for an escape route. She's looking to run.
She’s lashing out and waiting for Quinn to lash back.
Quinn's so fucking TIRED OF THAT. "Stop it," she growls in irritation, snatching a pair of shoes that Santana's just thrown into her luggage and flinging them off the bed. "Why do you always have to be such a bitch?!"
"It takes one to know one doesn't it, Q Ball?"
It does. Of course it does. This is what they do, snap and poke at each other like vipers because no one in the world will ever understand Santana better than Quinn, and vice versa.
It's terrifying to know that.
But she understands it. She does.
She understands her. God, she wishes she didn't.
"Santana." Quinn's eyes are pinned on the frightened and angry woman beside her. When she reaches out, it's because of instinct. Her fingers close against Santana's wrists. The brunette jerks like she's been burnt. Quinn only holds on tighter. "You know I don’t want you to go.”
It takes only a moment of pregnant silence before Santana whirls, testing Quinn's sincerity with flashing watery eyes and a brilliant, cracked sneer. “And why do you care so much, Quinn?"
Santana is so captivatingly beautiful in the most haunted, terrifying way.
It’s a testament to her diminished capacities that Quinn actually forgets that Tabitha is due to be back today until her roommate actually walks in the door, bringing with her such a cold chill that it freezes Quinn into place.
Tabitha holds a duffel bag and is chewing on a stick of gum, standing uncertainly as she stares at the two of them standing so closely together and the state of her usually immaculate dorm room. “Quinn?” she asks, looking for sense in this.
Quinn finds she has none to offer.
*********
All things considered, Tabitha takes it pretty well. Quinn thinks her willingness to accept the situation has more to do with her travel induced exhaustion than anything else. She crashes early, and in the wake of what just happened with Santana, Quinn follows suit.
Displaced, she has no choice but to offer to share her bed with Santana. There's a third person now in this room, and it feels like they're characters in a play, exchanging civilities and polite conversation until the light turns off and they're left in silence.
Quinn keeps her eyes closed. She can feel the heat of Santana beside her. It's a twin bed, and there is no room and Quinn is suddenly exhausted.
She's too exhausted to think, too exhausted to do much of anything but sigh into her pillow and press back further against the wall. She's offering space as a gesture of good will, and after a moment, Santana takes it, shifting forward until long bare legs brush against Quinn's and fingers swipe delicately against Quinn's forearm.
She feels heavier than she's felt in a long time, and despite the haunting awareness of the body beside her, sleep comes to Quinn without effort.
*********
For an unknown reason, Quinn's eyes open.
It's dark. She's momentarily lost as to why she's woken so readily, but it's then that she sees her. Quinn doesn't move, but she watches Santana, who has just been caught watching her.
Santana is on her side, face half buried in her pillow. As Quinn’s eyes adjust to the darkness, she notices dark eyes that shine at her, naked and open and vulnerable in such a way it doesn’t seem real at first.
Maybe Quinn is dreaming. But the way Santana hitches in her breath, exhales it… the way Quinn feels it flutter across her face only inches away, it doesn’t feel like a dream.
Quinn’s heart thuds erratically. It makes her breathless. Santana just looks at her.
They’re just staring at each other, and for once, Quinn is at a complete loss.
Bare legs slide across sheets, over her thigh. She’s been hooked, Santana’s calf smoothing against her own.
A pregnant moment, and then Santana reaches the tiny distance between them and carefully takes hold of her own fingers. They thread easily, intimately.
In the quiet of the darkest part of the night, Santana looks at her, touches her… feels her.
She says nothing, but the affection that shines for Quinn in those eyes causes a tremor that leaves Quinn frazzled and spellbound.
She knows it’s going to happen, she watches with open eyes as Santana hesitates only a moment before she shifts to close the distance between them, and then they are pressed together. Quinn watches until the last possible moment, when lips settle tenderly against her own.
Quinn’s eyes close, and then there is nothing but feeling. The taste of Santana as she exhales against her lips and presses deeper, mouth moving insistently against her own. The primal feel of possession when Santana slides an open, seeking hand against her skin, spreading against her waist to curl into the small of her back. The barely there pump of Santana’s hips that causes the most amazing sensation within her, causing her body to arch and ripping a longing moan out of her throat.
She loses control, fans fingers against Santana’s cheek and digs them into Santana’s hair. She licks against swollen lips and forgets everything but the way Santana whimpers.
There is nothing more intimate than the way Santana slides her tongue inside of her mouth, the way Santana rolls her body, breasts mashing against hers, legs tangling with the insistent need to get closer.
It’s too hot, too heavy. Quinn gasps with the need to breathe and Santana rips her mouth away to trail scorching, burning kisses across her jaw, her cheek, until she’s buried in her neck, licking up the column of Quinn’s throat.
A cough, foreign and so intrusive it feels like a literal stab against her, opens her eyes.
Tabitha shifts in her bed.
Quinn’s is panting. Santana is settled heavily against her. The other woman still has her nose against her neck; Quinn can feel the heavy breath, the way Santana’s heart thuds against her chest.
But they aren’t alone.
Santana’s head lifts. She stares at her, like Quinn should know what to do.
Quinn doesn’t know what they should do.
She does know what they shouldn’t. It doesn’t stop her from offering the insecure girl a trembling smile and a kiss against the corner of Santana’s mouth, before she pushes gently at the body on top of her, until Santana lifts just enough to allow Quinn to turn in her arms and back in against her.
Her heartbeat still thuds with the excitement of her aggression; her body screams for release.
Instead, Santana settles in around her, enveloping her with strong arms. Quinn closes her eyes, feels the press of a mouth against her bare shoulder.
It’s barely reassurance, but it feels like enough for now.