FIC: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo) (6/?)
Title: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo)
Author: Misty Flores
Genre: Glee
Pairing: Quinn/Santana (some Brittany/Santana implied)
Rating: M
Teaser: Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and with limbs so tangled Quinn can’t sleep, she’ll think back and wonder why it’ll never be marshmallows and fluff for them.
Spoilers: Glee S4 through ep 10
Prompt: from Jskuriou: Santana is being too passive and Quinn decides it's her mission to get an honest reaction out of her. No matter what it takes. Looking for the real Santana under the calm, mature veneer she's hiding behind. Could be set at Christmas or New Years.
Chapters 1 & 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
Part Six. And Now I'm Feeling Stupid
Quinn has guilty pleasures. She’s human; shamefully so. Her vices, the ones she’s managed to keep discrete and quiet, usually stay hidden deep inside of her. Her desires are almost always unspoken, voiced not even to her.
The smoke she has inhaled feels like it floats inside of her. In infects her brain, and brings with it a hunger. It’s not a hunger for food.
This hunger seems so ravenous she shakes with the need.
God, her mouth even waters.
Quinn’s fingers twitch. Her heart races.
Is this normal? Is it? To stand inches away from a door that’s open just a crack and feel so… alive? To look at that door and imagine… worship who is on the other side?
And yet, even dizzy, even infected with this, she still remembers a quote from Lewis Carroll.
In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.
She’s drugged… it’s because she’s drugged. This is because of the drug and because of the liquor. With it comes the freedom to chase this White Rabbit.
Freedom to lift a heavy hand, press against the door and watch it creak open.
Santana stands against the counter. She’s facing the sink, away from Quinn. Leaning slightly forward, her ass is presented prominently, and it’s as magnetic as those dark eyes that catch hers through the reflection of the large mirror over the sink.
God…
Santana’s hooded look burns like a phantom grip that clasps over her throat, rendering her breathless and gasping, tugging with an insistence that demands Quinn come closer. With a pounding heart, she obeys.
The door clicks shut behind her.
Voices that laughed so loudly before are now muted. All others fade away and now there is only her own breath; the way her pulse quickens; how her skin burns.
There is only the haunting, gorgeous form of Santana; that face in the mirror, that body that stands so very still. Santana’s only expression is a stalled smirk. Dark eyes do not stray from her, but there’s no movement.
Maybe, just like Quinn, she didn’t think they would make it this far.
There is no mistaking her intentions. Quinn’s motivations are naked and obvious in the way her breath exhales through her mouth, in the way her eyes rake over Santana’s body, linger on every curve, admiring the way that damn skirt stretches over Santana like it doesn’t exist at all.
This is dangerous. Never has Quinn wanted so openly. She’s high and a little drunk and it’s released her in a terrifying way. She has no control. That part of her that works so carefully to STOP this has fallen prey to Santana, and it wants just like the rest of her wants.
It wants possession. It wants that body. It wants Santana.
Frustrating, volatile, beautiful Santana. Her best friend. Her worst enemy. The girl she never wanted to trust and the gorgeous woman she knows she’ll never have.
The reflection makes it easier. It’s like she’s looking into a different world, a world where Quinn has the control. A world where there are no consequences. There is only lust, desire, and the twisted affection that exists now between them.
In the reflection, Santana stares at her, quiet and still. It’s not enough. Quinn wants words. She wants that acerbic tongue to bite at her and remind her of who they are. What they are meant to be.
This isn’t love. She can’t feel love.
It’s not love with Quinn.
Quinn knows that.
But it can be lust. It could lust and affection. It could be so much more than liquor and drugs.
It’s so clear now. The answer is in the reflection. There is no mistaking who is in this room now. It’s Santana and Quinn.
She steps forward, and hears the intake of breath that Santana takes: anticipation. Another movement and Santana is near enough to touch. The breath stops: excitement. Quinn watches, outside of herself and yet so very aware of every pinprick of emotion as her palm lifts, slow and reverent, to collect brunette curls and smooth them over Santana’s shoulder, exposing a slender, flawless neck with a pulsing beat.
She exhales, floating air against the exposed skin. Santana’s entire body shudders. Eyelids flutter.
Maybe Quinn isn’t the only one affected.
Fascinated, Quinn’s touch gains confidence. Fingers press gently, thenspread against that neck. She palms over the curve of it, until she’s just touching Santana’s collarbone.
The heat of her soaks into the skin. Her grip tightens.
Santana sucks in a sharp breath; holds it in her mouth and then releases it just as quickly. Quick short pants follow, rising and falling and straining against Santana’s tight shirt. Quinn watches: her own voyeur. The image they present is s magnetic and beautiful.
They are beautiful together.
“This is what you meant, isn’t it?” she asks, voice hushed with wonder, sparking with realization. Santana’s fingers journey behind her, until they are pressed flat against Quinn’s thigh, flexing over the fabric to dig into the muscle. Once again, that little vein in that perfect neck throbs. “So beautiful…”
The hunger rages. Quinn’s will is controlled by her own desire and it consumes her. She lowers her head and opens her mouth, burying a kiss into the crook of Santana’s neck. It’s a perfect curve; her lips feel surrounded by soft skin. A ragged moan rips from the body she holds, sinking back against her.
“God, Quinn.”
It’s her name on Santana’s lips. It’s her mouth that’s causing the whimpers; the little pleas, the rocking of Santana’s ass back against her pelvis.
It’s Quinn that owns Santana now. This moment is hers.
God, the way that moves her…
In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.
She pushes the thought away.
Quinn’s hands snap to Santana’s hips, holding her steady. Her mouth ravishes Santana’s neck, tongue licking as she sucks, coating the skin with her own saliva. She continues pressing burning, lewd kisses until she reaches Santana’s jaw. A strong hand leaves her thigh to reach up, dig in her nape and suddenly there is no escape. Not anymore.
Quinn doesn’t care.
She wants this. She wants demanding fingers that grab hold of her and force her lips against a willing and addictive mouth. She wants that feeling that happens when Santana’s ass grinds against her, making her hips jerk and her knees buckle.
She wants to be controlled. She wants to be kissed. She wants to be worshiped.
She wants Santana.
“Fuck this,” she hears, before her body is forced back and Santana is twisting against her. Bold arms wind around her neck and then again her mouth is plundered, Santana’s tongue demanding entrance, demanding everything. She kisses Quinn with urgency and a lust that sends emotion deep into Quinn’s abdomen. Lips slide and nibble, Quinn’s tongue tangles roughly with Santana’s, and teeth nearly rip at her mouth.
She inhales hard through her nose, shoves and pushes until Santana’s backed up onto the sink and those lean thighs open up to wrap smooth legs around her. Something falls and shatters. They don’t care.
Santana’s fingernails scratch, digging marks into her shoulder blades, and Quinn isn’t sure why she even feels the pain until she realizes that her dress is now half off, hanging off her shoulder, allowing Santana to claw at her neck and snap at her bra straps.
“Fuck, Quinn,” she hears, mottled words that lose their bite when the mouth saying them sucks hard against her tongue. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
She says it like she's angry and still the words sink into Quinn like poetry.
Ignited, Quinn’s palms slide between them. She is not easy or gentle. Her fingers spread against full breasts. Santana groans; her chest arches, pressing them up into her palms, offering herself.
God.
She’s never… it’s never…
Nipples pebble hard against her palm. She feels them drag, even over the shirt, over the skimpy lace bra. Her tongue swipes against Santana’s teeth, swallows down a moan and Santana’s nails scratch lines against her shoulder.
It’s permission enough.
She digs fingers underneath the fabric against Santana’s cleavage, yanks with rough force and then they are bare. Gorgeous breasts with hard dark nipples that spill over Santana’s top, presented to her eagerly. She feels Santana’s lips pant against her cheek, nibbling on her jaw and her chin.
This is real. It's happening. Those are bare breasts that feel so soft against her questing fingers. That is actually Santana's nipple that rolls between her fingertips. It's Santana's agonized huff that she hears against her ear when she pinches a little too hard.
Just another moment...
"Quinn..."
Quinn gives her no time to finish whatever she is going to say. Fingers thread into her hair the moment her tongue presses against a firm nub. She tastes salt on Santana's skin, feels the texture of soft skin and a nipple that rises into her mouth.
She moans. Santana yanks, pulling her off balance in such a way her hand flails to find purchase.
She knocks against something... pills maybe? It doesn't matter. It goes crashing to the floor.
She's wet. Quinn is desperately wet. It causes a desperate awareness that turns into an audible whine when Santana's legs pull her in closer still, grinding against her with purpose.
"Shit!" she gasps against Santana's skin because there is nothing else but that intense FEELING. Her hips thrust forward with enthusiasm, and even through the layers of clothes between them, Quinn can feel...
God, is that really what she's feeling?
Santana's head falls back harshly against the mirror, half naked and clutching at her. She's splayed so lewdly against the counter, hips pumping and back curved in a perfect arch.
The image is devastating in the most aching of ways. Santana is this way because of Quinn. Santana looks like this because Quinn’s hands are on her. This is her best friend as she’s never imagined, and it leaves her breathless, entranced, and filled with such desire she shakes from the power of it.
“I want you,” Quinn breathes, finally giving voice to this. “I want you, Santana.”
Brown eyes, deep and dark and hazed with lust, blink open. Santana's mouth, swollen and puffy, falls open. She pants harshly.
"What the hell are you guys doing in here!? Rioting?!" The voice is intrusive and so, so loud. Kurt, Quinn realizes dizzily. Kurt's voice that shouts just as the knob on the bathroom door twists and the door flies open. "I know slapfights are like, your thing, but there are flea market antiques in there, and if you two have damaged a single one-"
Like a deer stuck in headlines, Quinn cannot move. There’s no time. Before she can even process the intrusion, Kurt is here, in the bathroom, invading their space and their world.
Through the mirror, Quinn sees his horrified face, and though it’s now set askew by their rough foreplay, she also can see quite clearly the image they present.
Santana sits splayed on Kurt’s bathroom counter, legs open and wrapped around Quinn’s hips. Her breasts are bare and shining with moisture that is Quinn’s own saliva. Quinn’s blonde hair is a mangled mess. Herusually perfectly put together face now features swollen lips smeared with lipstick, and she wears a dress that hangs off her shoulder, bra strap dangling uselessly from her arm.
There is no mistaking what is happening in this bathroom.
And still, no one moves. Kurt seems himself frozen. He’s pale and stricken.
“Kurt! Are they alive! Are you?!”
Rachel.
“Oh Fuck,” Santana breathes, and it’s enough to spur Kurt into action, like a character who was on pause and now pushed into fast forward.
“It’s BUSY!” he shouts, and swivels for the door, throwing his weight against it the second it begins to move. “I mean, they’re busy! Do NOT come in! Because they are VERY VERY busy!” The look he shoots them is wild and manic, but Kurt does give them a moment of reprieve when he himself slips out and gives the scene one more haunting look. “I don’t know what you broke,” he spits, “But it's all antique and you’re paying for all of it!”
The door slams shut.
But it’s no use. Kurt has let in the world. He has let in her own doubt. Gone is the freedom. Gone is the giddy emotion, the LUST that drove her so forcefully just seconds ago.
What’s left behind is exactly what this is - a drunken hookup exacerbated by drugs. It’s just like New Haven.
But God, it’s worse. It’s worse. Why is it worse?
Santana's legs fall from around her waist. She covers her breasts, trying hard to fix herself.
"We didn't do anything wrong," Santana says, but her voice is tight and Quinn is not reassured. She’s not looking at her.
Shards of glass, remnants of Kurt's antiques, spill around them.
Quinn's legs are shaky. She's not sure she can move, so she just looks at the mess that she and Santana have created.
Lewis Caroll whispers to her, one more time, "In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again."
*********
“Do you need help with that?” Santana is off the counter. She’s watching as Quinn picks up the ironically literal pieces of their brief break from sanity.
Santana’s voice is low and soft, so unlike her usual tone.
It makes Quinn shudder, but the emotion she evokes is unrecognizable. Quinn doesn’t realize her hands are shaking until she accidentally drops a piece.
“Quinn-“
She jerks away from the hot hand that settles on her. “I can do it,” she snaps, a hard crispness in her voice that stops the warmth of Santana’s touch immediately. “Just let me. Leave me alone.”
There’s a moment when she thinks Santana is going to fight her. Quinn continues to go through motions, gathering little shards of porcelain as she waits. There’s a lump in her throat that’s actually painful, and all she wants now is for Santana to go away.
She wants it as badly as she wanted Santana pressed against her just minutes before.
For once, Santana gives her what she wants.
“Fine.” Santana exits the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
The force of it makes Quinn jump. She places a shard on the vanity. In the mirror, in her reflection, she rediscovers Lucy Fabray: small, ugly and terrified and disgusted with herself.
Kurt barges into the bathroom, retching with his hand over his mouth and hobbles over the toilet.
He seems not to notice her at all.
*********
The carefree, silly atmosphere that flooded the loft so easily before has faded. There's now an unspoken element; what everyone knows and no one wants to comment on.
Kurt, unused to the weed and the munchies it produces, ate himself sick, and he is now passed out on his bed. Rachel, always the friend no one wants and everyone needs, has lectured Kurt, cleaned up as best as she can, and retreated to her own ‘bedroom’ with Brody.
Before she does, she shoots a look with Quinn that for once, Quinn cannot read.
Quinn doesn’t care. She is in no mood to receive Rachel’s disappointment, anger, or whatever it is that Rachel wants to feel.
Santana has already bundled herself under the covers, curled into the left side of the bed. Quinn always sleeps on the right.
They have official sides of the bed. That’s how many times they have shared a mattress.
It’s stupid how sadly funny she seems to find it.
Quinn strips, changes and slides into the bed. Santana never moves.
The apartment stinks of weed. She drifts off to sleep ignoring the scent of Santana’s perfume that lingers on her skin.
*********
She awakens in the darkest part of the night chilled to the bone and alone. The left side of the mattress is empty.
Quinn is disoriented, sleepy enough to feel concern instead of hesitation. She searches the large space, and discovers that the window to the fire escape is open. Curtains billow from the New York breeze seeping inside, the cause of those bumps on her chilled skin.
Quinn rises off the bed.
She pulls on her coat, but it’s still a sobering moment when she steps out onto the ice cold fire escape and feels just how chilly it is. New York is unforgivable at night, and yet Santana seems unaffected. She’s shivering ever so slightly, but there is no reaction to Quinn’s presence except a curious look and a faded smile before she looks away.
In a way, it helps to see Santana this way. She’s in almost the exact same position that Quinn was in earlier, evoking some odd sort of deja view.
They can be who they were.
Quinn glances down at the blanket she carries with her. It feels like she's suddenly playing a part, and the result is dizzy sort of haze that carries her closer to Santana.
With a tender, apologetic touch, she spreads the blanket and carefully places it over Santana’s shoulders. The other woman stiffens against her touch, but only slightly. Quinn waits breathlessly until Santana reaches up behind her to grab hold of the edges of the fabric and wraps it more carefully around herself.
"Thanks," she says, and it sounds like she means it. Santana remains distracted, eyes peering over the blinking lights of the city.
A particularly cold wind blows past them and Quinn’s teeth begin to chatter. “You know it’s freezing, right?" she asks, stating the obvious as she moves to stand beside her. A blond hair sticks to her mouth. With a huff of irritation, she smoothes her fingers across her cheek and fishes it out of the way.
Santana watches the movement. A smile floats on her lips before it fades just as quickly.
"Brittany called," she says. In the distance, a car alarm goes off. "I didn’t want to wake you."
It’s oddly thoughtful of Santana. In high school Quinn used to be subject to quite a few Brittany and Santana midnight couplings, and Santana had never seemed to care about her beauty sleep back then.
Still, Quinn’s emotions are raw, and Brittany’s name carries a power that it never has before. Her heart clenches inside of her. "Oh," she manages, amazed when her voice sounds almost flat and unaffected. She mimic's Santana's position, hands twisting around the metal railing as that damn car alarm keeps going. "What’d she say?" she asks, because that's something a friend would ask. It’s what’s expected and because they are friends, she should feel nothing beyond the general concern that would be normal because Brittany and Santana broke each other’s hearts and this is a delicate situation.
She should have no personal investment in that conversation at all because Quinn should have no personal stake in this.
Santana’s hair whips about her, but even in shadow, her profile is striking. As Santana attempts to control the strands that fly into her face, she bares her neck and it’s then that Quinn notices some very dark bruises that mar the skin.
Hickeys, she realizes. Two of them. Courtesy of one Quinn Fabray.
Jesus Christ.
"Nothing." Santana chuckles harshly. Finally, damn car alarm stops blaring. The street below them seems almost too quiet without it. "She just… she was worried because she hadn’t heard from me." With Santana's fingers tangled against each other and that big blanket wrapped around her thin frame, she looks incredibly young. "You know we used to talk almost every day and she’s never once told me she’s dating Sam?" For the first time since Santana began to speak of Brittany, she looks over. Dark eyes, bright and moist, search her own, holding her gaze. Breathless, Quinn doesn’t know what to say. "God, I even tried to bring it up. I tried to make her tell me and… she just… changed the topic.” Santana’s shoulders slump in frustration. “Started talking about Lord Tubbington and his gambling addiction."
Brittany, Quinn thinks miserably. What the hell are you doing?”
This isn't the Brittany that she knows. Brittany is acting out of character and it’s startling.
For Santana, it must be terrifying. This is woman she loves. The woman she thought she knew. Brittany has always liked to define her own realities but the lengths she's gone with this...
She doesn't understand. And she knows that neither does Santana.
But then again, they are also the pair that earlier that evening had pushed into a bathroom and nearly forgotten the world themselves.
Maybe they have no right to judge Brittany. Quinn is supposed to be one of Brittany’s best friends, but each and every moment her lips has touched Santana’s, she has not thought of her once.
"I'm sorry," she says, when she realizes Santana is staring at her, waiting for some kind of response.
Lips quirk; a bitter smirk on those full lips that reek of sadness. "It’s stupid. I couldn’t even tell her about what happened in Kentucky," she admits.
God, the three of them are such hypocrites. Quinn sighs, watching the cloud of condensation dissipate in front of her moments later.
"I know," Santana snaps, but there is no acidity behind her response. Santana remains pensive this dark night. She stares at the New York lights as if they hold some magic key, an answer to all of this. "It’s fucking weird, you know? She’s supposed to be my best friend and I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to her now."
What is there to say? Lima, Ohio seems so far away, a time machine that stands still while the world moves on around it.
Life has happened to them all, and despite even Brittany’s efforts to stave it off, some part of them all is not who they were.
Is this growing up? Because it sucks.
"Maybe it’s because you’re not best friends anymore."
Santana reacts like she’s been actually hit. She sucks in her breath and just looks at Quinn, wounded. “Quinn-“
“She moved on and fake-married Sam and didn’t tell you, Santana.” It’s harsh, but it’s the truth. These are big moments that have defined Brittany and her life in Lima.
Santana’s eyes water, but she has no response except a furious shake of her head and a curse. “Fuck,” she whispers.
“Best friends talk,” Quinn snaps.
The words die in the space between them, and what fills that space is a sudden awareness of what she has just said. It’s a stupid thing to say in the face of her own quietness.
Santana’s hickeys haunt her. Just another moment, they jeer.
Quinn’s heart skips a painful beat. “You’re right,” she hears. “Best friends talk.” Santana’s voice is mocking; forceful. She has regained her anger and with it, her strength. “So are we ever going to talk about this?” Quinn can feel the heat of Santana’s glare burning into the side of her face. She feels frozen, overtaken by the chill and the paralyzing emotion that guts her.
Quinn lives by that emotion. She understands it. Instinct and self-preservation guides her. Each and every time she has ignored that voice she’s been rejected, or nearly killed, or fallen pregnant.
She can’t do this. She can’t. Santana is meant to be her safety - her constant.
She’s not supposed to terrify her and she’s not supposed to PUSH her like this.
“Quinn.”
No.
“What are we supposed to say?” Quinn whirls, and it takes Santana aback. The other woman opens her mouth, closes them, but Quinn shakes her head and continues. “No, seriously, Santana, what can we say?”
Eyes flash at her. “How about, ‘We were high and drunk and we almost had sex in Rachel and Kurt’s bathroom!’” Santana snaps, and Quinn shudders at the thought, the actual words that come out of Santana’s mouth. “And you know, come to think about it, it seems to keep happening! Maybe we should talk about that or what it means?”
What it means. God, seriously?
“Does it have to mean anything?” Because it can’t. She knows it can’t. Two minutes ago they were talking about Brittany. Santana has no scholarship and no plans. She’s an open, bruised and bleeding heart, and there is no ROOM for Quinn now. God, she hates that she knows that but she does.
And God… Quinn… Quinn isn’t even GAY. Not really. This … thing with Santana-
How can an affair with her own professor feel safer than sex with Santana?
Santana stares at her. She’s breathing hard, panting in and out, but she’s just looking at Quinn. She looks naked and open and terrified and Quinn wants to help her, but she can’t.
Quinn’s heart is already so dangerously bruised, so terrifyingly broken. To lose it completely when even in New York, even after all that’s happened, Brittany still stands between them like a grim grinning ghost…
“I guess it doesn’t,” Santana mutters, and Quinn hates how much it hurts to hear it.
Santana has no right to sound so torn.
It’s so cold out here. Quinn’s teeth continue to chatter and though Santana stands right beside her and she’s wearing her coat, she feels naked and alone.
Quinn inhales unsteadily, and forces herself to stand.
Maybe this is good. What they needed. This is a reminder of what they are and what they are not.
Quinn is Santana’s friend, and they are here in New York because Santana is lost.
Quinn cannot be lost with her.
One of them has to know exactly who she is or they will both drown.
“Kurt and Rachel want you to move in with them.”
It’s probably the exact opposite of anything Santana expects to hear. Her friend nearly chokes with the revelation. “What?!”
The reaction is an amusing one. Quinn feels her aching heart ease. She smiles softly. “And I think you should.”
Santana is flabbergasted; for once without words. “And when were you three going to let me in on this little plan?!” she sputters adorably.
“I just did,” Quinn points out reasonably. “Just think about it, okay? Stop being a coward, and really think about it.” She reaches for Santana’s hand to carefully squeeze at the cold fingers she finds.
If it’s one thing she and Santana have in common, its fear and the lengths they would go to, to keep it hidden. From everyone except each other.
But Santana is not ready for that particular truth. She just stares at Quinn’s hand covering her own. “Oh, now we’re talking about who’s a coward?!”
Touche.
Quinn is suddenly exhausted. She has no strength to argue.
“Santana,” she begins, soft and slow. “It’s freezing. Can you just… come to bed?” Those beautiful eyes just look at her. Santana doesn’t move.
“Quinn…”
Maybe it is the Blind leading the Blind. Maybe they’re both lost.
But someone has to take the initiative to pull them both in out of the cold, and Quinn may be a coward, but at the very least, she has strength enough for that.
“Tomorrow is New Years Eve,” she says, and there’s some sort of hope in that. Santana’s palm turns in her grip, until their fingers are clasped tight. Quinn’s chest physically hurts, but her smile is genuine. “Come to bed.”
This time, when Quinn tugs, Santana follows.
Author: Misty Flores
Genre: Glee
Pairing: Quinn/Santana (some Brittany/Santana implied)
Rating: M
Teaser: Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and with limbs so tangled Quinn can’t sleep, she’ll think back and wonder why it’ll never be marshmallows and fluff for them.
Spoilers: Glee S4 through ep 10
Prompt: from Jskuriou: Santana is being too passive and Quinn decides it's her mission to get an honest reaction out of her. No matter what it takes. Looking for the real Santana under the calm, mature veneer she's hiding behind. Could be set at Christmas or New Years.
Chapters 1 & 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
Part Six. And Now I'm Feeling Stupid
Quinn has guilty pleasures. She’s human; shamefully so. Her vices, the ones she’s managed to keep discrete and quiet, usually stay hidden deep inside of her. Her desires are almost always unspoken, voiced not even to her.
The smoke she has inhaled feels like it floats inside of her. In infects her brain, and brings with it a hunger. It’s not a hunger for food.
This hunger seems so ravenous she shakes with the need.
God, her mouth even waters.
Quinn’s fingers twitch. Her heart races.
Is this normal? Is it? To stand inches away from a door that’s open just a crack and feel so… alive? To look at that door and imagine… worship who is on the other side?
And yet, even dizzy, even infected with this, she still remembers a quote from Lewis Carroll.
In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.
She’s drugged… it’s because she’s drugged. This is because of the drug and because of the liquor. With it comes the freedom to chase this White Rabbit.
Freedom to lift a heavy hand, press against the door and watch it creak open.
Santana stands against the counter. She’s facing the sink, away from Quinn. Leaning slightly forward, her ass is presented prominently, and it’s as magnetic as those dark eyes that catch hers through the reflection of the large mirror over the sink.
God…
Santana’s hooded look burns like a phantom grip that clasps over her throat, rendering her breathless and gasping, tugging with an insistence that demands Quinn come closer. With a pounding heart, she obeys.
The door clicks shut behind her.
Voices that laughed so loudly before are now muted. All others fade away and now there is only her own breath; the way her pulse quickens; how her skin burns.
There is only the haunting, gorgeous form of Santana; that face in the mirror, that body that stands so very still. Santana’s only expression is a stalled smirk. Dark eyes do not stray from her, but there’s no movement.
Maybe, just like Quinn, she didn’t think they would make it this far.
There is no mistaking her intentions. Quinn’s motivations are naked and obvious in the way her breath exhales through her mouth, in the way her eyes rake over Santana’s body, linger on every curve, admiring the way that damn skirt stretches over Santana like it doesn’t exist at all.
This is dangerous. Never has Quinn wanted so openly. She’s high and a little drunk and it’s released her in a terrifying way. She has no control. That part of her that works so carefully to STOP this has fallen prey to Santana, and it wants just like the rest of her wants.
It wants possession. It wants that body. It wants Santana.
Frustrating, volatile, beautiful Santana. Her best friend. Her worst enemy. The girl she never wanted to trust and the gorgeous woman she knows she’ll never have.
The reflection makes it easier. It’s like she’s looking into a different world, a world where Quinn has the control. A world where there are no consequences. There is only lust, desire, and the twisted affection that exists now between them.
In the reflection, Santana stares at her, quiet and still. It’s not enough. Quinn wants words. She wants that acerbic tongue to bite at her and remind her of who they are. What they are meant to be.
This isn’t love. She can’t feel love.
It’s not love with Quinn.
Quinn knows that.
But it can be lust. It could lust and affection. It could be so much more than liquor and drugs.
It’s so clear now. The answer is in the reflection. There is no mistaking who is in this room now. It’s Santana and Quinn.
She steps forward, and hears the intake of breath that Santana takes: anticipation. Another movement and Santana is near enough to touch. The breath stops: excitement. Quinn watches, outside of herself and yet so very aware of every pinprick of emotion as her palm lifts, slow and reverent, to collect brunette curls and smooth them over Santana’s shoulder, exposing a slender, flawless neck with a pulsing beat.
She exhales, floating air against the exposed skin. Santana’s entire body shudders. Eyelids flutter.
Maybe Quinn isn’t the only one affected.
Fascinated, Quinn’s touch gains confidence. Fingers press gently, thenspread against that neck. She palms over the curve of it, until she’s just touching Santana’s collarbone.
The heat of her soaks into the skin. Her grip tightens.
Santana sucks in a sharp breath; holds it in her mouth and then releases it just as quickly. Quick short pants follow, rising and falling and straining against Santana’s tight shirt. Quinn watches: her own voyeur. The image they present is s magnetic and beautiful.
They are beautiful together.
“This is what you meant, isn’t it?” she asks, voice hushed with wonder, sparking with realization. Santana’s fingers journey behind her, until they are pressed flat against Quinn’s thigh, flexing over the fabric to dig into the muscle. Once again, that little vein in that perfect neck throbs. “So beautiful…”
The hunger rages. Quinn’s will is controlled by her own desire and it consumes her. She lowers her head and opens her mouth, burying a kiss into the crook of Santana’s neck. It’s a perfect curve; her lips feel surrounded by soft skin. A ragged moan rips from the body she holds, sinking back against her.
“God, Quinn.”
It’s her name on Santana’s lips. It’s her mouth that’s causing the whimpers; the little pleas, the rocking of Santana’s ass back against her pelvis.
It’s Quinn that owns Santana now. This moment is hers.
God, the way that moves her…
In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.
She pushes the thought away.
Quinn’s hands snap to Santana’s hips, holding her steady. Her mouth ravishes Santana’s neck, tongue licking as she sucks, coating the skin with her own saliva. She continues pressing burning, lewd kisses until she reaches Santana’s jaw. A strong hand leaves her thigh to reach up, dig in her nape and suddenly there is no escape. Not anymore.
Quinn doesn’t care.
She wants this. She wants demanding fingers that grab hold of her and force her lips against a willing and addictive mouth. She wants that feeling that happens when Santana’s ass grinds against her, making her hips jerk and her knees buckle.
She wants to be controlled. She wants to be kissed. She wants to be worshiped.
She wants Santana.
“Fuck this,” she hears, before her body is forced back and Santana is twisting against her. Bold arms wind around her neck and then again her mouth is plundered, Santana’s tongue demanding entrance, demanding everything. She kisses Quinn with urgency and a lust that sends emotion deep into Quinn’s abdomen. Lips slide and nibble, Quinn’s tongue tangles roughly with Santana’s, and teeth nearly rip at her mouth.
She inhales hard through her nose, shoves and pushes until Santana’s backed up onto the sink and those lean thighs open up to wrap smooth legs around her. Something falls and shatters. They don’t care.
Santana’s fingernails scratch, digging marks into her shoulder blades, and Quinn isn’t sure why she even feels the pain until she realizes that her dress is now half off, hanging off her shoulder, allowing Santana to claw at her neck and snap at her bra straps.
“Fuck, Quinn,” she hears, mottled words that lose their bite when the mouth saying them sucks hard against her tongue. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
She says it like she's angry and still the words sink into Quinn like poetry.
Ignited, Quinn’s palms slide between them. She is not easy or gentle. Her fingers spread against full breasts. Santana groans; her chest arches, pressing them up into her palms, offering herself.
God.
She’s never… it’s never…
Nipples pebble hard against her palm. She feels them drag, even over the shirt, over the skimpy lace bra. Her tongue swipes against Santana’s teeth, swallows down a moan and Santana’s nails scratch lines against her shoulder.
It’s permission enough.
She digs fingers underneath the fabric against Santana’s cleavage, yanks with rough force and then they are bare. Gorgeous breasts with hard dark nipples that spill over Santana’s top, presented to her eagerly. She feels Santana’s lips pant against her cheek, nibbling on her jaw and her chin.
This is real. It's happening. Those are bare breasts that feel so soft against her questing fingers. That is actually Santana's nipple that rolls between her fingertips. It's Santana's agonized huff that she hears against her ear when she pinches a little too hard.
Just another moment...
"Quinn..."
Quinn gives her no time to finish whatever she is going to say. Fingers thread into her hair the moment her tongue presses against a firm nub. She tastes salt on Santana's skin, feels the texture of soft skin and a nipple that rises into her mouth.
She moans. Santana yanks, pulling her off balance in such a way her hand flails to find purchase.
She knocks against something... pills maybe? It doesn't matter. It goes crashing to the floor.
She's wet. Quinn is desperately wet. It causes a desperate awareness that turns into an audible whine when Santana's legs pull her in closer still, grinding against her with purpose.
"Shit!" she gasps against Santana's skin because there is nothing else but that intense FEELING. Her hips thrust forward with enthusiasm, and even through the layers of clothes between them, Quinn can feel...
God, is that really what she's feeling?
Santana's head falls back harshly against the mirror, half naked and clutching at her. She's splayed so lewdly against the counter, hips pumping and back curved in a perfect arch.
The image is devastating in the most aching of ways. Santana is this way because of Quinn. Santana looks like this because Quinn’s hands are on her. This is her best friend as she’s never imagined, and it leaves her breathless, entranced, and filled with such desire she shakes from the power of it.
“I want you,” Quinn breathes, finally giving voice to this. “I want you, Santana.”
Brown eyes, deep and dark and hazed with lust, blink open. Santana's mouth, swollen and puffy, falls open. She pants harshly.
"What the hell are you guys doing in here!? Rioting?!" The voice is intrusive and so, so loud. Kurt, Quinn realizes dizzily. Kurt's voice that shouts just as the knob on the bathroom door twists and the door flies open. "I know slapfights are like, your thing, but there are flea market antiques in there, and if you two have damaged a single one-"
Like a deer stuck in headlines, Quinn cannot move. There’s no time. Before she can even process the intrusion, Kurt is here, in the bathroom, invading their space and their world.
Through the mirror, Quinn sees his horrified face, and though it’s now set askew by their rough foreplay, she also can see quite clearly the image they present.
Santana sits splayed on Kurt’s bathroom counter, legs open and wrapped around Quinn’s hips. Her breasts are bare and shining with moisture that is Quinn’s own saliva. Quinn’s blonde hair is a mangled mess. Herusually perfectly put together face now features swollen lips smeared with lipstick, and she wears a dress that hangs off her shoulder, bra strap dangling uselessly from her arm.
There is no mistaking what is happening in this bathroom.
And still, no one moves. Kurt seems himself frozen. He’s pale and stricken.
“Kurt! Are they alive! Are you?!”
Rachel.
“Oh Fuck,” Santana breathes, and it’s enough to spur Kurt into action, like a character who was on pause and now pushed into fast forward.
“It’s BUSY!” he shouts, and swivels for the door, throwing his weight against it the second it begins to move. “I mean, they’re busy! Do NOT come in! Because they are VERY VERY busy!” The look he shoots them is wild and manic, but Kurt does give them a moment of reprieve when he himself slips out and gives the scene one more haunting look. “I don’t know what you broke,” he spits, “But it's all antique and you’re paying for all of it!”
The door slams shut.
But it’s no use. Kurt has let in the world. He has let in her own doubt. Gone is the freedom. Gone is the giddy emotion, the LUST that drove her so forcefully just seconds ago.
What’s left behind is exactly what this is - a drunken hookup exacerbated by drugs. It’s just like New Haven.
But God, it’s worse. It’s worse. Why is it worse?
Santana's legs fall from around her waist. She covers her breasts, trying hard to fix herself.
"We didn't do anything wrong," Santana says, but her voice is tight and Quinn is not reassured. She’s not looking at her.
Shards of glass, remnants of Kurt's antiques, spill around them.
Quinn's legs are shaky. She's not sure she can move, so she just looks at the mess that she and Santana have created.
Lewis Caroll whispers to her, one more time, "In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again."
*********
“Do you need help with that?” Santana is off the counter. She’s watching as Quinn picks up the ironically literal pieces of their brief break from sanity.
Santana’s voice is low and soft, so unlike her usual tone.
It makes Quinn shudder, but the emotion she evokes is unrecognizable. Quinn doesn’t realize her hands are shaking until she accidentally drops a piece.
“Quinn-“
She jerks away from the hot hand that settles on her. “I can do it,” she snaps, a hard crispness in her voice that stops the warmth of Santana’s touch immediately. “Just let me. Leave me alone.”
There’s a moment when she thinks Santana is going to fight her. Quinn continues to go through motions, gathering little shards of porcelain as she waits. There’s a lump in her throat that’s actually painful, and all she wants now is for Santana to go away.
She wants it as badly as she wanted Santana pressed against her just minutes before.
For once, Santana gives her what she wants.
“Fine.” Santana exits the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
The force of it makes Quinn jump. She places a shard on the vanity. In the mirror, in her reflection, she rediscovers Lucy Fabray: small, ugly and terrified and disgusted with herself.
Kurt barges into the bathroom, retching with his hand over his mouth and hobbles over the toilet.
He seems not to notice her at all.
*********
The carefree, silly atmosphere that flooded the loft so easily before has faded. There's now an unspoken element; what everyone knows and no one wants to comment on.
Kurt, unused to the weed and the munchies it produces, ate himself sick, and he is now passed out on his bed. Rachel, always the friend no one wants and everyone needs, has lectured Kurt, cleaned up as best as she can, and retreated to her own ‘bedroom’ with Brody.
Before she does, she shoots a look with Quinn that for once, Quinn cannot read.
Quinn doesn’t care. She is in no mood to receive Rachel’s disappointment, anger, or whatever it is that Rachel wants to feel.
Santana has already bundled herself under the covers, curled into the left side of the bed. Quinn always sleeps on the right.
They have official sides of the bed. That’s how many times they have shared a mattress.
It’s stupid how sadly funny she seems to find it.
Quinn strips, changes and slides into the bed. Santana never moves.
The apartment stinks of weed. She drifts off to sleep ignoring the scent of Santana’s perfume that lingers on her skin.
*********
She awakens in the darkest part of the night chilled to the bone and alone. The left side of the mattress is empty.
Quinn is disoriented, sleepy enough to feel concern instead of hesitation. She searches the large space, and discovers that the window to the fire escape is open. Curtains billow from the New York breeze seeping inside, the cause of those bumps on her chilled skin.
Quinn rises off the bed.
She pulls on her coat, but it’s still a sobering moment when she steps out onto the ice cold fire escape and feels just how chilly it is. New York is unforgivable at night, and yet Santana seems unaffected. She’s shivering ever so slightly, but there is no reaction to Quinn’s presence except a curious look and a faded smile before she looks away.
In a way, it helps to see Santana this way. She’s in almost the exact same position that Quinn was in earlier, evoking some odd sort of deja view.
They can be who they were.
Quinn glances down at the blanket she carries with her. It feels like she's suddenly playing a part, and the result is dizzy sort of haze that carries her closer to Santana.
With a tender, apologetic touch, she spreads the blanket and carefully places it over Santana’s shoulders. The other woman stiffens against her touch, but only slightly. Quinn waits breathlessly until Santana reaches up behind her to grab hold of the edges of the fabric and wraps it more carefully around herself.
"Thanks," she says, and it sounds like she means it. Santana remains distracted, eyes peering over the blinking lights of the city.
A particularly cold wind blows past them and Quinn’s teeth begin to chatter. “You know it’s freezing, right?" she asks, stating the obvious as she moves to stand beside her. A blond hair sticks to her mouth. With a huff of irritation, she smoothes her fingers across her cheek and fishes it out of the way.
Santana watches the movement. A smile floats on her lips before it fades just as quickly.
"Brittany called," she says. In the distance, a car alarm goes off. "I didn’t want to wake you."
It’s oddly thoughtful of Santana. In high school Quinn used to be subject to quite a few Brittany and Santana midnight couplings, and Santana had never seemed to care about her beauty sleep back then.
Still, Quinn’s emotions are raw, and Brittany’s name carries a power that it never has before. Her heart clenches inside of her. "Oh," she manages, amazed when her voice sounds almost flat and unaffected. She mimic's Santana's position, hands twisting around the metal railing as that damn car alarm keeps going. "What’d she say?" she asks, because that's something a friend would ask. It’s what’s expected and because they are friends, she should feel nothing beyond the general concern that would be normal because Brittany and Santana broke each other’s hearts and this is a delicate situation.
She should have no personal investment in that conversation at all because Quinn should have no personal stake in this.
Santana’s hair whips about her, but even in shadow, her profile is striking. As Santana attempts to control the strands that fly into her face, she bares her neck and it’s then that Quinn notices some very dark bruises that mar the skin.
Hickeys, she realizes. Two of them. Courtesy of one Quinn Fabray.
Jesus Christ.
"Nothing." Santana chuckles harshly. Finally, damn car alarm stops blaring. The street below them seems almost too quiet without it. "She just… she was worried because she hadn’t heard from me." With Santana's fingers tangled against each other and that big blanket wrapped around her thin frame, she looks incredibly young. "You know we used to talk almost every day and she’s never once told me she’s dating Sam?" For the first time since Santana began to speak of Brittany, she looks over. Dark eyes, bright and moist, search her own, holding her gaze. Breathless, Quinn doesn’t know what to say. "God, I even tried to bring it up. I tried to make her tell me and… she just… changed the topic.” Santana’s shoulders slump in frustration. “Started talking about Lord Tubbington and his gambling addiction."
Brittany, Quinn thinks miserably. What the hell are you doing?”
This isn't the Brittany that she knows. Brittany is acting out of character and it’s startling.
For Santana, it must be terrifying. This is woman she loves. The woman she thought she knew. Brittany has always liked to define her own realities but the lengths she's gone with this...
She doesn't understand. And she knows that neither does Santana.
But then again, they are also the pair that earlier that evening had pushed into a bathroom and nearly forgotten the world themselves.
Maybe they have no right to judge Brittany. Quinn is supposed to be one of Brittany’s best friends, but each and every moment her lips has touched Santana’s, she has not thought of her once.
"I'm sorry," she says, when she realizes Santana is staring at her, waiting for some kind of response.
Lips quirk; a bitter smirk on those full lips that reek of sadness. "It’s stupid. I couldn’t even tell her about what happened in Kentucky," she admits.
God, the three of them are such hypocrites. Quinn sighs, watching the cloud of condensation dissipate in front of her moments later.
"I know," Santana snaps, but there is no acidity behind her response. Santana remains pensive this dark night. She stares at the New York lights as if they hold some magic key, an answer to all of this. "It’s fucking weird, you know? She’s supposed to be my best friend and I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to her now."
What is there to say? Lima, Ohio seems so far away, a time machine that stands still while the world moves on around it.
Life has happened to them all, and despite even Brittany’s efforts to stave it off, some part of them all is not who they were.
Is this growing up? Because it sucks.
"Maybe it’s because you’re not best friends anymore."
Santana reacts like she’s been actually hit. She sucks in her breath and just looks at Quinn, wounded. “Quinn-“
“She moved on and fake-married Sam and didn’t tell you, Santana.” It’s harsh, but it’s the truth. These are big moments that have defined Brittany and her life in Lima.
Santana’s eyes water, but she has no response except a furious shake of her head and a curse. “Fuck,” she whispers.
“Best friends talk,” Quinn snaps.
The words die in the space between them, and what fills that space is a sudden awareness of what she has just said. It’s a stupid thing to say in the face of her own quietness.
Santana’s hickeys haunt her. Just another moment, they jeer.
Quinn’s heart skips a painful beat. “You’re right,” she hears. “Best friends talk.” Santana’s voice is mocking; forceful. She has regained her anger and with it, her strength. “So are we ever going to talk about this?” Quinn can feel the heat of Santana’s glare burning into the side of her face. She feels frozen, overtaken by the chill and the paralyzing emotion that guts her.
Quinn lives by that emotion. She understands it. Instinct and self-preservation guides her. Each and every time she has ignored that voice she’s been rejected, or nearly killed, or fallen pregnant.
She can’t do this. She can’t. Santana is meant to be her safety - her constant.
She’s not supposed to terrify her and she’s not supposed to PUSH her like this.
“Quinn.”
No.
“What are we supposed to say?” Quinn whirls, and it takes Santana aback. The other woman opens her mouth, closes them, but Quinn shakes her head and continues. “No, seriously, Santana, what can we say?”
Eyes flash at her. “How about, ‘We were high and drunk and we almost had sex in Rachel and Kurt’s bathroom!’” Santana snaps, and Quinn shudders at the thought, the actual words that come out of Santana’s mouth. “And you know, come to think about it, it seems to keep happening! Maybe we should talk about that or what it means?”
What it means. God, seriously?
“Does it have to mean anything?” Because it can’t. She knows it can’t. Two minutes ago they were talking about Brittany. Santana has no scholarship and no plans. She’s an open, bruised and bleeding heart, and there is no ROOM for Quinn now. God, she hates that she knows that but she does.
And God… Quinn… Quinn isn’t even GAY. Not really. This … thing with Santana-
How can an affair with her own professor feel safer than sex with Santana?
Santana stares at her. She’s breathing hard, panting in and out, but she’s just looking at Quinn. She looks naked and open and terrified and Quinn wants to help her, but she can’t.
Quinn’s heart is already so dangerously bruised, so terrifyingly broken. To lose it completely when even in New York, even after all that’s happened, Brittany still stands between them like a grim grinning ghost…
“I guess it doesn’t,” Santana mutters, and Quinn hates how much it hurts to hear it.
Santana has no right to sound so torn.
It’s so cold out here. Quinn’s teeth continue to chatter and though Santana stands right beside her and she’s wearing her coat, she feels naked and alone.
Quinn inhales unsteadily, and forces herself to stand.
Maybe this is good. What they needed. This is a reminder of what they are and what they are not.
Quinn is Santana’s friend, and they are here in New York because Santana is lost.
Quinn cannot be lost with her.
One of them has to know exactly who she is or they will both drown.
“Kurt and Rachel want you to move in with them.”
It’s probably the exact opposite of anything Santana expects to hear. Her friend nearly chokes with the revelation. “What?!”
The reaction is an amusing one. Quinn feels her aching heart ease. She smiles softly. “And I think you should.”
Santana is flabbergasted; for once without words. “And when were you three going to let me in on this little plan?!” she sputters adorably.
“I just did,” Quinn points out reasonably. “Just think about it, okay? Stop being a coward, and really think about it.” She reaches for Santana’s hand to carefully squeeze at the cold fingers she finds.
If it’s one thing she and Santana have in common, its fear and the lengths they would go to, to keep it hidden. From everyone except each other.
But Santana is not ready for that particular truth. She just stares at Quinn’s hand covering her own. “Oh, now we’re talking about who’s a coward?!”
Touche.
Quinn is suddenly exhausted. She has no strength to argue.
“Santana,” she begins, soft and slow. “It’s freezing. Can you just… come to bed?” Those beautiful eyes just look at her. Santana doesn’t move.
“Quinn…”
Maybe it is the Blind leading the Blind. Maybe they’re both lost.
But someone has to take the initiative to pull them both in out of the cold, and Quinn may be a coward, but at the very least, she has strength enough for that.
“Tomorrow is New Years Eve,” she says, and there’s some sort of hope in that. Santana’s palm turns in her grip, until their fingers are clasped tight. Quinn’s chest physically hurts, but her smile is genuine. “Come to bed.”
This time, when Quinn tugs, Santana follows.