Author's Note: First off let me apologize for the atrocious story title, which corresponds to the fact that this is dialogue-centric. That being said, can I just say how much I LOVE writing dialogue for Santana. Check out my lengthier Faberry story "Teenage Nightmare" for more of that (wow that was shameless). Finally, I just really really like how this turned out, seeing as I only started it (and have been chipping away at it for about 7 or 8 months since) as a tool to help me out with writer's block and practice writing dialogue and smut. But yep, that's all I have to say. Enjoy and review. :)
"I don't know if I can touch that if I know a baby's busted through it."
"Fuck you," Quinn snarls in exasperation, making to sit up. "I don't need this."
"Whoah, whoah, whoah. Hold up, Fabray, you know I'm just being a bitch." Santana rolls her eyes and tugs on Quinn's arm, dragging her back down onto the quilt.
Quinn turns her head towards the brunette cheerleader and glares at her. "I would never expect anything different."
"Ha ha." Santana, propped up on her elbow, narrows her eyes sarcastically. "Now are we gonna do this, or what?"
"Ooh baby, yeah," Quinn purrs. "I love it when you talk sexy like that, you really know how to get me in the mood."
"Oh, whatever," Santana says, lip curling. "This was a shitty idea."
"No," Quinn says hastily. "I'm sorry, San. I really do want this." She takes Santana's wrist and slowly guides her back where she was, staring intently into her eyes.
Santana seems dubious for a moment, eyeing Quinn skeptically, but after a few seconds she leans in close to Quinn's ear, half of her body grinding against the blonde cheerleader's. Quinn exhales loudly, instinctively, and she can feel Santana grin catlike against the skin of her earlobe.
"You know," Santana whispers, "you should really work on making your apologies more convincing."
"Bitch," Quinn sighs dreamily as she arches under Santana's touch. The brunette grins wickedly and continues to draw lazy patterns on the cotton of Quinn's panties.
"And did you lock the door?" Santana continues. "I don't need Puckerman walking in with some chick while I'm trying to do my thing."
"Do your thing?" Quinn repeats, unable to hold back a somewhat unflattering snort of laughter. "God, Lopez, you're so smooth."
Santana stops circling with her fingers and presses firmly on Quinn's most sensitive area, smirking at the gasp of pleasure that wipes the grin off Quinn's face. "You'd think you'd be less of a cunt with me one layer of cotton away from fucking you."
"Mmmm," Quinn hums, eyes fluttering shut, as Santana continues to tease her in time with the music pulsing faintly from downstairs.
"What's that, babe?" Santana purrs, ceasing the movement of her fingers tantalizingly.
"I locked the door," Quinn blurts, breathing deeply.
"Good girl." Santana smiles, relishing the sense of control she has over the head cheerleader, and rewards her by moving her hand down Quinn's panties and slipping two fingers inside of her.
Quinn gasps again, throwing an arm around Santana's shoulder, and moves her hips to meet the other girl's torturously slow rhythm. "Oh Christ," she murmurs. "Oh Jesus Christ, San."
"Aren't you supposed to be Catholic?"
"You talk too much," Quinn exhales. "Shut up and fuck me."
"If you say so," Santana mutters devilishly, inserting a third finger and curling all three of them into a hook as she moves out and then in.
"Jesus, Santana, you lesbo," Quinn moans, as tingles she's never experienced ripple through her abdomen like a flash fire. "How the hell did you learn that?"
"It's called a g-spot, O Sexually Experienced One," Santana drawls derisively, continuing to stroke Quinn's ridged inner wall. "And you're not the first of my female friends that things have turned beneficial with."
"What are friends for," Quinn mumbles to herself, lips parted as she squirms luxuriantly under her brunette teammate.
"Precisely." And after that Santana does shut up, deciding to concentrate on the task at hand (literally). Quinn's moans get louder and louder, and Santana goes between worrying that some idiot hanging around the upstairs hallway will overhear, not giving a fuck who hears shit, and being turned on by the noises being made by the blonde with that velvety voice of hers. She's never slept with this particular blonde cheerleader before, but she's thought about it more than just once, and one of the things that got her wettest was Quinn's voice. It does at present too.
The real life Quinn doesn't disappoint. As she approaches climax, melting like wax around Santana's fingers, she pants with a feminine sex appeal more potent than anything Santana had ever toyed with in her bored and horny imagination. And when she comes, a moan rips out of her throat that makes Santana drip like a leaky faucet.
As Quinn lies back, chest heaving as she catches her breath, Santana props herself back up on her elbow and watches her. A beat passes, filled with measured breath and faint yelling from the party raging downstairs.
"God, Fabray, you're so fucking hot."
Quinn smiles up at the ceiling, biting back thanks for the compliment or even the mind-blowing orgasm (because there's no way she's going to admit it was that good). Instead, she shows her gratitude the best way she knows how to with Santana.
"You sure you don't bat for the other team, San?" Quinn responds lazily. "'Cause I know you can't live without dick, but your lez points are really starting to add up."
Santana purses her lips, but she knows Quinn well enough to recognize a compliment when she sees it. It's a backhanded compliment, but then again that's just Quinn's way. And Santana wouldn't have it any other way; emotion and shit like that just makes things awkward.
"I'm just crazy about fornication," Santana replies, rolling her eyes. "And it really doesn't matter if it's a guy or a girl. Besides, you're not exactly the model of pure heterosexuality yourself. You're the one who brought me up here with you in the first place, remember? Care to explain that one?"
Quinn rolls her head to look at Santana, her gaze boring into the other girl. Santana matches it unflinchingly, waiting for an answer.
"… I can't," Quinn says simply. "It's just one of those things, you know?"
Santana nods intently. It's one of the reasons - or lack thereof - that she'd agreed to do this with Quinn in the first place. She knows the blonde's loneliness has got to have something to do with it, but like the good friend she secretly is, she chooses not to bring it up, knowing it wouldn't do any good. "You don't have to say it," she scoffs, "I know you've always had the hots for me."
Quinn lets out another snort of laughter at this, charmed by the brunette cheerleader's relentless - and pretty stupid - bravado, and Santana in turn finds herself slightly smitten by the other girl's rare display of imperfection.
"You're such a dork," Quinn says with a rueful smile, with something Santana can just barely recognize as affection.
"You like it," Santana retorts breezily, smiling inwardly. "Now are you gonna return the favor, or what?"
"Oh Christ, San," Quinn sighs in exasperation, "I don't know. Do you have any idea how bad you wore me out?"
Santana scowls. "Oh no," she persists, "Complimenting my skills ain't gonna get you out of this. You think I came up here with you out of the goodness of my heart, just to make you come? You can't wuss out on me, Fabray, it's bad fucking manners."
"You sure know how to make me want to fuck you," Quinn mutters sarcastically, glaring daggers at Santana but sitting up and beginning to lean over her just the same.
"Tough cookies, princess," Santana replies with a smirk, knowing she won as she settles back into the quilt.
"Fuck," Quinn curses, her right hand hovering uncertainly around Santana's short black skirt.
"Christ, what a boner-killer," Santana grumbles irritably to herself as she moves to sit up. "Just do what I did, okay? It's not that hard. Just follow your heart or whatever shit RuPaul Berry would say if she were here."
Quinn tries to squash the absurd thoughts of Rachel Berry even being at this party, much less witnessing this depraved act, knowing that she's going to suck at this if she can't concentrate on being sexy. The last thing she needs now is a distraction - especially such an annoying one.
After a half a minute or so, though, Santana's shallow breathing gets the best of Quinn and she finds it's not so hard after all to get into it. The sound of the other girl's raw anticipation, coming through her air's ins and outs, is incredibly sexy, a thought that strikes Quinn with some amount of surprise. True, she'd been the one to drag Santana up here, but she'd never thought about how it would work without her being attracted to girls. Because Quinn knew she was straight as an arrow, but something about having sex with her very best frenemy Santana appealed to her as unpredictable as fuck and perfect. It came from Quinn's apparent need for a twisted outlet of some kind, ever since the baby and ever since everything in her life had gone back to "normal",
So here she is, lying on top of Santana Lopez in an upstairs bedroom above one of Puck's famous Saturday night ravers. There's no way she could have known, even an hour ago, that it would come to this.
Quinn has none of the experience fucking a girl that Santana has. It's enough to terrify Quinn, but she finds that it's not so much of a problem once she realizes she's getting into it. Santana's cinnamon-colored body is warm, smooth, and inviting under her low-cut tank and short black skirt, and Quinn finds that her friend is actually pretty damn sexy. You know, for a girl. She's curious as to what the brunette feels like, maybe even tastes like.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Quinn eases her hand between Santana's legs and up her skirt. She hooks her fingers into the elastic waistband of Santana's underwear and drags the material down as the other girl lifts her hips accommodatingly, now smiling at Quinn in sultry anticipation. Quinn tosses the underwear aside distractedly and takes in a rattling breath as she watches her own hand trail its way up Santana's inner thigh. For once, Santana has nothing to say, choosing to wait and let Quinn take her time. The silence spurs the blonde on, and her fingers make contact with Santana's center.
The reaction is instantaneous. As Quinn's first two fingers slowly drag through Santana's wetness, the brunette cheerleader allows her head to fall back with a deep moan. Quinn gasps at the slick sensation, feeling her knees going rubbery.
"Oh my god, you're so wet," Quinn rasps in awe, rubbing up and down languidly and relishing in the feeling.
"Yeah," Santana replies gutturally, "Thanks for that."
Quinn hums as her gaze sweeps along the other girl's body, still overawed at how wet she'd managed to make her friend. The idea of it, and the deliciously slippery feel of it, are enough to push a hard lump up her throat. She'd never been attracted to a girl before or even imagined what it would be like to fuck one, but right now, in this moment, it's sexy as hell.
Once Quinn's fingers graze Santana's clit, the brunette sucks in a harsh breath through her teeth, wincing as though in pain. Quinn looks up; her automatic reaction is to seek approval in the other girl's face, to make sure this is okay. But she also tilts her eyes to the other girl to be able to see for herself how her touch is affecting her friend. Quinn Fabray may be pretty inexperienced and more on the slow and tentative side of sex than anything else (compared to her partner), but she's still herself, and she herself has always relished in the satisfaction of making damn sure that she's kicking ass at whatever she's doing.
She likes to think that she very well could be kicking ass at fucking Santana Lopez. The sharp intake of breath and concentrated knotting of the other girl's brow let Quinn know that she's on the right track. The thought brings a curl - like a finger gesturing 'come here' - to her lips and a surge of confidence to her gut.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Santana says hoarsely, distractedly (deservedly so), a challenging smirk ghosting her lips.
Quinn breaks slowly into a catlike grin. "Like what?" she asks, though she has some idea.
"Like you're the cat and I'm the mouse." It's not an expression that's new to Santana; it hearkens back to cowering juvie cheer grunts and cornered Rachel Berrys, to Quinn calm and vindictive and totally in control, to Santana standing in the foreground and watching as a fingerlike shudder travels up her spine. Santana has always found this Quinn unbearably sexy.
The blonde slides her body up the brunette's, finger still teasing her friend's clit, and positions her head so it's near to Santana's. She pauses. "Well, I'm not going to eat you just yet," Quinn says huskily. "We'll save that for next time."
With that, Santana's center throbs instantaneously. The thought of Quinn going down on her, coupled with the confident purr of the other girl's voice, are enough to turn Santana on doubly. She feels a jolt of electricity run from her clit to ever nerve ending in her body and lets out a low moan.
"You're so sexy," Quinn murmurs. She knows it must sound so out of character, coming from her, reinstated president of the celibacy club and all-around good girl. But she's getting so very extraordinarily into this, moreso than she had with Puck or with any other boy she'd gone half as far with. Maybe it's the fact that she's with a girl, maybe it's Santana herself. Whatever the reason is, Quinn has never felt like this. And she likes it.
Santana doesn't answer coherently. "Mmmoh," she hums, but it's probably answering to Quinn's fingertips teasing her clit rather than the blonde's compliment. The low, throaty sound is more than enough of a thank you for Quinn; it means that she's definitely doing this right.
Just in case, though, she wants to make sure.
"Is this okay?" Quinn asks hoarsely.
"Yeah," Santana pants, eyes squinched shut in concentration, "Just like that. Stop talking."
She doesn't need to be told twice. As her hand slowly but deliberately strokes small circles, Quinn lowers her mouth to the brunette's long neck. The skin is smooth and taut against her lips and smells like cinnamon; not that Quinn really needs an incentive much better than that to flit her tongue against Santana's neck, but she wants to fucking dazzle her brunette bedmate. Multitasking ought to do that, she figures, as she gently sucks on a stretch of warm tan skin just an inch below the jaw line.
Santana moans wordlessly, hips twitching, as she reaches out and clutches Quinn's arm. The blonde is torn: torn between smirking at how badass Santana Lopez melts like butter when she's getting fucked, and getting wet all over again at how hot said melting is.
"Mmm," Quinn hums in satisfaction, confidence in this girl-on-girl sex thing growing by leaps and bounds with every pant that escapes from the lips of the girl underneath her. Feeling adventurous, she nips at Santana's neck skin a bit harder and presses more firmly on her clit.
Sure, Quinn might be a beginner, but that doesn't mean that Santana doesn't enjoy what the blonde's hands are doing to her. In fact, this particular lay is probably going into the latina's top five. First thing that makes it so damn good is the fact that it's Quinn fucking Fabray, saintly celibate hetero and embodiment of the term "pussy on a pedestal". The only thing better than taking a juicy bite of forbidden fruit is when said fruit is hot as hell as a top and moving her fingers just like that, and oh Jesus fucking Christ and his two dads is that spot just -
"Fuck," Santana hisses, quick bursts of electricity shooting like needles from her clit to her hips, which are rocking helplessly almost as badly as a bucking bronco. Quinn keeps on at her neck, sucking and biting with this perfect pressure that's probably going to leave a hickey that she'll have trouble explaining, but she doesn't care now because she's getting really damn close to coming.
"Fucking hell," she growls, the exquisite torture of that deft rubbing Quinn's doing tipping her nearer and nearer to the brink.
"You close?" Quinn says huskily against the delicate curve of Santana's ear, her breath playing hot and wet along the thin skin there. That in itself is enough to do it. Four seconds later Santana crests that wave and comes. She comes hard.
Quinn doesn't stop the movements of her hand when Santana goes rigid and a long, loud moan escapes from her lips. The sound causes a shudder of pure want to skitter down Quinn's spine, but she keeps at it, rubbing furiously, not wanting to stop too soon. Santana's head is thrown back so far by the sheer force of her orgasm that Quinn worries for the tendons in her neck, but that expression on her mouth that could be construed as pain is unmistakable ecstasy. Quinn rides out her convulsing body, breathless herself, until the exhausted brunette relaxes back onto the mattress.
With that, Quinn brings back her hand and rolls off her friend to lie motionless beside her. She's hyper aware of the fingers of her hand - sticky and sliding - but doesn't know what to do with them. Wash? Wipe? Suck clean? Air dry? She opts to leave her hand at her side for now.
"Hey."
Quinn rolls her head over to look at her panting bedmate. Santana looks her in the eye, flushed pink and glistening with a light sheen of sweat but grinning all the same. "That was fucking good, Q," she admits breathlessly, both her bright black-brown eyes and her lips crinkling at the corners.
"Yeah?" Quinn smiles. She can't help the feelings of pride and delight that douse her head to foot; she's new to this gay sex thing, and well, Santana's not, and getting praise from her on it makes Quinn feel like she's gotten back an aced second-grade spelling test with a congratulatory sticker by her name. Fuck it, it's a good feeling.
"Man, we should do this more often," Santana says contentedly, turning her gaze up to the pockmarked off-white ceiling. Santana thinks, fleetingly, that this had better be a guest room and not Mrs. Puckerman's own bedroom or else this pretty spectacular experience is going to be tainted in her memory. She's about to mention that to Quinn, or maybe about to say something else, anything else (her head is fuzzy, full of post-coital cotton balls), but the blonde distracts her with a stifled giggle.
"What?"
Quinn bites her bottom lip(pretty fucking adorably, Santana notices) and tries to stopper up the laughter bubbling out. "Your, uh…" She drags her hand up near her chest and points tentatively at Santana's neck. "You've got a mark there."
"Aw, really?" Santana gripes, rolling her eyes and pawing at the spot where she's guessing that hickey is. "Well, that oughtta be a blast to explain to everyone, cause you know they're gonna ask." She tries to glower at Quinn in exasperation and be annoyed with her, but the blonde's grin - guilty tinged with irrepressible mischievousness - is too infectious.
"You know," Santana drawls, absentmindedly stroking Quinn's knee, "if I was a bitch I'd totally pin you down and gnaw on your neck until you had a hickey like mine, and then everyone would connect those dots and know me and you did the nasty, wouldn't they?"
Quinn positively guffaws at that, and at the sound of it an equally unflattering snort escapes from Santana's nose. "Right," Quinn chuckles, "if you were a bitch. But since you're not, you're just gonna go slash my tires, aren't you?"
Santana grins, leaning over and slugging Quinn on the shoulder. "You bet your tight little ass," she quips, sitting up. "Now, not that I don't want to stick around and cuddle with you, but we'd really better get out of here before everyone downstairs notices we've snuck off together and gets suspicious."
Quinn heaves herself off the bed with a smirk. "Yeah, I gotcha. We can save the cuddling for next time."
The brunette looks back over her shoulder, pausing over the straps of her heels. "You think you're gonna be down for a next time, Fabray?" She remembers Quinn above her, insinuating eating her out with the playful promise of "next time", and fights back a recurring shiver of arousal. It makes her fumble over the straps of her black pumps, embarrassingly enough, and she prays, for the sake of saving face, that her tone came across challenging rather than stupidly hopeful.
Unfortunately for Santana, Quinn is too shrewd to give her friend the satisfaction of a definite answer. Quinn has always been a tease, for the sake of getting those boys to jump through hoops for her from sexual frustration, and now is no different. Although, her design now is not so much manipulation but habit. Besides, she genuinely likes seeing the painfully obvious glimmer of hope and want in Santana's black eyes. It's a bit sadistic, some would say.
"I dunno," she muses, shrugging casually and fastidiously smoothing her shirt.
Unfortunately for Quinn, Santana is too shrewd to fall for it. What the blonde has seemingly forgotten is that they've been close friends for years, and Santana can read her little nuances like a newspaper headline. Besides, an equally as dedicated tease can spot an equal from a mile away.
So she decides to take it as flirting and run with it. "How 'bout you take my number," she says smoothly, lifting her eyebrows suggestively, "and call me when you decide."
Quinn's prim front crumbles as she dissolves in giggles. "I've had your number since you had that shit-ugly pink RAZR in eighth grade, loser."
"Good," Santana retorts smugly as she turns back to her shoes, "then you shouldn't have any problem."
Not that Santana isn't sexy or pretty damn near irresistible (or inexplicably charming when she does this weird flirting-thirteen-year-old-boy gimmick), and not that Quinn isn't sorely fucking tempted to go round two right now, let alone some time in the future… god, it's like one ride and now she's the conductor of the lesbo train. It's just that Quinn is cautious of her sexuality; she's seen the damage that sex can do if one isn't careful, and even though she can't get knocked up like this, Santana's still one of her best friends. This thing could get majorly fucked up and complicated if anyone's getting ahead of themselves at all.
"San," she begins warily, circling around to the other side of the bed. She doesn't really know how to voice this. "You know I'm straight, right?"
Santana almost laughs, almost blurts out didn't seem like it ten minutes ago, but she knows she's supposed to take Quinn seriously. She almost says, so am I; she almost says, I can fix that; she almost says about half a dozen different sassy and indifferent things. And damn it, she's tempted to because it's instinctual for her. When Santana wants something, she's pretty indelicate about it. But she actually respects Quinn a fucking lot. So instead, she cocks her head, shrugs her shoulders, looks sincerely into Quinn's hazel eyes, and goes for simple.
"So?"
Against her better judgment, Quinn allows herself to smile at Santana's succinct but genuine response. She knew she would get something like that in reply (she was prevalently expecting could have fooled me just a few minutes ago), but it actually puts her more at ease. Who's to say they can't be flip about this? And who's to say anyone's orientation has to do with a little fun on the side? This is the twenty-first century, after all.
Quinn just smiles fondly and rolls her eyes. "Come on, Romeo. Let's get out of here."
Santana smirks like the Cheshire Cat as she hops to her feet. "Sure thing, Fabray."