Title: The Struggle Continues
Author: ellowyntinuviel
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language
Pairings: Quinn/Santana, some mentions of Brittany/Santana
Spoilers: Big spoilers for 3x06 and 3x07.
Author's Note: This is dedicated to ApathyandEmpathy, for being my eternal muse for all things related to Glee. You are awesome and I couldn't write anything if you didn't let me flail in your general direction as often as I do. :D
The Struggle Continues
Santana has no idea why Puck calls her. Sure, she and Quinn are like, besties for life or whatever, but Quinn has her own shit and Santana has her own shit and that's just who they are. They share Brittany between them and they like to bitch and gossip about other people and Santana is fine with that. She's never been there for any of the serious stuff, not like a "bestie for life" should be, but Quinn's never seemed to hold it against her. They just don't do that shit with each other. Which makes Puck calling her even weirder.
"Lopez, she tried to get me to make a baby with her," he says.
Santana almost drops the phone. "What the hell, Puckerman? That's actually the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
"I didn't do it," he groans. "We like, cuddled or whatever. But if you tell anyone, I will deny it."
"Whatever," she says. His secret's safe with her; not because she wants to help him or something, she just doesn't care enough. "What do you want from me?"
"Quinn's pissed off at me and like, shit," he stops for a second. "She needs like, a friend or a hug or some therapy. You know, girl stuff."
"Girl stuff? Really, Puck?"
Santana can practically see him shrug on the other end of the line. "You're the one getting lady music week so I figure you can handle some ladies with feelings," he mutters.
"Yeah, I'm having lady music week forced on me because I've got my own shit to deal with. I don't have time for someone else's shit, too," Santana says. And it's true. Her abuela, the family member she cared the most about, basically disowned her.
"She needs somebody, Santana," Puck says. "Come on. For me? I'll owe you."
She needs somebody. Santana thinks about Brittany, how feelings were really her area of expertise, not Santana's. But Brittany is stuck in meetings, prepping to be the senior class president, and maybe Santana needs somebody, too.
And anyway, it'll be better than sitting home in her room crying because of how fucked up everything is. And Quinn did help defend her against that asshole in the hallway. "Fine," she says eventually, grabbing her jacket. She'll take over a fifth of vodka and they can get a little tipsy and not talk about their shit together.
Santana's plan goes perfectly for a while. Well, not perfectly, because when she first gets to Quinn's house, Quinn looks at her like she has two heads and asks her what the hell she's doing there. It's a little angrier and more shocked than Santana thinks it should be, but once she holds up the vodka with a smirk, Quinn lets her in and everything's fine.
Well, it's about as fine as anything with them can be when they're kind of drunk. So maybe Santana is sobbing into one of Quinn's floral-print pillows while Quinn rants and raves angrily about cougars and babies and other things Santana doesn't understand. But they're totally fine.
Santanta takes another swig from the bottle of vodka and grimaces. It burns her throat and she almost chokes because fuck, she's crying even harder now, but it's okay. It's fucking okay. She passes the bottle back to Quinn, who glares at it like she's waiting for it to tell her the secret to life.
Quinn stops ranting and just sits there on the bed, looking angry and pissed off and annoyed. Things get awkward really quick, because suddenly the room is totally silent and it's too oppressive and too bitter and too full of fucking feelings and Santana can't take it anymore.
"She kicked me out," she chokes out. "My abuela told me to leave."
Quinn finally looks away from the vodka and faces her. "What did she say?"
"Esto es una verguenza," Santana cries. She hears it in her grandmother's voice and it hits her in the chest like a ton of goddamn bricks. "This is a disgrace," she explains.
"At least your parents are okay with it," Quinn says.
Quinn kind of scoffs at her and barely suppresses an eye roll and it's stupid but she expected Quinn to be a little more sympathetic. "You know how my parents are," Santana tells her, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "They don't care about anything. My abuela raised me. And now she doesn't want to see me anymore," she finishes. Her voice is quiet and she's still crying and it makes her feel even worse. She hates the way she sounds because it's totally not who Santana Lopez is (except for when it is.)
"That's just how parents are," Quinn says, bringing the vodka to her lips and taking a drink. "They're all 'blahblah we're such a happy family' as they walk out the door to their next appointment or date," she scowls and Santana knows she's talking about Judy and whatever boy-toy she's hanging on the arm of this month.
"Or worse, they're hooking up with their teenage students while their baby is in the next room," Quinn finished angrily. Her fingers curl around the neck of the bottle like she's about to throw it and Santana realizes that maybe they're not just talking about Judy anymore.
"Did Mister Schue finally go full pedo with somebody?" she asks. She tries to focus on Quinn's face but all she can see are her slender fingers as they curl around the vodka bottle. Santana frowns and her vision blurs for a second. Maybe she's drunker than she thought she was.
"No," Quinn says simply, her voice deep and dark. She's in full on not-talking-about this mode, which Santana thinks is stupid because she's the one who brought it up. She's not gonna push though, because god, it's just not them. They only talk about serious stuff in hotel rooms in New York City during mental breakdowns and even that ends pretty quickly.
Maybe she should get a haircut. That fixes things, right? She squints for a second, watching Quinn polish off the last of their vodka. Santana shakes her head. No, her weave cost way too much money for her to start thinking about a haircut.
"You're fucked up," Santana finally mutters, her vision swimming a little bit until all she can see is blonde hair. She blinks rapidly until she can see again. "Puck told me you tried to make another lizard baby with him."
Quinn's scowl goes from the bottle to Santana and her fingers flex around the bottle again. "Is that why you came over here? Because your old fuck buddy sent you? God, I can't believe him," she says, rising unsteadily. She sways in place for a second and Santana reaches out instinctively, a hand resting on Quinn's hip to keep her from falling over.
Her fingers brush over the material of Quinn's dress. It's rough and covered in a random pattern that she has to squint at in order to see. Quinn's still clutching the empty bottle of vodka, her knuckles white as she grips it. Her eyebrows are furrowed and her nostrils are flaring and she just looks so fucking angry, like she wants to break everything in her bedroom and then light it all on fire.
Santana snorts to herself, thinking about when Quinn set that piano ablaze. Even though Santana was behind it all and she ultimately got blamed for it, Quinn was the one who had matches and knew how and when to use them. It was actually pretty fucking badass, not that Santana would ever admit that aloud.
"Yeah, he sent me," Santana finally says, shrugging. "Whatever, I needed the excuse to get drunk. And you," she slurs a little, "apparently need someone to make sure you don't get yourself knocked up again. Seriously, Q, that's so stupid. What the fuck are you gonna do with a lizard?"
Quinn's face falls and she bites her lip, glancing down at the empty glass bottle she's holding. It's the first time in a while that Santana's seen her look something besides angry and pissed off and Santana doesn't know what to do with it.
Santana's thumb brushes over Quinn's hip and her fingers splay across the white material. She gets distracted tracing the circles on the dress because it's kind of cool how they're bunched in groups of four big open circles that are connected by all these thready little lines. It's like a spiderweb or some crazy shit, like there are two different spiders who can't agree on how they want their web to look so they started on their own sections and just connected them. But that's stupid, she thinks, because spiders don't talk to each other or think this hard about their webs.
"It's all I have left," Quinn sighs.
Santana finally looks away from Quinn's dress, her fingers stopping again to rest on Quinn's hip. And there it is. Quinn is angry because she's sad and lonely and a little fucked up about the direction her life has taken. And Santana totally gets that. She frowns.
She needs like, a friend or a hug or some therapy.
Stupid Puck. Stupid Puck and his feelings and his baby momma who turned out to be a crazier bitch than Santana ever thought she could possibly be. And stupid Quinn, because now she looks like she's going to cry and god, they don't do this shit, but Santana's standing up before she can stop herself. It takes her a second to get used to standing - why did the world keep trying to tip itself over like that? - but she finally manages to rise off of Quinn's bed.
"She's perfect," Quinn says. "She's so perfect and even I couldn't fuck her up, S."
Santana rolls her eyes and scowls at the other girl even as she wraps her arms around her quickly. They just don't fucking do this shit. But here she is anyway, wrapping her arms around Quinn's neck and resting her cheek against her blonde hair.
Quinn doesn't react immediately and Santana squeezes her tighter because goddamn it, if she's being forced into a situation where she has to hug someone, she's going to get hugged back. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," she says.
Santana hears the bottle fall to the ground, landing on the carpet with a soft klunk. Quinn's hands brush against her waist before they eventually slide around to rest on her back and she leans into Santana's embrace. The last time they hugged was in New York, but this feels really different. Brittany isn't there with them and Quinn's gone even further off the rails since then. It's the first time that Santana feels like the put-together one.
Quinn's palms are warm against her back. She can feel Quinn's breathe on her neck as she buries her head in Santana's hair. "I don't have anything else," Quinn cries softly. "I messed everything else up."
Santana tries to think of something to say but she's kind of drunk and she can't quite remember where her feelings are supposed to end and where other people's are supposed to begin. She tries to think some more and her mind goes back to the places she was trying to avoid.
You can't admit to everybody that you're in love with Brittany and she might not love you back.
And that's totally bullshit because she knows that Brittany loves her. Brittany tells her all the time and they're totally girlfriends now. No matter what, she had Brittany.
Esto es una verguenza.
And maybe she had disgraced her abuela, but she wasn't going to be ashamed anymore. Even if it did feel like someone had reached down her throat and torn her lungs out, letting her gasp desperately for air before they finally just ripped her heart completely out. She feels her eyes well up and she's crying again because that's the kind of drunk she is and because everything sucks.
Santana feels Quinn's fingers clutch the back of her shirt, bunching the material in her hands. "I'm here," she finally says. "You've still got me. Or whatever."
Quinn sobs.
If she were more sober, Santana might have been offended by her reaction. Instead, she wonders when the room started moving - why is the wall going up? - and when it's going to stop because it's making her a little dizzy.
"You've got Brit, too," Santana adds. "And the glee club. They're losers and they're really stupid most of the time, but they mean well and they care," she says, surprised to find that she genuinely means it. At least those losers care about her and Quinn, even though they're kind of stuck-up bitches sometimes. And it's not like her and Quinn had people lining up to be a part of their lives.
Quinn eventually pulls away and her face hardens again. She's an angry drunk and more than that, she's just angry and Santana realizes that one hug isn't going to stop that for more than a few seconds. She shrugs and drops back down on the bed because the room keeps trying to turn itself in weird ways that make her stomach flip.
Quinn stares at her for a few seconds with a look that Santana can't read. She gives up trying to understand why Quinn is looking at her like that pretty quickly. She's had her fill of deep shit for the day - fuck, for her whole life - and if Quinn has something to say, then she can just say it, because Santana isn't a mind reader and she's too tired to even bother trying at this point.
And then suddenly Quinn is really close to her face, like way closer than she should be. And by the time Santana manages to blink and focus again, soft lips are pressed against hers and she struggles to stay sitting upright. If her and Quinn don't do feelings and personal shit, then they definitely don't do this. Plus, Santana totally has a girlfriend that she loves with all her heart. Like, really loves.
Quinn has to lean down to kiss her and her body casts a shadow over Santana that feels a little suffocating. The room won't stop moving and there are lips moving against hers and legs pushing apart her knees to stand in between them and there is seriously so much shit that she and Quinn don't do happening right now that she forgets to breathe for a second.
Quinn bites on her lower lip, pulling it in between her teeth and then sucking on it. Her tongue darts out and Santana suddenly remembers that she has limbs and that this shouldn't be happening.
"Wait," she says breathlessly, pushing up against Quinn's shoulders. "This is - I'm with Brittany," Santana tells the other girl. "You're a mess and I'm a mess and I have a girlfriend."
Quinn pulls away from her finally and Santana feels like she can breathe again. Quinn glares at her for a moment, crossing her arms. She's somewhere between sad and angry and Santana half-expects to be sent home immediately. Quinn's running hot and cold really fast and Santana's head spins for a second.
Quinn kicks at the abandoned vodka bottle on the floor. "No one wants me," she says, muttering to herself. "Babies love you unconditionally, though. They don't know any better. If I had -"
"God, would you just fucking stop?" Santana cries. Where did their night go wrong? They were supposed to not talk about their shit and that's all they were doing. "You can't have a fucking baby! Where are you going to put it? How are you going to take care of it? You're in high school and you don't have a fucking job. The whole reason you gave Beth up in the first place is because it was better for her and for you."
And now Santana's angry because she doesn't understand how Quinn doesn't get this. It's not because it's easier to focus on Quinn's problems than hers, it's just that Quinn is being really stupid and Santana hates stupidity. That's definitely why. "You could have ten more kids and you'd still be totally fucked up," she cries.
"Is that why no one wants me? Because I'm too fucked up?"
Santana deflates again. She exhales and her anger gets carried out with the carbon dioxide. Her heart breaks and she almost cries again, because that's just the kind of drunk she is. She's been where Quinn is right now and she totally gets it and it makes her insides hurt.
"It's not that, Quinn," she says. "It's just - it's fucked."
She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to string the words together when her vision is still blurry and her mind's still fuzzy and she kind of forgets what they're doing for a second. When Quinn kisses her again, it's desperate and sloppy and full of want and need and it's so strong that if Santana weren't already struggling to remember what thoughts were, she would be reeling from it.
The room moves again and this time, Santana moves with it, realizing as her back hits the bed that Quinn has pushed her down. Quinn's fingers skim over her hips and up over her stomach and she gasps. Quinn straddles her thighs and leans down over her, pressing her tongue against Santana's lips and she's powerless to do anything but grant Quinn entrance.
Her heart still feels heavy and full and emotional and Quinn's desperation doesn't help the weird broken feeling in the pit of her stomach. Had that been there all night? Since she visited her abuela? This was not how she was supposed to deal with shit.
Quinn's lips trail across her jawline, dropping slow wet kisses there. Quinn's breathe is hot on her neck as she nips at Santana's pulse point. Santana's neck feels warm and a little sticky and she can smell the alcohol on Quinn's breathe and it makes her a little dizzy.
She should stop this. Santana should push Quinn away again and she knows it. The room shifts above her again and Quinn sways on top of her, teetering precariously for a moment as she brushes her lips across Santana's neck. Santana realizes then that this is all they have, her and Quinn. If the alternative is talking and actually dealing with their shit and their emotions and their lives, then this is really more their style.
Quinn's hands slide up over her abs until she's cupping Santana's breast. She tweaks one of her nipples roughly until Santana cries out, her hands gliding over the blanket beneath her. It's rough under her fingers and when Quinn sucks on her neck and flicks one of her nipples just so, her hips buck. Everything's a little rough and a little far away and Santana absorbs the harshness and the distance and the way her head feels until her eyes slip shut because she can't stand to look at how wrong it is, how wrong everything is.
Santana has a hard time focusing but she's able to find Quinn's hips with her hands, gripping them tightly. Quinn is angry and she can practically feel it radiating off of Quinn as she slides her fingernails across Santana's breasts, digging into them a little bit.
Quinn has a head start but Santana doesn't waste any time, running her hands up Quinn's outer thighs underneath her dress. She opens her eyes and looks up at Quinn, her eyes dark. Quinn stares down at her, almost defiant as her nails rake down Santana's stomach.
The room moves again and Santana squeezes her eyes shut. She should stop this. She should stop it and go home and crawl into bed - why does her body feel like it's on fire? - and this should definitely stop.
Quinn's nails brush against her center and she gasps. What was she even doing again? She was -
Quinn pushes aside her panties, brushing her finger against Santana's clit and sliding it against her until Santana's lost again, drifting somewhere in between they didn't do this shit and don't fucking stop. Quinn leans down again, kissing her. She drunkenly misses at first, her lips landing against Santana's cheek. She pulls back for a second and tries again, squinting down at Santana for a moment before she finds her lips and presses them together.
Santana's wet, almost embarrassingly so. Quinn barely moves against her and her hips buck. She blames it on the alcohol and the situation - verguenza - and when Quinn starts tracing circles around her clit, she can't stop the moan that escapes her. Her arms slide around Quinn's back, pulling her flush against her body as she raises her hips. She needs more.
Quinn smirks down at her and slides two fingers into her suddenly.
"Fuck," Santana cries, jerking off of the bed. She digs her nails into Quinn's back because fuck it, this is how they're not talking about their shit together and she's not going to be outdone by Quinn playing dirty. Or maybe she's still too drunk to control the force of her nails. When Quinn starts up a quick pace, she decides that it doesn't really matter anymore.
Quinn is pissed off and she's taking it out on Santana, even though it's not her fault. Or it might be (she can't remember anymore.) Quinn pumps her fingers in and out of Santana quickly, her face hard as she hovers over the other girl. She starts to curl her fingers and Santana thinks it's kind of ridiculous how good the Celibacy Club founder is at fucking her.
She drags her nails up Quinn's back as hard as she can, grinning when Quinn hisses and presses into her even harder. Her hands reach the back of Quinn's neck and she grips at her short hair, pulling her down and crushing their lips back together. She's panting and moaning and holding Quinn against her, nipping at her lower lip as Quinn's fingers somehow move faster. Or maybe it's the alcohol in Santana's bloodstream and the way that Quinn is looking down at her that just makes everything feel faster and wetter than it really is.
Quinn slows down just enough to push a third finger inside her and brush her thumb against Santana's clit and she comes, crying out loudly as she holds Quinn's lips against hers. Quinn rests her forehead against Santana's and they breathe together heavily.
Santana can taste the alcohol and she can smell it on Quinn's breathe and she starts crying again. She sobs and buries her head against Quinn's neck. Quinn's fingers are still buried inside her and she tries to pull away but Santana doesn't let her, digging her nails into Quinn's back again so she can't go anywhere.
Esto es una verguenza.
She's still crying as she kisses Quinn's neck and finds her center, pushing two fingers up into her. Quinn is still on top of her, resting between her legs as she lays half on Santana and half off of her. The angle is awkward and her wrist starts to burn quickly from the force she uses to push into Quinn combined with the odd way it's bent, but Quinn's as wet as she is and she starts moaning immediately. Santana's lips find the spot below Quinn's ear, sucking on it roughly. She can feel her own tears sliding down her cheeks and she muffles a sob against Quinn's skin.
"Don't stop," Quinn husks, her voice low.
So Santana doesn't stop. Quinn is warm and Santana can feel her wetness on her own thighs. She flicks Quinn's clit with her thumb as she curls her fingers and Quinn comes with a groan. She tightens around Santana's fingers and it's only as her own body pulses that she realizes that Quinn's fingers are still inside her.
And she thinks it's a fucking disgrace because it's over and she's still sad and weepy and Quinn's probably still angry and mad.
They pull away from each and crawl under Quinn's blankets silently. The moment's over and they're both still hot damn messes.
"I'm only staying because I'm drunk," Santana says.
Quinn turns off the light. "Okay," she replies.
They lie in silence for a while, both still a little drunk and both still definitely fucked. But they're finally not talking about their shit together and it's just what Santana needed.
The next day, Santana finds the bruises on her body and tries to shake the feeling of shame that swirls in her stomach. She tells Brittany, because Brittany is her girlfriend and her best friend. And Brittany, well, she's not pleased, but she's understanding and willing to work through it, especially when she finds out about what Santana went through with her abuela and what Quinn has been trying to do with Beth and Puck. ("Hug with your arms, not your legs," Brittany says.)
Brittany and Santana will have to work through it but they'll be okay, because that's just who they are. They don't keep their shit separate and that works for them.
When Santana sings "Constant Craving," she sees Quinn glaring at Shelby like she's willing the woman to burst into flames. Santana's wrist is still kind of sore and she can feel the bruises on her shoulders and she finally knows why she has her shit and Quinn has her shit and they should never mix - she's too weepy and Quinn's too angry and together, they burn out fast and take everything with them.
What was it she said before she sang? Oh, yeah. "The struggle continues," she had said. She watches Quinn scowl and she wonders if the struggle will ever stop for either one of them.