A/N: For those who are interested, I have a Nayanna fic running on livejournal (kalexico [dot] livejournal [dot] com) and a GKM Heya prompt fill as well. I'm not posting them here because it violates the rules and I just don't feel like getting in trouble over it. Basically, the Nayanna fic is about Dianna sometimes liking to dress up and be called Charlie. The Heya prompt fill is about Heather visiting Naya in Vancouver. So I suggest you head over there if you like the idea :) Anonymous comments are enabled.
Also, those of you who haven't checked out letscall-l's work should definitely do so. I'm absolutely loving the lacrosse!Quinn fic right now.
Again - thank you Heather for being an awesome beta!
Keep reading & reviewing :)
Santana doesn't claim to understand. She can't comprehend how the ever prudish Quinn gave into her request without putting up a fight, without challenging her for an explanation, without despising her, without needing any kind of encouragement. Almost as if Santana has asked her to join her to the mall, or go see that new movie together.
She decides not to try. If Quinn wants to tell her, she will. No prying, their number one rule. True, Santana mostly likes rules because they give her an opportunity to break something, stand above something, be better. But the rules with Quinn are different. Necessary. Self-made. For someone with such a persistent dislike for rules, she has created an awful lot of them in her life.
The main reason why Santana doesn't ask why is that she's terrified. She's terrified that if she talks about it too much, questions it too obviously, Quinn will change her mind. Call her selfish, but this is the only chance she might ever get at touching Quinn the way she has been aching to for so long now. So they don't talk about it. They don't propose dates, or circumstances. They wait. Not until the time is right, because this is Quinn and Santana and they don't do that shit. Quinn waits for Santana to initiate because she's too shy, at least that's what Santana thinks. Santana waits until her hands don't start trembling at the thought alone.
Quinn isn't being very subtle. She is a calculating person, never one toreveal her true intentions willingly if it doesn't help her on the way to her goal of the day. But Santana knows Quinn, sees right through her, the way Quinn sees right through her. So when Quinn calls her more often, asks to hang out more often, comes over more often and later at night, Santana knows that she's doing it on purpose. She knows that Quinn's bringing movies or music and that she shows her websites so that Santana would tell her to stay the night. And maybe make her move.
She doesn't. She can't sleep, again. Every single night that Quinn has spent in her bed in the past two weeks has been a sleepless one for Santana. Instead, she watches Quinn, ignoring the part of her that actually has morals and calls her a perv. She watches Quinn sleep, and she talks to her. She pours her heart out, knowing she won't hear her.
"I hate you," she whispers one night. "I fucking hate you, Quinn Fabray. You make everything so much harder than it needs to be. You dictate my life and I fucking let you. I allow you to cloud my decisions, to change my plans last minute. You fucking know I can't deny you anything. I want to fucking punch Finn over and over again because he doesn't deserve you. That douchebag doesn't get you the way I do, know you the way I do. Would you love me back if I had a penis? Does it really matter that much?" She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to calm down.
If she'd be the type for it, Santana would be crying, at the very least sobbing now. She doesn't. She's seething, boiling, fuming, hot with anger. She bores her nails into the palms of her hands, feels the muscles tighten and release. It's not enough. She wants to scream, shatter, fall apart. She has to get out and she has to get out now, so next thing she knows she's sitting outside. The night breeze is cool, causing goose bumps to form all over her skin. She's pulling at the grass absent-mindedly, throwing it away, hand going back to the ground again. She repeats the motion over and over again without even realizing it.
She knows this is the part where one is supposed to empty their mind, clear it of all their worries. She finds herself unable to do so. Her thoughts keep wandering to her friend upstairs, lying in her bed, wearing that shirt and those shorts. Those impossibly short shorts that make it hard for Santana to keep her hands from reaching out. Another rush of anger floods through her body – what has she become? It's just pathetic. Despicable.
"Santana." She'd recognize the soft, hesitant voice anywhere.
She doesn't turn around. She's been so wrapped up thinking about Quinn Fabray, so lost in another world, that for a moment, she thinks it's a hallucination. Great, now I'm hearing voices.
Footsteps. "Santana," Quinn repeats, obviously closer now.
Hesitantly, Santana turns around. She closes her eyes, quickly opens them again, sucking in a sharp breath at the sight. Quinn, still wearing that shirt that she bought years ago and is now a little too tight in all the right places, still wearing those shorts. Quinn, blonde hair glowing in the moonlight, all of her glowing in the moonlight. Her hazel eyes, worried and confused.
"Quinn," Santana tries to say, but her voice has left her to deal with this alone. Soundless.
Santana stands up. Quinn takes one step closer, opens her mouth to say something when Santana loses it. Completely fucking loses it. Before either of them knows what's happening, Santana has fisted Quinn's shirt, pulled her closer, crashed their mouths together.
There's nothing romantic, soft or tender about the kiss. It's all lips, teeth, tongue, hunger, lust, pent up frustration of years and years. Santana is desperate. Quinn is limp, paralyzed. Santana lets go, briefly, and hisses through unexpected tears: "Goddamnit, Quinn, kiss me."
Santana is panting heavily. Quinn searches her eyes and understanding dawns on her. She nods so lightly it's nearly imperceptible, but Santana never misses any of Quinn's movements. She cups Quinn's face and kisses her again, passionate at first, but soon slowing down.
Finally, Quinn catches up and participates. Their chests drop as their lips slide over each other, their tongues find each other. Quinn tangles her hands in Santana's long, dark locks, pulling her closer. The kissing has now become tentative, delicate. Santana runs her tongue along Quinn's teeth, the roof of her mouth, snaking itself around her tongue. Quinn leans in, intensifying the contact. She rests the tip of her tongue on Santana's as the other girl explores her mouth. Their noses collide, adapt.
They part for air, but only momentarily. Soon enough, Santana softly kisses Quinn's lower lip, sucking lightly. Then she pecks her upper lip, the corners of her mouth. She places soft kisses on her jaws, her cheeks, her chin, her nose, between and next to her eyes, her temples, her brow, her earlobes, the shells of her ears, and the edges of her ears. Finally, she rests her brow against Quinn's.
"Santana."
"Quinn."
"Now?"
"Yes."
Quinn turns around and leaves the garden, going back into the house. Santana follows her through the living room, up the stairs, to her bedroom. Once again, they're home alone. Nobody will hear them.