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some unholy war

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Cheerleading has kept Santana in shape in a way Quinn would never be able to reattain. She misses her pre-pregnancy, pre-accident body, free from flaws; the one she inhabits now is marred with angry scars, her lower stomach slightly convex, hips broadened. The phantom of Lucy Fabray always lingering around the corner, lurking in the shadows with her mousy brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses, a permanent reminder that she’ll never quite be good enough.

Quinn thinks of her painstakingly sculpted facial symmetry, her outlandish budget for dye job upkeeps and gym memberships, and her entirely new identity. How her insides never seem to match her outsides.

Yet she’s never felt more beautiful than she does at this moment, with Santana’s hooded eyes peering up from where she’s situated between her legs, sparkling with equal parts lust and adoration.

And then Quinn’s coming earlier than expected, edged forth by the way their gazes lock; hips rising inches off the bed, canting up so devotedly against her girlfriend’s clever tongue.

There’s an ethereal sort of bliss that blankets her, its haze cradling the far-reaches of her body as she’s guided through the last of her ripples with languid little strokes. That is, until long fingers replace the tongue and slip into her with newfound determination.

Despite her weak protests, Santana doesn’t ease up. Pressure rebuilds to the highest degree and Quinn’s on the verge of telling her she just can’t, except her nails claw at toned shoulders, bringing them ever closer, betraying her unspoken thoughts. The haze becomes torrential, the blanket borderline suffocating, but when Santana mumbles a peculiarly gentle, “One more, baby,” into the soft skin of her inner thighs…

Quinn steamrolls headfirst into another orgasm, pleasure ribboning in ways she’d never thought humanly possible. Light oscillates behind her lids and the oxygen in her lungs evaporates in one fell swoop and she’s levitating between this dimension and the next and—

The world goes dark.

The first thing Quinn’s aware of, as she slams back into this plane of existence, is a series of delicate kisses tickling her hip bones, her ribs, her breasts. The second thing is the weight of Santana’s smirk against her skin, which is followed, rather quickly, by a third crushing realization that she might have… somehow… passed out?

The smirk grows wider as it grazes the length of her collarbones, and then there’s a rush of air cooling her overheated, oversensitive skin as it pulls back.

“Don’t. Even. Think about it,” Quinn rasps, trying but failing miserably to catch her breath. Those five words were difficult enough as is. She genuinely feels like she’s dying with the way her inhalations are so ragged.

Oh god, maybe she is dead. Maybe her orgasm wasn’t humanly possible, because Quinn is simply no longer human.

Yes. Rational.

“I’m not doing anything.”

Then again, maybe she didn’t die. Because her girlfriend would probably sound less cocky in the afterlife. In Quinn’s version, anyway.

“I hear you,” she says, wagging a finger lazily in the direction of where she thinks Santana is. Granted, she can’t accurately pinpoint her location. Her vision is spotty and the ringing in her ears takes precedence over like, actual hearing. “All coy and dignified, Lopez. We are never speaking of this.”

“Never speaking of what, my love?”

There’s a lilt to her words, a feigned innocence that makes Quinn want to shoot back a 'you know exactly what I’m talking about'. But Santana and humble are on completely opposite ends of the spectrum and Quinn holds her tongue, refusing to give her the satisfaction and clutching tightly to the mere scraps of conviction she has left.

“How I made you come so hard you literally blacked out?” There it is. “I mean I know I’m great, obviously, but that was something else. Damn, I should be my own girlfriend.”

“You’d strangle yourself within the first half hour,” Quinn says, frightfully close to doing that exact thing.

“You win some, you lose some.”

There’s an all-too-brief moment of contemplative silence before Santana continues. Quinn’s convinced she must be itching to receive a demonstration of said strangulation because her girlfriend presses on with an “I guess I should thank you though, this is doing wonders for my ego. I’m thinking of sending a PSA in the group chat—you think they’d get it if I put that princess emoji with the coffin one?”

“Santana,” she warns, timbre low and scratchy.

“Fine, no emojis.”

That’s it. If she wants so bad.

(Actual murder doesn’t seem like the best course of action. Prison doesn’t really fit into her five-year plan and Quinn doesn’t look good in orange. She has a winter complexion.)

She settles for giving her a less-than-playful reprimand on the arm, but her reflexes are so sluggish that Santana backs up before Quinn even has the chance to raise her hand.

“Easy there, tiger. You were down for the count the full ten seconds.”

Quinn’s absolutely horrified; dizzy with pure humiliation and the shortage of oxygen to her brain. She’s never known such immeasurable animosity for her lungs. Quinn treats them with care, as she does with every other aspect of her life: she exercises, daily; she’s never smoked; she lives in New Haven, where—like everything else Yale is—the air quality is top-notch. And this is how they repay her? Ungrateful! Her composure? Nonexistent! Her girlfriend? Fucking smug!

God, Santana’s lucky she’s hot. She’s even luckier that Quinn physically cannot move.

She knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her girlfriend is going to hold this against her until the day she’s lowered into her grave. Which may be pretty damn soon, all things considered.

Quinn groans.

Maybe she’ll take pity on her. It’s unlikely, but it’s worth a shot.

“Give me a minute, Santana. Please hold.”

“For sure.”

There’s a beat, then two, then three and Santana’s opening up her arrogant mouth again because, evidently, she doesn’t know when to shut up.

“Not gonna lie, I was lowkey worried you went comatose. Imagine if I’d have to explain that to the ER doctors. I mean, just wanky. But I guess there are worse ways to go than death by two overlapping orgasms.” Santana shifts to lie down opposite her. “Anyway, I’m gonna be over here, minding my own business. Rest up, buttercup.”

Quinn would glare at her, but her eyes still don’t work. Nothing works. Her body is a black hole of incompetence. Instead, she allows herself one fleeting thought of twenty-five to life, because right now—regardless of a jumpsuit that will clash with her skin tone—it’s all a bit too tempting.

Stupid defective organs. Stupid loss of consciousness. Stupid Santana with her obnoxiously talented tongue.

Quinn takes in a few more shallow breaths, allowing her senses to return. The sticky soreness between her legs recedes as blood rushes back into her extremities, numbness giving way to pinpricks. She thinks there may be an echo in the room. The same sort of labored panting comes from the other end of the tiny collegiate twin bed. Still so heavy (how is it possible to feel massively weighed down and ultralight at the same time?), Quinn doesn’t have the energy to actually lift her head from the pillow until her hearing fully reinstates and zeroes in on some seriously lewd squelching noises. Her brows furrow.

It takes way too long for her to figure out what’s going on, blame it on nearly flatlining or whatever, but she eventually croaks out another harsh gasp because—

“Santana Diabla fucking Lopez, are you touching yourself?”

She moans in lieu of answering.

“This is you minding your own business? I swear to God if you come before I make you I’ll—”

“You’ll what, Quinn? Tell me.”

The headboard is thumping rhythmically against the wall now, and the sounds Santana’s making are so obscene that Quinn is up in record time, shoving the ache in her muscles aside as she seizes her girlfriend’s left wrist firmly from where it’s buried between her thighs.

“Tell me,” she repeats, pausing her motions, studying Quinn with a glint in her eye.

Santana always had such a way with words, with her colorful vocabulary and often maddening lack of filter. But what Quinn knows, that most others don’t, is that Santana can imply all that and more with a single look. Years of icy stares and power gazes and, most recently, doe eyes allow Quinn to decipher this glint with practiced ease. And right now it’s saying three things.

It says ‘watch me finger myself until I come’. It says ‘what are you going to do about it’. It says ‘I dare you to try and stop me’.

Quinn dares.

“Hmm, whatever will I do?” Her voice is saturated with dramatic deliberation. Santana bristles.

It doesn’t take long for her to decide.

(Though, part of her—a small voyeuristic part that she did not know existed until right now—would definitely not be opposed to Santana continuing with her little performance, Quinn knows a challenge when she sees one.)

Before she can think twice, Quinn removes the hand from its sheath and brings it up. Dark eyes regard her with rapt attention, and she, in turn, is mesmerized by the way fingers glisten with Santana’s arousal. Quinn dips the ring finger into her mouth. Her girlfriend’s breath stutters as her tongue sweeps the side of it, then circles the tip. She bites down ever so softly.

It finally, finally shuts Santana up.

She releases with a wet smack before moving onto the middle finger, sucking so hard her cheeks concave, eager and insatiable and entirely too addicted to the taste. Their eyes meet as she slides lower. Pupils dilate with every knuckle she descends upon, and Quinn supposes it would be amusing, if not for the way she moans as it hits the back of her throat.

But this is not about her own pleasure, nor is it really about Santana’s—it’s mostly about that idiotic glint.

So Quinn withdraws slowly. “I’ll do something like that.”

“Oh.”

It isn’t so much of a glint now but a glaze, as in ‘holy shit that was the hottest fucking thing’. And with it, Quinn knows she’s already won. It’s a small victory, if the way her vision remains tinted black around the edges is any indication, but an accomplishment nonetheless. Still, she can’t help but wonder, by just how great a margin?

The distance widens with each passing second and Quinn’s determined to capitalize on every inch. Her reputation is on the line, and she might be out of her element, but damn if she isn’t going to, at the very least, try.

There’s a string of saliva running from Santana’s finger to her mouth. Quinn wipes it away with the back of her free hand and uses two fingers from said hand to gather the slippery wetness that pools at Santana’s entrance.

“And I’ll do this,” she says, scissoring her fingers in midair. “Open up.”

The second her lips part Quinn pushes in deep, making her gag.

Driving her fingers in and out, she revels in the way her girlfriend’s velvet tongue swipes the space between them, perfect white teeth catching on Quinn’s knuckles. Lips are wrapped around her fingers, plush and pillowy and warm. She fucks Santana’s mouth until dark eyes go glassy and long legs rub together, attempting to quell the heat that builds.

“You like this, huh, Santana?” Quinn whispers, voice dropping to a previously undiscovered register. A tremor wracks Santana’s body and she bites down unconsciously, strong enough that it leaves little marks in Quinn’s skin. It’s a thrilling sort of pain that sits low in her stomach. “Don’t even try lying to me, baby.”

Santana says nothing, defiant and aloof, as if her mouth isn’t swollen and shiny and her chest isn’t heaving with every breath.

So Quinn drags the pads of her fingers along Santana’s full lips, trailing south and leaving a spit-slicked line of evidence on her chin. It continues its path, and Quinn envisions the scene almost in third person, surprised when she discovers the hand is settled on the vulnerable plain of her girlfriend’s neck. She holds it there, still as stone.

Santana swallows and she feels it under her palm.

One, two, three more beats, Quinn counts, waiting for any sign of protest.

Four, five, six.

Nothing comes. Santana looks more turned on than Quinn’s ever seen her and fuck it, she’s feeling feisty tonight.

“What else? How about this, bitch.” Quinn squeezes lightly, testing the waters. She looks at her girlfriend with an arched brow, prepared to accept the verbal lashing she certainly deserves. She’s ready for it. The margin ends here.

The ever-present fire in Santana’s eyes is smoldering, burning a low flame within Quinn.

But she’s taking the fire, playing with it, wondering to what extent will Santana let her get away with before she irrefutably shoves Quinn back in her rightful place, at the literal and proverbial bottom.

(She’d never admit it—she’s Quinn Fabray, HBIC, for God’s sake—but she’s grown to love it there. Twisting and squirming beneath Santana’s body, beneath a woman’s body, is not something she ever expected to thoroughly enjoy, but she’ll gladly take it every which way. And every which way has she taken it, indeed.)

Her girlfriend opens her mouth as predicted, presumably to hurl a remark that Santana Lopez is no one’s bitch.

But as much as Santana likes a good comeback, Quinn knows she’s even more stubborn. Santana snaps her jaw shut, the resonant clack of teeth sending chills up Quinn’s spine. She tilts her head further in opposition, simultaneously offering more space around her neck. Quinn’s thighs slick at the action.

Interesting.

They’re both paralyzed. Her eyes flick between Santana’s and her neck, and back up. Santana’s never leave her face.

Drunk on power, Quinn finally speaks. “I’d like to try something new.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want you to say anything unless you’re not into it.”

Santana obliges, silently, already adhering to the request.

“Turn around. Hands and knees,” Quinn orders, threading her voice with the same tone she’d use as cheer captain; a tone she’s barked out more often than not during their years at McKinley, whenever her second-in-command stepped a fraction out of line. Santana obeys immediately, ever a creature of habit, and gets into position. She casts a glance over her shoulder, patiently awaiting the next instruction. Quinn’s traces the red lines—her marks, her claims—adorning Santana’s back. Her girlfriend shivers.

Quinn doesn’t top too often as she’s still catching up to Santana’s sexual prowess. Not that her girlfriend would complain—Santana consistently tells her that if the world was ending in twenty-four hours she’d only want to be in one place: smack dab in the middle of Quinn’s legs. Which is the absolute gayest thing she’s ever heard.

It’s no secret that Santana got around; her mouth, her ass, her pussy, were the talk of one too many locker room conversations. While President of the Celibacy Club, Quinn Fabray, remained mostly faithful to a small handful of high school boyfriends, she really only slept with one of them. And look at the good it did her.

It’s funny now that she thinks about it because Santana’s so deeply monogamous. Yes, she may have more notches on her belt than anyone Quinn’s ever met, but when she falls, she falls hard. Santana Lopez will forever be a besotted little thing—it’s just the way she’s wired—with her unwavering loyalty and fierce possessiveness and overall love of love.

(Such admissions were never Quinn’s specialty. But, however terrible she is with them, she still got the girl. She got the girl and the girl filled the insecure cracks in her otherwise pristinely constructed facade with those effortless professions that made Quinn feel whole for the very, very first time.)

Regardless of her own inexperience, Quinn must be doing something right. Sure, they’re dating now, but there had to be a reason why Santana took the train every other weekend before they declared it official. And it’s not due to the fact her girlfriend just so happens to love Yale or something. She actually kind of hates it; she says it’s stuffy and pretentious no matter how many times Quinn tells her it’s quite the contrary.

It’s not that Quinn thinks she’s just so irresistibly desirable either. It’s probably because she’s got that curious, virginal, coquettish thing down pat that translates well in the bedroom. One demure lowered-gaze head-tilt thing and her girlfriend’s jumping her bones then and there.

But she wants to be more than that—more for Santana and more for herself.

She’s never fucked Santana like this, she’s never really fucked Santana at all, and Quinn’s brow draws in concentration, working out the logistics. All the same parts are there but it’s a completely different angle. There are so many things that could go wrong. But Santana’s quick willingness and trust instill her with much-needed confidence as apprehension takes a back seat. She rakes in her girlfriend's body, starting at the base of her neck and following the natural curves downward. Enthusiastic hands explore the same line of sight, fingers ghosting over the swell of her ass, and an idea pops into her head.

Slaps have become more or less foreplay now, and what better way to introduce them directly into the bedroom than to link the two?

Quinn just hopes Santana won’t mind.

She decides to fucking go for it. She rears her palm and brings it down, landing with a solid thwack. Her girlfriend inhales sharply and Quinn watches a welt raise in a perfect handprint on her ass. Santana doesn’t falter. She barely moves. Pride flares in Quinn’s chest.

The words are foreign on her tongue, but she releases them anyway. “That’s my good girl.”

A string of wetness seeps out. Santana definitely does not mind. Her girlfriend’s shoulders splash a beautiful crimson and Quinn knows it’s because she can feel herself dripping onto the blankets. Santana’s grinding her teeth, every bit of restraint screaming at her to stay quiet.

She runs tentatively through her girlfriend’s folds, spooling the string around her index finger and out bursts a small, intoxicating growl from Santana’s throat. Quinn isn’t the best at talking dirty (it’s kind of her girlfriend’s thing), but she’ll be doing far more daunting things tonight. She gives it another go. 

“God, San, you’re so wet for me. I can’t wait to fuck you.”

Knees buckle slightly, but Santana remains fastened on all fours, facing straight ahead, mute. Even at complete loss of control—naked, subject to Quinn’s mercy—she embodies power and self-discipline. It’s impressive, the resolve, because Quinn herself would be begging by now.

She places a light kiss to the print and it burns against her lips. For a split second she’s overcome with remorse. “Does it hurt?”

Santana shakes her head.

“Good.” Quinn walks over to face her. She kneels in front of Santana, making sure they’re level. “Here, come sit, baby. Relax,” she says, patting the spot in front of her.

Santana moves accordingly, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap. She does not relax.

“I know we’ve never done anything like this, so before we continue, I need you to know that we can stop at any time. Anytime, you say the word and we’ll move on. Or we can stop entirely. I won’t be mad, I just want you to feel safe.” Her girlfriend's eyes are cast downward as she nods. Quinn feels a twinge in her chest at her negligence. “No, hey. Santana, honey, can you please look at me?”

Lord knows her girlfriend isn’t one for easy submission. There is a disparity between instinctive biological behavior versus conscious thought, so as much as Santana’s body seems to be reacting a certain way, her mindset could be completely different.

Quinn curses herself. This isn’t winning. This is the furthest thing from winning. It may be their first venture into… whatever this is… but still. She should know better.

There are lines on her girlfriend’s knees, where the fabric of the blanket was pressing into her skin, and she brushes her mouth gently over them. “Are you okay?”

Her yes is hesitant and gravelly, almost as though it was dragged through the depths of her. Quinn frowns.

“No, I am, I promise,” Santana adds, earnestly. She clears her throat. “I’m just not used to this, you know? It’s kind of… intimidating.”

Quinn’s teeth sink deep into her bottom lip. Nearly five years they’ve known each other and only once has she seen her like this.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize until now. I love you so much, Santana, and I would never make you do anything you’re not comfortable with, you know that right?” she asks, bringing their foreheads together and looking directly into her girlfriend’s wide eyes.

Santana nods again and Quinn uses her thumb and forefinger to tip her chin up, guiding their lips together. It’s long and hard and it cements her declaration. Santana kisses back, hungrily, achingly, returning the sentiment, as an elegant, solitary tear rolls down her cheek. It glitters in the moonlight. She tenderly brushes the drop away with a thumb, and Santana shudders a sigh into her mouth. There are unspoken words expressed with Santana’s tongue, a familiar fondness reflected in the shine of her misty eyes, and Quinn knows.

Santana is hers, and she is Santana’s. Undoubtedly.

“Do you want to continue?”

“I do.”

“Would you like to go back to the same position?” Her girlfriend bobs her head up and down fervently, and Quinn giggles. Santana rolls her eyes, but resumes her previous stance anyway. “I’m going back around. You’ll stop me if it’s too much?”

“I will.” Santana turns around, briefly. “Hey, Q?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

A radiant smile stretches across Quinn’s mouth. “I know.”

She gives the handprint another little peck; it’s not as angry now. Her anxiety about the whole situation melts away and so does Santana’s, as she visibly relaxes, tension draining from her muscles. Quinn gets behind and nudges her girlfriend’s knees apart, lining two fingers up with her core.

“Ready?”

Santana just spreads her legs further.

She pushes in slowly and it really shouldn’t be such a shock the way she slips in with ease. Santana tenses so Quinn slants down, reminding her to exhale. Another inch of Quinn’s fingers are accommodated as she does. “Good, baby. I love how you feel around me. I’m gonna start moving now, okay?”

With Santana’s final nod, Quinn begins to pump in and out, establishing a leisurely pace, letting Santana acclimate to the new position.

More and more arousal coats her hand with every plunge into delicious heat. Quinn groans at the sight; first in fascination but then, quickly, in irritation as it trickles to her wrist. There’s so much it’s insane. It’s also unfair that it’s all going to waste when Quinn has a perfectly useful built-in receptacle to catch all those mouth watering drops.

Fuck it. She pulls her fingers out.

Her girlfriend’s whine of displeasure is abruptly suppressed as Quinn sinks her tongue inside. Much better, she thinks, as the taste she so craves settles over her taste buds. She flicks all around, greedily collecting as much wetness as possible; moving without direction, without regard, skating across swollen flesh like her life depends on it. Santana huffs. Quinn’s all over the place, and it’s not teasing, per se—more like the byproduct of pussy-induced delirium.

A firm hand on the back of her head holds her steady. Quinn gets the message and laps with intent, savoring the way the muscles tighten around her tongue. She speeds her motions when Santana starts rocking back and she feels like she’s drowning, drowning, drowning in the very best way.

Suddenly, Quinn’s less concerned with asphyxiation and more with the sanctity of her bone structure. Santana’s grinding against her face with a force born of impatience and desire. Alas, Quinn’s already had a rhinoplasty and while she hates to do this again, her bank account would truly take a hit if she had to shell out five grand for another nose job. It’s just fiscally responsible.

“What the actual fuck, Q? Twice?” Santana growls, twisting her body around.

The fire blazes.

Quinn begins to look sheepish for a moment before a devious smile turns the corners of her mouth upward. She has the upper hand here. Santana’s visibly thrumming with need, despite the acidity in her words; she’s desperate, she’s dripping, she’s distraught.

“Did I not say all fours?”

Santana swallows thickly. “You did.”

“So in what world did you think it’d be okay for you to just… ignore me?”

“I—um. What?” Her girlfriend is rarely speechless, and it sends a cocky streak racing through her veins. Quinn’s shoulders square and her chin, glossy with wetness, lifts high.

Hands and knees, Santana.” It comes out as a command, but she searches for a hint of hesitation. Santana nods and Quinn gives her a soft smile. Though it doesn’t technically reflect the dynamic she’s trying to portray, she can’t help but bend forward to draw Santana into another reverent kiss. Her girlfriend responds in kind; swirling her tongue passionately in Quinn’s mouth, flicking against the roof of it, dragging the tip along the seam of Quinn’s lips.

They’ve been doing this for months now, this exploration, yet Quinn still finds herself stunned at how Santana can utterly undo her with a swirl, a flick, a drag. She doesn’t mistake the way Santana sucks on her tongue, moaning at the taste that lingers, the taste of herself.

“Hands and knees, right, baby?” she asks, breathing her words into Quinn’s open mouth before breaking the connection.

She could not give a single fuck about topping or whatever when Santana looks like that. The Devil himself must have had a hand in painting this picture; all dangerous, lowered eyes and kiss-swollen lips.

With some notable effort, she finally answers with a tenuous yes. The low chuckle in Santana’s throat has Quinn subconsciously donning her best Head Cheerio expression and the mischief fades fast. It really shouldn’t be as gratifying as it is.

As soon as she returns to her original position, Quinn smacks her ass, because that dumb chuckle got to her.

“Shit, Quinn, yes,” she hisses, seemingly surprised despite herself.

“Is this a joke to you?”

“Fuck, no, sorry.”

It’s the most pathetic apology Quinn’s ever heard and it’s like a switch is flipped within her. Screw curious. Screw virginal. Screw coquettish. Before she knows it, her palm is raining a flurry of spanks, strategically placed across the expanse of her ass, careful not to concentrate on a single spot. Her girlfriend arches into each one like she was born to take them while divine little whimpers spill from her lips. Quinn aches to swallow them.

Maybe next time. For now, she’s more concerned with the task at hand.

Satisfied with the uniform flush of deep scarlet, she drives three fingers back into Santana’s core without warning.

A wail is ripped from her girlfriend’s throat, along with a keening “Jesus Christ. That’s it, Q, right there,” as she hooks her fingers down.

Every thrust is met with a similar exaltation, and it’s easily the sexiest display Quinn’s ever witnessed. She commits it all to memory: the dark hair that swishes over Santana’s shoulders, the muscles in her arms that contract and release, the sweat beading at the small of her back.

“Yes, baby. Show me how much you like it when I fuck you,” Quinn says, trying to overlook how strange the words are coming from her own mouth. Whatever. She’ll work on it.

Santana's all for it though and backs into Quinn’s fingers like they’re her very life source. She reciprocates just as fiercely, pounding relentlessly into hot, wet heat until Santana’s hands are flailing, scrambling for support anywhere. She presses dime-sized bruises into the skin of Quinn’s waist, then wrinkles the white sheets knotted in her grasp, before settling onto the bedposts with such tenacity Quinn swears she can hear the wood splinter.

The headboard hammers against the wall and Quinn thinks of appropriate gift baskets for her next-door neighbor. Something that says ‘sorry for the noise, we’re under construction’. Maybe a $25 gift card to the campus bookstore.

A loud crack pulls her from her thoughts. There’s now a small, jagged fracture running along the length of the wood.

Make it $50.

Quinn pauses. “You’re paying for that.”

“Baby, I’ll personally set up a recurring donation to this WASP infestation you call a university if you quit fucking stopping,” Santana pants, picking up where she left off.

(Quinn’s definitely winning.)

Eventually, she keeps her hand stationary and lets Santana fuck herself on her fingers. Her mouth goes dry and all plans of dirty talk vanish because Santana’s ass smacks against her hips with every motion. And she’s looking. Respectfully. Quinn wonders when she became such an ass girl. Probably around the same time she became a girl girl—or strictly a Santana girl, for that matter—blossoming into her fluid sexuality six months after going to college.

Much to everyone’s disbelief, though Quinn can’t blame them.

Except Santana’s, however, because damn does this woman have unparalleled gaydar, and that, combined with her ability to see right through Quinn’s quasi-Christian virtues, should have been the first two indications that something was up. Much like Santana’s affinity for winking at her saucily in the halls of their high school, or even at the wedding, when—what was then—a two-time thing, happened and Santana didn’t even bat a single eyelash, like Quinn’s digression from heterohood was pretty much inevitable.

Bottom line: she loves Santana’s ass, and her body knows it. Her fingers fidget at her side, longing to show just how much she loves it with another storm of well-placed spanks, but the skin is already sporting angry purple-red bruises.

Quinn settles for the next best thing.

She reaches up to grab a fistful of dark hair and Santana moans a “motherfucking shit, Q,” as her walls flutter around Quinn’s fingers. They’re no longer perpendicular as Quinn’s tight reign on her locks jerk her upward, bodies sandwiched together now as her girlfriend rises and falls on the fingers nestled between them. It’s rougher and more physically demanding than anything Quinn’s done—there are so many working components her sex-addled brain can hardly keep up—but she holds steadfast and concentrates on making this the best possible experience for her girlfriend.

(Not that she isn’t getting anything out of this; her breath is equally strained and the way her nipples rub against Santana’s back with every undulation is so exquisite it sends pulses down to her center. Which is crazy because she just came twice, in like a thirty second timespan, and then literally fainted.

If Quinn’s being honest, she’s impressed by her own stamina and quick recuperation. But Santana’s always had a habit of reverting Quinn to her most basic instincts, particularly when a challenge is involved. And especially when a glint is.)

Santana’s neck is thrown back in bliss and Quinn takes the opportunity to suck at her pulse point. She can practically see the manner in which her girlfriend’s brain short-circuits with a choked gasp and a heavy shiver. One of her hands comes to rest at the back of Quinn’s neck encouragingly. The other, Quinn sees now, is alternating between palming her entire breast and tugging at the nipple almost harshly. She’s panting, rolling her hips with such vigor that Quinn has to maneuver her body to act as an anchor. She bites the soft spot on Santana’s shoulder and an honest to God deluge flows out of her.

A long, drawn-out fuck pierces the air.

Quinn doesn’t know whether it fell from her lips or Santana’s. Could be both. Her mind is foggy. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter who said what because, all in the same beat, her girlfriend tears her left hand away from where it’s been mauling her breast and reaches behind to snake it between Quinn’s thighs.

What an overachiever. One orgasm is expected. Two, great. Three? Now that’s just for bragging rights.

In any case, it doesn’t stop Quinn from spreading her legs further, allowing her more room to explore. And Santana does, with an insistent fingertip slip-sliding through disastrous amounts of arousal.

“Shit, Q, you’re still fucking soaked.” It’s the simple truth, and not a brag, but Quinn feels the need to prove something anyway.

How is Santana even limber enough to execute this? The acrobatics astound her.

Oh. Cheer, probably.

Quinn nearly shatters at the first stroke, highly sensitive from her last climax, and her own movements grow clumsy. She wraps more hair around her fist, desperately needing to ground herself to something. She’s already losing focus with the way Santana’s pinching her clit—which, unfortunately, is so not the point right now. So as much as her body despises herself for it, Quinn shuffles away.

(It’s also becoming less and less about the glint, and more and more about giving as good as she gets. And fuck, did she get it today.

Quinn briefly, briefly entertains the idea of pulling out again. Because that would be the most winning thing of all.

She supposes, in retrospect, it would also be considered winning if she could make Santana transcend universes as well.)

She redoubles her efforts, thrusting at a remarkably frantic pace, so much so that Santana digs manicured nails into her wrist. Quinn hisses in pain and glances down. Tiny droplets of blood collect in four perfect half circles, the inky red a stark contrast against her pale skin.

Quinn doesn’t hate it. It’s kind of pretty, she thinks, making a mental note to revisit this revelation later. Because there are more important things to concentrate on—like the fact that her girlfriend’s on the very precipice of a well-deserved orgasm.

“More. I need more,” Santana exhales, begging, all previous reservations thrown out the window. “Fuck me harder, baby, please.”

Quinn untangles the fingers from her hair and trails along Santana’s sides, letting a blunt nail scrape over her girlfriend’s clit. She rubs once, twice, three times and Santana collapses, slamming down on Quinn’s thighs with such force she winces. Quinn resumes for her, but the angle has her hand cramping. She switches to using her hips as leverage. It reaches deeper and pounds rougher and Santana shouts her name so loud as she comes Quinn’s afraid she’s awoken the entire Yale student body.

Unwilling to risk another noise violation (the residence college is no stranger to her girlfriend’s cries of pleasure), she wraps a hand around Santana’s throat, squeezing the sides firm enough to shut her up. She trips into another orgasm; a direct result of Quinn’s dominance.

She’s taken aback because she really didn’t mean to make Santana come again, especially since the first one had yet to subside. It seems to last an eternity, a constant stream of semi-coherent oh fucks, and fuck, Quinns, and oh fuck, Quinns tumble out as she quakes above.

The way at which her hand is positioned is pressed just so and the sound of Santana’s praises have Quinn following soon after, clenching around absolutely nothing, eyes rolling to the back of her head as friction alone sends her violently careening over the edge for the third time.

There are more stars, more tortured gulps of air, more everything. Quinn tries her damndest to stay tethered to Earth because she refuses to lose consciousness again. Sheer will emerges triumphant and she internally congratulates herself. She doesn’t even want to picture a world where Santana lords that much superiority over her. Not to mention the toll it’d have on her physical wellbeing, because two back-to-back fainting spells seems… unhealthy.

Quinn buries her face between her girlfriend’s shoulder blades as the last vestiges of her crescendo dissipate, with what turns out to be a bit too much force. Santana falls into the blankets, legs splayed like stilts, then swats at the fingers still lodged inside, indicating she’s had enough.

She withdraws immediately, narrowly ignoring the urge to suck them dry (now is not the time), before getting up and stumbling back around to the head of the bed. Quinn’s knees are weak but she bravely endures the three-step journey, dropping to the floor inelegantly when they’re finally face-to-face. Or, rather, Quinn’s face to a mop of Santana’s wild post-sex mane.

“San, are you okay?” she asks, stroking softly. Santana hums lowly as Quinn massages the spot where her hair was being yanked.

She has to strain to hear Santana’s yes, and then a few other bits that she can’t quite make out.

“I know you’re tired and I know that took a lot out of you, but I need you to please come out from under there because I can’t hear a thing you’re saying,” Quinn says, filling with worry.

More muffled sounds come and she tries to roll Santana over from where she’s lying flat into the duvet, fearful that she might suffocate. It takes quite a bit of effort as Santana’s fully exhausted, but she manages to flop onto her back with their combined actions.

Wide, glazed-over, interdimensional eyes blink hazily until they shift into focus. “Quinn,” Santana sighs, “hi.”

Quinn can’t help the giggle that escapes because her girlfriend’s hair is plastered to her forehead and she’s smiling the biggest, stupidest smile.

May God help her. She’s so in love.

(She couldn’t care less about who’s crowned victor anymore. Whatever, it’s a tie.)

Quinn presses a fluttering kiss to the tip of her girlfriend’s nose. “Hi, baby.”

“I said,” Santana starts again, teasingly, “that was the best sex I’ve ever fucking had.”

“It wasn’t too much for you, was it?”

She plants a sloppy kiss to Quinn’s cheek. “No, it was perfect. You’re perfect. I love you so much. Also you look like an angel right now with your… blonde.” Santana’s voice is unusually soft as she follows with a “Was I good?”

“Mmm, yes, so good,” she says, loving the uninhibited candor orgasms bring. She nudges Santana over and scoots into bed with her, opening her arms. Santana crawls right into them, nuzzling into the smooth skin of Quinn’s chest. Half-lidded eyes peer up and she gets the hint, shuffling down to capture Santana’s lips. Their tongues tangle and she pours every ounce of affection into it, drinking in her girlfriend’s contented sighs.

Santana pulls away first, yawning. “I’m serious. If we never met and somehow I ended up in the good place because God actually likes lesbians and you were there I would definitely mistake you for a heavenly being. Because you’re so pretty, Quinn. The prettiest. And the smartest. I’m a feminist, you know.”

“Thanks, S,” she says, laughing. “You’re very smart and very pretty too.”

Post-sex Santana is probably Quinn’s favorite version of her. Right in front of pre- and during-sex Santana. There seems to be a pattern emerging here. Whatever. She’s less snarky, less full of herself, and infinitely more chatty.

Precious is a word that doesn’t come to mind when describing one Santana Lopez, her typically callous, verging-on-caustic girlfriend, yet here it is now, ringing around Quinn’s brain because god, she’s so cute. She feels privileged to even bear witness to it. But there’s something else here, something more than freshly fucked rambling, something that Quinn can’t name until Santana’s big mouth opens up again.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m gonna date you so hard, like, till death do we part. Something about richer and poorer. Deal?”

Oh.

(It’s like how people say drunk words are sober thoughts, so she’s ninety percent sure her girlfriend just potentially... in the most Santana fashion… announced she’d marry her. And Quinn’s quickly realizing that she might just be in favor of that happening.

Which is like, ugh. Quinn’s not a lesbian, but she sure as fuck is thinking like one right now.)

“Deal,” she whispers, kissing her girlfriend’s forehead and brushing the hair out of her face, collecting it into a bun at the top of her head. She probably won’t even remember her words in the morning. But Quinn will. Santana just smiles and yawns again, breaths evening out while Quinn’s brain rapid-fires at a hundred miles a minute.

Quinn could stay like this forever, truly forever, basking in the afterglow that comes with five rounds and a not-proposal. But the cool air is drying the sweat on their skin and she knows they’re going to be in desperate need of a shower in a minute.

“Come on, let’s go take a bath.”

Santana mumbles sleepily against her collar, “Together?”

“Yeah, babe, together. I’ll even light those candles you like. And you can pick out two bath bombs.”

She didn’t think Santana’s grin could get any bigger, or stupider, but it does.

“Race you there.”