quintessentially hers

"Babe," Santana's voice is quizzical and a bit hesitant, her eyebrows furrowed, as Quinn adjusts the straps, pulling them tight. The jerky motions make Santana's hips sway, and she reaches out a hand to steady herself on Quinn's shoulder. Quinn is crouched, eye-level with Santana's crotch, and it makes something inside of Santana heat up just because – well… Quinn grips it firmly and yanks it back and forth, swiveling Santana's body with it. It's on, tight and snug, and the bindings cut into the area beneath Santana's legs and up around her waist. "What's going on?"

"Be quiet, Santana," Quinn sounds determined. Her eyes are hard as they sweep over Santana's crotch, and Santana feels almost embarrassed because she knows Quinn is focusing on the rubber protrusion connected to her by straps and buckles. Santana handles it nervously, adjusting it, getting used to the way it attaches to her body.

"It's ridiculous," Santana says dryly. "You could have picked a cuter one."

Quinn quirks an eyebrow, amused. "Cuter?"

"Yeah," Santana replies defensively. "It's black. You tryin' to tell me something?"

Quinn just smiles and it makes a blush rise in Santana's cheeks.

"This isn't exactly what I had in mind," Santana admits, her throat tightening.

"You'll like it." Quinn smirks, her eyes lidded. "I promise."

Santana bites her lip and suppresses a sigh as Quinn leads her towards the middle of the room, where one of their dining room chairs is placed. Santana is beginning to feel a little bit nervous, because – out of nowhere – Quinn produces their pair of fluffy pink handcuffs.

"Seriously, Q? All of this, tonight?" Santana can't keep the grin out of her voice, though. "What do you want me to hook you up to?"

Quinn just laughs, deep in her throat, and she yanks Santana forward so that she stumbles just a bit. Then, with steady hand, she pushes Santana down into the chair. Santana is somewhat distracted by the smell on Quinn's neck when Quinn leans over her, gathering Santana's wrists behind her, and then clipping them firmly together with the handcuffs behind the chair. Santana is still grinning when Quinn pulls away, partially because she thinks this might be a joke.

"Hard for you to get what you're looking for out of this," Santana rolls her hips suggestively, "If you've got me all tied up like this."

Quinn ignores her. She digs out a length of ribbon and starts binding Santana's feet to the chair legs, effectively immobilizing her.

Santana isn't used to Quinn being so forceful – or so quiet. Santana bites her lip, aware of the way she can do nothing but remain still, and Quinn is still hovering with her face near Santana's lap.

Quinn grins, and it makes everything inside of Santana go white hot. Quinn slowly rises, and Santana can feel her heart thud dully in her chest.

"You thought you were going to fuck me?" Quinn says it playfully, but with enough of a bite that it makes Santana's stomach clench. All of the spit dries up in Santana's mouth, and she swallows, licking her lips, when Quinn hovers hear her face. Santana can feel Quinn's breath against her cheek, and it makes her lips tingle in anticipation.

"Yeah," Santana's voice is hoarse, and the way Quinn is looking at her makes her heart race.

"Silly." Quinn smiles again, and Santana shudders out a breath at the way Quinn's body is ghosting over hers, barely touching – skin grazing against skin, lips whispering against her cheek and jaw and chin. Santana tries to wriggle, but she's held tight, and she can do nothing but watch Quinn, whose hair has fallen down around them in a curtain the color of butterscotch and amber.

"I'm going to fuck you.." Quinn's lips tickle against Santana's cheekbone, beneath her ear, and it sends a flood of heat spiraling through Santana's body. Santana swallows again and tries to control her breathing, because Quinn isn't even touching her and she's wet, and her body is aching, and every part of her is hungry for Quinn. "So hard."

Quinn shifts her body weight down onto Santana's lap gradually, so that Santana can savor every sensation; her own bare thighs sliding against Santana's, and Quinn's arms loop around Santana's neck, drawing their bodies impossibly close. The stiff, cold rubber cock is between them, but its presence there makes Quinn smile, and Santana gulp, and Quinn rolls her hips suggestively against it.

Santana can feel it against her bare stomach, rigid and cool and tacky in the feeling that rubber can be. But Quinn's movements brush the base of it against the area directly above her clit, and she's already throbbing from anticipation and the sleek, sly smiles Quinn has been throwing her all night. She knows there will be a mess between her thighs. She sucks in a breath and holds it, attempting to remain calm, but she has no chance when Quinn finally, finally lowers her lips to skirt along the delicate dips and curves of Santana's jaw, dragging her tongue down the line of Santana's neck and over her pulse point, which is thundering at a gallop.

Santana groans, and tries to roll her hips, though she has limited mobility; something about that has Quinn grinning wickedly, and Santana yelps when she feels Quinn's teeth dig into her shoulder. It sends a shock through her body – every nerve snapping, and a sudden, insistent drop in her lower belly. She has to chew on her lip to keep from whining, because – well, she isn't that desperate. But Quinn's mouth is making a hot path down her shoulder, towards her collarbones, and the way she licks there makes Santana's breaths come in short, thready gasps. Quinn's lips are grinning as she sucks, gently at first, directly along Santana's throat, but she draws out a thin, startled moan when her tempo increases and Santana's hips begin jerking of their own accord.

"Are you wet?" Quinn whispers, her lips crimson and swollen and so hot, next to Santana's ear. Santana can feel the heat radiating off of them, can almost sense the wetness and the way it would make her shudder if Quinn were to kiss – or, more deliciously, latch onto – her earlobe. Santana can't control her breathing; it's ragged and uneven, and she opens her eyes blearily. Quinn grinds down, hard, her crotch sliding against the base of Santana's strap-on, pushing it down mercilessly into Santana.

Santana whines again, and bites her lip harder. Her fingers – helpless and bound behind her chair – squeeze with the desire to grab Quinn and pull her forward, to shove her down, to thrust into her until she's too blind to see and too overwhelmed to think. But Quinn has a different idea, and Santana is helpless but to obey.

"Oh, you are," Quinn's voice is so low it sends a shiver down Santana's spine. When she finds Quinn's eyes, they're so dark they're almost black, ringed in dappled green and hazel. Santana hisses against the sudden invasion of Quinn's fingers beneath the leather straps, digging into Santana's heat and coating her fingers. "You're so turned on by this."

"Whatever, Quinn," Santana snaps, color rising in her cheeks. Her eyebrows furrow in a frown, and she looks away, glaring at the ground. "Lord it over me all you want. You'll get yours."

Quinn wears a perpetual smirk, and she shifts, until her breasts are nearly in Santana's face, and she strokes both of her hands through Santana's hair, as if to soothe her. Santana huffs, turning her face away, even though – well, damn. She wants to touch them. Of course, she's unable to, because of Quinn's ridiculous control fetish, which is kind of pissing her off at this point.

Quinn lowers her face until she's near Santana's ear, though her fingers still thread through Santana's hair. "I love you," She whispers.

Just hearing those words untangles a knot in Santana's stomach. She relaxes, if only slightly, deciding to allow Quinn's smugness go – for now. Quinn kisses Santana's cheek, fully, and Santana glares at her with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

Abruptly, Quinn rocks her hips down, grinding into Santana again, and Santana's breath strangles in her throat. She groans, and her head falls back, her own hips jutting upwards in response. She knows Quinn is grinning, enjoying every single second of this, but she can't – all she can think about is the tightness building in her belly, and the white hot edginess that pools between her legs, and how her body craves friction, but she can't, because of the damn thing in the way –

"I'm wet too," Quinn confides softly. Santana watches at her as she uses her own hand to slide down her bare abdomen, and then poke beneath her blue lace underwear. Santana stares, hard, at the dark patch that slicks against Quinn's skin, and she bites her lip hard enough to draw blood when Quinn reveals the thick stickiness that clings to her fingers in wet strands when she pulls them out.

Enough teasing. Santana's body is on fire, and every single part of her is yearning for Quinn – she wants to taste her and feel her and most of all fuck her, but she can't, and it makes her desperate and frenzied.

Quinn is smiling that slant-eyed, arrogant smile, as if she is privy to everything Santana is thinking. Slowly, slowly, Quinn rises to her full height with her knees on either side of Santana's thighs, and Santana's eyes go a little wide at the side of Quinn stretched out above her. Quinn's creamy skin pulls taught against her ribcage, accentuating the sharp jut of her hips. Santana sucks in a harsh breath through her nose when Quinn settles her weight on one side and slides her underwear off, first one leg, then the other. Suddenly everything is amplified: Quinn, so close to her, so soft and naked and hot – Santana can smell her and it makes everything inside of her flare of up with vicious want.

Santana's hips jerk, impatiently, and she tugs uselessly at her binds. The sight of a naked, grinning, disheveled Quinn is almost too much – Santana wants to throw her down and fuck her hard. She wants to fuck that self-satisfied smile off of her face.

"Baby, are you ready?" Quinn husks, and there's still something playful, something superior about her tone. Santana remains silent – a bit petulant – glaring up at her, as Quinn twines her arms around Santana's neck.

Quinn rolls her pelvis once, hovering over the stiff black cock jutting out from between Santana's legs. Santana's eyes travel down, growing larger as they do, and she holds her breath as she watches Quinn lower herself, so slowly onto it.

The sound Quinn makes is so fucking sexy it should be illegal. It's a grateful, fulfilled groan, the sound of release of built up tension; like finding it, that special spot, of being stretched and filled.

It makes Santana's stomach tighten, and her chest heaves desperately. She can't stand – she can't stand it that Quinn is so close, so wet, so ready, and Santana is helpless to do anything but watch. Quinn grunts, her body quivering, as she lowers herself slowly, slowly, until she's flush against Santana's thighs.

Santana can feel the pool of moisture and it makes her heart leap.

"Quinn," Santana's voice is raw and serious, and her eyes are dark and full of dangerous need. "Let me fuck you. Untie me."

Quinn's laugh is windy, as if she can't catch her breath, and she rocks experimentally against Santana. It draws out an even louder groan, and her eyes squeeze shut, enjoying the sensation. Santana's fingernails bite into the meat of her palms; her own heat floods out between her legs. It's throbbing. She feels like she's on fire and vibrating, all at once.

Quinn begins sliding upwards, her hands tangled low in Santana's hair, gripping tight. Santana grunts, the sharp sensation needling along her skin, towards her belly button and below; when Quinn's breastbone is nearly level with Santana's chin, she slides back down again, this time more quickly. The sharp sound of her thighs meeting Santana's claps out, and both Quinn and Santana gasp at the feeling. Santana's body tightens, like a chord drawn taut, and Quinn heaves hot, heavy breaths into Santana's hair.

"Oh, my God, Santana," Quinn groans. She rolls her hips, shifting up and down, and the friction against Santana's clit is excruciatingly brief and unfulfilling. Santana whines, jutting upwards as best she can, seeking firmer pressure – and in return Quinn gasps, and slams down.

"Oh, fuck, fuck," Quinn's fingers grip Santana tightly along the shoulders, and she begins hammering onto Santana, heedless; the rhythm frantic and needy. Santana cries out because it's too much and not enough and her body is trembling and she's helpless to do anything.

Quinn's skin grows slick and impossibly hot, and her hair mats to her forehead. She pounds shamelessly down against Santana's thighs, rocking them both, until there's a thick, sticky mess between them. Santana whines with every thrust, her own hips responding, pushing into Quinn, and she can sense when Quinn is close because her body tightens, freezes – then Quinn is burying her face against Santana's neck and biting, hard, while a scream catches in her throat and her nails dig in. Santana groans, loudly, and Quinn's hips work mindlessly for a few more moments before she finally stops.

The only sound is the loud, ragged, wet breaths that Quinn takes against Santana's neck, and Santana's own breathing, which is labored and laced with whimpering. Quinn settles her weight against Santana bonelessly, and now Santana is overcome with the urge to hold her – even though every single nerve in her body is positively throbbing.

It doesn't take Quinn very long to recover, though that smug, cocky grin is back, and now her eyes are glazed and half-lidded. "I loved fucking you like that," Quinn says, and she kisses Santana firmly on the lips.

Santana responds, even though her pride tells her she shouldn't – she can't help it, because her lips are hungry and desperate and needy, and she wants, and Quinn's hot, slick tongue is drawing out pleading whines without Santana's consent. She bucks her hips impatiently and it makes Quinn hiss and draw away, her eyes narrowed.

"I know what you need," Quinn says, and her tone makes Santana's abdomen coil tight.

Quinn carefully lifts herself upwards, and Santana stares at the way the strap-on glistens. It makes her hungry to put her mouth on the source of all that wetness, and she wants—

But Quinn isn't interested in what she wants. Instead, Quinn leans down, reaching behind Santana, fiddling with the buckle. Santana inhales deeply the scent of Quinn, rich and vibrant, the smell of her sweat and shampoo and all things quintessentially her. And it ignites a different sort of hunger in Santana; one that urges her to hold Quinn close, to play with her hair, to kiss her fingertips and her temple.

In a moment, Quinn has the contraption down around Santana's knees, but it can go no further due to the way Santana's legs are tied to the chair. It's Santana's turn to smirk at the predicament, because Quinn is frowning quizzically at it.

"It's okay," Quinn mutters to herself. "Works better this way." She squats, and with strong, sure fingers she tugs the ribbons away from Santana's ankles. Once they're loose, Santana wriggles her ankles, but Quinn takes no time in sliding the strap on away from her.

A brief hope flares in Santana that Quinn will put it on – she can't help the way that her entire body is craving it – but Quinn discards it on the floor, sliding it away with her foot. Santana doesn't have time to be disappointed, however, because Quinn drops to her knees. Santana's eyes grow wide, and her thighs fall apart eagerly; she groans in anticipation, and Quinn hasn't even breathed in that direction yet.

"Oh, baby, I know how bad you want it," Quinn says, and Santana is past the point of denying it. She knows that her thighs are coated, and that everything between them is puffy and swollen and so, so hot. Her clit is throbbing from the echoes of the imprecise rhythm of Quinn on top of her, which was maddening and euphoric all at once; but it tingles, exposed now to the air and the prospect of Quinn's perfect, pillowy lips only a few inches away.

Quinn uses the back of her hands to spread Santana even wider, until Santana is slouched in the chair and completely, utterly open. She whines when Quinn walks a finger down the slick flesh of her thigh, drawing tantalizing designs along the skin there. Her hips shift and move, more freely now, but Quinn pushes her back with a firm palm against her lower stomach. "Be still."

Santana bites her lip, breathing hard through her nose, and she wishes she had the self-control not to watch. Watching just makes it worse. Watching the way Quinn's flawless, manicured hands trail up and down her thigh, skirting along her pelvis and hipbones and then back down again, creating a riot of tingles and tremors. Her chest heaves with the force of her breath, and her head swims drunkenly with desire.

Quinn finally grips Santana beneath her knee, drawing it upward slightly, so that she can lean forward and place her mouth along the crease in Santana's pelvis. The sensation of Quinn's hot, soft tongue licking a trail there feels like being burned; Santana yelps and jolts, thrusting closer, her breaths coming in short, soft, pleading pants.

"Be still," Quinn whispers again, more as a reminder than a warning. Her lips skim across Santana's sensitive skin, her tongue tracing the divots of her pelvis, until she finally comes in contact with the part of Santana that is dripping.

By now, Santana is almost sobbing, and she's twisting her arms so tightly in an effort to hold onto something – anything. Her body is thrumming with pent up need, and the feeling of Quinn's breaths against her is driving her completely wild. When Quinn's tongue licks out a firm, single stroke against Santana's clit, she nearly loses it; she thrashes and her spine arches, groaning and whimpering.

Quinn softens it with a kiss, her lips rubbing gently, and even lower down – she kisses and spreads Santana wide, so delicately that Santana's heel digs into the ground and her hips grind upwards powerlessly.

Quinn is heedless of Santana, her tongue snaking in long, firm strokes, sliding inside and then out again in a pattern of her own choosing. Santana's wetness coats her lips and chin, and she goes at such a careful, deliberate pace that she keeps Santana right on edge – hinging there, desperate and frantic for that one, single push that would send her spiraling over the edge, that would offer some relief.

Santana's body is pent up and full of tension; she feels like she's overheating and feverish. "Quinn, god," Santana doesn't even know what she's saying. She tries to press closer to Quinn's face, but Quinn always stays one instant away, not near enough to satisfy the craving Santana has for contact.

Finally, Quinn's tongue makes its way back up to Santana's clit, and Santana moans in appreciation at stronger sensation. Quinn's hands slide up either of Santana's thighs to grip her around the waist, securing her, so that Santana can only squirm and arch futilely.

Quinn licks with the flat of her tongue, firmly and rhythmically, so that she feels Santana stiffen and coil beneath her. She can feel Santana draw tight, and then – she pulls away, quickly. Santana immediately jerks, thrusting her hips against Quinn's grip, and the sound of the handcuffs clattering together rings out.

"Not yet," Quinn says, looking up at Santana sharply. Her eyes are dark and direct; Santana can barely see her over her own heaving breasts.

Santana can't think. She can't speak. She only moans helplessly when Quinn places her mouth against her clit again, but this time just her lips; rubbing softly, kissing and kneading it. Santana whines and arches again, struggling against Quinn and the awkward angle of the chair stabbing into her back, but to no avail; Quinn holds her steady.

Regardless of the indefinite pace of Quinn's torture, Santana feels herself building – she's just there, right on the brink; only one good twist and she would be—

Quinn jerks her mouth away, again, leaving Santana whining desperately and near tears.

"Not yet!" Quinn says, more sharply now. Santana swallows her whimpers and she can feel the muscles in her thighs trembling with the effort to remain still.

Santana can feel it, in every single cell of her being, that she's going to come. Quinn just breathing so close to her has her aching, and the ball of tension low in her pelvis is wound so tightly that she believes she may explode from it. Every panting breath is laced with a whine, pleading.

Quinn licks from the bottom of Santana's left lip, all the way to the top, in one sure movement. She copies it on the other side, and it makes Santana squirm and heave desperately. Quinn kisses the skin between Santana's thighs and lips, her tongue occasionally lapping out; paying attention to every part of Santana – besides the part that needs it the most.

She watches Santana's face when she finally slides her tongue against Santana's clit again, and Santana moans, but bites her bottom lip hard enough to see stars. Her whole body is tense, the muscles in her stomach as firm as stone, because she knows – she knows – that one single movement will make Quinn pull away. Her ribs heave with the effort of being still.

But the way Quinn swirls her tongue around Santana's clit is like torture. It makes that knot grow even tighter, and she knows without a doubt that she's burning up. She bites her lip and squeezes her fists together; her muscles tremble, and she can feel herself gushing.

"Please," Santana finally croaks out, when Quinn has delicately taken Santana's clit into her mouth. "Please let me come. Please."

Quinn smiles, flicks her tongue once against Santana, and pulls her head back.

"Yes, baby," Quinn says with a grin on her face. She slides three fingers into Santana while she says it, and watches as Santana's back arches and her ribs heave. "Yes, come for me, baby."

Santana rides Quinn's fingers, hard, and Quinn thrusts brutally into her. Santana nearly screams at the sensation of Quinn taking her clit into her mouth and then sucking; it only takes an instant of that, and a series of slap-slap-slap into her before her entire body goes rigid and then seizes, clamping down on Quinn's fingers, and her breath escapes in loud, breathy whines. Santana rocks, hard and slow, into Quinn's fingers, who pulls away to watch it wash over Santana's face. When she's finished, Quinn gently pulls out of Santana, and sucks all three fingers at once into her mouth.

Santana can't breathe, or see, or think; her mind is blank, white-hot, and buzzing. Her body feels tender and oversensitive; her shoulders, elbows, and wrists ache. Quinn unclasps her gently from the handcuffs, and then smooths her palms down either side of Santana's arms, until they're on the ride side of her body again.

"How do you feel?" Quinn asks, pushing the hair out of Santana's eyes.

Santana's head rolls lazily against the back of the chair; her eyes are slitted and heavy. She hums, barely, in response.

"Let's go, baby," Quinn says quietly, and she hooks one of Santana's arms over her shoulder, heaving her upwards. Santana's legs are wobbly and unsteady, but Quinn guides her with an arm around her waist towards their couch. Quinn sits down, and then slides Santana into her lap. Santana tucks her face beneath Quinn's chin, and presses a small, exhausted kiss to her throat.

"You're such a bitch," Santana whispers, but Quinn can tell that she's on the brink of sinking into sleep.

"You like it," Quinn smiles, and runs her fingers down the wild length of Santana's hair, working out the knots.

"Still." Santana hums, and closes her eyes. "Love you."

"Love you, too."

A/N: Smutty oneshot is smutty. Hope you enjoyed. This served no purpose other than because I sort of, kind of, owed it to someone.