Domesticity Meme - Santana/Quinn
asked by duckayeh and anon x 2
who is the big spoon/little spoon
“Who would have thought that Queen Bitch Quinn Fabray would be a fucking snuggle monster?”
“Shut up, Santana,” Quinn grumbles even as she pulls Santana’s arm tighter across her middle.
“No seriously. If I told half the kids we went to high school with that-”
Quinn turns enough to see Santana’s face. “Do you want to have sex with me in the near future?”
Santana laughs but doesn’t say anything else as Quinn turns back and presses further into Santana’s body. “Don’t have to be defensive about it,” Santana says after a few minutes of silence, her lips pressed up against Quinn’s shoulder.
“I’m not. I just want to sleep and you keep talking.”
“Sure.” Santana shifts her foot to hook around Quinn’s ankle, and let’s her fingers tangle lightly with Quinn’s.
“It’s cute that you’re pretending you don’t like this just as much as I do,” Quinn whispers with a smile.
Face nuzzled into Quinn’s neck, Santana just lets out a petulant, “Shut up.”
what is their favorite non-sexual activity
“Okay. Them,” Santana says, pointing to a young couple across the restaurant.
Eyes narrowed, Quinn stares at them for a moment, swirling her wine around in its glass. “Third date. Haven’t slept together yet, but she’s thinking about it tonight. She’s pretty coy during foreplay, but she’s totally a biter. He’s vanilla. Only does it in the missionary. I give them about a month.”
Santana laughs around a forkful of pasta. “Nice.”
“Them,” Quinn says, tipping her head towards another couple giggling together on the other side of the restaurant.
Turning, Santana looks at them for a few seconds before turning back to her girlfriend, eyebrow arched. “First date. He’s a virgin, but they’re totally getting down tonight. Six months, maybe. She’ll fall for him, but he’ll never stop thinking about all the other girls he hasn’t fucked.”
“Classy,” Quinn deadpans.
“Hey, it’s not my fault he’s a tool. I just call it like I see it.”
Quinn’s eyes roll up for a second, but she laughs as she pours more wine into Santana’s glass. “I suppose that’s fair.”
“Do us,” Santana says softly, the skin around her eyes wrinkled.
Quinn looks across at her curiously. “Us?”
“I know us.”
Santana shrugs. “Do it anyway.”
Smiling, Quinn says, “Okay, um. Too many dates to count. They’re definitely getting it on tonight.” Santana acknowledges that with a smirk. “They live together, but they’re not married. Living in sin like that is a total turn on.” Santana laughs loudly at that. “They’re probably in it for the long haul, but only time will tell.”
“I don’t know,” Santana says as she looks at Quinn warmly. “I think you’re wrong.”
Quinn laughs incredulously. “Is that so?”
One corner of her mouth turned up, Santana reaches into the purse she has hanging off her chair and pulls out a small black box, sliding it towards Quinn. “Yeah it is. Depending on how the next few seconds go, I’m thinking they’re engaged.”
who uses all the hot water in the morning
A cold rush of air into the shower, alerts Quinn to Santana’s presence. Rinsing shampoo out of her hair, Quinn doesn’t even turn when the shower curtain moves aside and her girlfriend steps into the shower. “No,” she says when Santana’s hands settle on her hips.
“No what?” Santana asks, trying to sound innocent, but failing. Lips press against Quinn’s back, just below her neck and trail upward.
“I actually want to take a shower with hot water this morning, Santana.”
“We are taking a shower.”
Quinn’s breath hitches a little when Santana’s hand slides over her stomach and heads slowly south. “A shower doesn’t involve your hand between my legs.”
“You’re clearly not doing it right then,” Santana jokes, teeth biting teasingly against the skin of Quinn’s back.
“I don’t want to take another cold shower,” Quinn whines, but it’s a pretty pathetic protest considering the way her body is pressing down against Santana’s hand, seeking friction.
“Baby, if I stop now we’re both going to have to take one anyway,” Santana whispers, the hand still on Quinn’s hip gripping harder.
“Go fast,” Quinn orders, her hand shooting forward to prop herself up against the wall as her head falls forward and Santana’s fingers push lower.
what they order from take out
They stumble out of the bar, hanging off each other and laughing. “The look on his face when you…” Quinn’s arm tightens around Santana’s shoulders.
“I know,” Santana laughs, her hand gripping Quinn’s hip as she steers them in the direction of their apartment. It’s a good thing they’ve done this walk a million times, otherwise she’d be way too drunk to navigate the city sidewalks.
“You know what would make this night even better?” Quinn asks, her nose bumping against Santana’s temple.
“If you let me finger fuck you in that alley over there?” Santana suggests, pointing towards the darkened space to their left.
Quinn laughs, this low husky sound and Santana almost thinks maybe she’s going to agree until she says, “No, but save that thought.”
Santana hums, amused. “Then…food?”
“Yes,” Quinn says solemnly, pointing his finger at Santana seriously.
“Do you think that Indian place on 5th will deliver to a street corner?”
“Dunno.” Quinn looks around and then spots something over Santana’s head. “Let’s go to that diner. They can deliver to a diner and we can eat pancakes while we wait.”
Santana pulls her phone out of her purse and starts dialing the number while Quinn drags them towards the diner in question. “You have fucking awesome problem solving skills,” Santana says as she puts the phone to her ear. “The usual?”
Quinn nods as they open the door to the small all night diner. “Extra naan though.”
Santana scoffs. “I know.”
“You’re the best,” Quinn says with a drunken smile, pressing a sloppy kiss to Santana’s cheek.
“Yeah, yeah, just order me like ten pancakes while I do this.”
what is the most trivial thing they fight over
They fight about everything. Everything. Quinn eats her cereal too loudly, Santana puts the forks in the drawer incorrectly.
It’s kind of awesome though. Like, Santana doesn’t love the fact that they irritate each other every five seconds because that can get old, but after years of dating most of their stupid fights have just turned into foreplay.
They’ll be out at a bar and Quinn will pick a fight over the stupidest shit.
Thursday night it’s over the song Santana selects at the jukebox.
“You have such shitty taste in music,” Quinn tells her, eyes narrowed.
“Fuck off,” Santana replies, throwing her shot back and bouncing her head to the beat of the song.
Quinn does this exasperated eye roll she always does, and clenches her jaw which is hot as hell. Santana’s so distracted by the way the muscles in Quinn’s neck are tightening that she almost forgets to snap back when Quinn bites off another insult about her music preferences.
But she remembers and they exchange barbs for the next few minutes, their friends watching them with cautious expressions. It’s mostly just muscle memory after that - Santana’s indifferent expression, Quinn’s flushed glares, the part where Santana drags her towards the bathrooms and hikes her up on the counter.
The sex is fast and harsh, teeth biting just a little harder than normal, nails leaving red trails over skin.
Quinn comes with Santana’s name on her lips in an angry whisper that’s so hot Santana’s pretty sure she could come just from that. But then Quinn’s sliding off the counter and pushing Santana into a stall and against the door, hands slipping into Santana’s pants.
“Fuck, I love fighting with you,” is the last thing Santana’s able to say before Quinn robs her of her breath.
who does most of the cleaning
Santana can never decide if it’s super awesome or kind of sad that Quinn is like the perfect housewife. Years of being trained to be just that has made Quinn crazy skilled at cooking and cleaning and generally taking care of everything around the apartment.
Sometimes, Santana calls her wifey or maid because it amuses her to make Quinn’s eye twitch like it does, and fighting has always been just foreplay for them.
But sometimes Santana gets this soft look on her face when she sees Quinn scrubbing the shower out on a Saturday morning because Quinn just starts doing stuff around the apartment without even realizing that Santana can pick up some slack too. If Santana doesn’t say anything, Quinn will spend the day cleaning and organizing without even paying attention to the time.
“Baby, you don’t have to do that,” Santana says, hip against the door jamb as she watches Quinn run a sponge across the tiles of the shower wall.
“It’s not going to wash itself, Santana,” Quinn grumbles.
Santana walks over and grabs Quinn’s wrist, still its motion so she can take the sponge away from her girlfriend. “I’m here too you know,” she says with a crooked smile.
Quinn looks at her, a little bewildered. “Yeah, I know.”
“So I gots this,” Santana jokes, pulling Quinn away from the shower and shoving her towards the door. “Go park your fine ass on the couch and watch some tv like normal people on a Saturday morning.”
“Santana,” Quinn sighs. “There’s so much to get-”
“Sit on the couch,” Santana tells her, eyes narrowed in warning. “I’m serious. If I see you do anything that’s not losing brain cells in front of the television, I will put my fist so far up your ass…and not in the kinky way.”
“Oh my god shut your mouth now,” Quinn says, laughing and holding her hand up to stop Santana. “I’m going, I’m going.”
Satisfied, Santana turns to the shower to pick up where Quinn left off, but looks back again when she feels that Quinn’s stayed in the room. “I told you to-”
“I love you,” Quinn interrupts, a smile playing over her lips.
Flushing a little, Santana rolls her eyes. “Yeah me too. Whatever.”
“Say it,” Quinn orders, voice low.
A beat. “I love you,” Santana says seriously, staring straight at the hazel eyes across the bathroom. “But I’ll beat you if you don’t go get your couch potato on.”
And with that, Quinn leaves.
what has a season pass in their DVR
“This show again?” Santana laughs, handing Quinn a margarita and waiting for her to make room on the couch.
“We watched enough of Real World last weekend. This weekend we watch my stuff. And you like it, so don’t even play.”
“It’s classic,” Quinn corrects.
“What do you even like about it anyway?”
“It’s Mary Tyler Moore,” Quinn says like that should explain it all.
Santana just blinks at her, face neutral as she licks a bit of salt off the rim of her margarita.
Sighing, Quinn shakes her head a bit at Santana. “She like…the whole show is about this woman who dumped the guy she was dating, moved to a different city, and made a name for herself.”
“Chicks do that all time.”
“This was the 70s. She was awesome, okay? The epitome of a strong female character.”
Santana observes the character in question on the television, her head titled to the side. “She’s hot,” Santana muses. “I’ll give you that.”
Quinn laughs, patting Santana on the thigh. “Whatever. As long as you shut up while we watch it.”
Santana does. And next weekend when they settle on the couch to watch tv, she totally suggests they watch that show about the hot bitch with the legs.
Quinn smacks and kisses her at the same time.
who controls the netflix queue
They have movie night every Friday night. It’s tradition. One of them cooks, the other orders the movie.
Santana purposefully puts really crappy movies on the queue, though she’ll never admit it. When it’s her night to pick, those are the ones she plays because it’s always easier to convince Quinn to fool around if a super uninteresting film is playing.
Quinn picks these super classic super sappy movies from like the stone age. Santana finds them totally yawn worthy, but Quinn watches them with wide unblinking eyes, taking in every cheesy line and dramatic kiss.
It means that Santana’s hands get exactly nowhere fun during the two hours or so they spend on the couch, but if she’s honest, there’s an upside.
The tension in Quinn’s face ebbs away as the story unfolds, and her hand always seeks out Santana’s at some point, their fingers intertwining warmly. When it’s over, Quinn always pulls Santana closer, runs her fingers softly over the skin of Santana’s collarbone, and this smile spreads over her lips that always makes Santana’s breath hitch.
“I love you,” Quinn will say in a soft airy whisper right before she kisses Santana.
It’s nights like those that Santana thinks she might just let Quinn pick the movies every Friday.
who calls up the super/landlord when the heat’s not working
Quinn walks into the apartment to find Santana pacing in the kitchen in full winter clothing. It’s what makes her notice that the place is freezing.
who steals the blankets
“The heat’s broken,” she comments, setting her stuff down and walking to Santana. She stops her girlfriend by grabbing her biceps in both hands and rubbing them up and down while Santana glares at her.
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
“Did you call the super?”
“Of course I fucking called the super. Asshole said he’s going to do it, but he’s a jackass so who knows.”
“I’ll go talk to him.”
“I just told you I called him.”
“I’m scarier than you. He’ll listen to me.”
“Bitch please. Are you kidding?”
Quinn quirks an eyebrow. “Well, I’ll go talk to him and if he gets a move on with this heat thing we’ll know the answer.”
Santana frowns, thinking over that for a second before saying, “Quinn, baby, I’m freezing. Leave our fat ugly landlord alone and come keep me warm.”
Quinn laughs. “How?”
“Uh, that should be fucking obvious,” Santana says, staring at her incredulously.
Feigning ignorance, Quinn shrugs. “Not really.”
“Just take your damn clothes off, damn.”
“Seems like the wrong way to get warm.”
Santana looks completely unimpressed. “I know you aren’t this moronic.”
“Are you implying that I’m somewhat moronic?”
“Well you’re standing there like a virgin talking about our fucking landlord when you could be going down on me so…”
“You’re just worried that I actually am a scarier bitch than you and you’re trying to distract me with-”
“Quinn, shut up,” Santana says, grabbing Quinn by the wrist and pulling their bodies together. “It’s freezing. We’re getting pissed at each other so let’s just fuck.”
“Fine,” Quinn bites out before crashing their lips together.
They learn after pretty much night one that they both need separate sets of blankets when they sleep together. Seems that even falling in love can’t teach them the ability to share things.
There’s that time before they actually invested in extra blankets when Quinn actually shoved Santana off the bed for hogging the sheets, but they don’t like to talk about it.
who leaves their stuff around
“Pick your shit up,” Quinn growls, kicking the pair of running shoes she nearly tripped over.
“Thought that’s what you’re here for,” Santana replies from her seat at the kitchen counter.
With no hesitation, Quinn picks up one of the shoes and chucks it in Santana’s direction. Her girlfriend just ducks in time and the shoe flies over her head to thud against the kitchen wall. “Damn, Q. Take a fucking joke.”
“We don’t live in a dorm anymore, you slob.” Quinn’s pissed. Like not the fun kind, and Santana can’t decide if she’s amused or concerned.
“They’re just a pair of fucking shoes, babe. What crawled up your ass and died? You usually don’t get this pissed about my organized chaos.” Santana’s laughing lightly as she stands and walks towards Quinn.
“Can you just clean up after yourself please? For me?” Quinn asks with this pleading expression that Quinn almost never lets anyone see.
Santana looks at her with a cautious smile. “You okay?”
Sighing, Quinn falls forward into Santana’s arms, her face burrowing into Santana’s neck. “My mom’s visiting this week,” she grumbles, and Santana immediately stiffens.
“Yeah,” Quinn agrees with a sad laugh.
Santana pulls away and turns Quinn towards the kitchen. “There’s a bottle of wine in the kitchen. Go chug it.”
Quinn laughs, but Santana walks her over there when she doesn’t move. “I’m serious, get really drunk and I will pick up all my shit.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I totally do,” Santana says, kissing her on the neck quickly.
“You’re too good to me,” Quinn sighs, grabbing the bottle of wine and opening the drawer for the corkscrew.
“Baby, there’s no such thing.”
who remembers to buy the milk
It’s really not her fault that they were banned from the grocery store down the street. It’s Quinn’s fault for wearing those jeans.
who remembers anniversaries
Look, Quinn wears pants like once in a blue moon and it’s basically like asking Santana to assault her in public.
So yeah, maybe she nearly rounded third in the dairy aisle, but that’s really no reason to like ban them from the store. A bunch of prudes running that place, seriously. If anything, two hot chicks getting down in aisle seven is going to bring in business.
But whatever, it happens, and after that Quinn basically forbids Santana to every go grocery shopping with her again.
It’s all good though because she gets to call Quinn her food bitch when she walks in the door carrying bags, and then Quinn gets that evil glare going and yeah, angry sex is so the best part of this relationship.
In undergrad they spent a year apart. Santana studied in London, and Quinn stayed back on campus. They hadn’t been together that long, just the end of spring semester and the summer. To everyone else, it looked like the end.
Long distance is stupid. Santana says so herself, and fails to catch the way Quinn’s face falls. They don’t talk about the coming separation at all after that.
She leaves on a Tuesday afternoon right before the start of fall semester, and Quinn drives her to the airport.
“Have fun in London,” Quinn says, handing her the duffel bag with a tight smile.
“Have fun…here,” Santana offers lamely.
“Bye,” Quinn whispers, moving closer to press a brief kiss to Santana’s lips. They haven’t said things like I love you yet, but Santana feels it on the tip of her tongue.
“See yah,” Santana says, smiling crookedly. She gets about five paces before she turns around and walks back to Quinn. “I’ll miss you,” she adds, looking at her seriously.
She can see Quinn’s breath hitch just a little, her brow crinkling while she processes the words. “Don’t sleep with anyone over there,” Quinn says in a quiet voice and Santana jerks back.
“Why would I do that?” Because yeah, long distance is totally bullshit, but like she’s sleeping with Quinn Fabray. She’s pretty sure nothing in fucking London is going to be able to compete with that.
Quinn’s expression shifts at that, and she just sort of blinks at Santana, bewildered. “I love you,” she says plainly.
“I love you, too,” Santana replies quietly before pulling Quinn into a hotter, more meaningful kiss than the first time.
“I’ll be back soon,” Santana says when they break apart.
“Hurry,” Quinn commands.
She writes Quinn a letter every single day for the entire time she’s in London. Writes them on anything she can find - postcards, hotel stationary, the back of a homework assignment, napkins from the pub down the street.
Every year after, on the anniversary of the day Santana left for London, Quinn wakes up to a postcard on the pillow next to her and the words I love you.