Pairings/Characters: Sam/Quinn, Brief Quinn/Manhands
Summary: A story in which Quinn Fabray fails at being completely heterosexual.
AN: I just realized that switching Quinn and Sam around and replacing "Manhands" with "Puck" still makes a semi-coherent story. Just saying.
“Oh god,” Quinn moaned, her head falling back against the chaise as Sam trailed kisses along the side of her neck. “Oh god.”
Sam bit gently at the sensitive skin near her ear. His hand slid down her side, not daring to pass the curve of her hip for fear of being cockblocked by Jesus yet again. His girlfriend was awesome and sexy and stuff, but she kind of sucked when it came to actually letting him get any action.
He pulled back briefly to stare at her face, pretty and flushed from the attention to her neck, and then leaned back in to kiss her.
“Hold on a second,” Quinn said breathlessly against his lips. “Just let me—” She couldn’t finish the thought. Sam had moved back to kissing her neck, gently letting his jean-clad thigh fall between her own, and the pressure just felt so good. Quinn wasn’t normally this amoral when it came to sex before marriage (except for that one time), but there was just something about Sam that drove her crazy—it must have been his lips, Quinn thought, since they were pretty much the softest, gentlest lips she’d ever kissed.
Quinn’s hips bucked into Sam’s thigh. Clearly now was not the time to be thinking about his (perfectly delicate and sinuous) lips. Quinn needed to cool off. The problem was, she didn’t have any reliable “mailman imagery.” She was supposed to be the one in control, not the one needing to calm down.
Quinn thought hard for something that would help her cool down. Coach Beiste? No, that would be horrible. Sue Sylvester? She’d probably find out. Puck? He sucked, but he had really good, distracting abs.
Suddenly Quinn had an idea. Manhands! She’d think of Manhands! Manhands wearing one of her hideous sweaters, Manhands making some stupid face, Manhands kissing her ex, Manhands talking dirty with her annoying voice, Manhands in ugly white lingerie, Manhands gently caressing Quinn with her big, ugly, mannish…
“Oh, god, Rachel,” Quinn groaned, grinding her hips against Sam and coming hard. She buried her face in his shoulder and awkwardly wrapped her leg around his waist as she trembled through the aftershocks.
It took nearly three minutes for realization to strike her: Quinn tensed up momentarily, then pushed Sam off her and sat up on the chaise (conveniently facing a portrait of Jesus that she would shortly after pray to for forgiveness).
Sam sat up next to her. He was going to pat her shoulder in comfort, but that seemed like sort of inappropriate treatment of someone who had just been humping his leg, so instead he just leaned gently against her side.
Sam had to at least try. “Do you wanna—”
And in that moment a mutual agreement passed between them. They would never speak of this moment again.