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They had fucked five months ago.
This particular piece of information is annoyingly persistent in Santana’s mind. It lingers in the periphery of her brain - circling around, but never quite coming to the forefront.
Santana and Quinn had fucked five months ago, at Mr Schue’s wedding.
Honestly, the only reason it doesn’t come to the front of her mind - the center of her focus - is that Santana knows if she lets it, she won’t be able to give a fucking thought to anything else.
This was how it had been with Brittany, too. They’d had quick and eye-contactless sex, no aftercare, very little talking. Then back to their boys. They would live it up together again in a month or so, when both of them felt the non-negotiable ache in the pit of their stomachs again, but they’d never talk about it. They never looked directly at it.
Until they did, actually, and both fell deep and hard and fast and irretrievably far into each other. And then, five months ago, Santana had sat a few pews behind Brittany and made eye contact as Sam put his arm around her ex-girlfriend and she’d felt like something from deep inside her was getting yanked out.
She’s gotten past all that now. Brittany finding new love doesn’t make her stomach churn the way it used to.
But she can feel something — well — coming on again. Slow, then sudden: like a sickness. It’s habitual for her - the only way Santana knows how to do things is to do them fully.
That’s why Santana doesn’t think about Quinn.
At least, not directly.
Sometimes she can’t help it. She is a human person, you know. Sometimes it brushes up against her mind.
They’d both been irritated and vulnerable, that night. Santana couldn’t get the picture of Sam and Brittany out of her mind - until she and Quinn had made it to the door of the hotel room and she’d finally had something else to focus on. Here was a welcome distraction.
They’d quickly and unthinkingly torn into each other with the same ferocity they’d reserved for each other in high school - all sharp teeth and strong hands. It was almost nostalgic, and she found herself thinking of the hallway fight from junior year, when she’d bodily thrown Quinn into the lockers in a fit of rage. Only this time, Quinn wasn’t pushing her away, she was clutching her as tight as she could while Santana touched her with increasing pressure and speed - and instead of the barbed words they were both so famous for, the only noises that filled the air were quiet, desperate sounds from deep inside Quinn’s throat.
She’d gotten to watch the way Quinn’s brows came together and her mouth fell open as she lost herself in the haze of sweat and pleasure that hovered in the room. She’d felt soft skin against her lips and sharp fingernails digging in a little too hard to her shoulders. It’s a fuzzy recollection, thanks to the alcohol in their veins that night, but the cloak of inebriation has - somehow - made it more intense in retrospect. It glows like neon behind her closed eyelids.
Sue her, ok? Sometimes she thinks about it. Sometimes she forgets that she’s not supposed to, and she takes a moment to indulge herself.
It's only a moment, after all.
It mostly happens during situations like this.
Quinn is stirring something on the counter in her kitchen and moving along to the music blasting from the speaker. It is a hot, hot, New Haven afternoon and Santana frankly doesn’t understand where the prerogative to bake came from, but Quinn had insisted.
The song is something or other about when you sing, you make the world a better place, but Santana isn’t really paying attention. Her eyes have slid to where Quinn’s tank top has slid up to show a window of skin above her shorts. It’s less pale than usual (because of all the sun lately), and she can see the fine hairs as they catch in the sunlight. If Santana thinks a little harder, she can remember how it was to touch.
It’s not an overtly sexual thing.
It’s just skin. It’s just a lower back. Just Quinn’s lower back. And yet.
There’s that phrase again - and yet. Fuck that phrase.
Quinn’s hips swing another rotation and Santana thinks that Quinn must be doing this on purpose to mess with her. Either that, or she isn’t at all and Santana is just kind of a fucking creep. Need to change the song or something. Get into a new headspace.
She doesn’t move, though. Just keeps staring at that patch of skin, and then - eyes wandering elsewhere. Where the loose shorts hang off of Quinn’s hips. Where her thighs begin, further down. The cord of muscle there, just barely defined - not as much as it was during Cheerio days. She is softer now. A few less sharp edges.
“Hey.”
Santana blinks a couple times and looks up to Quinn’s face. Luckily, it’s still turned away - she hasn’t been caught.
“What?” she asks.
Quinn swings the batter-covered spoon back in her direction in silent request, still looking forwards at the recipe open on her phone.
Santana stares at the spoon.
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.
Her beat of silence gets Quinn to turn around. She raises an eyebrow and wiggles the spoon again with a pointed look.
I am NOT about to participate in your rom-com moment, Quinn Fabray, she thinks as loudly as she can, hoping to get the message across. Quinn doesn’t do anything to suggest she has received it and simply continues to stand there with the spoon, looking cute and shit. Gross.
Without the guts to say the thought aloud, Santana resigns herself to getting off of the couch with a sigh and trying to jack her veins full of the blind confidence with which she usually conducts herself.
“What are you making, anyways?”
“Cupcakes,” Quinn says, again wiggling around to the music as she holds the spoon out and waits for Santana to get closer.
“Why?”
“Because I want to eat a cupcake.”
Santana stops inches from the spoon and puts a hand on her hip as she realizes something, brow furrowed.
“Isn’t there, like, raw eggs in here, or something? Can I get salmonella?”
“You’ll be fine,” Quinn says, bumping the spoon against Santana’s bottom lip in impatience. Her eyes are on Santana’s mouth.
Santana pauses for a moment.
Look, she knows why they haven’t talked about it. She knows that would be messy, and Quinn does too. The morning after, Quinn had departed without so much as a goodbye. A couple days later, Santana had gotten a text that asked “ up for a movie next thurs?” and she’d texted back “sure” , and that was that. No mention of what they’d done the last time they were together. They’d agreed on that without having to say anything.
But whenever she sees Quinn fresh out of the shower, or watches her down a shot, or - like just a minute ago - finds her attention captured by the movement of some part of her body, Santana can’t help but think about it. She can’t help but want it again, just a little bit.
They're never big moments, but they're there. They happen. She has moments like that.
And it’s not that it bugs her that Quinn seems... dismissive of the event - it’s just that right now, she finds herself wondering how Quinn can lock her eyes to Santana’s mouth in the heat of her summer-soaked New Haven apartment without getting any pink on her cheeks at all.
She leans forward and takes the spoon into her mouth. Quinn is still looking resolutely.
The batter is sweet and a little bit lemony. She slides her hand over Quinn’s and takes the spoon from her, turning it around and slowly using the suction of her tongue to get the last of the it off, the way one might suck a lollipop.
Quinn just looks at her impatiently, face still asking a silent question.
Nothing?
“It’s good,” she says. Quinn nods and turns away without a second beat. Santana exhales a huff of air that’s almost a laugh. This bitch either has the self-control of a god, or the sex wasn’t as memorable as I thought.
She thinks again of the nail marks that had been in her shoulders for days afterwards and frowns. No, has to be the first one.
She moves forward to stand directly behind Quinn and puts her chin on her shoulder, looking over into the bowl as Quinn continues to stir. She tests the waters carefully - slides her hand around, to gently feel along the thin strip of stomach available between Quinn’s shorts and her tank top. Quinn shifts out of the way.
“Don’t tickle me. Do you want another taste or something? They won’t take that long to bake. Be patient.”
Santana moves back in surprise, and then disappointment. She's figured it out. Because of course Quinn Fabray, queen of repression (don’t get her started on the weird homoerotic tension between her and Berry for 3 years in the choir room), would’ve somehow put that shit on lockdown. Figures that every time she’s felt them barreling towards a repeat of that night, every time something weird has happened since then - has resulted in nothing.
That’s why it hadn’t happened again. Quinn is ignoring it with the force of a thousand suns.
Santana smiles to herself. Typical.
Oh well. Far be it from her to yank anyone out of whatever closet they might be in. And Quinn, with all her intricacies and self-preservation techniques, is a little too volatile to risk pushing to the edge.
Just another moment to be ignored.
Even if she’s offering batter-covered instruments of seduction from the high heavens like some kind of fucking holy temptation.
Even if she is staring intently at Santana’s mouth as she accepts the communion.
It's only a moment.
Santana retreats.
Sits on the counter beside the batter bowl and makes some crack about Quinn’s music taste and tries not to stare at her neck when she throws her head back in laughter. She watches patiently as Quinn’s careful fingers divide the batter with spoons among the spaces in the muffin tin. She feels the heat against her dangling legs when the oven opens and the cupcakes go in.
She tries to let everything go , and so when Quinn suggests they partake in a little day drinking, she agrees. A little alcohol in her system sounds like a great idea right about now.
Soon enough, though, she is hissing as the flat of her palm stings from the surface of the table. She shakes it out as Quinn grins with her hand securely on the pile of cards between them.
“You kind of missed it altogether, huh?”
“Shut the fuck up,” she snaps.
Quinn looks at her pointedly.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m already pouring,” Santana says as she flicks the cap off of the Blue Curaçao (disgusting, but the only thing Quinn had had in her cabinet that wasn’t rosé) and fills the shot glass that she’s become a little too intimate with this evening. They are playing slapjack, at Quinn’s suggestion - maybe not such a good idea.
The alcohol burns on the way down, and it’s entirely too sweet, but she’s already brushing it off and turning to Quinn again - who is, of course, the picture of innocence.
Santana might think she’s genuinely virtuous in this situation if not for the slightly raised eyebrow and quirk of her lips that indicates otherwise.
“I don’t think it’s fair that we’re playing a game that you’re clearly crazy good at.”
Quinn says nothing as she aligns the cards left in her hands.
“Especially when I have to choke down this blue shit alcohol when I lose.”
“Let’s keep going, shall we?”
“Terrible alcohol.”
“Are you giving up?” Quinn can’t keep the teasing lilt from her voice, hands at the ready to flip another card. Santana exhales and shakes her head. Gets her cards at the ready.
They flip over cards in sequence, rattling off the values in the order they’re supposed to until another Jack suddenly appears, from Quinn’s hand.
Quinn slaps her hand on the deck before Santana has even registered what card it is. Santana groans and leans back in her chair, arm slung over her eyes, as Quinn says, “had enough?” with absolutely too much humor in her voice. Santana sits in aggravated silence, refusing to give in but delaying the shot as long as she can.
“Oh, fuck,” she hears Quinn say, suddenly.
“What?” she asks, eyes still shut. She hears footsteps towards her, and then she can feel Quinn is suddenly much closer. Santana pulls the arm off of her eyes and then jumps as she sees her kneeling in front of Santana’s chair.
“You got it on your shirt,” Quinn says, reaching for the bottom of Santana's tank-top where there’s a bright blue stain about the size of a quarter. Santana’s about to say something like: hold on, or: it’s okay, I got it, or maybe even just: uh, fuck, but Quinn’s hands are already gripping and tugging it up like it’s her damn job.
“Cold water,” Quinn mumbles to herself as she works the shirt off of Santana’s arms, which are now automatically raised to help.
She puts her arms down once the shirt is off and just stares, now in a bra, at Quinn, who is mere inches from her and suddenly less preoccupied with the stain. Quinn’s eyes are lingering on her sternum and then dip down to her chest and to her abdomen, and Santana is bewildered and can’t fucking help it, and how can she be expected not to say anything right now - and you know what? Fuck it.
“Reminiscing?” she asks quietly.
Quinn, without even making eye contact, has the audacity to say, “about what?”
Who the fuck knows if it’s a challenge or a dare or if Quinn’s just plain distracted, but Santana is a little tired of dancing around this shit like they’ve been doing for months now. It was good, five months ago. And fuck it - she just decided she wants a rerun.
Here's what the decision looks like. She slides forward, fingers underneath Quinn’s chin and tilts her head up.
“I don’t think either of us were drunk enough that night to pretend not to know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Quinn's eyes widen and she at least has the decency to look affected, with a pink tinge finally (finally! ) coloring her cheeks. She swallows - Santana can feel muscles move under her fingers - but still, stays silent.
“You’re telling me it hasn’t entered your mind once since it happened?” Santana asks.
She leans down to bring their faces closer together. Laying every card on the table.
“Not even on nights we’ve slept in the same bed, Quinn? Not after body shots during Brittany’s going away party?”
Quinn opens her mouth, brows furrowed, but Santana can sense that something drenched in denial is about to come out, so she keeps going with her desperate gamble before Quinn can get a word in edgewise. This has to work.
“I think you do think about it. I think you can’t help it.”
The flush has spread to Quinn’s neck now. She can see it on the tops of her shoulders.
“I have a feeling that on nights we Skype and I’m in my tiny little sleep shorts—” Quinn sucks in a breath, “—you don’t even take a second after hanging up before sliding your hand down into your little white Christian panties. I think any man you’ve slept with since has felt a little too rough with his hands, and I think you’ve - at the very least - considered mine instead.”
Santana figured that another round of sex with Quinn was an inconceivable fantasy as soon as she’d gotten the movie invitation way back when. She knows it might still be out of reach - maybe she’s pushing the limits here. But for the love of god, even if she faces the wrath of Quinn Fabray’s talented backhand (not for the first time) - she will make sure Quinn acknowledges the first one. They will not pretend it never happened.
“We don’t have to talk about it. And Christ, we don’t ever have to do it again.” she says quietly, “but I know you fucking think about it.”
They keep eye contact for a second longer.
Quinn’s face is infuriatingly unreadable. Maybe she’s pissed. Santana leans back slightly.
And then -
Quinn says “fuck you,” and their lips are together and Santana feels like she’s drowning.
Seriously. It feels like all too much and she wasn’t expecting it and she has to move back to breathe but Quinn is chasing her mouth and when she tastes the lemony batter on Quinn’s tongue she just thinks whatever and responds with enthusiasm.
Might as well dive right in.
God, everything is even better than she remembers. Quinn climbs atop her lap with remarkable speed, and then she’s pliant and needy and just so damn responsive to every touch that Santana can’t find it in herself to make her hands slow down or stay in one place.
Quinn’s skin tastes salty, from the sweat brought on by today’s unrelenting sun. They don’t even move from the chair, at first. Quinn yanks her own shirt off and then does her best with the shorts, in spite of Santana doing her best to distract her from it (with her mouth). Quinn has to get up to slide the shorts down and Santana follows her off the chair, swiftly using their combined backward movement to lift Quinn onto the table behind her. She is immediately pulled in close by Quinn’s legs around her waist and it’s another century or so of the taste and touch of Quinn before she can execute the willpower that she’s been gathering: to finally - finally, move back and do what she’s wanted this whole time.
Eye contact, for just a split second. Quinn is breathing heavily, sitting on the table amidst the forgotten cards. Santana tries to search deep in her wild gaze for the kind of meaning that she’s been grappling for for 5 months now - a why, a what, any kind of explanation for the desperation that seems to only run through this girl’s veins intermittently.
But no. Quinn averts her gaze to the side, grabs Santana’s wrist, and slides her hand down past the waistband of her underwear.
Santana, then, gains just a flicker of understanding.
Later, she’ll think about it. When she’s left Quinn’s place the next day and gone back to New York, she’ll leave texts from Brittany unanswered and not say much to Rachel and Kurt, except that the visit was “fun,” and Quinn is “doing just fine.” She’ll get herself off in bed at night thinking about Quinn’s face pressed into her neck, eyes shut. She’ll wait, in agony, for Quinn to text back to her hopefully non-threatening "hey."
And she’ll feel something shaky deep inside her come close to breaking when the one she gets in response is “movie next weekend?”
But then, staring at her phone, she’ll remember what she understood in that split second in Quinn’s apartment, and it will help.
That this is how it has to be.
Honestly, she might’ve known that for 5 months already, and she’ll sure as fuck remember it every time she looks for eye contact and Quinn turns or shuts her eyes; every time she gets left on read; every time they have a beat of silence that’s just a begging to be filled with sensible conversation but assuredly won’t be. She'll remember.
It doesn't matter if she happens to forget in the moment when her fingers slip inside and Quinn exhales like that .
It’s just a side effect of their prescribed no-talking medication.
It’s just a moment of confession, inside the booth and away from the harsh bite of reality.
Quinn will soon come apart quickly under her touch, and then they’ll have to go back to pretending that Santana doesn’t want everything: because Quinn can’t give it to her. This is the exchange for those moments of pleasure - and Santana won’t fuck it up and lose them altogether.
But she’s allowed to want more, just for a moment, as Quinn pants against her in the hot New Haven apartment.
She's allowed to forget the rules, just for a moment.
It’s only a moment.