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"It's like watching two leprechauns tongue-wrestle over a pot of gold," Santana proclaims. "Yawn." As she leans over to take the bottle for herself, she gives Seventies Nightgown Barbie a kick in the seafoam-green knee, successfully knocking her leg out from her and breaking up the superbly weird (and funny at first, but now just dull) macking that's been going on while everybody else looks increasingly freaked out and Hummel looks like he wants to swallow his own tongue.

Hobbit #1 falls into Kurt's lap, giggling, while Hobbit #2 rocks back on his heels and looks shellshocked. Santana eyes all three of them consideringly, then decides: nah, she'd rather get something spicy going with Brittany than touch that particular den of terrible life choices. She puts her own special spin on the bottle; the one that's guaranteed to get her sucking on the mouth of anybody she wants. Except her hand slips at the last second, and that is ... not the mouth that she wants.

Kurt stares at her across the circle, clearly still trying to recover from the previous turn but mostly horrified, as everybody shrieks with laughter or choruses ohhhhh!. "Santana," he says, "not that I'm not tremennndously flattered," (that's sarcasm; she can tell), "but I'm sure you have better places to put y--"

Santana is offended. Boy has been letting Mercedes and Tina peck his mouth without a fuss all through the game, and all he did when Rachel licked his face was yell something about skincare and hygiene, and he looked awkward but didn't raise any objections about kissing Abs Chang on the cheek after Mike grinned at him, but he doesn't want her to touch him?

Please. Santana Lopez gets what she wants. (Forgetting for a second here that this isn't actually what she wanted.) She's doing Kurt a favor. (A) Making sure he's actually as gay as he dresses, and (B) getting him some of his own back, given his little buddy next to him and the way that he still looks dazed over Berry. Whatever -- never let it be said that Santana doesn't do anything for anybody. She's a damn humanitarian. A gayitarian.

Also, she's pretty sure this is going to traumatize at least one individual, and she enjoys that.

She lunges across the circle, grabs the handy grabbing-strap Kurt is wearing (seriously, safety pins and harnesses? subtle, Hummel; real subtle), and, in one expert move, yanks him in and plants one on him, to general applause. She can feel his closed-mouthed grimace.

"I cans do this all day," she informs him, voice low, right up against his face. "And I's gonna, til you kiss me back." He huffs something irritated. "And make it look good," she says condescendingly, and is totally unprepared for the way he opens his mouth and tongues her. Somebody says, "Oh snap." It's not the best makeout Santana's ever had, but it's (sadly) not the worst either. It's not so bad for a gay virgin who looks like a ten-year-old.

Santana taps Kurt on the baby face and pulls back across the circle on her hands and knees. She delicately wipes her mouth with two neat fingers, then raises her eyebrow and fans her face with her hand, half-mocking and half-begrudging, as everyone collapses with giggles or claps for the effort. Kurt looks like a ruffled angry cat; one that wants to go find a hideous hat just so he can self-righteously upchuck into it.

"Good job, teach," Santana says to Brittany, drunkenly patting her on the knee, and Brittany smiles even as most people are paying attention to Puck claiming the bottle next.

"You should have touched his hands," she says matter-of-factly. "They're like velvet Elvis."

Across the circle, Hobbit #2 is frowning, and not at Rachel anymore (hint: it's at Santana and Brittany). When Kurt goes upstairs in the middle of Puckerman's turn, saying something catty about needing to rinse the taste of "trauma and girl" out of his uvula, Rachel immediately scoots over to Dancing Gay Whose Name Santana Doesn't Care About. Rachel is trying to get all up in his grill about singing a duet, but Dancing Gay says something indistinguishable and then stumbles up the stairs after Kurt. Santana sits with her hand high on Brittany's thigh, and she thinks smugly: Success.


"You didn't land on me," Brittany says two hours later, out of nowhere. She's rocking out in her shorts, socks, bra, and fluffy sweater; she's super toasted.

"Uh, yeah," says Santana, affronted at this insult to her awesome drunk balance. She's sipping mojito (or at least what she's calling a mojito in her head) out of a straw and getting her sexy on. That means dancing up on Brittany. She's half-aware that the music is really weird and is probably straight out of the Berrys' musical theater collection of social death, but there's a beat. Kind of. Some guy is singing really fast about being a general. Whatever. "That's right. 'Cause I's don't fall, Brit."

"You usually land on me," Brittany continues. "And then we mack out."

Santana stares at her for several more seconds, eyebrows lowered in confusion, and then she figures out what Brittany's getting at.

She could tell the truth, which is that she is traaashed (with at least three syllables) and her hand slipped, but admitting mistakes or weakness isn't in her nature.

When in doubt, Santana's motto goes, blame it on the boyfriend. That's why dating Puck worked out so well, at least until she got a look at his embarrassment of a credit score. He's such a delinquent, and a moron to boot, that you can blame just about anything on him and be believed.

Her new boyfriend isn't a juvenile offender, but he is mighty dumb. Santana likes that in a man.

"Fishlips grabbed a handful," she says baldly. "Hand slipped; it's totally his fault."

"Boo," says Brittany.

"Boo," agrees Santana, and she drains her probably-not-a-mojito in one gulp and tosses the plastic cup aside (Berry stops harassing Frankenteen about singing a duet long enough to yell something about linoleum; Santana ignores her) so she can get her grind on. Brittany's stupid boyfriend whoops as Santana dances all up on Brittany's thigh, and Santana can feel the muscles of her face set into something determined and ugly. Screw that; this isn't for Artie and it definitely isn't for Santana's canyon-mouth of a boyfriend. She sinks her hand into Brittany's hair and dances closer, hips driving to a nonexistent beat, and leans in -- and then the song changes and somebody cheers, "Ohhhh! Brittany, our jam!" and hip checks Santana out the way.

She finds herself sprawled ungracefully across the couch, her back on the cushions more than her ass or her legs are. Brittany is doing some kind of crazy choreographed moves with Mike, who is the biggest Makeout Block in the world. Santana glares incredulously at the dancers, then at Tina and Mercedes on the other end of the couch, who are falling all over each other laughing.

"Go Mike!" Tina yells. He does a wobbly thing with his hips and legs that pretty much confirms Santana's long-standing theory that he's a Ken doll, rubber legs and all, below the waist. Tina claps and loudly tells Mercedes, "I'm tapping that" before the two of them collapse into giggles again.

Santana scoffs, folding her arms over her chest and not bothering to push herself up into any kind of dignified sitting position, and she watches Brittany beam and match Mike wiggle for wiggle.

"SANTANA," Tina says, leaning across the sofa to grab her elbow. "Santana, you look so funny!"

"I--" Santana slurs, but she's got no good insults left in the tank, which means that the definitely-not-mojitos have gone far enough for the night. "I'm hotter than you," she snaps, half mad and half wailing, and she goes to cry furiously on top of the washer, which is vibrating because they're trying to wash cranberry juice out of Brittany's shirt. "ALL OF YOU," she yells, "ALL Y'ALL," but nobody pays any attention to her.

Except Brittany, who comes over and climbs up on top of the washer/dryer combo with her so that she can pet Santana's arm. Then she starts braiding Santana's hair while Santana sprawls there with her cheek on Brittany's knee and the washer vibrates under them.

Santana mentally upgrades the status of this party to 'actually not terrible.'

She bumps it up to 'bearable,' watching with a shark's grin pressed against Brittany's skin, after Quinn and Zizes start ganging up on Puckerman. Maybe she'll get some entertainment out of this trainwreck after all.