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If you were to ask Chelsea from down the hall, here’s the thing about the girls in 314:

Quinn’s a bisexual cheerleader who’s majoring in marketing, and Santana’s that lesbian business major, and they’re roommates and best friends who occasionally hook up a lot.  But they’re not in a relationship.

“Whatever; like you wouldn’t hit that if you could,” Santana always says, laughing it off.

Quinn just shrugs and smiles, usually half-assedly texting some member of the football team.

Really: it’s not a relationship.

Sometimes these things just happen.

...

So, Santana comes from from class one day, complaining about how the only other lesbian on the program is some political feminazi from New Jersey who talks like she’s chewing curd, and Quinn’s laughing about it and then rolling her eyes at this guy named Keith who just won’t stop sending her messages after their one less-than-spectacular date.

Santana reads the texts over her shoulder and scathingly comments on the probable size of his dick and then finally just says, “Girl, what is wrong with people that you and I can’t really get past meaningless hook-ups?”

“Speak for yourself,” Quinn says, dryly, because the only thing she’s hooking up is her fucking laundry, and Santana knows it.

She’s already bracing herself for yet another joke about how masturbation turns nuns blind, but Santana just stays put, chin still on Quinn’s shoulder, and then says, “Remember that time we messed around at cheer camp?”

And well, yeah, duh.  It’s hard to forget watching your two best friends fuck each other while you’re sitting right next to them, pretending you’re not turned on by it and also that you do not ever masturbate because—seriously though, it makes nuns go blind.

“We didn’t mess around,” Quinn says, and turns her head just enough to smirk at Santana.  ”You screwed she-who-shall-not-be-named, and I had the privilige of not being able to get out of our locked room.  Thanks again, by the way.”

“Mmhm,” Santana says, slowly and weirdly seductively.  ”And is it also my fault that there were some seriously frustrated wet noises coming from your bed later that night?  Because I mean, I’ll take responsibility gladly; always did think that you appreciated my boob job a bit more than you should.”

Quinn elbows her in the gut.  ”I don’t know why I let you live here.”

“Is that your way of saying you still think about that night when you fix yourself up some salad over in that single over there?” Santana asks, with a shit-eating grin, before tilting her chin towards Quinn’s bed.

“What the hell kind of expression is that?”

Santana shrugs, and then notes, “Not your best as far as denial goes.”

Quinn rolls her eyes and says, “I’m off to the gym.  You can join me, if you think you can manage not staring at my ass so hard you fall off the treadmill this time.”

“I told you, I got vertigo,” Santana complains.

That’s sort of the end of it, the first time.

...

Except then Quinn gets drunk in the college bar one night, and Santana says, “You get off while thinking about me”, and Quinn says, “So?  You get off while thinking about me.”

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“You’re gay,” Santana says, with an accusing finger that sort of weaves in front of Quinn’s face.  “I fucking knew it.  You were gay for Berry!”

“I was no such thing,” Quinn protests, with as much dignity as she can.  ”I merely expressed my loathing by exploring female anatomy with a marker.”

Santana scowls, and literally looks like a Flintstone trying to make fire for a moment, until she brightens again and says, “Hey, you know what’s awesome about being a lesbian?”

“What?”

“If we like, wank at the same time, together, in the same bed—that’s totally sex,” Santana declares, like she’s just cured cancer in her head or something.

Quinn tries to picture it and gets really confused and really turned on simultaneously.  ”But—we’d have to be touching each other.”

“Yeah, totally,” Santana says.  ”I’ll touch you.  You’re way too prude to have anything seriously dangerous STD-wise, and unless you suddenly stopped waxing, I think pubic lice are also out of—”

Quinn kisses her just to shut her up, before the entire campus starts thinking she has fucking pubic lice.  Yeah, her ‘boyfriends’ might be inept morons but whatever, a girl’s got to do something to stay entertained between bouts of Marketing 101.

“Shit, that’s hot,” Santana sighs, licking her lips.

Some guys in the background are hollering.

“I’m not going down on you until you get tested,” Quinn says, primly, and then grabs her by the hand and drags her home.

Thirty fumbling minutes of mutual masturbation later, Quinn sort of slips and falls into an orgasm that lasts a surprisingly long time, and then Santana just rolls onto her side and stares at her with the smuggest, most ridiculously unattractive look ever.

“Best orgasm you’ve ever had.”

Wrong.  I get myself off much harder than that,” Quinn says, equally arrogant.

Santana looks like she’s going to get offended for just a moment, but then just pulls the sheet back and says, “Prove it.”

That’s sort of the end of it, the second time, but mostly because Quinn does come harder the second time, and Santana gets all sorts of offended and then heads back to her own bed, a whole foot away, and then doesn’t talk to her for two days.

This is why Quinn dates guys on the football team, by the way: much less drama, even if there are no orgasms.

...

Another bottle of tequila and some sombreros and mustaches this time, and Santana’s pressing her into a wall and saying, “I want a fucking rematch.”

“At what?”

“Synchronized swimming—what the fuck do you think?”

Quinn’s ogling some guy at the end of the room, who looks a little bit like Puck, and—gross.  Tequila is not her jam.  “Sorry, S, but I’ve got plans.”

Santana bitches about something in Spanish for a second and then says, “The hell you do.  That’s Eric Wright; he knocked up some chick in my advanced calculus class last year and also, apparently shaves his chest.”

“Ew,” Quinn says, flinching.

“And I had the worst sex with this fucking baby gay from Sacramento the other day, so—”

Quinn sighs, and tries to focus on Santana’s face, which is kind of pretty, sometimes.  Okay, maybe a lot of the time.

“I called Britt the other day; she said to get you to go down on me.  Apparently you’re better at that,” she then says, with a sly little smile.

Santana starts coughing hysterically and then Quinn nearly dies laughing when the physical assault follows a moment later, alongside some seriously broken Spanish bitching that mostly boils down to you fucking cunt, you did not!

So, that’s how time three doesn’t ever really happen, because after Santana gets bailed out of prison and manages to bullshit her way out of a DoP charge, the mood’s kind of way dead and anyway—some things, like winning, are better than orgasms anyway.

...

Time four is when Quinn completely retracts that statement, because half a baggie of weed and Santana’s rambling offer—“Fuck, I want to go down on you right now… or like, eat some cotton candy.  Maybe I want to eat some cotton candy and go down on you right now.  Sticky.  Hm”—turns out to be the ticket to the new best orgasm of her life.

Wow,” she says, afterwards, running a shaky hand through her hair.

Santana bites down on her thigh and then sits up, looking like she wants to fist-pump.  “And that’s how we do it in Lima Heights, bitch,” she says.

Quinn laughs, because Santana’s dealer is a fucking legend, and she doesn’t have it in her to call Santana out on growing up in a gated community.  Who cares where she grew up, when she's got this kind of hook-up?

...

“You two are a couple, right?” Chelsea, from down the hall, says a few weeks after that.

“Uh,” Quinn says, and then blinks at the wall.  ”What?  No.  I’d never date Santana.  God, she’s like a therapist’s wet dream.”

“But—” Chelsea says, and because she’s from Kentucky, which is even worse than being from Lima when it comes to these things, Quinn is kind in her response.

“She’s really good at oral sex, and I have really long fingers, and that’s how we stop from killing each other.”

“Oh,” Chelsea says, stupidly.

“And I’m not gay,” Quinn adds, for good measure.

“Right,” Chelsea says, and then they both fall silent when a loud scream of rage sounds from one of the rooms further down the hall.

“Quinn fucking Lucy whatever the fuck Fabray, what the fuck did you fucking do to my sheets?” Santana yells a moment later.

Chelsea goes white in the face, because everyone totally believes that nonsense about Santana carrying around a machete in her book bag for reasons Quinn really doesn’t understand.

“Um, I doused them in pink Kool-Aid and then left a note saying ‘this is what happens when you don’t replace the tampons’,” she says, when Chelsea looks at her with serious concern.  “We’re both big modern art fans.  It’s—”

Then, she doesn’t have time to explain further, because Santana appears in the hallway, looking vaguely like the lesbian Rambo in cut-off shorts and with a bandana tied around her head.

“Gotta go,” Quinn says, sprinting away as fast as she can.

Santana doesn’t catch her until she’s outside of Delta Kappa Kappa’s sorority and then they both crash-land into a bush.

Three sisters stop and stare at them.

“Just shoving my roommate face-first into a bush.  Don’t worry, it’s not her first time and she likes it!” Santana calls out to them.

Quinn hurts herself laughing, and Santana says, “I hate you, you evil whore.”

“Just sleep in my bed, then,” Quinn says, and Santana grumbles something before helping her back up.

So yeah, the fifth time, and every time after that, sort of takes place in Quinn’s bed, where Santana snores loudly and takes up all the goddamned space in the world and one of them ends up on the floor on a regular basis.

Whatever; it’s easier access.  Nobody’s really complaining.

...

So yeah.  That’s more or less how it got started, and then it just never really stopped again.

Chelsea from down the hall has somehow become their biggest advocate, telling everyone who asks that they’re just friends and clit-kissing buddies (Santana’s most profound expression to date, if Quinn has to pick a favorite) and that they’re modern women living a modern lifestyle that nobody should judge.

“And they totally date other people, so stop assuming they’re in a relationship,” Chelsea says, fuming, in the common room.

“Yeah,” Santana says, lazily.  She’s popping Nerds into her mouth like they’re crack cocaine and Quinn’s of half a mind to steal them and sprinkle them all over her body just because.

“Yeah,” she then agrees, because she’s being prompted, even though she has no idea what the question even was.

Their lunch pops out of the microwave a moment later and they head back to the room, where Santana’s bed is now being used as a table of sorts, and Santana lazily slumps down against the wall while Quinn plates up the instant mac & cheese.

“When is the last time you went out with someone?” she asks, when Quinn hands over a plate.

Quinn scoots backwards on her bed until they’re next to each other and then starts mashing the crap out of her mac and cheese, until it’s extra gooey.  “Um.  Let me think.”

“Eric Wright?” Santana asks, with a frown.

“No, can’t be—that was like three months ago,” Quinn says, fork hovering in the air.  “What about you?”

Santana stares blankly into space.  ”Um.  That crazy Russian chick who wanted to do homework with me instead of fuck.”

“Oh, God, I remember her; that’s when you tore the strap off my favorite bra. Thanks again, by the way,” Quinn says, laughing anyway.

“Yeah.  When was that?”

Quinn thinks to when she placed her last Victoria’s Secret order, and—

“… three months ago,” she says.

It’s really silent for a very long time.

“Huh,” Santana finally says, before feeling around under Quinn’s bed for her hidden bottle of ketchup.  Why it’s hidden, Quinn has no idea, but she feels some obligation to make a face when it’s slathered all over perfectly fine mac and cheese anyway.

“I just—why.  Why would you do that?” she asks, seriously.

Santana very, very slowly scoops some blood-red gunk up and then chews on it with a smile.  “Because I know how much you love it.”

Quinn calls Eric Wright that night and heads to CVS for some extra durable condoms, just in case she gets unexpectedly drunk or whatever; when she gets back, Santana’s not in the bed, and that’s totally fine, because clit-kissing buddies do not need to explain to each other where they are.

...

“Is that a hickey?” she does feel compelled to ask, the next day.

“Fuck.  Fucking barracuda,” Santana complains, and then actually says, “Sorry”, like that’s the response to make to having had bad sex.

“What?  No,” Quinn says.

“No, I don’t mean, sorry, I just mean…” Santana amends, and then trails off.

They look everywhere but at each other some more, and Quinn pulls a spontaneous all nighter in the library.

...

Chelsea corners her by the vending machine.

“Are you two okay?”

“What?  ... Yes.  Why?”

“Because… I’ve gotten two decent nights of sleep in a row, and that’s not normal,” Chelsea says, her cheeks almost purple.

Quinn glares at her and says, “Mind your own business, hobbit.”

She’s already stalked off without her much needed chocolate when she realizes that Chelsea is like, five foot ten.

Whatever.

...

what the FUCK quinn; my date for tonight cancelled because she didn’t want to offend my fucking girlfriend! Santana texts her, in the middle of an English Composition seminar.

Quinn makes a strangled noise of rage. 

since i’m not your girlfriend i fail to see how this is my fault

There’s no response for a long time.

it’s not sorry

Quinn scowls and gets called on five times before she actually answers the question, incorrectly, which—whatever.

don’t pull me into your lesbian drama I’M NOT EVEN GAY

The guy sitting next to her is staring at her funnily, and—fucking smart phones.

“Do you normally read people’s private conversations?” she hisses at him.

“Your girlfriend’s pissed, dude,” he just says, with a small smile.

“If you don’t start minding your own business right now I’m going to jam my pen in your thigh,” she says, with a bigger smile.

She hates everyone, but mostly Santana.

...

Santana’s pacing the room like a polar bear when she gets back.

“We have a problem,” she says, before pulling Quinn along by the shoulder and shoving her onto their bed.

“Which is?”

“You are cockblocking me,” Santana snaps, looking at her with panicked, wide eyes.  ”I can’t get laid anywhere anymore because everyone thinks you’re my fucking girlfriend.”

“So say I’m not.”

“They think I’m lying, and somehow lesbians have this huge hang-up about cheating that I really don’t understand.”

Quinn frowns and says, “Well.  Break up with me, then.”

“What?  We’re not even together.”

“I just mean—like.  Stop sleeping with me,” Quinn says, squinting.

“I haven’t fucked you in like six days,” Santana points out.

Quinn rolls her eyes and points at the other bed.

“Oh.”  Santana frowns for a moment.  ”That bed’s uncomfortable.”

Quinn just shrugs.  ”Your call.”

...

Apparently, “pussy” wins.

Quinn gets it.  It’s just really weird to not be elbowed in the face in the middle of the night, and she tells Eric Wright that much on their third date, who gets a particularly mailman kind of look on his face when she has to explain why they used to sleep in the same bed anyway.

“It’s not—we’re just—” Quinn starts to say, instantly annoyed all over again.

“How long did this go on for?”

Quinn sighs.  ”I don’t know, four months?”

“And you were mostly exclusive during that time?” Eric asks, raising his eyebrows.

Quinn slams her napkin down on the table.  ”You know what?  People are right about you.  You are a jerk.”

She storms out of the restaurant Rachel style and then texts Santana.

god why the hell does everyone think we were dating!

Santana sends back, need a ride home? and Quinn sits down on the steps and waits for her.

“Haven’t even eaten yet,” she grumbles, when Santana pulls up a good twenty minutes later.

“I’ll blow off my thing for tonight; got a reservation at the Border Grill, so—”

“Seriously?”

Santana says, “Well, yeah.  I made it months ago; always figured we’d go together, because you put out like a stripper on E for a good Mexican meal and—”

“Please, everyone puts out for good Mexican,” Quinn says, before glancing in the mirror and fixing her hair.

Santana says nothing for a while, just drives them along, and then when they’re parked she says, “We need to talk.”

“Oh, God, not you too—” Quinn starts to say, but Santana shakes her head and chews on her lip for a moment.

“I may have … ordered us a strap-on.  You know.  In anticipation of your whorish Mexican ways.”

Quinn’s mouth falls shut, first, and then she just says, “You…”

“Well, I mean, it’s washable, so you can use it with other people,” Santana says, scratching at her face.  “I just—you know.  You’re my best friend, and you love cock, so—”

“I don’t love cock, I just like penetration,” Quinn clarifies, and then adds, “Not that I’m gay, or anything.”

“Well, either way, I didn’t want to just… you know, surprise fuck you with it, figured that would make you scream in a bad way, so—if I stuff you with tasty food tonight, are you willing to get on my fake dick?”

Quinn coves her face and says, “I can’t believe people think we’re in a relationship.”

“People are crazy,” Santana agrees, and then shrugs.  ”What can you do?”

...

The food’s amazing.

As is both regular and reverse cowgirl, as it turns out; Quinn comes so hard her legs splay like they’re stilts, and even then only manages a muffled, “Help” because every limb in her body is locked.

“Fucking awesome,” Santana says, when they’ve clumsily untangled and Quinn is just about with it again.  “Glad we tried this.”

“Yeahhh,” Quinn breathes, and then flops over onto her stomach, her chin jutting against Santana’s boob.  ”Honestly.  To hell with what other people think.  Let’s never not be sex friends again.”

“Seriously,” Santana agrees, running a hand through Quinn’s hair and sort of kneading it until Quinn dozes off.

...

Chelsea seems very relieved the next day.

“I’m glad you two worked it out.”

Quinn just stares at her until she walks away again.

“You’re so mean to that girl.  Seriously, she’s the only one who gets it,” Santana says, before pressing a kiss against her cheek.  “We’re out of tampons.  I’m late for class, see you later.”

It’s really, really not a relationship, because Quinn’s been in those, and they’re all about trying really hard not to mess anything up.

The only thing she tries for with Santana is to get her to have another one of those ridiculous seizure-like multiples and, well, please.  That’s just about winning, which might actually not be as good as orgasms—but it’s up there.

..

A guy named Toby is hitting on her at a party, until his friend Matt comes up and hisses, way too drunkenly and loudly, “Dude, that’s Santana Lopez’s girl candy; I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

Quinn fumes and goes off to find Santana, who’s playing Pac Man on an arcade machine in a different room, and then says, “Now you’re cockblocking me.”

“Not wearing the cock today, babe,” Santana just says, and then pulls her in close by a belt loop.  “Watch me dominate this shit.”

“It’s Pac Man.”

“I’ll mimic his mouth movements when I go down on you tonight,” Santana says, and then glances away from the game for a second with a small grin.

“You’re—shit, the wall,” Quinn says, jolting forward, saving her just in time from running into a dead end.

She could take a step backwards after that, but two drunk chicks have better motor skills than just one, and so she stays pressed up against Santana, ready to intervene whenever.

After about 20 more minutes, Santana throws the game and says, “I am so fucking horny right now—”

“Bathroom on the second floor,” Quinn says, and heads up the stairs without waiting for a response.

She’s already come once when she stops Santana and says, “By the way; if people are going to talk about me, make them stop calling me your candy.”

“What do you prefer—my bitch?” Santana says, hand moving again, and Quinn shudders before bucking her hips towards those teasing bitch fingers that are just slip-sliding all over her pussy but never really touching her clit.

“You fucking wish,” Quinn grits out, and then groans when Santana’s fingers pull back altogether.

Her knees almost buckle when Santana just very, very slowly slides her wet fingers into her mouth and suckles on them, cheeks concave, before pulling them back out with a pop.

“I’m going to put something out there,” she then says, voice rough and hazy at once, pushing Quinn back up against the door and pressing her thigh upwards until denim hits target and Quinn tips her head back.

“It better be your tongue on my—”

“Look, I ... kinda love you when you’re drunk,” Santana says, actually sounding like she means it, and Quinn tries to focus.  ”And I definitely do when you’re naked, and ... sometimes when you’re not doing your best impression of an Amish school teacher, I even fucking love you when you’re dressed.  And, I mean, I know all your worst habits, and I don’t mind when you’re being a totally fucking hormonal shrew, and—”

“Hold up,” Quinn says, pushing at Santana’s hip until her leg lowers.  ”What the hell kind of dirty talk is this?”

Santana swallows visibly hard and then says, “Okay.  I have been having this crazy idea lately that… we could probably still have really fucking great sex if we just… stopped trying to have it with other people.”

Quinn processes that, distracted to pieces by how close she is to a second orgasm, but that has to wait, because...  It feels like there’s something important happening here.

“You want us to be exclusive,” she finally says.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Santana says, with a small shrug.

“Well, what would you call it?”

Santana leans in closer again, and presses a really quick flutter of a kiss right by Quinn’s ear, before saying, “How about we just man the fuck up and admit we’re dating?”

“You and me.  In a relationship,” Quinn repeats, flatly.

“The kind where you exclusively fuck someone else and it’s really nice and I mean, feel free to laugh at me, God knows I have it coming, but it would be nice to fuck you and not have to pretend it’s like—fucking everyone else, because it’s not.”

The words are sort of whispered into her neck, and Quinn shudders.  Then, before she can respond, that hand is back between her legs, stroking down and then there are two fingers inside of her, and Santana’s looking at her fiercely and saying, “At least, it’s not for me.”

“Um,”  Quinn says, eyes fluttering closed and her hand splaying hard against the door behind her for purchase.  “You’re the second person I’ve ever slept with.”

Santana’s hand stills again. “What the—”

“It’s not a big deal, it’s just—”

“But—all those guys, and—”

“I have really flexible wrists, Santana; years of playing the piano,” Quinn says, and then laughs when Santana goes incredibly pale.  “Oh, please leave me hanging now; that’s a wonderful start to our—whatever.”

Santana frowns at her, fingers pinching together right by Quinn’s clit just enough to make Quinn bite her lip.  “You bitch, you could’ve said something.  I would’ve broken out candles, or at least shown up with a courtesy dental dam.”

Quinn laughs and says, “A courtesy dental dam?”

“Yeah, or like, fucking flowers.  Congratulations on having non-traumatic sex, sweetie,” Santana says, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous—” Quinn sighs, because things are getting a little too awkward for her to get off.  “You know why it was great?”

“Because I’m like fucking Inspector Gadget down there; and also, you said it wasn’t, you complete whore.”

“I lied, and it was great because you made it something completely normal that I felt completely fine about the next day.”

“We didn’t talk to each for three days!”

“Which is completely normal... for us,” Quinn says, pointedly.

Santana lets her hand drop away.  “Ugh.  This is why I didn’t want to say anything.  You’re drying up, and now we’re talking about feelings and shit.”

Quinn sighs, and lets her head fall back against the door.  ”Let’s just go home.  We can give it another go when we’re like, sober, tomorrow, and then we’ll hopefully have forgotten this ever happened.”

“Amen,” Santana says, bending down to pull Quinn’s panties back up.

...

So yeah, it’s not a relationship.

They’re roommates, and best friends, and Quinn’s possibly not so much bisexual as just really fucking gay, and Santana’s possibly not just the world’s biggest bitch but, whatever. 

They don’t need to talk about it.

And so what if Santana breaks out some candles the next time they fuck?  All that happens is that Quinn knocks one over, almost sets their curtains on fire, and then spills wax all over Santana’s chest, who goes from, “You bitch” to “oh, interesting” in about 1.2 seconds. 

So what if they sometimes go out to dinner together without splitting the tab?

And so fucking what if Santana almost breaks some guy’s dick for suggesting a threesome?  And that they sometimes just get way too drunk to remember that they don’t say super gay shit to each other and then end up mumbling, “Love you” at each other right before passing out after spectacularly uncoordinated sex?

So what, indeed?

If you ask Chelsea, she’ll tell you that they just have something that works for them.

... oh, and if you happen to room near them next year, you should probably invest in some industrial quality ear plugs.