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the white flag of a saturday night

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"There's a Starbucks across the street, and you should be aware that you're buying me a mocha if we ever manage to emerge from these catacombs."

Santana raises on her tip-toes to peer through the glass window of a china cabinet with the comment, her face scrunching in disgust when her breath disturbs the dust into a faint cloud. Quinn rolls her eyes fondly without turning around, running her fingertip over the surface of an oak roll-top writing desk, a trail left in the wake of her touch.

"Antiques can be very valuable with a little love, and you know it wouldn't kill us to have some furniture that wasn't 'rescued,'" she air-quotes the word, "from some Bushwick garbage pickup."

"Hey! The sofa was—"

"Bought new, I know, but leather?" Quinn throws a dubious expression over her shoulder at her girlfriend of the last three years. "I'm not letting you furnish our home like some metropolitan gigalo with a hardon for postmodern decor." She waves her hand dismissively, turning back to continue down the crowded aisle of furniture.

Santana huffs a quick 'tch,' crossing her arms over her chest petulantly and raising a judging eyebrow at the cherrywood hope chest Quinn has crouched down to inspect.

"And yet I'm expected to embrace this Pollyanna on the prairie shit you think is homey." She wrinkles her nose at the word, while Quinn 'ooh's quietly to herself over the price tag and ignores her entirely. "You're still buying me Starbucks when we leave."

Quinn straightens again, smiling at Santana in a way that is both placating and affectionate, then takes her hand and turns to lead them back up the narrow pathway that eventually finds the entrance of the shop. She stops again a few steps later to peer at some tacky stained glass lamp, and Santana keeps walking past her.

"If you want to get coffee, we should go to that Jo on the Go place.” Quinn says to her retreating back. “It's good to support local businesses and Starbucks is the epitome of corporate greed in a branded cup.”

"Oh my god, Quinn, you have seriously got to stop listening to Berry do her charity of the month routines.” She narrowly misses walking into a grandfather clock when she turns to throw an accusatory look back at Quinn. “Don’t you remember that thing with the horses?"

“You certainly approved the switch to organic milk.”

Quinn’s cloaked in a cloud of smug as she follows up the aisle and Santana scoffs. “That’s for health reasons, they pump some freaky shit into dairy cows for the….” she trails off at the knowing smirk spreading Quinn’s lips. “Look, I just don’t want Bessie the cow’s menopause in my Peanut Butter Crunch, okay?”

Quinn nods condescendingly, that same amused grin on her face. “Of course.”

Twenty minutes later, Santana follows Quinn out the door of the Starbucks across from the antique store she's convinced is cursed—"I'm telling you, Q, that building is not big enough for all that hokey crap crammed into it. It's like the Tardis in there."—and sips at her iced mocha with all the contentment the spoils of a battle won can offer. She had to relinquish the keys to the Rover (it's Quinn's anyway, she drives a Challenger because she's not a fucking soccer mom) in the negotiations to get it, but decided that was “totally doable to not have her coffee taste like it was brewed with patchouli and self-importance by some dirty hippie.”

Santana climbs into the passenger seat and makes a production of slurping her drink through the straw, the noise obnoxiously loud in the relative silence.

"Mmmm, corporate greed tastes so good, Q." Her smile is broad and teasing and Quinn tries not to return it, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"Jerk. You're lucky you're hot or you'd be single."

"Obviously it's my sexual prowess that keeps you hooked." Santana waits just a beat, and after three years dating and knowing each other for all of high school before that, Quinn knows what's next before Santana even starts. "And you know, of course, that the hoOOook bRIIings yoUUuu bAAacckkk..." Santana rolls her fingers to the tune while she sings the line, her grin wide and dorky and impossibly cute, and Quinn can't suppress the giggle that escapes with her eyeroll.

“I don’t think I’ll ever break the brainwashing that Rachel and Kurt did to you in that loft.”

She starts the engine and ignores the follow-up slurp Santana throws in for good measure, wondering for the countless time how she managed to fall so hopelessly in love with such a brat.

When they first got together, their friends took turns pulling them each aside for 'interventions.' At least once a week for the first few, someone would take it upon themselves to ask one of them if they "really knew what they were getting into," while whoever it was fell all over themselves professing how they were "just concerned."

Santana's nosey roommates were first to find out in the most direct but awkward way possible—Kurt claims to still be psychologically scarred from walking into the loft bathroom where Santana was pinned to the counter topless with Quinn's hungry mouth attached to her breast—and as the "closest potentially affected parties" (Rachel's wording), they were probably the most vocal about their worry. But Mercedes definitely had her own separate talks with each of them, Brittany was the hardest to convince it wasn’t a bad prank (and the scariest person to tell), Puck alternated between salacious and some kind of wounded emo neither of them could really take seriously, and even Mike, Sam, and Tina chimed in with their own awkward phone calls.

No one ever thought they'd make it with how they bicker and bitch constantly, Quinn’s super-sensitivity mixed with Santana’s tendency to lash out should’ve dissolved them within the first two months. But here they are anyway, with an insufferable cat, two car loans, and a tiny overpriced apartment they share responsibility for.

Quinn watches Santana's slender fingers flit across the touchscreen in the dash looking for music, plump lower lip pulled into her mouth absently and dark brows drawn together in concentration. She’s just so breathtakingly beautiful, such a perfect study of how softness and edges—both physically and emotionally—can blend into this stunning creature, and no matter how many times Quinn looks at her the thought still doesn’t fade. It strikes Quinn as kind of silly when she realizes she's staring, to still be so besotted with someone she's been with for so long. Then she decides it just makes her really lucky, and leans over the console to suck Santana’s lip between her own, sighing into the sweet kiss.

“I love you.”

Santana sits back from the contact with a confused half-smile at the dopey look on Quinn's face, watching her girlfriend bounce a little when she settles back in her seat, curling long fingers around the steering wheel.

"I love you, too, pod person." Santana states evenly. "Do you put an alien in my brain now, or is that for after lunch?"

"Oh, hey yeah—what do you feel like for lunch?" Quinn puts the Rover in gear and actually delivers the question to the window while her head is turned to check before backing out of the parking spot.

"Um..." Santana hums a little 'ah-hah' and music starts playing through the speakers. "I don't care, pick something."

"You're still stuck on this song?" A perfectly crafted nose wrinkles as Quinn clicks on the blinker. "Panera? They have that tomato basil soup you like."

"It's not 87 degrees outside, sure." Santana throws a high-wattage fake smile at the driver's seat. "Should I also wear a parka?"

"Okayyyy... then, how about Chipotle? I could go for some carnitas."

"Hmm." Santana thinks for a second before shaking her head. "I would say yes, but I'm already bloat-y today." She circles her hand over her midsection. "Can't have Chipotle-belly goin' on in these shorts." Quinn inhales slow and deep through her nose, a sigh more weary than irritated.

"Well, what do you feel like eating?" Santana quirks an eyebrow and one corner of her mouth lifts in a flash of a smirk before she parts her lips to reply. "....for lunch, Santana. What do you feel like eating for lunch."

"Really, I don't care. Just pick something that isn't gross."

They end up going to a sushi place that has a Chipotle two doors down. They’ll never be mistaken for Marshall and Lily, but they've figured out their own balance and it's working so far.

— — —

"You're gonna start doing your own laundry," Santana accentuates the word by forcefully throwing the arm-load of clothing she just collected from Quinn's side of the bed into their laundry hamper. "if you can't put it in the hamper, three fucking feet away from this Goodwill discard pile you wanna hoard over here."

"I appreciate you!" Quinn's voice floats in through the open door to the bathroom, and though the volume of it is muffled by the running shower water, the teasing lilt carries through.

Santana rolls her eyes and starts separating their clothes by color into piles. God, being an adult is so stupid sometimes. Laundry and dishes and paying bills on time, remembering to get the oil changed on the car, biannual teeth cleanings with the same goofy dentist that looks like a bald and cleanshaven Santa Claus.

The stupidest part of all of it? Santana fucking loves it. Not the routine of things exactly (and definitely not the dentist, though he's actually a really nice guy), but that it's this nauseatingly normal little life that she and Quinn have cobbled together—obnoxious cat and even more obnoxious friends, included—and even though it's not celebrity (a couple commercials for Yeast-I-Stat, notwithstanding) or stardom, it's still pretty perfect.

"There is almost an entire load of just scarves! How did you even make that possible? I do laundry every weekend!"

Santana does their laundry and in exchange Quinn handles all cat-related maintenance and most dish duties (providing Santana has actually put her dishes in the dishwasher and not in the sink, "LESS THAN three fucking feet away").

Santana learned a thing or two about cars over summers with her cousins spent mostly at her uncle's garage, so she decided the first time Quinn freaked out about a flat tire that she would handle anything with the Rover or her baby Veronica (which she still, almost a year into the lease, refuses to explain the christening beyond "that's just her name, alright?"), while Quinn is resident CFO of their operation since she's much more methodical and precise with financials.

They tend to leave errands like grocery shopping for weekends when they can go together, and Santana threatens physical violence any time one of the idiots they spend their free time with—still somehow usually Rachel (with or without newest 'maybe the One') or Kurt and Elliott—brings up how adorably domesticated it is.

Maybe it's their history of literally being on the same team, but after the initial settling-in period when they moved in together, they fell into balance pretty easily. Santana doesn't quite get how it works considering they still bitch at each other about what sometimes feels like everything, but it does somehow, and any time she tries to imagine making life work without Quinn, well... it gets messy, and is probably best left at she doesn't get very far.

The water cuts off and Santana finishes separating the clothes just in time for Quinn to appear wrapped in a towel, the shower leaving her glowing pink from her ears to to her chest and a warm wave of oatmeal and almond scent following her into the bedroom.

"What?" Quinn says with the corners of her mouth turning up, then bends at the waist to tousle her fingers through slick blonde strands while Santana just continues to stare at her. Santana's eyes immediately zero in on the hint of curve peeking from beneath the edge of the towel, and with that glimpse the laundry is forgotten. She unconsciously licks her lips as she steps in close to bump her hips into Quinn's backside.

"What what?" She murmurs back, the pitch of her voice gone low and throaty. Her hands settle lightly on Quinn's hips and she nudges forward again, just enough to make Quinn stumble a little and catch herself on the bed with her hands.

"What are you doing?" Quinn giggles, but she's bumping back into Santana, her lashes fluttering when the other woman presses her body along Quinn's back and inhales deeply at the nape of her neck.

"Thinking..." Santana smooths her hands up under Quinn's towel, palming over hips, belly, and ribs to brush teasing strokes along the bottom curve of each breast.

"About?" Quinn's question is huskier this time. Santana fully cups the warm flesh she's been playing at under the towel, unsettling the loose knot that holds it in place until it's falling open and she has to lean back a little to let the fabric drop to the floor. Moving back in to spread wet kisses down Quinn's neck, she hums into the soft skin.

"About how fucking hot it would be," her pelvis shifts against Quinn's ass, undulating in a soft rocking motion while her fingers capture a nipple between them. " fuck you like this."

Santana grins into Quinn's shoulder at the unsteady intake of breath she feels swell against her chest.

"I could grab Charlie, and just," Santana rolls her hips a few times, letting her breath ghost over the sensitive spot behind Quinn's ear. Pale fingers tighten in the material of the comforter that covers their bed, but Quinn shakes her head.

"You know I don't do that..." The reply is even and still has a warm note to it, she's rejecting the suggestion but not rejecting Santana. It's certainly not the first time her girlfriend has brought up this particular subject, but there's a reason their strap-on is named 'Charlie'—Quinn's the only one that wears it.

There's a mixed bag of reasoning behind her resistance, partially an irrational fear—Quinn knows it's irrational, she had a baby for God's sake—that it will hurt, and partially just a wicked little thrill at knowing the power trip she feels when Santana is whimpering and begging, limbs wrapped around Quinn to pull her deeper and hips lifting to meet every thrust, is hers alone.

Still though, sometimes...

Quinn closes her eyes and absorbs the feeling of Santana's lithe body moving against hers, the spicy musky scent enveloping her, the press of hard nipples and soft breasts against her back, the damp breath at her ear. Her body responds to the sensations instinctively, shifting her ass into Santana's groin.

Sometimes, she definitely thinks about it.

"Mmm, but just think," Santana sucks Quinn's earlobe into her mouth and slides one hand down to tease her nails through the trimmed hair between Quinn’s thighs. "of all the other things," She glides one fingertip between Quinn's lips to brush over her clit, grinning when the touch pulls a little jump from the blonde's hips. "...I could be doing with my hands."

"Fuck." It's a gasp from Quinn, two of Santana's fingers dipping just barely inside her before disappearing again, and Santana chuckles darkly.

"All those other things, Quinn, and I could still be inside you." Santana's voice is a smooth purr directly in Quinn's ear. There's just something primal about the idea of having her like this, and though Santana would never push at something Quinn was truly uncomfortable about, she also knows how Quinn likes to demand more with three of Santana's fingers pumping inside her, and how she likes to share deep panting kisses while she comes.

That sexy rounded ass pushes back into her again and Santana's eyes roll closed with a shaky breath. She feels Quinn's hand cover her own and a moan escapes without her intention.

"And here I thought you could do that, anyway." Quinn’s taunt is a little breathless as she moves Santana's fingers against her core with a gentle pressure. It's an unnecessary guidance—Santana has coaxed reactions from her body that Quinn never even thought herself capable—but it usually turns both of them on when Quinn makes things happen how she wants.

“I’ve never heard you complaining.”

Quinn grins at the growl that vibrates over the shell of her ear, there’s something she can't resist about how Santana gets when she’s challenged. Her soft caresses turn possessive, her voice rumbles from deep in her chest, and those glittering dark eyes claim Quinn with the way they rove over her body.

She turns her head to look at Santana over her shoulder, making sure she has her girlfriend’s full attention before removing her guiding touch from Santana’s hand and dropping down to rest on her elbows over the bed. The position puts her bent over entirely, her bare backside still pressed tightly to Santana’s lap and her knees pushed into the side of the mattress.

“I think you need to refresh me.” Quinn widens her stance just slightly, bracing her feet along the sides of Santana’s and bouncing her hips in invitation. “My recollection seems to be a little fuzzy.”

Moments like these remind Santana that Quinn knows her buttons, and knows how to play her like a fucking fiddle. It’s almost scary sometimes to realize how much power Quinn holds over her heart and soul, until she remembers that she’s the only one in the world that has an all-access pass to locked up and restricted Fortress Fabray. The vulnerability the blonde always has teeming under the surface is given to Santana transparently, and the gift inspires a fierce protectiveness in her. Quinn might be pressing her buttons by openly submitting like this, but it’s also just that Santana is the only one Quinn actually trusts not to hurt her with that power.

Knowing the workings behind Quinn’s blatant deference, Santana’s chest feels tight at the same time as the pressure that was already building at her center starts throbbing for attention. She grits her teeth at the wave of pleasure when she slides two of her fingers smoothly into Quinn from behind.

“You need reminding that you’re mine?” Santana immediately starts a passionate rhythm, her other arm still wrapped around Quinn’s hips and trapped against the bed so her fingers can circle around the swelling knot of Quinn’s clit. “That can definitely be arranged.”

Long minutes later when Quinn’s coming with a groan muffled into the bedspread, one hand twisting at her own nipple while the other grasps desperately at Santana behind her, she imagines it’s something else Santana is fucking her so perfectly with, and decides in that moment that maybe she’ll let her have her way on that one.

— — —

“I will never understand why you enjoy watching people scream at each other so much.” Quinn lays her purse on the breakfast bar and hangs her keys on the hook over the microwave with the comment, toeing off her heels with a sigh.

“Hello to you, too, honey." Santana says dryly. "My day was fine, thank you for asking.” She mutes the Real Housewives reunion on television and gets up from the sofa—the dark gray leather one she convinced Quinn to let her buy two months after they moved in, because it’s classy and because it doesn’t make her Brody fucking Weston just because she has taste—to walk over and kiss her girlfriend. “Dinner’s in the microwave, I picked up some PF Changs on the way home.”

Quinn’s eyes light up and she leans in for another kiss over the bar. “Have I told you I love you lately? Because I really do.” She punches buttons on the microwave to heat up her plate and the device starts humming.

Santana leans on her elbows at the breakfast bar, picking at the edge of a tile with her fingernail. “So, I got a call from Ruben today.” She stares down at the countertop with the news, not wanting to look up and see Quinn’s comfortable smile falter.

Ruben was Santana’s older brother, and despite bearing the same name as their overly-responsible and workaholic father, Ruben Mateo Lopez Jr was the sketchiest and most manipulative Lopez in the clan—which was saying something considering one branch of Ruben Sr’s extended relatives were legit cartel associates that no one in the family acknowledged.

He had stayed with them exactly twice since they moved in together almost two years ago: the first time he pawned Santana’s XBoX after four days, and the second time they nearly had to press charges just so they wouldn’t be held responsible for the shipping scam he was using their address to execute.

“No.” It’s out before Quinn even realizes she’s spoken, and Santana’s lower lip pokes out in a pout. “Santana, no, I can’t do it again!”


“But nothing. Don’t you remember last time??”

“Dammit, Quinn.” Santana crosses her arms over her chest, her pouty expression dropping in favor of a sour pinch. “You didn’t even let me tell you—”

“I don’t want you to repeat whatever line of crap he’s fed you this time. Do the details even matter?” The microwave beeps between them but neither woman looks away from the angry stand-off they’re having across their breakfast bar. Santana opens her mouth to answer and Quinn holds up a hand.

“No, let me guess! It was something like ‘I just need a couple days, Santanita.’” Quinn deepens her voice in a mock of Ruben’s, using the nickname that Santana can’t stand and Ruben is the only one to ever call her. “‘Until this money comes in, my guy says this weekend.’”

Quinn knows she’s hit it spot-on when Santana’s eyes flash before she looks away, and she feels a tiny voice of guilt whispering behind her ire. Santana’s unfaltering loyalty is her biggest weakness when it comes to Ruben, and he's been abusing the fact since they were kids.

“So Frannie and Thomas can stay for almost two fucking weeks with that hellacious little demon brat, but when Ruben needs two days we can’t do it?” She clenches her jaw and Quinn’s lips tighten into a thin line.

“That’s not a fair comparison, Santana! Yes, my nephew is an admittedly unsupervised four-year-old,” Santana scoffs at the kind description. “But your brother is a fucking criminal.”

It’s probably the wrong thing to say, given the way Santana’s eyes widen and she pushes back from the counter, shaking her head at Quinn.

“Of course, how stupid of me.” Santana’s voice is now deadly calm and Quinn slides her feet back into her heels at the tone of it. This has rapidly escalated into dangerous territory, and they have an unspoken rule that one of them leaves before arguments reach the slapping threshold. “I keep thinking of them as our family. I forgot you had different rules for your family versus mine."

She turns on her heel and crosses back over to the sofa, dropping herself into the corner of it with a huff and un-muting the television.

“Santana, you know that’s not what this is about.” When her girlfriend just holds up a one-finger salute and raises the volume on the tv in reply, Quinn grabs her keys off the hook and leaves again with a hissed “Whatever.”

Quinn comes home from Rachel’s condo a few hours later, their mutual friend’s unfiltered judgment still ringing in her ears. They’ve known each other too well for too long to play around with niceties, and beyond that Quinn isn’t even sure Rachel is capable of softening her opinion if someone actually makes the mistake of asking for it. Which, of course, Quinn did, after she had sulked petulantly while Rachel fixed them each a cup of tea.

By the time Rachel settled across the kitchen table from her unexpected guest, she was done with waiting and leveled a direct look at Quinn, asking if they were going to talk about the reason for the brooding or if she'd rather continue to pout in silence at Rachel's table. Quinn gave her a dirty look, then let loose with an only marginally cohesive ramble that alternated between complaining about Santana being so stupidly weak about her shitty brother, and berating herself for trashing her girlfriend’s family.

Rachel had listened patiently, asking brief clarifying questions here and there throughout the telling, until Quinn had laid it all out and tentatively asked for her opinion. Quinn expected to be chastised for not supporting Santana with her family, but instead got a calm reminder of what the word meant to Santana, how selective she was with it, and how seriously she took the commitment when it was applied.

Yeah, Ruben was her blood, but this fight tapped into something deeper than that, something Santana kept close as part of her self-definition, and obviously seemed to feel like Quinn was threatening with her opinion on how Santana handled her brother.

Quinn gets a perverse little thrill out of the thought of Santana’s reaction if she ever knew the in-depth psychoanalyzing Rachel and Quinn did on her when they had their talks.

Rachel was probably the only person other than Brittany that Quinn trusted to love Santana for her flaws—and not just despite them—as much as she did, herself. After living with Santana and creating their own little family unit with Kurt, then ending up close friends with Quinn after Santana started dating her, Rachel was usually Quinn’s sounding board for flare-ups with her stubborn and hot-tempered girlfriend, at least partially because her insight was always given with both of their interests at heart.

Rachel’s input this evening was no exception, and Quinn came home with the intent to soothe Santana’s hurt feelings even though she wasn't going to concede about Ruben. She stops after closing the front door to listen for any sign of activity in the apartment, steeling herself for what could very well result in round two of their earlier fight. She hears the muffled ’thwump’s before Santana’s voice, and follows the sound down the hallway to the closed door at the end already knowing what she’ll find when she opens it.

“But I hate you,” Thwump. “I really hate you,” thwump. “So much I think it must be,” thwump-thwump-thwump, “truuuueee love…”

Quinn can’t resist cracking open the door to peek at Santana’s workout, thankful the punching bag is hung in the far corner of the room so she can take in her girlfriend’s glistening half-naked body without worrying about getting caught leering.

Ever since their Cheerio days she’s loved watching Santana get sweaty, the way her wiry frame showed the lines of tendon and muscle in delicious definition, how her tan skin glowed with the exertion, her chest heaving with every short panting breath. Quinn didn’t understand how someone could be so sexy beating on a stuffed canvas bag swinging from the ceiling, but as she watched Santana’s jaw clench with every punch and listened to the gravelly half-singing half-growling thing Santana was doing along with the Pink she could hear screaming in her earbuds from across the room, there was no denying ‘sexy’ was exactly the right descriptor for it.

Mouth-watering, cripplingly attractive, or breathtakingly hot could all work, too.

“Wanna wrap my hands,” thwump, “around your neck,” thwump, “you’re an asshole,” thwump, “but I love you,” thwump, “and you make me so mad I ask myself,” thwump-thwump, “why I’m still here,” thwump, “but where could I go?”

Quinn closes the door before she laughs out loud, only Santana could make something so arousing seem so ridiculously cute at the same time, and she knows getting caught laughing at her while she works out her frustrations would be so much worse than getting caught leering would’ve been.

The thought reminds Quinn that they’re still in a fight, and she retreats back down the hallway to their bedroom, undressing for bed and thinking about what to say when Santana comes in.

She knows she’s totally entitled to her irritation about Ruben, he’s literally the worst person they could have in the apartment—including Puck, who liked to bone disgusting club whores on the sofa they graciously let him sleep on—and he is literally a criminal that almost got them in trouble, but she still feels guilty for coming down so strongly about it without even listening to what Santana had to say.

They decided a long time ago that their life is shared, and that was supposed to mean all parts of it, shitty family baggage included.

Quinn hears the door open and footsteps pad down the hallway before the light clicks on in the bathroom and another door closes, the shower starting moments later. Apologizing isn’t either of their strong suit, but Quinn grudgingly accepted that she needed to before she ever left Rachel’s.

In the fifteen minutes it takes Santana to shower off her workout, Quinn tries to decide the best way to approach it. She settles on directly and with affection, and takes off her sleep shorts because nudity has never hurt her cause when trying to convince Santana to forgive her for something.

The brunette climbs into her side of the bed naked and soaking wet minutes later, curling onto her side with her back towards her girlfriend. Quinn rolls her eyes behind closed lids because Santana knows it’s one of Quinn’s pet peeves that she doesn’t dry off before getting in bed, but she wisely decides now isn’t the time and just wraps her arms around Santana’s slick and shower-heated body, pressing a kiss into her shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” It’s quiet and solemn and Santana doesn’t respond, her chest lifting and falling in a deep sigh, waiting for Quinn to continue. “I’m sorry I was a bitch about your brother, I know you love him despite his flaws and you want to give him an opportunity to be better.” Quinn tightens her arms around Santana’s midsection and nuzzles through the wet hair in her face, trying to ignore how the thick strands are soaking the pillowcase. “We’re supposed to support each other, and I didn’t respond as well as I could’ve.”

Santana snorts and shakes her head, rolling to her back. “That’s a pretty half-ass apology.” It’s only slightly biting, and the way she’s looking at Quinn in the darkness takes off some of the edge. “But it’s honest, so I guess I’ll take it.”

Quinn throws her leg over Santana’s thighs and sits up to straddle her lap, shifting to grind into Santana’s body—and demonstrate her lack of underclothes—while she strokes her fingers down the lines of Santana’s abs.

“What else could I do to convince you of my remorse?” Her grin is coy before she leans down to lick a path over the throbbing pulse in Santana's neck. Santana laughs and hums in exaggerated contemplation, pressing down on Quinn’s shoulders lightly before tangling her fingers into the messy blonde hair on either side of Quinn’s head.

“You’re a clever girl, Quinn.” Santana rasps, tugging slightly at the strands twisted around her fingers. “I think you can figure something out.”

— — —

Santana almost always gets home at least two hours before Quinn since her shifts at the radio station start at five-thirty and Quinn doesn’t go into the office until eight. She usually knows about it beforehand if Quinn’s going to be home early for something, so it’s safe to say she’s surprised when she comes home the next afternoon to see Quinn sitting in the chair by the bed, apparently waiting for her.

“Hey!” She says in surprise while kicking her shoes into the closet. “Didn’t expect to see you home.” Santana unfastens her jeans and starts pushing them down her legs, looking up to see Quinn watching her closely with a small smile and her eyes dark. “Everything okay?” She steps out of the jeans and lifts her sweater over her head, raising a brow in question when Quinn just nods slowly with that same smile that’s starting to make Santana feel like prey.

“Okayyyy,” Santana takes off her bra as she walks nude to the dresser and starts digging for her favorite sweatpants in their pajama drawer.

“You don’t need any clothes.”

Santana stops pilfering through their pjs, and the fleeting thought of how funny it is that a sentence can sound so much like a direct order without actually being one flashes through her mind. Quinn’s voice has that thing in it, that thing that means she’s got something particular in mind and probably a whole scenario concocted for how she imagines it playing out, and she’ll get all weird if it doesn’t work how she thinks it should.

They’re still a little raw from the shit about Ruben yesterday—which was discussed a lot more rationally after orgasms—so Santana plays along without resisting. Nakedness usually means good things, anyways, so she’s not really too inclined to protest to begin with.

“Alright.” She turns around to face Quinn and rests her hands on her hips, confident in her body (and its effect on her girlfriend) now that she knows what kind of game they’re playing. “What do I need, then?”

Quinn’s smile spreads wider in approval and she points to the end-table on her side of the bed, a few feet away from where she’s sitting. Santana squints a little in confusion but follows the direction, walking over to the table and opening the drawer. She stares for a couple beats—Charlie staring back at her looking freshly cleaned—then looks at Quinn for an explanation.

Quinn’s hands twist together in her lap and she nods a little bit shyly, then clears her throat and stiffens her spine to regain her composure.

Not that she’s complaining, but this was certainly not how Santana thought her evening would play out when she left work this afternoon. She lifts the toy out of the drawer by one of its straps, and tries not to feel self-conscious about being watched while she fiddles with the buckles that secure it to her hips.

Once she gets it fixed into place she looks up at Quinn with a goofy smile, putting her hands on her hips again and swinging so the dick sways side to side. Quinn giggles and shakes her head, “How did I know that would be the first thing you’d do with a hard-on?”

She stands up and closes the few steps between them, stopping centimeters from Santana and licking her lips as she looks her up and down. She knows how she wants this to go, and she's already uncomfortably wet from thinking about it all day—it was easy to leave work early when she wasn't getting anything done, anyway—but her inexperience with the subject makes her nerves a bit shaky, and she's uncertain of how to go about getting to where she wants them to be.

"Hey," Santana's voice is soft, a tender tone she doesn't use very often, and her hands come up to cup Quinn's cheeks. "You know you don't have to do this, Q." She dips her chin to meet hazel eyes, trying to convey all of her intent with a look.

Quinn's not sure what it is about the reassurance that flips the switch for her—if it's truly because she feels reassured, or if it's more about feeling weak in the face of her insecurities, and Santana's sweetness about it just exacerbates the feeling—but it does, either way, and she feels her presence shift with the change. She stands taller, squares her shoulders, and tightens her jaw.

Santana would be appalled at herself for how her stomach twists while watching Quinn's demeanor change, but her brain is too preoccupied with not just throwing Quinn on the bed and fucking her stupid to even care.

"I don't have to do anything, no." A pale hand lifts to delicately stroke over Santana's collarbone with the comment, and the brunette inhales sharply at the first touch, a small sheepish chuckle following her gasp. "But this is definitely happening."

Quinn's fingertips are gentle and fleeting as she traces over Santana's shoulders and neck, along the curve of her cheek and the arch of her lips, her gaze following the motion while Santana breathes shallowly against the pads her fingers. There's a mark of leisurely possession in the caress that leaves Santana breathless, but the storm rolling in those eyes contradicts the softness of the contact and it sets her nerves tingling.

She doesn't want to mess up Quinn’s plan or whatever—she knows better than that by now—but hot damn, now that they're here and this is really about to happen, she's already impatient with the slow roll. She settles her hands lightly on Quinn's hips as a test and the other woman's eyes snap to hers.

"Down." And with one word, the snap Santana was waiting for happens. Quinn pushes at her shoulders and Santana sits back on the bed behind her, the fake dick makes her feel awkward in a way she's unfamiliar with but her smile is wide, regardless. "All the way." Quinn flicks her finger to indicate Santana should lay back against the pillows, and the brunette tries to ignore how eagerly she shuffles to follow the instruction.

Quinn doesn’t take her eyes off Santana’s while she unbuttons her blouse, toeing off her heels and kicking them under the bed. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.” She unzips her skirt and smiles a little at the hitch in Santana’s breathing when it drops to the floor, stepping out carefully before pushing the blouse off her shoulders to join it.

“About how I wanted you to fuck me,” she crawls onto the bed in her camisole and panties, moving sensuously until she’s on all fours over Santana’s prone form with the strap-on almost brushing against her. "About letting you do it with this."

Behind Quinn, Santana points her toes straight out until her feet are about to cramp, trying to keep herself from pushing upwards. She drags her tongue over dry lips and takes a slow shaky breath. When Quinn clicks it on, she clicks it on, and Santana's still just trying to catch up with her body's immediate reactions.

“About how bad you want it,” Quinn dips her hips to catch the dick against her underwear, then shifts until she’s sitting on Santana’s upper thighs with its length standing up pressed against her. She tilts her lower body down until Santana gasps at the pressure.

"Tell me how bad you want me, Santana."

God, her voice turned all low and guttural in seconds and Santana just knows she's so fucked at the sound of it. She loses the battle with her own will and reaches for Quinn, her hands each grasping a fleshy rounded cheek and squeezing. She pulls forward with her grip at the same time as rolling her hips up, groaning out loud at the friction from the inside of the harness and the sound of Quinn's moan.

"Fuck, Quinn. I-" she stops in the middle of answering when Quinn braces her hands on Santana's shoulders and rubs back, and all Santana can do is stare as Quinn's eyes roll closed and her jaw drops open a little at the feeling. It's so fucking sexy, Santana short circuits all over again. She presses her fingers harder into the soft curves of Quinn's ass—knowing with a smug satisfaction that the blonde's pale complexion will have Santana's fingerprints branding her for at least a few days—and a growling sort of noise rumbles from her throat.

She runs her hands up Quinn's back under the cami and attempts to sit up, but only gets about a crunch in before Quinn pushes her shoulders down into the bed again, her hips still grinding her pussy against the shaft of the cock and Santana's body still answering every push.

"Nope," it's a little breathless, and Quinn's smile is almost lazy. "This is mine."

She leans down for a kiss and Santana meets her in the middle, straining her neck to press her mouth to Quinn's while reaching her hands up to tangle in blonde hair. It starts hungry and turns deep and searching within moments, and Quinn eases Santana back down to the pillow by deliberately slowing the pace of it. She pulls back and Santana is proud of herself for stifling a whimper at the loss of contact, her hands dropping to palm indulgently over Quinn's thighs just to keep touching her.

"And... I think you'll like what happens if you give me what I want." Quinn pushes back up onto her knees over Santana and shoves her panties down her thighs, pausing when they're blocked by Santana's hands to straighten up again and lift an eyebrow.

Santana looks down to help Quinn angle out of the underwear and gets entranced by the gleaming wetness on the inside of the material. She's suddenly breathing much heavier and her hands seem to have lost basic motor function, the physical evidence of how into this Quinn really is has her insides twisting pleasurably and her brain lust-fried. Quinn lifts each of her knees in turn and Santana manages to help until the scrap of fabric is successfully kicked off her ankle, the blonde leaning back down on all fours when she's balanced again.

Santana can't breathe at the image of Quinn over her, blonde hair wild and eyes gone dark, the look in them burning like a touch. "That depends." Santana’s voice sounds scratchy to her own ears, and she's not sure where the response even came from.

She looks down between them to where Quinn has widened her knees a tiny bit, dropping her hips the barest inch until the head of the dick is almost touching her again. It's so close, and even though Santana knows she can't actually feel it, her clit doesn't seem to be aware of the fact and twitches and throbs with every teasing hint of pressure.

"Oh, does it?" Quinn's smile is wrapped around her words as she circles her hips in one direction....then the other, nudging against the toy on every twist. "What does it depend on, Santana?" She scoots down a little more and her lips just barely spread over the tip, her eyes falling closed with a slow inhale.

Santana grinds her teeth and decides she deserves a fucking medal or something for not just thrusting upwards when everything in her is screaming to do just that. Instead she runs her hands up the outsides of Quinn's thighs, following over her hips and under the cami to draw designs over her ribs and up the curves of each breast.

"It depends," she rasps with her palms full of Quinn's tits, squeezing softly before catching both nipples with her thumbs. "on what you want." When Quinn bows her chest down into the touch, Santana leans up again to steal a kiss, nibbling at Quinn's lip while she rolls hard peaks between her fingers and twitches her hips.

The head of the toy is still nestled just below Quinn's clit, and with how wet she is Santana's little move rubs it back and forth over the swollen nub. Quinn gasps at the unexpected jolt of sensation and her hips jerk, the kiss abandoned as the dick rubs over her sensitive nerves a second time. She drops her weight to her elbows beside Santana's head and pants into her neck as she rocks against the minute friction.

"I want you." It's moaned into Santana's skin and Quinn struggles to remember anything beyond the fact. She turns her chin to take Santana's mouth again, needing the taste and connection desperately in her desire, and moans throatily into the kiss at the sharp pinch to her nipple.

She steels her nerves and goes for broke, reaching down between them to grip the toy in her fist and position it against herself, growling "I want you to let me ride your cock," as she starts to slide down the shaft. Quinn pauses with her eyes closed tightly to gasp an ‘oh my god’ when it’s halfway inside, dropping her forehead to the bed over Santana’s shoulder.

She lets her body adjust to the full feeling for a few seconds before trying to move, it doesn’t exactly hurt but it stretches her in a way Santana’s fingers don’t, and she’s not used to the sensation. Santana strokes aimlessly over Quinn’s sides and back under the cami with soothing murmurs, dropping kisses to any skin she can reach. Quinn wants more, her apprehension fading with every pulse of her walls against the intrusion, and she presses her body down to take the rest of the cock with one long exhale. "Until I come all over it."

Santana’s hips jerk at the words and her nails dig into Quinn’s back—it’s everything she can do to wait against the pressure at her core—and she bites down on her lower lip until she thinks she tastes blood to stop herself from moving. She doesn’t want to hurt Quinn in her passion and is a little bewildered to realize that for all her tenderness, at this heart-pounding moment that’s actually a worry.

Fuck,” Quinn’s gasp hisses directly into Santana’s ear and the other woman drags her nails down Quinn’s back at the sound of it, scoring half-moons into the perfect curve of Quinn’s ass when she reaches it. She pulls a little until Quinn whimpers as her hips tilt and the dick shifts inside her, sucking at the spot behind Quinn’s ear that makes her breath catch. Quinn lifts her head enough to kiss Santana, using her thighs to raise herself oh-so-slowly, then sinking down again a little bit quicker than the retreat.

“God, Quinn…” Santana can’t help the lift of her hips, every painstaking motion of Quinn’s body makes the harness push and pull over her pussy until she’s slicked the inside of it, the under-straps slipping between her lips and causing the most perfect friction. She’s never quite understood how Quinn was able to come sometimes from fucking her like this, but it makes sense now with how overwhelming everything about this experience is.

Santana tries to pull her shit together as Quinn pumps up and down again, the rhythm starting to smooth out now that she’s gotten accustomed to the penetration. It feels so fucking good, but she wants this to be good for Quinn, too, and she knows that she can’t lose herself in the feeling if she wants to make Quinn scream.

“Can you give me what I want, Santana?” Quinn’s cockiness has reappeared with her confidence, and she leans up enough to look down at Santana through her lashes with the rasp. The wet sounds of Santana sliding in and out of her just add to everything, and Santana nods before she manages to speak.

“I’ll give you so much more than that…” It sounded more forceful in Santana’s head, but what actually escaped her mouth was a breathless and airy promise. She uses her hold on Quinn’s ass to guide the rocking of their bodies, rolling her hips with each thrust so she’s pushing up into Quinn before sinking back down to the bed with the retreat. They move together in sync, their panting breaths and the dull thud of wet flesh connecting with increasing force the only sounds other than the occasional protest from the bedsprings.

It’s so good and Quinn feels herself climbing, but it’s just not quite enough and she pushes upright again, bracing her hands against Santana’s ribs with a drawn out whine of her name as she continues to impale herself on the cock.

"Tell me what you need." Santana’s voice is so low, the husk of it makes Quinn wince with another wave of pleasure. Santana roams her hands over the delicious body over hers, groping over ribs and sides and breasts before dragging the nails of her left hand down Quinn’s stomach to stop just above where they’re joined. Her thumb slips through the wetness until she finds the knot of Quinn’s clit, brushing the pad over it a few times before circling just the tip tight and fast.

"Baby, your hand—fuck." Quinn throws her head back with the exclamation, leaning against Santana’s raised knees at her back as her thighs start to burn from the exertion. Santana can feel the trembling in them against her own, and she wants so badly to roll them over and bury herself inside Quinn over and over, but she resists the urge because she knows her girlfriend has to do this her own way or it won’t end well for either of them. Instead she concentrates on tilting her hips to hit the spot she knows is along the forward surface of Quinn’s walls, pressing a little harder with her thumb when she feels the flesh throbbing under her touch.

“That what you needed, Q?” Santana half-sits up and wraps her other arm around Quinn’s back, pulling them closer together so she can suck a nipple between her teeth. “You gonna come for me?” Quinn nods with her eyes closed, little whimpers huffing out of her every time their bodies meet and her nails biting into the back of Santana’s neck where she’s holding on.

“It’s so deep, Quinn. Do you feel it?” It’s hissed around the flesh in Santana’s teeth and Quinn moans a long low note, her body not even fully raising off the dick anymore as she’s sped up her ride. “C’mon, baby… come on my cock.”

Quinn freezes in motion as soon as the words filter through the fog of sex, and her brows furrow as her mouth drops open. “San-Santana!” Her hips start spasming wildly, and it’s all Santana can do to keep contact with her thumb, stroking over Quinn’s clit to prolong the orgasm wracking her girlfriend’s body. She reaches up to grab the back of Quinn’s neck, forcing their mouths together and sliding her tongue between Quinn’s lips while she quakes and shivers over her.

The kiss eventually slows as Santana pulls Quinn down to the bed on top of her, her hips still rocking softly into Quinn and receiving random spasms for her efforts. Quinn finally pulls back from the kiss long moments later to grin lazily down at Santana, her eyes soft with a teasing sparkle in them.

“You talk about this dick like it’s actually part of you.” She twitches her hips against the toy still inside her, her grin widening when Santana inhales sharply through her nose.

“Yeah, well. You ride it like I can feel it.” She bumps back to Quinn’s twitch and their faces are close enough together that she actually watches when Quinn’s pupils dilate at the sensation. The smile drops and Quinn lifts herself off the dick in one smooth motion, Santana’s protest drifting off when Quinn immediately scoots down her body until her face is level with the hard-on standing up proudly off her girlfriend’s very beautifully built feminine form.

It strikes her in a moment of lucidity that it shouldn’t be so fucking sexy, it really shouldn’t. She has no fascination with the part itself, and until recently, no interest in playing with it at all, and yet… when it’s attached to Santana, it suddenly becomes something Quinn is definitely very interested in. She wraps her fingers around the base and presses down, watching Santana watch her with darkened eyes and her lips parted.

“Let’s see how much you feel this.” Quinn sucks the head into her mouth, sliding her lips down the shaft until she feels the pressure at the back of her throat, then using her hand to push the harness harder into Santana’s body beneath it. She tastes herself mixed with the plastic flavor of silicone, and somehow that just makes the whole should-be-ridiculous action that much hotter.

“Ohmygod, Quinn.” Santana can’t wrap her brain around what she’s seeing down her body, but she definitely can’t look away, either. She stares enraptured watching the toy slide in and between Quinn’s lips, barely suppressing the urge to fuck her mouth with abandon and settles for tangling her fingers into the hair at the crown of Quinn’s head. Quinn smiles around the toy at the tug, and Santana feels two fingers dig around the side of the strap until they’re slipping inside her easily, the feeling exactly what she didn’t realize she was craving.

It’s over embarrassingly quick for Santana from there, and Quinn slides the dick out with a wet pop while Santana’s scream is still echoing around the room. She scoots back up to lay across Santana’s body, nuzzling into her neck while her fingers continue to curl gently inside her until the clenching stops. They lay there panting for a few moments while the sweat cools overheated skin and the scent of sex is thick around them.

“Holy shit, that was incredible.” Santana doesn’t even try to keep the wonder out of her voice, if she ever wants this to happen again—this is so fucking happening again—she knows letting Quinn know how amazing she feels is the first step.

“I told you you’d like it if you gave me what I want.” When Quinn replies with the haughty and smug quip, Santana decides with certainty that yeah, this is so fucking happening again, and she's going first next time.