Author's Notes: Based on a prompt from silverlightdragon in which Rachel and Santana are friends with benefits, and Quinn finds out. That's pretty much all I took before I ran away with it. AU after Season 3, with convenient pieces of Season 4 used for my own benefit.

This fic has Santana/Rachel smut but Quinn/Rachel endgame, so people who aren't cool with anything other than Faberry might want to look away.

This is part 1, from Santana's POV. Part 2, from Rachel's POV, is coming soon. Extended author's notes and meta can be found on my Tumblr; hit me up at yumi-michiyo.

It starts with a kiss, as most of these arrangements often do.

The events leading up to the kiss were much less torrid; Rachel and Santana were having a quiet night in, fueled by Chinese takeout and cheap wine, and the conversation had turned to sexuality.

Santana, currently sprawled over their sofa, declares: "All I'm saying is, it's hard to decide which way you swing without trying everything in the playground first, if you know what I mean."

Rachel wrinkles her nose. "That is a disturbing, yet strangely accurate, metaphor."

Santana cackles. She reaches for her glass, making a displeased sound when she finds it empty, and stands up.

"Get me a refill too," calls Rachel. She quickly occupies Santana's old spot, holding her glass out.

"Fuck off," says Santana. Inebriated giggling follows her into the kitchen instead of the huffing she'd expected; she finds it more than a little endearing. Santana rolls her eyes. It's probably a side effect of co-existing with Rachel Berry for a prolonged period of time without anyone physically attacking each other.

On a whim, she brings the entire bottle back, and Rachel's eyes widen.

"Oh. Thank you."

Santana jerks the bottle out of her reach, just before Rachel's fingers make contact. "Nuh-uh. I didn't say this was for you too."

"Santanaaaa."

"Shut up. You're noisy."

Rachel whines again ("Whining? Wine? Get it? Excellent comedic timing is one of my strengths"), and tries to snag the wine out of Santana's hand; she misjudges the distance, being quite intoxicated, and ends up in Santana's lap. "Whoopsy-daisy." This was followed by a lot of giggling.

Santana rolls her eyes. It's becoming a common occurrence around Rachel, and she's glad she's had so much practice in high school. "Careful, Berry. One might think you're interested in something other than the wine."

"Who's to say I'm not?" purrs Rachel in response.

Santana stiffens. Sexy and Rachel Berry are two things that have never gone together, but – Rachel is currently sprawled on her lap, leering up at her, and she's started this wriggling thing with her hips to get Santana's attention a little lower –

And then Rachel's own words seem to have finally penetrated her drunken haze. "Not that you're not attractive, of course," Rachel stammers, "but that wasn't quite the effect I was going for." With a little laugh, she holds up a hand and says: "C'mon, give me what I came here for, and we can forget this ever happened…"

Santana refocuses on the girl in her lap. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Say things like that, and take them back." She's certain her expression is an open book right now, but Santana isn't above getting right to the point.

Preferably, sometime tonight. Multiple times.

A predatory smirk spreads over Rachel's face. "I never said I was taking it back." She hauls herself upright – still straddling Santana's lap – and takes the glass and bottle from Santana's hand. Rachel pours herself a generous portion, draining the wine in a single gulp.

Santana swallows hard, eyes not leaving Rachel's throat.

Rachel puts both bottle and glass on their table. "Now, where were we?" she asks, grabbing onto Santana's shoulders for balance.

Santana's hands automatically go to Rachel's waist. "You were about to go down on me," she says, grinning.

Rachel snorts. "If you play your cards right." She dips her head to kiss the side of Santana's neck, her tongue flicking against the skin every so often, just to make Santana moan.

She knows it's early. The light is never this weak when she wakes up, and for a brief moment, Santana wonders why she's awake.

The woman in her arms mutters something and snuggles further into her. Santana snuggles back until two things hit her:

One: She's Santana fucking Lopez. She doesn't cuddle.

Two: The woman she's not cuddling is Rachel Berry.

"Fuck," groans Santana, throwing an arm over her eyes. The events of last night come to mind, like a pornographic slideshow.

"Not right now, please," says Rachel without opening her eyes, "but I wouldn't be opposed to it later."

"Fuck – I mean, what the hell? You're awake?"

Rachel shifts – and her body rubs against Santana's, making her squirm a little. "I was woken up by the sound of your internal crisis." She props herself up on an elbow, pushing her hair out of her eyes. "I'm fairly certain that you've had your lesbian crisis years ago, so – is it the fact that we had sex that's causing you to freak out?"

Santana becomes aware that her jaw is hanging open and shuts it with a snap; she catches Rachel's fleeting smug smile, and flushes. "Too many words in the morning, Berry. And yes – I'm very aware that we had sex, multiple times."

"Then?"

She doesn't know exactly how to put it. On one hand, she's free of most of the hang-ups she had in high school; she'll be the first to admit that – nerdiness and bad dressing aside – Rachel is incredibly attractive and sexy. On the other hand…

Santana isn't in a serious relationship at the moment. And – there is no other hand in this scenario.

"You know, I'm trying to think of a downside and… nope, I got nothing." Santana scoots a little closer. "Except one."

"What?"

Santana's fingers find the curve of Rachel's hip and continues exploring; she enjoys the way Rachel tries not to respond to her touch. "I'm wondering what it would be like without the booze."

Rachel's eyes darken. "Santana Lopez, are you propositioning me?"

"I don't proposition. I'm offering you the chance to get up on the full Santana Lopez experience."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "And people say I talk too much." She smacks away Santana's hand, pushing her so she lands flat on her back, and straddles her.

Whatever Santana wanted to say is lost when Rachel attacks her neck, mingling sloppy kisses with sharp nips to the skin that make thinking impossible. "Oh my god," grunts Santana. Her hands fly to Rachel's hair, gripping hard and guiding her to where Santana wants her mouth.

One of Rachel's hands cups Santana's right breast. She rolls the nipple expertly between her fingertips with just the right amount of pressure to make Santana's eyes roll back into her head, and okay – Santana's glad at least one of them was sober enough to remember important stuff from last night. "That's – god, like that. Don't stop." She can't control the way her body arches upwards when Rachel starts kissing her way down her collarbone, or when a hand slips to the small of her back to hold her steady.

Santana actually whimpers when Rachel's mouth latches onto her left nipple, her tongue doing wonderfully filthy things to it; and all the while, she hasn't stopped playing with her right. A girl could actually die from all the stimulation she's currently getting. As it is, Santana is certain there's an embarrassingly damp patch on the sheets between her legs. She doesn't care at all.

"Rachel," she moans. Santana's legs attempt to wrap around Rachel's waist, directing her attention to where she needs it the most.

She releases Santana's nipple with a faint 'pop'. "Tell me what you want, baby."

… Okay, Rachel Berry calling her "baby" is something she never thought would be that hot. "You. I want your mouth on me."

Rachel actually laughs at her, the little bitch. "What have I been doing to you for the past ten minutes, Santana?"

"Stop talking, or I might – oh fuck." Her mouth snaps shut, and her hips thrust forward when Rachel's hand cups her down there. A finger strokes through her folds, achingly slow. "Fuck, yes."

Rachel keeps up the tortuous movement as she makes her way down to Santana's legs. She pushes at Santana's knees, smirking when they collapse like a card house. "You know," she says conversationally, as though she's not about to go down on her friend, "I don't think I would have imagined us like this in high school, let alone two days ago."

Santana grits her teeth. "Berry, if you don't shut up and fuck me now, I swear to god I will cut you."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "If I had known that insulting me is such a turn-on for you, we would have had a much more pleasurable high school experience."

And Santana is so turned on right now, she can't do anything but groan and attempt to rub herself against Rachel to get off. Hands on her thighs stop her, and then there's a tongue licking through her folds and teasing her clit. Santana's head slams back into her pillows. It's physically impossible for her to spread her legs any wider, but she tries anyway. "Yes. Right there, oh my god."

Alcohol or no alcohol, how could she have forgotten this? Rachel's mouth is wickedly talented, and her tongue is – she should teach a class so every woman could eat her the way she's being eaten right now. Santana's breathing becomes little gasping pants as she inches closer to her orgasm, her hands in Rachel's hair again as she tries to keep herself grounded. "My god, I'm so close, Rachel – "

Fingers slide into her; Santana makes a strangled sound. Rachel adds another finger and the stretch is just right.

"Yes yes yes yes – "

With a buck of her hips, Santana comes hard. Rachel's fingers don't stop pumping until she's come down from her high, panting and shaky. "My god, Rachel." Santana's so spent, she doesn't realise Rachel has disentangled her fingers from her hair and tucked herself up in Santana's arms. Rachel looks faintly nervous, like she'll bolt at the slightest provocation.

Santana has enough presence of mind to recognise that this is a moment that she can't ruin. She reaches up to smooth Rachel's heavily-mussed hair down, smirking at her handiwork. "That was so much better sober," she says.

She's said the right thing. Rachel's expression relaxes into a shy smile, and a coy glance that has Santana's insides melting.

"You were right," adds Santana.

"About what?"

"About how high school could have been a much more pleasurable experience." She grins wolfishly. "Except this is way better than high school because there're no classes or teachers to stop me from making you come multiple times on my fingers, screaming my name with that beautiful voice of yours."

Rachel's eyes become hooded, her breathing increasingly loud with each word. "God, Santana."

She takes a moment to survey Rachel; partly because Santana's contemplating the merits of simply taking Rachel, mostly because there's no way Santana's going to admit that she's still feeling a little wobbly-kneed from the orgasm Rachel just gave her.

Santana decides to take things slow.

So she licks her lips – slowly, running her tongue over the top, then bottom lip – and watches as Rachel's eyes follow each deliberate movement. "I would've taken you on every surface," she says, "whispered filthy things in your ear between classes. Touched you in class when no one's looking, and you'd have to keep quiet if you didn't want anyone finding out how dirty you are."

Rachel moans, shifting her legs; Santana grabs her hip and yanks their bodies flush together. "I swear, you wore those ridiculously short skirts just to tempt someone into giving you a proper fucking." She kisses Rachel filthily, all tongue, smirking when she feels Rachel respond eagerly.

"Put your hands above your head." Rachel's arms shoot up as she complies. Santana tucks her wrists together so she can hold them down with her left hand. "You're soaking wet," she purrs, "how long have you been wanting me to touch you?"

"Too long." Rachel's pupils are dilated, and Santana knows she won't take long. But she wants Rachel built up on her own terms. Santana dips her head, licks a stripe over Rachel's collarbone, her tongue tracing the dip in the center. "Santana, please."

The taste of Rachel's skin jogs her memory, and she recalls Rachel really liking it when she sucks on her earlobe. Santana switches her focus to the shell of Rachel's ear, her teeth catching hold and tugging gently. Her free hand traces light patterns on Rachel's belly.

"Oh god," pants Rachel.

"You have no idea how good you look right now." Her teeth scrape over Rachel's jaw. "All flushed and desperate." Santana nips her neck, then licks the spot. There won't be a mark – Rachel would murder her – but it's hard enough to make Rachel hiss a muffled "Yes".

"I need you – touch me, please."

"You don't get to order me around," says Santana, and has to hide a smirk when she sees Rachel suck in a breath. "I'm in control, and I'm going to touch you where I like, when I like. And if I feel like it, I might just humour you."

Fuck, she's practically coming again just from watching Rachel react to her. The woman below her is sucking deep greedy breaths, her body straining to relieve her arousal, eyes unfocused.

Santana decides she's ready. Without warning, her hand goes to one of Rachel's breasts, her mouth on the other.

"Santana, god!"

She might not have Rachel's breath control or technique, but damn if years of being the school slut didn't teach her how to use her mouth. She swirls her tongue around the areola, lapping at the hardened nipple itself. She moves her head to repeat the treatment for the other breast.

"I'm going to let go of your hands. Keep your arms up," instructs Santana, and lets go of Rachel's wrists. She complies, fingers curling around the metal bars of the headboard, much to Santana's surprise.

Santana gets up, drawing a disappointed sound from Rachel; truth be told, she's missing the warmth of being pressed completely against Rachel's body. She kneels on the floor, tugging on Rachel's ankles until her legs are dangling off the bed.

Rachel yelps in surprise. "Santana, what are you –" she starts, and then it trails off into a moan when Santana presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her ankle.

Santana loves how responsive Rachel is. How she lets her know what she likes (very loudly), and it's giving her a massive ego boost. Currently, she's taking her own sweet time kissing up Rachel's legs, savouring each moan and whimper. "You have the most gorgeous legs for someone your size. It's practically criminal."

"Yours aren't bad too," Rachel manages to say, and then squeaks when Santana nips her inner thigh.

"I'm trying to compliment you, for once in our lives." She's driven almost to insanity by her goal, so close to her face. Santana's lips close around Rachel's clit, and Rachel's legs spread even wider.

"Santana, god." Hands fist in her hair.

"Arms up, baby," says Santana, laughing softly when Rachel groans.

"You're trying to kill me."

She laps at Rachel like she hasn't eaten for a day. Santana puts her hands on Rachel to keep herself steady, because the entire experience – the taste, the smell, the erotic sight before her, and the sounds – is going to her head.

Rachel's already so worked up and it doesn't take long before her body stiffens, and she makes a series of gasping noises that are quickly becoming Santana's new favourite thing. She hauls herself back up on the bed so she can watch Rachel ride through her orgasm, fingers rubbing Rachel's clit to prolong it as long as she can.

Rachel's eyes snap open and blink once, twice. "Wow."

"Wow? Is that it?"

"You'll excuse me, Santana, if I think that a single 'Wow' from a normally loquacious person like myself is a massive testament to your sexual prowess," says Rachel testily, and Santana laughs.

"Okay, that was more like it." She flops down on her back, arms pillowing her head, feeling incredibly smug. She just needs a few minutes – okay, more than a few minutes – to recover.

Santana gets approximately forty-five seconds of uninterrupted rest when she feels Rachel snuggle into her side. Her eyes fly open. "Berry, there's more than enough space in this bed for me, and your midgety self."

"I'm fully aware of that, Santana," scoffs Rachel. Santana's eyes slide over to see her looking straight back, eyes intense. "I was simply hoping that you and I could be more comfortable with each other, given the incredibly intimate experience that we've just shared. Twice."

"Yeah, big words will get you nowhere. I've known you too long for that. Just say whatever you want to say, Rachel."

Her face lights up, and Rachel scoots even closer; Santana sucks in a breath when she feels Rachel's entire side pressed into hers. "I want to talk about us. What this means for our friendship."

"I didn't hate you before. I still don't hate you now. Good enough?"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "That's a load off my mind," she drawls, and Santana grins. "No, seriously. We just had sex, drunk and sober, and I would like to establish if we are on the same page with regards to that."

"Rachel." If she wants to be serious, Santana can do serious. She rolls over on her side so she's facing Rachel. "We're friends – even though saying that makes me want to gouge my eyes out. I think you're smoking hot and I'd sleep with you again, but this doesn't do anything for me. No offence, but I'm not into singing hobbits."

Rachel heaves a heavy, long-suffering sigh, and says: "As… tactfully as that was put, Santana, I'm glad you feel the same way. I agree that you are very attractive, physically – "

" – just physically?"

" – and in many other ways." Rachel pushes her fringe out of her eyes. "Please let me finish talking before you add any ribald commentary."

"Fine. Continue."

"Thank you. As I was saying, while I find you sexually appealing, I'm also not looking to pursue a romantic relationship with you. While I enjoy your company, like you as a person, and greatly treasure our friendship, I get the feeling that one of us would end up dead within a week of embarking on a relationship." Rachel puts a hand on her arm. "No offence."

"None taken. I agree." Not completely; if anyone was going to end up dead, it would be Rachel.

Rachel smiles. "Well, that was a fruitful conversation." She stretches, seemingly unaware of her nakedness, and Santana can't stop staring. "Which brings us to the important part."

"The sex."

"Yes."

Santana shrugs. "For once, I think you shouldn't overthink this. We're young, we're in New York, we're both currently not in a serious relationship – at the same time – and we're both sexy as fuck." Rachel smirks at that. "So really, there's nothing stopping us from doing this again."

Much to her surprise, Rachel grins and nods. "I completely agree. So we'll be – what is the common parlance for it? – fuck buddies? This is so exciting; it's one of the experiences of bohemian artist living that I can cross off my list, for when I will inevitably play one of these characters onstage."

Santana chuckles, and for once, doesn't want to throttle Rachel to death. "Yeah, no. Learn to quit while you're ahead, Rach."

"But I'm not." Rachel rests her chin on Santana's arm. "We're about even."

"Huh?"

"Number of orgasms."

"Oh."

"You know me. Always thinking about getting ahead," says Rachel, her voice dipping into a throaty register that gets Santana's pulse racing – although, that might have more to do with the hand that Rachel is running down the outside of Santana's leg.

So, they have sex. More than once, and on multiple occasions.

It's convenient, easy, and fun; now that Santana has another – significantly more effective – method of shutting Rachel up. It's also a huge boost to her mood when she's had a tough day at work, or on the audition circuit. Rachel's really growing on her, too. She tried to make a list of the emotional, mental, and health benefits of regular orgasms after a particularly strenuous afternoon, and all Santana did was laugh and attempt to give her an orgasm (because it was apparently what Rachel was aiming at – an orgasm, not an attempt at one).

Regular orgasms aside, their arrangement has done wonders for their friendship. Rachel lacks any sense of personal space (as does Santana; they've seen each other naked too many times to give a damn). Good, regular sex has mellowed the both of them out considerably, enough that's Kurt's noticed.

And being Kurt, he lets them know what's on his mind in dramatic fashion.

"Are you two having sex?" he asks abruptly over Chinese takeout one evening.

Santana splutters, glad she hadn't yet taken a bite of her lo mein. Rachel calmly finishes her mouthful, says: "We are, thank you for asking," and takes another bite.

Kurt looks ill. "What – since when. Why."

"Since April." Rachel glances over at Santana – who's still having trouble swallowing – and smiles shyly. "And why not."

"Oh my god." His half-eaten plate of noodles is pushed away.

"Honestly, Kurt, I don't understand why you're reacting this way when you were the one to bring it up in the first place." As she talks, her gaze keeps drifting to her left; rolling her eyes, Santana takes the bag of vegetable dumplings and puts one on Rachel's plate, getting a warm smile as thanks.

Kurt stares at Rachel. "I know I asked, but I wasn't expecting that answer. Oh. My god."

"Shut up, Kurt." Santana's had enough of all the diva-tude she's seeing at the table. She just wants to finish her food because the noodles are surprisingly good today, and then she's got the opening shift tomorrow so she aims to spend her evening doing nothing. "Don't you have anything else to say?"

"Hail Mother Mary, full of grace?" mutters Kurt. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"This conversation isn't making any sense," grumbles Rachel.

Santana growls. "That's not what I – what the fuck crawled up your loose ass and died! Seriously, do you have a problem with Rach and me?"

Kurt blanches – a striking contrast to the reddening of Rachel's face – and he levels a slow, terrifying look at Santana.

Clearly, there's an invisible line that she's crossed.

"Yes, I've got a problem with you and Rachel," he says. "What are you? In a committed relationship? Dating? Casual? Fuck buddies? Have either of you taken the time from each other's bodies to establish that?"

Even Santana winces at the venom directed at her. "We're friends with benefits."

Kurt takes a deep breath. "Naturally, if you two part on bad terms, I'll be having a hard time trying to coexist with you both. But more importantly, you're both my friends – yes, even you, Santana. I was just concerned about people getting hurt by this arrangement since you – " he points his fork at Rachel " – have yet to date anyone you didn't want to marry three weeks in, and you – " the fork points to Santana " – as far as I know, are emotionally stunted. So you'll excuse me if I'm not falling over myself being happy for you two."

He's got a point, depressing as it is. She can see the same thoughts running through Rachel's mind as she worries her lower lip. "Sorry," mutters Santana grudgingly.

Kurt just stares at her.

"Yeah, okay – you're right. Alright? I'm sorry I jumped down your throat like that – " ("That's a disgusting thought," he says.) "You have a point. We don't really have the best, or most comparable track records when it comes to relationships, but…" Santana trails off.

Rachel senses her distress. "But we've already established what this is, and the other boundaries of this arrangement," cuts in Rachel smoothly. "We're gonna be okay. I assure you that we will be as private as possible, and you won't be affected by whatever drama may arise." She hesitates before placing her hand on his. "Thank you, Kurt."

His smile is a little pinched, but it's there; she takes it as a victory.

"Hummel? Got a minute?"

Kurt looks up from his phone. "As I live and breathe; Santana Lopez not only being civil, but also asking for a minute of my time." His voice is devoid of inflection.

Santana sighs. "Look – you have a point. I understand where you were coming from, and I shouldn't have said those things. I'm here to make sure we're okay."

He nods. "We are. Honest. I'm worried for Rachel because she's my best friend, and she was my friend first, but – you know what she's like."

"She was the first one to tell me she's only in it for the sex," says Santana dryly.

Kurt's eyebrow goes way, way up. "Ah," he says. "I guess she's changed quite a bit since high school. And you? It's really all about the sex for you, too?"

She appreciates that he asks her about Brittany without actually saying it. "Yeah," nods Santana. "Right now, I'm just glad to be out of that shithole town, and I wanna concentrate on figuring out what I'm doing with my life. I don't really do relationships, as you know, and I'm not… Rachel's great, but she's not my type. Crazy hot, but also mostly crazy. "

He snorts. "I know, right? I adore her, but I won't lie and say that New York hasn't been good for her." Kurt sends a little crooked smile her way. "You've been good for her."

"Who'd have guessed all Rachel needed to unwind was good, regular, lesbian monkey sex?"

Kurt scowls. "Aaaand we're done here."

"You love me."

"In your dreams."

She waggles her eyebrows at him. "I don't play for your team, so no."

"Dear god. You certainly know how to ruin a moment."

Santana comes barrelling in, her bag sailing across the loft to land on the couch. "Okay," she says, "I told Gunther that my hale and hearty great-aunt – who walks to the store daily – had a coronary and is hospitalized. So what is so fucking important that I had to skip out on my shift?"

Rachel turns wide and panicked eyes on her. "Quinn's coming."

"The fuck?"

"Yes, exactly! Yale's winter break starts a week early, and she's coming to stay with us."

Santana swears. "No, I meant – why the fuck is Quinn fucking Fabray's visit so important that you had me blow off work to tell me? Couldn't it wait?"

"Wait, you skipped work because I called?"

"It sounded important," mutters Santana gruffly. Already she regrets making that impulsive decision; especially when Rachel's looking at her with those wide, soft eyes.

"Oh," says Rachel quietly. "You didn't have to."

"Yeah, whatever. I did, it's over, and I'll just have to keep it in mind in case you call with a real emergency next time, midget."

There's no edge to her voice, she knows. Rachel knows it too, and she just smiles at her. "Come here, Santana." When Santana sits down, Rachel puts her arms around Santana's waist.

"So… Q's coming," prompts Santana. "I didn't know you two talked."

Rachel makes a noise. "We do."

"When did she say she'd be here?"

"This Friday after her class." Her voice is a little muffled because she's pressed her face into the crook of Santana's neck.

"And again I ask: what's the emergency?"

"I don't even know. I – we're friends, she said so. Even if she is the most frustrating person I've ever met." The last sentence is said in a dark undertone Santana only catches because Rachel is so close.

"I blame that stick wedged up her ass. Took me a good long while to dislodge it."

Rachel pulls away, wrinkling her nose. "That's disgusting."

"Not literally, Rach."

"Yes, but even then, it's not a pleasant mental image."

"Suit yourself," says Santana, grinning. "I only wish we had tried anal; I'll bet Q's seriously kinky underneath all her Christian celibacy bullshit."

Rachel sat bolt-upright. "Excuse me, but what was that?"

"What was what?"

"We had tried anal… Santana, are you saying that you had s– … you slept with Quinn?"

"Yeah – twice actually." Santana shrugs.

Rachel's reaction reminds her of one of those novelty rubber chickens that's been squeezed: her eyes are practically bulging out of her head, and she's making a high-pitched squeaking noise. Santana watches, fascinated, as Rachel eventually calms down enough to ask, "And when was this?" in a tight voice.

"At Mr. Schue's wedding-that-wasn't," she says. "We were all hooking up with people we shouldn't have then." Santana stares at Rachel.

"I told you about Finn and me in the strictest confidence," she mutters, sounding wounded.

"And do you see anyone else in this room?" replies Santana, waving her hand for emphasis.

"Okay, fine; that was besides the point, I'll concur." Rachel continues to stare at Santana as though she murdered her cat in front of her. "You never told me that you and Quinn slept together."

"Since when was I required to report the details of my sex life to you, Berry?"

Rachel makes a squeaking sound – the rubber chicken comparison has never been more apt – and throws her hands up in the air. "That's not – I thought we were friends, Santana. That we could tell each other these things."

Santana raises an eyebrow. "So… you're saying that you want me to tell you that I slept with Q because we're friends?"

"No! No, I didn't mean that!" Rachel pinches the bridge of her nose, and then says: "It would have been nice to have heard it from you directly, rather than… making assumptions." When Santana continues to stare at her quizzically, Rachel clarifies: "I saw you two dancing together while Finn and I were performing."

"Oh."

"Of course, it was simply an educated guess considering how you two were behaving."

"We were drunk out of our minds."

"Yes, that was the general impression I got."

Santana lifts a shoulder, and lets it fall. "Hey, Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"Preggo and I got really, really drunk at Schue's wedding bust party and slept together."

Rachel cracks a half-smile. "I appreciate the information, but not your continued baffling refusal to use Quinn's name."

"It's our thing," replies Santana. She honestly doesn't understand what's going on, but she's eager to end the conversation. "Okay. Great. So we're good?"

"I suppose so." Rachel clears her throat, shifts in her seat. "So… you and Quinn slept together."

"Uh-huh."

"Is there any… lingering awkwardness between the two of you?"

Santana shrugs. "No? Guess not. It was a one-time thing, and we were drunk. We both know Q loses her panties real quick when alcohol's involved."

"Santana!"

"It's true!"

Rachel rolls her eyes, muttering under her breath about uncouth roommates. "You distracted me. We were talking about Quinn's visit."

"We're cool. I'm definitely not gonna jump her, though I wouldn't blame her if she wanted another go…"

"You're as bad as Noah sometimes."

"... and as far as I know, you and Kurt aren't sexing Q up anytime."

"Oh, my god." Rachel gets up and walks into her room, signalling the end of the conversation – which was, in Santana's humble opinion, a huge fucking waste of her time and a good excuse. Seriously, her great-aunt's like a hundred, and could pop her clogs anytime.

Not to mention she doesn't understand why Rachel's in a snit. But the thought quickly leaves her mind when she remembers she has an entire afternoon to herself now, and she's got a lot on her Netflix queue to catch up with...

... and only if Rachel's not in the mood.

She turns on the TV. She'll watch a movie or two while waiting for Rachel to revert to normal Rachel Berry levels of crazy before trying her luck there.

Rachel's stuck in back-to-back classes, and so it falls to Santana to shuffle her shifts around so she can pick Quinn up from Grand Central. Of course, she doesn't know she has to do that until this morning, when a harassed Rachel shouts the information at her as she disappears out the door.

"You," says Santana two hours later, once Rachel picks up the phone, "owe me so many orgasms it's not even funny."

"Santana!" Rachel hisses.

"What? It's New York; no one cares." That's not strictly true; the man seated across from her flashes her a grin and a thumbs-up, which she returns.

"Be as that may, I'm not in the habit of broadcasting my personal life in public and neither should you." There's a rustling on her end. "Are you at the station already? Quinn says she should be reaching soon."

"Yeah, yeah." Santana takes a long drink from the mug in front of her. "I've been here for a while now."

"Yes, that much is quite clear," says Quinn, materializing from the crowd.

Santana gets up and gives her friend a clumsy hug; her phone is still clasped to her ear. "Hi, Q. No, I'm not talking to you, Rachel; Barbie just got here."

"Oh! Pass the phone to her, please!"

"I'm not your maid," grumbles Santana, but obliges. She sits back down to finish her mocha as she waits for Quinn to finish talking.

"So. How's Yale?" asks Santana once Quinn's handed the phone back.

Quinn beams. "Amazing. I never imagined it could be like this."

"Cool." She's genuinely happy for her friend; while it's not like she herself hasn't had her fair share of shit, Santana has to admit that Quinn had it pretty bad as well. "Let's go, then."

They spend the trip back to the loft in silence. Santana doesn't do small talk, and besides they don't have that kind of friendship; anyway, she has an earbud in, while Quinn pulls out an incredibly boring-looking book once they get on the subway.

"Still the nerd, I see."

Quinn smiles beatifically. "Contrary to what you believe, Santana, it isn't actually possible to catch a disease from books. Or you might have gotten that mixed up with chlamydia…?"

Santana cackles. "Bitch," she says, almost affectionately.

Santana shuffles out of her room on Saturday afternoon, still groggy. She's halfway through her coffee before she registers Quinn saying something to her. "What?"

Quinn frowns and gestures at her. "What on earth are you wearing, S?"

Santana blearily stares down at herself; she's wearing the first T-shirt and shorts she found off the chair in her room, where clothes that are too clean for the laundry and too dirty for the closet go. "... A T-shirt?"

"That says 'Wicked'?"

When she cracks her eyes open a little wider, Santana becomes cognizant of Quinn's bemusement, Kurt's smirk, and Rachel's rubber chicken impression (toned down for Quinn's benefit). "Oh," she says, plucking at the shirt. "Must have gotten the laundry mixed up."

"Yes!" chimes in Rachel, nodding furiously. Santana tries not to roll her eyes; there isn't enough caffeine in the world that can prepare Santana for dealing with the Rachel Berry Experience this early in the day. "On account of doing our laundry together, since we live together. As the only two women in this loft."

Even partially awake, Santana can tell that Rachel is going to extreme, Rachel Berry-esque lengths not to let Quinn know about their arrangement. Kurt catches her eye and his smirk widens.

"Okay," says Quinn, nodding slowly. Her gaze drifts from each of the other occupants of the loft in turn. Santana's fairly certain she has her best "I'm meeting with Coach Sylvester" face on; she can only hope Kurt's not being as big an asshole as he usually is (it's funny because he's gay, and – she ends that train of thought). "Right. Rachel, do you mind if I go freshen up…?"

"Oh! No, of course not; the bathroom's this way," says Rachel, steering Quinn in the right direction. She shoots Santana a look that means they'll have words later.

Rachel corners her once Quinn disappears into the bathroom, confident that the clanking of their ancient water heater is enough to drown out their conversation. Kurt, sensing blood in the water, disappears into his room.

"Okay, why don't you want Quinn to know we're sleeping together?"

"Shhhhh," hisses Rachel, doing an uncanny impression of Brittany's cat when Santana inadvertently took his lounging spot. "Not so loud."

"My question stands."

"Don't you find it weird? That you and Quinn – and now you and me?" The weight of keeping such a huge thing secret seems to have taken a toll on Rachel's verbosity; Santana does her best not to laugh, faced with the sight of Rachel Berry waving her hands around as she struggles to find words to express herself. "I personally find it quite embarrassing to be flaunting our arrangement in our friends' faces."

"Nobody's flaunting anything, Berry, unless that's your kink," says Santana, ignoring the scandalised squeak she gets. "We're roommates who give each other orgasms. What's so embarrassing about that?"

"Well – nothing. But I'm not the type of person to be sharing my private life publicly."

"I'd never have believed that, given how loud you can be when I do that thing with my mouth on your – ow! Fuck!"

Rachel growls. "Must you always be so vulgar?"

Santana has a smart-ass comment about Rachel liking to hurt her on the tip of her tongue, but holds back when she senses Rachel is actually upset. "Holy shit, you're serious about this."

"And when have I not been? You, of all people, should know that I have no chill whatsoever." The anger's gone out of her, and she settles back against the wall with a sigh. "It's weird, okay? Don't ask me to explain it."

"You're going to, anyway," says Santana with a small smile. It's her peace offering; she can be nice, okay, and it's not like she loathes Rachel now. Eventually Rachel smiles back, bumping her shoulder against Santana's.

"Quinn and I… we haven't the most conventional of friendships, you know that. It was a pleasant surprise that she even wanted to stay friends with me after high school, to the point that she'd buy us train passes."

"I know, right." She'd given Quinn plenty of grief after Rachel told her about the passes.

"I'm not worried about her knowing that I'm not entirely straight. It also has nothing to do with the fact you've now slept with the both of us."

"Mmmhmmm. Right," says Santana. Rachel ignores her.

"I don't want to make her stay with us weird or uncomfortable," finishes Rachel.

"Okay." Santana is still convinced that Rachel is full of bullshit, and there's something else she's not telling her, but she knows better than to force it out. Whatever. She smacks Rachel's ass playfully on her way to the kitchen, cackling at the girl's scandalised yelp.

At Rachel's insistence, they all go out for a day of playing tourist (it's less insistence and more promising of sexual favours that convinces Santana; she'd gladly have complied nonetheless but she doesn't see why she can't benefit from the situation). Mostly, it consists of her and Kurt hanging behind while Rachel talks Quinn's ear off.

"Rachel's really excited," comments Kurt offhand. Santana snorts.

"That's the biggest understatement I ever heard."

As though determined to prove Santana right, Rachel chooses this moment to squeal with delight, tugging on Quinn's sleeve as she points at some adorable trinket on the shelves.

"She hasn't said more than a "Please pass Quinn the salt, Santana" to me since Preggo got here," remarks Santana. "I almost miss her lectures on animal cruelty… except I don't. Q-ball gets all the shit now, it's way funnier when she's on the receiving end."

Kurt stifles a laugh. "You're terrible."

"But funny."

"But funny," he agrees, rolling his eyes. "I wonder how Quinn's holding up. Do you think we should rescue her soon?"

"Nah," says Santana. She watches as Quinn takes her purse out, clearly offering to purchase that hideous trinket despite Rachel's vehement protests. "This is way more entertaining."

The rest of Quinn's visit goes uneventfully and Santana practically jumps Rachel the moment they're alone in the loft together.

"You're ridiculous." Rachel pushes Santana off, but she's already shimmying out of her shorts.

"I was promised sex."

"I was desperate. That's the only thing that ensures your cooperation these days."

Santana's thumbs hook on the waistband of Rachel's panties. "Hey, I'm bribable and cheap. And it's not like you're not getting anything out of this either."

Rachel opens her mouth to say something, but only a moan comes out instead when Santana swipes her fingers through wet heat.

Kurt comes to her room unannounced, a bottle of wine in his hand. "Can we talk?"

"Sure." She leads the way to the couch – neutral territory, since she's sure the bed still reeks of sex. He seems to appreciate the gesture as he nods while pouring her a glass. "What's up?"

"I was wrong about you and Rachel."

Santana leans forward, propping her chin on her knee. "I know, but I like hearing you say it."

He rolls his eyes at her. "I was prepared to pick Rachel off the floor after you'd said something to her, or broke your arrangement off after she'd confessed deeper feelings, but… she's happy. Happier than I've seen her in a while. And you honestly do care about her."

"I'm not that morally bankrupt, y'know."

"Maybe a little overdrawn," says Kurt teasingly; she aims a half-hearted kick at him. "Seriously, though; you're good for each other. This thing shouldn't work as well as it does, considering it's you two, but… yes. I guess miracles do happen."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she drawls, holding out her glass for him to refill. "Let's drink to more action for me, and the faint hope you'll see some action soon."

"I'll drink to that," says Kurt, straight-faced, and clinks their glasses together.

Santana's having a shit day. She bombed an audition for an ensemble role in the afternoon, and she'd been told she 'wasn't the right fit' when she tried for a TV commercial (she'd resisted the urge to shoot back at the man that he really meant that she wasn't white enough, but only barely). She slams the loft door closed.

Rachel's head snaps up. She has a rebuke on the tip of her tongue, but Santana just looks at her, and Rachel deflates. "Oh, Santana."

Santana shrugs, and tries not to look as pathetic as she feels.

Rachel shuts her laptop, pushing it onto the couch. She tugs on Santana's sleeve, leading her into the bedroom. "Lie down," says Rachel, peeling off her shirt even as she straddles Santana's hips, kissing her hard.

"... you're sure?"

"You need this," says Rachel. "Let me take care of you."

She's about to protest that she's sweaty and kinda foul from the subway, but Rachel's mouth on hers takes care of that. "Oh fuck yes," groans Santana instead, when Rachel sucks on her earlobe. Her top is long gone by the time Rachel drags her fingernails down her ribcage; her hips jerk forward in anticipation. "Touch me."

"I will." Rachel likes dominating her almost as much as Santana enjoys being dominated, though Santana would rather chew her own hand off than admit it out loud. "But you need to tell me what you want, where you want it." She trails the back of her hand up and down Santana's thigh. "And then I'll decide if you deserve it."

"Fuck. That's hot."

Rachel gives her a sultry smile. "So? Where do you want me, baby?"

"I want your mouth on me."

"Where? Here?" She licks the underside of Santana's jaw; Santana draws a sharp intake of breath.

"Rach, I'm so not in the mood for – " She chokes on the rest of her words when Rachel cups her roughly through her panties.

"You're sure about that? Because – "

The doorbell sounds, and Rachel almost falls off the bed in surprise.

"The fuck?" Santana sits bolt-upright. "Shit." She stares as Rachel scrambles off, looking for her clothes. "You've got more on than I do, you answer it."

Rachel shoots a glare at her but can't dispute the truth of her statement; she yanks her sweatshirt back on as she walks out of the room. Santana grins when she spots Rachel wiping her hands on the back of her shorts, muttering something under her breath about ill-timed interruptions.

She lies back down, not bothering to cover herself. Her bad mood's on standby, and can only be dissipated once Rachel gets rid of whoever's at the door and comes back to finish what she started –

"Quinn?" she hears from outside, and the bad mood settles down with a Gilmore Girls marathon.

"... fuck." Santana leaps off her bed. By the time she's decent enough to appear outside, she stumbles on an interesting tableau: Quinn, a traveling bag on her shoulder, staring; Rachel, crimson with embarrassment, also staring – albeit at anywhere else but at Quinn.

She's chosen the worst possible time to appear; Quinn takes one look at her and her hastily-assembled outfit, and says: "You... and Santana?"

Stung, Santana decides to go on the offensive. "Me and Berry," she says. "And what are you doing here?"

"I was supposed to come today, remember?"

Rachel, who was chewing on her lower lip, suddenly blinks, looking panic-stricken. "Oh shit – it's Thursday today?"

Santana's eyes widen. She'd – and Rachel too, from the looks of it – completely forgotten there was this exhibition at the Guggenheim that Quinn had wanted to visit, and she'd asked if she could stay with them so she could attend one of the related talks.

Quinn averts her eyes from them. "I could always stay somewhere else, if I'm interrupting you guys…"

"You're not, uh, interrupting anything," says Rachel quickly.

"Oh. Okay, sure. That's – it's fine, I think you're pretty good together."

"Quinn, it's nothing like that."

"I'll just go," says Quinn, backing up. Rachel follows her. "I'll see you around?"

"Quinn!" Rachel darts out the door in hot pursuit. The loft door slams shut behind her, leaving Santana alone.

In other circumstances she would have laughed herself stupid, but – something seems off about the entire situation. Santana knows better than to meddle with the thick soup of drama that seems ever-present around Quinn and Rachel.

She's interrupted when a forlorn Rachel comes back in. "She's gone," announces Rachel.

"I kinda gathered." Santana goes over to put an arm around her shoulders. "You okay?"

"She thinks we're dating," says Rachel, turning horrified eyes on her roommate.

Even if she knows what Rachel means, she doesn't like the unintended jab at her. "I don't appreciate that tone of voice."

"Sorry. I – I'm a little shellshocked right now." Rachel gently shrugs off Santana's arm, going to collapse on the sofa. "Quinn thinks you and I are in a relationship."

"And that's bothering you… how?"

"I'm not quite sure myself," she mumbles, dragging her hand down her face.

Santana's still incredibly aroused, and that bad mood is still there. But she pushes everything away when she sees the forlorn look on Rachel's face. "Okay, Rachel," she says. "Let me know when you figure it out."

She meant it to be sarcastic, and rolls her eyes in disbelief when Rachel just nods.

She sends Quinn a text later that evening, and gets back a: I'm fine, thnks for asking. Not. Srsly, r u even capable of being nice for once in ur life?

Pl both noe i dont work that way, types Santana, smirking. She knows Quinn knows that texting at all is her way of showing affection. Over the years, Santana's perfected the art of layering human emotion into the things she does; the more abrasive the act, the more she cares.

Right. Whatevs. So u and Rachel?

We're just sleeping tgt thats all no feelins or shit involved

K

Santana frowns. The single-letter acknowledgement means that Quinn Fabray is shutting down. She calls Quinn immediately.

"Tubbers, I know you did not just 'k' me –" she says when the call connects, and then she cuts herself off with a "fuck!" when Quinn hangs up on her.

"Bitch."

She's woken up early (by her standards, at least) by the clanking of their heater. Santana swears, dragging her pillow onto her head. Whatever thought of sleep dissipates gradually when the clanking stops, replaced by the aroma of coffee, and she gives in to temptation.

Kurt and Rachel are in the kitchen. She ignores them both, making a beeline for the coffeemaker – and grunts in displeasure when she sees it's empty. Santana swipes Kurt's coffee for herself, watching as Rachel bustles around the small space.

Kurt bristles, but a glare from her quietens him; being the more lucid of the two, he decides to make more coffee.

"Why," starts Santana after half the coffee's gone, "are you making a racket on a Friday morning?"

("Afternoon," mumbles Kurt, rolling his eyes.)

"I'm going to look for Quinn." Rachel is preoccupied with stuffing two Thermos flasks into a bag. "I need to apologise for the awkward situation we subjected her to last night, and convince her to come and stay with us as we originally planned. I believe making her lunch would be a step in the right direction." She holds up two sandwich bags. "Which do you think Quinn would prefer? Tuna salad, or chicken salad?"

"Bacon," says Santana. To her surprise, Rachel bites her lip and nods.

"Yes, I do believe you're right. I confess that I was hoping not to have to prepare something that greasy and which goes against my beliefs, but this is a gesture of apology, and I should be willing to meet her halfway at the very least." Rachel shoves both bags into the fridge. "Thank you for your input, Santana; now, I think we might still have some leftover bacon in the freezer, let me check…"

Kurt stares, horrified. Santana is similarly rooted to the spot until she manages a: "Rachel, what are you doing?"

Rachel pauses, an open pack of frozen bacon in her hand. "I'm making a packed lunch for Quinn."

"You're vegan," says Kurt, gesturing at the meat she's holding. "You gave me a fifteen-minute lecture about animal cruelty and the general unhygienic conditions in the meat processing industry when I bought that last week."

Rachel looks sheepish. "I switched to vegetarianism because I can't afford to sustain a vegan lifestyle. Also, I may be vegetarian, but all of you are perfectly content to consume animal flesh," replies Rachel. She puts the package in the sink and runs the tap. "I can try and change your minds but I certainly can't stop you."

"What Hummel meant to say was – Q's not even here, and you're perfectly happy to cook dead animal flesh for her," interjects Santana.

Rachel shrugs. "I don't mind." She turns her attention back to the food.

"This isn't normal," says Kurt in an undertone. "Did anything else happen last night – not that I regret not being there last night, because too much female drama – that you neglected to share?"

"Apart from Rachel getting kidnapped on her way back from chasing down the runaway bride and being replaced by a terrible clone?"

"I'm right here, Santana," says Rachel pointedly. She has oven mitts on her hands as she gingerly works a pair of tongs to flip the bacon slices; it's weird as fuck but strangely endearing. Rachel Berry's brand of crazy is something that Santana, shockingly, now finds charming.

Kurt, similarly accustomed to Rachel, looks unconcerned with her antics. "I vote we let the terrible clone continue. I'm curious to see how the aliens thought we wouldn't notice Rachel's been replaced."

Santana grins wickedly. "Agreed."

"You're terrible, the both of you," comments Rachel. She's swapped her oven mitts for food handlers' gloves, picking up each bacon strip between forefinger and thumb and dropping them on slices of bread. Santana rolls her eyes when she notices that Rachel's also wearing a mask.

"Whatever, Berry," she concludes. She snags a bacon strip and pops it into her mouth – Rachel shrieks in outrage. "Hey, this is good."

"It is?" Kurt also snags a piece, eyebrows going up as he chews (Rachel swats at them both like they're flies). "Oh my god. I've just ruined my diet, but – who knew a vegetarian would cook bacon perfectly?"

"Quinn taught me," huffs Rachel, quickly bagging the sandwiches to protect them from the scavengers. "It's not that difficult to prepare compared to vegetarian bacon, really – though I don't plan on making it a regular event. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to wash up before I leave; the smell of bacon grease is rather cloying." And she disappears into her room.

"You should leave it on; it's like sex pollen to Q-Tip," calls Santana after her. "She'd follow you anywhere."

The grease-spotted apron Rachel was wearing sails out and flops pathetically at Santana's feet.

Rachel reappears later that evening with a radiant expression and Quinn's hand firmly clutched in hers.

Santana glances up from her laptop. "Oh, you found her. I was right about the sex pollen, wasn't I?"

"Santana," hisses Rachel.

"Ignore her," says Quinn airily, linking her arm with Rachel's. Santana blinks.

"The fuck?"

"You're not sleeping on the couch, I insist," Rachel says firmly, already leading the way to her room. "It's not good for your back, and – full disclosure – we got it off the sidewalk. It's been professionally cleaned, and we bought new cushions and covers, but – I'll be much happier if you had a proper mattress. Mine's a Tempurpedic, so I'm confident that you'll have a good night's sleep…" The rest of her monologue is cut off as they disappear behind the curtain (and Santana still can't believe she's not done talking yet).

Kurt appears from his own partition, headphones slung around his neck. "I thought I heard our favourite loudhailer," he says, half-joking. "Is she back? Was she victorious?"

"She's giving Kewpie Doll the Hilton tour. What do you think?"

He actually looks delighted; Santana stares at him for it, judging him not-so-silently. "What? Just because you have the sentimentality of a used paper bag, doesn't mean I don't think the entire thing is sweet. My god, Santana – " he lowers his voice conspiratorially, " – Rachel once made me buy her a new frying pan when I stayed over at her house in high school because I made pancakes with eggs in them."

"So? I can tell you the only reason she's more chill now is because she's getting regular orgasms, and that mouth of hers is being put to better use than talking at us."

Kurt slams his hands over his ears so hard, Santana's actually surprised that he doesn't give himself a concussion. "Okay I did not need to hear that!" He backs off hurriedly and goes to Rachel's room, Santana's cackling following him.

Rachel has a social obligation she can't skip, so she leaves Quinn in Santana's care (Santana's words, not Rachel's) with strict instructions to be nice to each other until she gets back. Santana laughs until Quinn throws an embroidered cushion at her; Rachel smiles gratefully at Quinn and leaves.

They are so fucking mushy, she wants to puke up her breakfast. Santana thinks she might now have an idea of what it must have been like to be Sue Sylvester, except general human interaction was sufficient to induce nausea in the woman.

"You've gone soft, Fabray."

"She cooked bacon for me," says Quinn. Unbidden, her face cracks into a wide smile.

"Oh my god. I'd say you're whipped, but you're not even dating. This is just pathetic." She folds her arms over her chest, scowl deepening when Quinn doesn't even respond. "Oh for crying out loud… Tubbers, snap out of it." Santana snaps her fingers in front of Quinn's face several times; Quinn scowls and jerks backward.

"What the hell, Santana."

"Oh good, you're alive," says Santana sardonically. "I was beginning to think you'd melted into goo."

Quinn gives her the finger. Santana just laughs at her, stands up, and says: "Get dressed, Quinnie; Mama Rachel said I'm in charge of feeding you, so let's get you fed." And she turns her back on Quinn, knowing full well retribution will come swiftly.

Quinn doesn't disappoint.

Rachel comes home, frowning when she catches sight of them. Santana doesn't understand why she has that expression on her face; there's no way she would have found out about what happened at the cafe this quickly, and she and Quinn have managed to watch TV for the past hour in relative peace (relative meaning that no blood has been shed. Yet).

"What?"

"No. Nothing," says Rachel, relaxing into a smile. "I thought you guys might have killed each other before I got back."

"She wishes," mutters Quinn under her breath. Santana aims a kick at her shin, grinning when she hears a sharp intake of breath from across the couch. "Ow. You bitch."

"No, you're my bitch. You know I could've totally taken you that time if Schue hadn't stepped in to save your ass."

Quinn sneers. "Yeah, if you were planning on smothering me with those lifebuoys you call boobs."

Santana makes a violent gesture – but Rachel chooses that moment to call Quinn's name from the kitchen, and Quinn immediately gets up.

"You kidding me, Fabray?" yells Santana after her.

Rachel sees her draped over the couch from behind Quinn. "Sorry, Santana, did you want something?"

"No, I'm good." She makes an obscene gesture at Quinn once Rachel's back is turned, which makes her feel a little better.

She's feeling a lot like Brittany's bratty little sister when they'd ignore her tea parties in favour of more grown-up fun. Santana doesn't ask for much but she's been told she can be unbearable when she doesn't get what she wants when she wants it (once, Sam told her she turned into a gremlin "like from the movie" when she didn't get the attention she wanted; he regretted it after).

Can you blame her, though? Santana's a simple person; she doesn't ask for much, so it's only reasonable that she gets whatever she asks for in a timely fashion.

And Santana wants sex, now. Like now now.

Santana seizes her opportunity when Quinn heads out for something or other (she doesn't give a shit what, just as long as she won't be around to pussy-block her) and Kurt goes on a date. She barges into Rachel's room unannounced and flops down on the bed beside her.

Rachel sets aside her phone with a sigh. "What do you want?"

"You," she says, trailing a hand up Rachel's leg, propping herself up on an elbow, smirking.

Instead of smiling back at her, Rachel gets this furrowed expression, like she's been posed an impossible maths problem. "Santana…"

The smile slips off Santana's face. "What? What's wrong?"

"It's not you." She takes Santana's hand off her thigh, but keeps holding it. "Just… Quinn'll be sleeping here tonight."

She shrugs. "We'll go to my bed, then."

"She could come back anytime!"

"That didn't stop you the time Kurt caught us on the couch." That had been mortifying, of course, but the memory of the look on Kurt's face had kept her entertained for weeks. It was so worth her paying for the professional deep cleaning of the cushions. Plus, Rachel had only held out on her for three days afterwards. "Wait, Bottle Blondie totally knows about us us, right?"

"Yeah. She knows the circumstances in which we ended up here, after I explained them. Quinn said she's fine with it."

Santana cackles. "And by explained, you bludgeoned her over the head with big words."

Rachel crosses her arms over her chest and glowers; Santana finds that an acceptable part of foreplay. "It's not the easiest social situation, having to explain to a mutual friend that two of her friends – one of whom she's slept with previously – are currently in a friends-with-benefits relationship. I had to reassure Quinn we wouldn't be making her feel uncomfortable or unwelcome in any way while she's staying here."

"Okay, babe," chuckles Santana. She rests her hands on Rachel's forearms, gently untangling them. "C'mon. No one's home but us, and I really want you, baby. You were so hot earlier, and I would have totally taken you there on the kitchen counter if Kurt hadn't been there."

"Santana!"

"You owe me. You got me all worked up the other day and I was nice to Quinn." She tugs on Rachel's hand, pouting. "Come onnnn."

"... oh, fine." Rachel hops off her bed primly and leads the way; Santana swears the exaggerated sway of her hips as she walks is for her benefit. She loves how Rachel insists on acting like she doesn't want this as much as Santana does, but retains enough presence of mind not to say it.

Rachel sits down on Santana's bed, parting her legs; she puts her hands on the back of Santana's thighs and guides her closer. Santana bends down to kiss her, gasping into Rachel's mouth when she feels hands fiddling with the front of her shorts.

"Fuck. You're eager."

"You said I owe you," says Rachel flatly – but there's a gleam in her eye that makes Santana's breath catch.

Sated and lazy from multiple orgasms (if anyone asks, Santana will insist that Rachel's not that great; they've just done this often enough that she knows exactly what Santana likes), she goes back to her lounging spot on the couch. Rachel joins her after a quick shower, phone in her hand again.

Santana's on the verge of initiating a lazy make-out session when the loft door opens. "I come bearing gifts," announces Kurt, a tray from the coffee shop down the block in his hand.

She sighs happily when she inhales the aroma of her favourite caramel mocha. "I don't hate you," she tells him when he hands her the cup.

Kurt shares an eyeroll with Rachel. "Well, that just made my day," he drawls, and Rachel laughs. Santana gives them a quality glare before turning her attention to more important things – namely, the cup of heaven in her hands. Even though he's made up for it partway with coffee, Kurt's presence means Santana won't be getting any more in the near future, especially not with Quinn around. For some reason, Rachel's more neurotic than usual (read: approaching her sophomore year state of existence) in Quinn's presence.

"So when's Q-ball getting back?" she asks.

Rachel makes an annoyed little noise. "Quinn is joining some people from the exhibition for dinner and drinks, so she won't be back until late."

"God, that last word would have been fine. How is it you can get me off in two minutes flat but still can't put together a short answer?"

Kurt goes magenta. "Oh, my god."

Rachel looks just as mortified – but, judging from the little glances she keeps shooting at Kurt, Santana can tell she's torn between a filthy, smart-ass answer and being considerate of Kurt's presence.

After a pause, Rachel reaches over and pinches Santana's arm; she yelps in pain.

"Speaking of me getting you off, you can forget about doing that anytime this and next week," she says, with a pinched little smile, adding in an undertone: "I suggest reacquainting yourself with your hand."

Well. She's fucked – and not in a good way.

She has work, so she doesn't see Quinn off at the station. But Rachel's mopey as fuck all evening – and unfortunately for Santana, determined to make good on her no orgasms for you promise – so she can't promise her sex to cheer her up. She whips out her phone and delegates. By the time Santana gets home from her shift, Kurt and Rachel are tucked up on the couch, giggly and pink, with The Golden Girls on TV, and glasses of wine in their hands.

"Looks like you guys are having fun," she says.

Rachel giggles. "All the fun," she slurs, already sloshed.

"Have you had dinner?

"We made pasta. There're leftovers in the fridge, if you want," Kurt points. Santana goes to investigate, grinning when she sees two separate containers. She takes out the one marked "FOR CARNIVORES" and pops it into the microwave.

"Thanks, Kurt. I might actually tolerate you."

"Bitch, you owe me."

Okay, so she really does owe him massive fucking big time for both the food, and for distracting Rachel; however, Santana's not the kind of person to say those things easily. She's glad that he gets her because he's just as much of a bitch as she is. "Yeah, maybe I do. Don't let it get to your head, I'm not sure you have enough hair to cover it all."

"Your old married couple bickering is drowning out my show," announces Rachel. She has her boyfriend pillow around her neck. "Additionally, it's upsetting Brad."

"Brad?"

"My boyfriend." She strokes the pillow's arm, giggling effervescently.

Kurt stares. "You named yours Brad?"

"I've always loved the name Brad ever since I saw Brad Pitt. The name Brad is so strong and masculine. I love the way it just rolls off your tongue. Brad. Brraaaad," she brays. "It was fitting, too, that yours is called Bruce so they match." They titter, and then turn matching demented grins on Santana.

Santana scowls. "Okay, stop looking at me like that, Wonder Twins. First of all, I'm not telling you what I named my fucking pillow," says Santana. "And you're both drunk."

(She named hers Brenda. They don't need to know that.)

The next time Quinn visits, Santana's careful to keep her smart-ass comments to herself. She's quickly learned that a happy Quinn equates to a happy Rachel, and a happy Rachel means more orgasms all around (still only in Quinn's absence, which Santana can live with. It just means she has to be more creative, and quicker).

And so Santana finds herself in a grungy little bar downtown that labels itself 'hipster', but really comes off as 'too broke to afford electricity and heat'. They're there for a girls' night out (and of course Rachel picks the bar with a karaoke stage), and Santana's beginning to think karaoke and Rachel together outweighs multiple orgasms.

Until Rachel leans over and whispers: "I'll make it worth your while," following up with a wink.

Which has Santana grinning like a maniac, of course, until she notices that Quinn's expression has become rather rigid. It looks exactly like the expression she used to wear when braving a Sue Sylvester rant, or attending one of her parent-mandated society event.

"You okay, Q? You look like something crawled up your pussy and died."

"I'm fine," says Quinn a little too quickly, echoing the words for Rachel when she turns to Quinn. Rachel nods, looking all concerned, and says something about going back home if Quinn's not feeling up to it.

She thinks. She isn't sure, because she's preoccupied with getting a refill which she really needs, right now, because she know Rachel's going to turn to her with her maniac killer grin and demand a duet.

When it happens, all thoughts of Quinn's unhappy face are pushed from her mind.

Rachel rearranges her schedule and takes off for New Haven for a long weekend when she catches wind of Quinn having a recital of some sort.

When she comes back, she's all soft and happy and chilled the fuck out, like she's on a Quinn high or something; Santana likes this new Rachel okay, but she kinda misses crazy Rachel (though she'll never say it out loud).

It's Rachel's turn to do the laundry but the basket is overflowing and smells evil. Santana goes on the warpath.

"Hobbit, I know you're home," she hollers, barging into Rachel's room, "why haven't you done your share of the shit?"

Rachel shoots her a glare just about as evil and noxious as their dirty laundry, popping an earbud out. "Give me a minute, Santana," she mutters, and turns her attention back to her laptop. "Sorry, it looks like I need to go. I'll be right back. Do you mind waiting? I can always call back…"

Santana totally peeks. She sees a very grainy Quinn smile. "Tell Barbie I say hi, and she's a bitch for hogging the laundry slave."

Rachel's first kick misses completely, but she manages to land a solid hit on Santana's shin later, while she's lugging the laundry downstairs.

So their holiday plans go like this: Quinn gets out of school a few days early, so she comes up to Bushwick to hang with them because they're all traveling back to Lima together (Rachel got a package deal on four tickets to Columbus which is a big deal since it's so close to Christmas).

"Behave," orders Rachel.

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

Rachel places her hands on her hips and glares; it would be totally fucking scary if she wasn't so tiny, and if Santana hasn't already seen some variation of the glare when she's making Rachel beg for an orgasm. "I understand you and Quinn have an unusual friendship, but I don't understand why you have to be so hostile all the time."

Santana scoffs. "Teen Mom knows I love her, and she fucking loves me too, even if she knows I'm a bigger bitch than she is."

Rachel sighs. She turns her attention back to the electronic arrival board.

When Quinn appears through the electronic fate gates, Rachel shrieks and practically mounts her; Quinn barely has time to drop her bag before she spreads her arms to catch Rachel. "You're here!"

Quinn laughs. "I'm here," she repeats, her fingers slowly prying Rachel's stranglehold off her neck.

Santana sees her wince, and grins at her. "Q. You look good." Santana doesn't do hugs. She sort of slings an arm at Quinn's shoulder in a half-hug, half-punch move. "Need help carrying your shit?"

"You're offering?" Quinn drawls, looking amused.

"No. We've got a token guy here for this, even if he barely passes for one underneath the sequined leather pants."

It's a testament to how solid their friendship is that Kurt simply arches an eyebrow at her, and tells Quinn that he'll take the bag regardless of whatever Santana says. Quinn tries to politely decline but Rachel jumps in. "Let Kurt carry it; you shouldn't aggravate your back more than absolutely necessary."

"It's fine. Really. I didn't pack that much."

"Nonsense, Quinn. Look, I wouldn't consider myself being unfit because I have a rigorous elliptical regime I have maintained since middle school, and I can barely lift this." She tugs on the handles dramatically, adding a little 'oof' for emphasis. "You'll have the added encumbrance of maneuvering this on the subway."

"Look, Stretch Marks. Just shut up and let Hummel carry the damn bag otherwise the chihuahua will snap at our ankles the whole way back," interjects Santana, earning an affronted gasp from Rachel. It works, though; Quinn rolls her eyes and hands the duffel to Kurt, going to link her arm with a seething Rachel's (presumably plotting revenge with her, if the heated whispering that follows is anything to go by). Whatever it is, it cheers Rachel up immensely.

"For someone who likes sex as much as you do," remarks Kurt, falling into step behind them, "you certainly love relegating yourself to the metaphorical couch."

"I'm willing to make sacrifices for the greater good, okay."

"Sure," he drawls.

"They've been tag-teaming a lot recently," says Santana. "It's creepy. Those two are scary as friends."

Kurt whirls around in shock; the duffel's arc almost takes out a man, who swears at them vividly. Kurt doesn't seem to notice. "You haven't realised?"

"Realised what?"

"Oh. Oh, that explains so much." He looks absolutely gleeful, which unnerves Santana a bit. "You really haven't noticed at all...?"

Santana scowls. "Clearly not."

"Well, if you don't know, I'm not about to tell you."

"That doesn't make any sense!"

They go out to the Met the next day because Quinn casually mentioned over breakfast that she's never been. Naturally, Rachel practically falls over herself to plan a trip there. Santana wouldn't call herself an uncultured boor, but her idea of art is Brittany dancing (though she loudly informs her friends that it's Amy Winehouse's body of work). Either way, it's not old paintings in stuffy halls.

But Quinn looks excited as shit to be here – and by osmosis or whatever the fuck it is from being around her, Rachel is too – so Santana agrees to not be a bitch as she usually would be about this. She doesn't even need the promise of sex, for crying out loud.

"I can be civilized when I want to, okay," she tells an amused Kurt.

"Okay," he says. "So does that mean you're not gonna be making dirty jokes about all the paintings?"

"I said civilized. I didn't say dead."

He's not the biggest fan of art either, so they stick together, trailing behind Quinn and Rachel. Santana keeps up a running ribald commentary about the artwork, drawing both glares (mostly from Rachel) and amused glances (from strangers, and occasionally from Quinn).

Eventually she tires. Kurt gets distracted by "tasteful male nudes" (his words, not hers).

"You need to get laid."

"Shut up, Satan."

Santana catches up with Quinn and Rachel. Rachel, who's been hanging off Quinn's arm for the better part of the day, points out a massive oil painting.

"Look at that painting. Isn't it beautiful?"

"Beautiful," Quinn echoes, in reverent tones. She isn't looking at the painting.

Rachel beams at her and drags them off to another work, mispronouncing the artist's name (Quinn patiently corrects her) and demanding an explanation of what she's supposed to be looking at.

Except Santana's still staring after them like, what the fuck?

She thinks she might have a clue what Kurt was going on about.

Santana knows she isn't the sort of person who's in touch with her feelings. She didn't know what she had with Brittany was something special until she'd almost lost it, for fuck's sake – and through her own stupidity no less. To be fair, she didn't have much incentive to not be a fucking idiot about her feelings and her sexuality. It said tons about her situation that it was better for her reputation that she sleep around indiscriminately rather than date a girl.

But this is New York. People of all shapes and sizes and colours of the sexual orientation flag fill the streets. Rachel's always declared the city to be her true home; privately, Santana's beginning to think it's the same for her.

(She would have loved to share it with Brittany, but reality sucks. Whatever.)

Kurt begged off their outing early with some lame excuse (the traitor – she's going to give him so much grief the next time she sees him), leaving Santana alone with Quinn and Rachel. Which would be okay, actually – Quinn's like, her long-time fellow bitch, and Rachel's this girl who she bangs sometimes and tolerates otherwise – if they'd actually pay attention to her once in a while. She feels like a third wheel on a date, with how Rachel carries on, and how Quinn lets her. Or worse – the bratty kid who acts out to get attention from her ridiculously mushy parents.

It hits Santana like a grand piano from an old cartoon when they're having a late lunch and Rachel's excused herself to the bathroom. "Oh my god, you're in love with Berry."

Quinn shushes her frantically. "Say it a little louder, why don't you, Santana," she hisses, "I'm fairly certain there are a few people in Queens that haven't heard you."

"You goddamned pressed lemon," says Santana, sounding awed. It feels like a curtain's been lifted as all the puzzle pieces fall into place. "I finally get what Brittany meant when she called you that. You just want to press Berry's juices." She squints at Quinn. "Y'know, you never looked like that when you were with Fuckerman or Trouty Mouth or even Finnessa. All soft and happy."

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response," replies Quinn, wrinkling her nose.

"Didn't you just…?"

Quinn levels a quality I-Am-The-Head-Bitch-And-You-Are-Pissing-Me-Off glare at Santana, who opens her mouth to snap out a response –

"Sorry I took so long," says Rachel, sitting down, "there was a queue, even just for the mirrors; honestly, I fail to understand why some women feel the need to reapply mascara halfway through a meal."

"It's fine, Rachel," replies Quinn.

And now that she knows what to look for, Santana doesn't miss the way Quinn's expression just melts when she looks at Rachel. "Whipped," she mouths across the table, and grimaces when Quinn kicks her, hard.

Much later, Santana realises that while Quinn never confirmed her accusation, she didn't deny anything either.

Santana corners Rachel in a dance studio in NYADA, where she's sure they won't be interrupted. "You're in love with Quinn," she declares.

Rachel pales, then reddens. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do." She takes a step closer. "The two of you have always given off this weird vibe, and it turns out all along you were just repressing the urge to mount each other repeatedly and noisily."

"Nonsense," says Rachel briskly. "Quinn and I have existed on a continuum between rivalry and friendship for years; it stands to reason that other people have difficulty understanding our dynamic, especially given our history."

"I didn't get any of that bullshit because it didn't make sense."

Rachel huffs her annoyance, but doesn't say anything.

"You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think," says Santana, "that you're scared."

"Excuse me?"

"You're scared that Quinn might run away if you tell her what you're feeling, and that everything will have been in vain. You've spent years chasing after guys who never wanted you until there wasn't anything better around."

Rachel has been pressing her lips together as Santana talks. She opens her mouth, now, to say something, but Santana is relentless.

"Quinn is never gonna be the one to crack first; you know that. You're not gonna risk losing her either. So you make do with the next closest thing – yours truly – because it's safe, I'm available, and I'm not leaving you anytime soon. There's no risk because you know I'm not gonna develop feelings for you so you won't hurt me, and all of yours are reserved for her."

Her face collapses suddenly. "Tell me what I should do," says Rachel.

"Nuh-uh. I'm not the goddamned lesbian whisperer. You sort out your own mess. My part here is done now that I've gotten your head out of your ass."

Rachel looks even more lost. "And us…?"

Santana shakes her head. Honestly, this girl couldn't even buy a clue if she had a platinum card. "Did you think I would want to be up in your junk if you're gonna be screaming Moby Dick's name?"

"No," Rachel says, surprisingly soft. "We were only a distraction while we figured out who we really wanted."

The situation's gotten too emotional and mushy for her tastes. "Damn right," declares Santana, bringing the mood back to safe levels (ie. spoiling it, judging from the sour look on Rachel's face).

"... I'm going to hug you now."

"Wait, no."

Rachel presses her face into Santana's neck. "Thank you. For everything."

Santana sighs. There's no one to watch, so she squeezes Rachel just as tightly back. "No; thank you, Rach." Her hands rest at the small of Rachel's back. "No chance of another round for the road?"

Rachel pulls away, beaming. "No."

"Damn. Not gonna lie; doing it up against a mirror in here would be so hot. Plus – doing the nasty in Cassie's studio? Biggest middle finger ever."

"Santana, please stop talking."

"I know that tone. You just don't want me to talk you into it. I know you want it too. No one's here. We'll be quick; you're so turned on I bet I can get you off in a minute."

"Santana."

"Sure, we might get caught but that's half the fun. I know you've got a serious exhibitionism kink, Berry; no one chooses Broadway for a living without loving performance of all kinds, if you catch my – ow! Fuck off! Okay, okay! Jeez. I was only joking."