She shouldn't be doing this.
She's not even a lesbian or anything; the whole thing with Brittany was just sex, just (more) casual experimentation. She's always shared practically everything with Britt anyway, so what was one more thing, one final barrier.
It wasn't love, just a way to have more sex when no hot boys were near, or willing (honestly, what was it with some people and relationships? This was high school for fuck's sake) and the only wiling ones were the dorks or the nerds, or ones who weren't good enough for a redo.
But overall, despite the occasional blurring of the lines, Santana was positively straight.
So shouldn't she be at Puck's house or in some random motel with a boy whose name she can't remember and wasn't sure she had ever known, instead of up in Quinn's bedroom, sorting though piles of clothing in order to determine what the other cheerleader can no longer wear; those tops and dresses that draw unnecessary attention to the baby bump that's only just beginning to show and certainly doesn't need to be emphasized. Quinn is finally calm, after her hysterical fit of 'oh my god, Finn, Puck, Rachel, my parents, getting out, Coach Sylvester, you, Brittany, chastity, God, Jesus, sin, popularity, Cheerios'.
It had seemed like an almost never-ending babble of words that had spun into each other like half-forgotten routines and fading bruises which she'd never been sure came from practicing or simply rough sex. But somehow, thanks to Mrs Fabray's hot chocolate, for Quinn only of course, because if she's going to get all bloated up and be kicked off the squad anyway, how much more damage could a few more calories really cause her? That silly, ridiculous woman had believed Santana when she'd blamed it all on just another fashion emergency.
Honestly, being raised by such obtuse people, it wasn't really a surprise that Quinn hadn't know how not to get herself knocked up the first time she'd even fucking had sex.
But somehow, surprisingly, the hysteria is almost worth it when its over, and Quinn is sitting up on her bed, dried tears and smudged mascara and mussed-up hair only enhancing that eternal ethereal quality she's always had. Her smile is like warm, slick butter as she thanks Santana softly, part pleasure and part embarrassment. Fuck it, she's not supposed to want this, not at all, but she's just a teenage girl and it's just casual sex, hormones and experimentation and all that mindless shit and it doesn't mean anything unless she lets it, right?
It's only Quinn.
Santana watches those lips, almost mesmerised at the sight of shining light pink parting to reveal straight white teeth, to form words she doesn't hear, because she's already leaning forward, pushing Quinn back onto the hot pink duvet the girl's had since like forever, and leaning down to brush their lips together.
It's different than kissing Brittany, but somehow also the same in some twisted way. But Quinn's lipgloss tastes like raspberries rather than cherries, and her mouth still like hot chocolate; and she'd taught Brittany never to drink anything so insanely calorific since they'd joined the Cheerios. Her blonde hair curls around Santana's fingers in an unfamiliar, but not altogether unwelcome way.
All the same, it's nothing like kissing a guy, it's softer and Quinn's body under hers is different too, curves instead of hard edges and angles, soft in its unfamiliarity and she thinks that perhaps Brittany deserves to know that it's not always going to be just them, it's just sex and that perhaps Brittany won't be the only one Santana experiments around with.
She shouldn't have been even slightly, minutely attracted to Quinn, who wasn't a guy or even Britt.
But this was something almost all the males attending McKinley High agreed on: Quinn Fabray was smoking hot, in a kind of angelic sort of way. Santana figured she deserved the best, especially now that Quinn was far more inclined to take comfort and 'friendliness' wherever she could, knowing that soon, when the truth came out, all offers would be withdrawn.
Of course, Santana won't want Quinn then, not when she's grotesquely swollen up like a balloon full of helium and irritable from pregnancy hormones, looking like those fat women around the mall they'd used to laugh at. But right now, Quinn's bump was only noticeable if one knows to look (and if one can look; see under the carefully-chosen clothes she wears to disguise the bump, clothes Santana picked out for her), and she means to have as much of the popular girl as she could.
After all, it didn't mean anything. It was just some more experimentation.
Brittany would understand.