"What are you doing, loser?"
Santana makes a sound of disgust through the phone. "Is it at least one of those kinky porn novels Judy thinks she hides from you?"
"No, but someone was just eaten by a vagina? I think. I'm not sure."
"You're fucked up."
"I didn't write it, I'm just reading it."
"Because I'm bored."
Quinn jams a bookmark between the pages of "American Gods" because she knows she won't be getting any more reading done today. "Is that all I am? Entertainment?"
"No. My shoulders are sore. They could use a rub."
They've been doing this thing since school let out and Brittany disappeared to dance boot camp in California. It's a thing where one of them calls the other, they give each other shit, then end up hanging out.
The last two times, though, it went a little differently.
The last two times they made out.
Which, okay, Santana's on the rebound and Quinn's desperate for affection, so it makes sense. Plus, they're friends (more so than not friends) so why not help each other out, right?
At least, when Quinn thinks about it like that, she feels less gay and more like just someone who's utilizing her options.
Never mind that she actually waits for Santana's call, in hopes that it'll come. Never mind that, this time, before she leaves, she brushes her teeth. Just in case.
Also, for some reason, she makes sure she's wearing her newest bra. Not that they've even done anything without, like, clothes on. But, whatever.
Quinn presses the doorbell and Santana actually answers before it stops cycling through the ring. "Finally."
"It's been twelve minutes."
"That's almost half an episode of Baggage."
Santana only watches the Game Show Network when she's stoned. "Are you already high?" Quinn asks.
"Duh." The door's left wide open as Santana walks deeper into the house. Quinn shuts it and follows behind her.
The rest of the Lopez clan is at work or some kind of camp. Quinn thinks basketball camp, but she's not sure. It doesn't matter. They're alone.
Back in Santana's bedroom, the TV's on, the bed's haphazardly made, and there's a ziploc bag with two and a half brownies inside. Quinn picks it up and grabs the remaining half of what Santana's probably already consumed. She doesn't like smoking, but she's learned she's cool with eating the stuff. Puck's recipe is actually really good, it just sets in pretty quickly and she has to be careful not to overdo it.
They don't talk. Santana just focuses on the ridiculous game show where the contestant bases her date choices on their admitted baggage. One of them is "Still Lives with Mom."
"Is his mom hot, though?" Santana asks, not necessarily to Quinn.
"What is with you and that?" Quinn finishes the brownie and stretches out on the bed. There's a bottle of water on the nightstand, still covered in condensation from the fridge, so she knows it's fresh. She grabs it and takes a drink.
"It's a valid question."
"It's not valid to be ogling your significant other's mother."
"Good thing I'm not dating you, then. Because Judy is-"
Quinn raises the open bottle of water. "If the next words out of your mouth aren't about her cooking skills, I will pour this on you."
"Yeah, I'll bet she's cookin'."
"That's not even sexy."
Santana wrestles the bottle away and manages not to spill any of it. "I like your shirt." Quinn looks down. It's just a tank top, nothing special. She's about to say so when she hears, "But it'll look much better on my floor."
"That's your lead-in?"
"Maybe." Santana drains the water bottle and chucks it over her shoulder. "You wanna?"
"What, just strip for you on command? No."
"What if we..." Santana's next to her, fingers tugging at the dipped collar of the shirt, before she leans in and kisses Quinn.
It's a matter of seconds before Quinn's on her back with Santana over her. The shirt stays on, for the moment. That doesn't stop hands from slipping underneath it, nor does it stop Quinn from returning the favor.
The studio audience on the television cheers about something. "Can we... turn that off?"
Santana gropes around for the remote with one hand, not wanting to divert too much attention away from the make-out session. Eventually she finds it and hits power. "Anything else, your highness?"
Quinn's much looser than she was five minutes ago and she tugs at Santana's t-shirt. "Yeah. Take this off."
It's that simple. It probably won't be a few hours from now when they're out of brownies and sober, again. But, for now, it is.
Quinn's really glad she chose this bra, the red and while one with the stripes. Santana's is black and green and Quinn can't stop tracing her fingers over the lace, not because she's trying to cop a feel, but because she really wants to touch it. Her attention shifts when Santana's mouth attaches to her neck and she can't help suck in a breath.
But that's nothing compared to the intake of air she draws in when Santana's thigh presses between her legs.
"Sounds like someone's wound up," Santana murmurs against her skin.
"Don't have sex. I know. That's generally how it happens."
Quinn likes this, she really does. She wants it to keep happening. She just doesn't want to end up doing something they'll both regret, later. "Um..."
"Relax, Q. Whatever you want."
It's unusual for Santana to be so accommodating, but she's also pretty stoned. "I want..." Quinn rocks her hips and groans at the mild release she feels from the friction. Also, the feeling of Santana's stomach against hers is... nice.
"You gotta give a little, princess." Before Quinn even has a chance to ask what she's supposed to give, there's a hand under her thigh and suddenly she's pressed against Santana the same way her friend's leg is presses against her cheer shorts.
"Feels warm," Quinn notes, but that's the end of the commentary because Santana's mouth is back on hers.
At first, she's not quite sure what she's supposed to do. Whenever Finn or Sam tried to grind, she put a stop to it. The learning curve is short, however, and they're both rocking into each other in no time. Her hands are on Santana's hips as she tries to gain leverage, but it's hard to concentrate with that ever distracting delicious sensation that happens every time Santana pushes against her. The sounds coming from Santana also make it difficult to focus.
Somehow, they manage.
The kissing stops because Santana's head is against her shoulder. Everything's damp. Skin. Shorts. Everything.
The word's breathed against Quinn's ear and the way it tickles combined with what it actually means forces her hips down hard against Santana's leg. "Fuck." She never swears. So, this is new. As is the intense release she feels. "Oh, fuck."
"Yeah," is the response as they both slam together and Santana fucking bites her on the shoulder when she comes.
Quinn doesn't even care. She can't care. She's floating on some kind of cloud of carelessness, looking down at herself, sweaty, sated, and stoned.
"You good?" Santana asks and actually waits for the slight nod before she rolls off of her.
"I'm thirsty." She's sure Santana will tell her to get up and get her own damn drink.
Instead, Santana just laughs.
Quinn's not sure what's so funny. But that doesn't stop her from laughing, too. "What?"
"Nothing." Santana shrugs, but the smile is still there. She rolls to the edge of the bed, leans over and comes back up with to cold bottles of water, one of which she promptly sets on Quinn's stomach.
"No!" Quinn shrieks and grabs at it. She unscrews the cap and takes a deep drink. "And what the hell? Do you have an ice chest over there?"
"Mini fridge. I made Dad put it in so I don't have to go downstairs all the time to get water for my sexual conquests."
"You did not say that to him. And did that even count as sex?"
"You got off, I got off. Counts as something. Maybe not proper sex. Don't worry. You can still be a reclaimed virgin or whatever."
Quinn contemplates that as she sips her water. "This isn't how I thought I'd be spending the summer."
"It's not bad, though."
"Yeah. Not bad. Are you gonna rub my shoulders or what?"