Archive of Our Own ^beta

Santana paints. She had began after a few months of dating a painter, her first introduction to the world of arts. It didn't work out, as it would be expected, but at least she took something out of it: the ability to express herself. She's not good with words, or gestures. She can sing, of course, she could always sing, but she has troubles dealing with other people, and painting implies solitude.

The painter was a beautiful woman: tall, sleek, with long black hair and an impressive talent. She loved cocaine more than she loved Santana, however, and it had come to an end. Santana shouldn't be the one to wash away other people's sins, so she left the messy studio they shared without regrets. She had learned enough to stand on her own two feet.

She went on to another relationship, a woman who happened to be the painter's ex. Santana needs a warm body beneath her and she couldn't help but be attracted to the ex, who was as fierce as Santana and loved to think of herself as a struggling artist. It was a nice break from her previous circles of acquaintances of hopeless waitresses, exhausted teachers and untalented wannabe-actresses, and a way to keep in touch with interesting people.

She doesn't know why exactly she decided to move to New York without a plan to follow. She needed so badly to leave her ridiculously small hometown she managed to pull an offer to work as a Spanish teacher, even with her short temper and lack of patience. And there she was, mingling with the up and coming, promising artists of her generation. Not so bad.

The first time someone sees her work, it's her girlfriend's brother – not the ex, another, a sweet girl from Spain with a deep, rich voice – and he just stands there and looks. He's a painter and he already managed to get three pieces into big exhibitions and two found their way into galleries, so he's beginning to make some money out of it. He's 31, and he places a hand on her shoulder to tell her she should show it to people. She shrugs, faking indifference, and answers she does it mostly as a need to express herself and she has no ambitions.

It triggers something, though. Weeks later, when she and her Spanish girlfriend just had sex and the sheets are a mess, she stares at a canvas resting on the wall and she asks – in Spanish, of course, because is there anything sexier than speaking that language  after sex? – for an honest opinion. Her answer is what she wants to hear. She has something that draws people to her work, a certainty about each brush that betrays a desperation in getting her message out there. Her girlfriend asks her what message is that, but Santana doesn't respond.

Maybe this painting business is good, because it gives her a purpose, something to look forward to, and breaks a circle of endless days and nights just working and eating and fucking and drinking and passing time until something big falls down on her lap. She was never one for formal education and she has no prospect of a career. She doesn't want a career, too, for she likes to think of herself as a free spirit.

The fifth one to warm her bed after the Spanish girl is the daughter of a photographer, a sexy 28 year old without the remotest trace of talent but with the backbone to run a business and make it grand. Santana likes this one, especially because she had been painting for two years and not getting anywhere when the girl's father comes to visit and actually likes what he sees. He has the means and Santana has the will, and she decides she will make this happen. She is tired of gags and counting nickels.

The girl actually lasts, which is surprising, but Santana likes the way she always paints her nails in impossibly bright colors, the way she looks ravishing without even putting any effort into it, and even more the way she takes none of Santana's shit and always has the sharpest tongue – after Santana's, obviously. It doesn't take much time to charm her father and put some gears into action. He gives her canvas as a gift to some handpicked people, manages to sneak in an invite or two for the right parties, and Santana's smoking hot body and enticing smile do the rest.

She gets home one day, a bottle of champagne in hand, to proudly announce she was chosen as one of the young artists in an upcoming exhibition. Her girlfriend is being fucked on all fours on the couch by some black chick. She yells and throws everything on the ground, on the walls, punches the unknown chick when she tries to react and makes the biggest scene New York has ever witnessed, because no one cheats on Santana Lopez, the hottest piece of ass in the fucking country.

She gets over it with a bottle of José Cuervo and Quinn Fabray, best friend extraordinaire. The escape plan from Ohio had been originally hers, Santana had to give her that. After an unexpected teenage pregnancy and giving up her baby for adoption, the blonde had given up the Christian Girl act and set her goal in leaving everything behind as soon as she could. Her family couldn't wait to get rid of their sinful daughter, and Quinn still wanted so hard to please her daddy she got into Law School in NYU. Not so bad, Santana thinks. Such an overachiever.

Quinn tells her she doesn't need to take no woman's shit and they toast 9 times to that and 5 times to being a fucking badass artist and then she stops counting, because how do you do math anyway after so many shots, so it's no surprise when she wakes up in Quinn's dorm with the blonde sleeping – both of them fully clothed, thank god – on top of her. Literally, so she decides not to move until the other girl wakes up. Quinn's roommate looks at them with a smile. She's a cool girl, too straight for her own good but very fun to be around, nearly graduating in Film. The good thing about the impromptu sleepover? Santana gets invited to a party.

A week later, Santana tries to think how on Earth she ended up surrounded by artists as she enters the party. Makes no sense, really, and she sure never planned it. Oh well. The place is grand, as it seems the girl throwing the party sleeps with the all right people. Luckily, she also happens to be a friend of Quinn's roommate. They manage to sneak in, because pretty girls always manage to sneak in, and the house is full and there's two dance floors and neon lights and damn, finally someone can throw a decent party.

Santana holds her drink as she watches people dance as the party develops in front of her eyes. The electronic beat is hypnotizing and entrancing and the alcohol is just beginning to kick in. Life is good. Her eyes find a tall blonde, drop dead gorgeous type of girl, and she freezes for a moment because what is that girl doing with her body and can anyone really be that flexible and gracious and Santana makes a mental note she has got to sleep with a dancer, soon.

She doesn't realize she's staring for too long until the girl actually comes to her. Hi, she says, and Santana grins mischievously as she says hi right back. Do you want to dance? She asks, not even bothering with introductions and formalities and Santana likes her already. Of course, she says, putting her drink down and letting the blonde bombshell lead her to the floor.

The blonde touches Santana like she owns her and they dance facing each other, bodies close, lips closer and Santana thanks God she has sneaked into clubs from the tender age of 14 and learned how to move her body. She presses a hand to the small of the other woman's back as their hips swing together and they go down, down, down, down and then up, up, up, up. Long, white arms are wrapped loosely around her shoulders, she's almost kissing this stranger after a few minutes and where is Quinn at a moment like that, to serve as a witness to the whole shenanigan and reassure her later this isn't a dream?

Santana handles the blonde so that she turns around, and of course that goddess throws her head back to rest on Santana's shoulders and presses her back to Santana's front. Santana wraps her left arm around the girl, the other hand running on her arm and lips brushing on that temptation of a neck. They're starting to draw attention, as two gorgeous lesbians always do, and Santana rolls her eyes. So predictable.

“Let's get a drink,” the blonde interrupts after half an hour of that foreplay disguised as dancing. Santana nods, trying not to look as eager and horny as she actually feels – damn, the girl had been rubbing all up on her and she kinda has a thing for people who can dance –  and before she knows she has a vodka in one hand and they're at a balcony and she's being sandwiched between cherry bomb blonde and aforementioned balcony.

This is going fast, but Santana doesn't want to hold back. That blonde stallion smiles and lets her lips linger as close as possible from Santana's without actually touching, and Santana closes the gap. The blonde sighs and places a hand on Santana's neck, nipping at her lips and pulling at her lower lip for some time before demanding an entrance promptly granted. She tastes like tequila and something else and she is in no rush. The way she explores Santana's mouth is careful, slow, as if there's nothing else but Santana, as if they have all time in the world. This isn't usual for Santana, who is at all times a top, but she lets the blonde dictate the pace. The kiss, excruciatingly slow, makes her head spin and – not that she'll ever admit that – gives her a strange feeling of being special.

Santana whimpers when the other woman breaks the kiss. A cellphone is ringing, but the blonde doesn't bother to take the call after looking at the screen. “You're delicious,” she says, “but I have to go.” And then, just like that, she goes, leaving behind a Santana who can can barely tell right from left or up from down. Santana asks herself is that is a woman or a hurricane. Jesus Christ. And she doesn't even know her name.

Santana paints. But maybe, a better description of what she does would be to violate the canvas, staining it as a mean of hurting it with her firm brushes of paint. The act of painting is violent, exhausting and drains Santana completely. She enters a hypnotic frenzy and never stops before it's finished, because whatever she needs to say needs to be said at once, or the message will get lost, or the particular feelings that ignited the first brush will lose themselves in thin air.

Santana doesn't just paint. She exposes herself most intimately, as she has no interest in bridges or landscapes or portraits of people she doesn't give a shit about. Painting is not about that, is about emotion, is about expression, is about touching people. She paints because she has something to say, not because it's cool to experiment with effects and sunsets are poetic.

When she finishes the paintings she's supposed to be displaying in her audition, she's sweaty and hungry and the sun is down. She only then realizes she should have eaten a long time ago and she's feeling a bit dizzy. She calls Quinn, and the blessed woman brings tacos. They sit on the floor to eat and it's the first time her friend looks at anything Santana has made. Her stomach feels funny as she expects a reaction. “I'm no expert, but this is good,” she says, and Santana releases a breath she didn't know she was holding.

“Maybe, but I'm still going to be your trophy wife when you're a rich lawyer”, Santana teases. They have this understanding, or at least Santana thinks they do – because Quinn is smart and dedicated and Santana has no goals whatsoever – that if everything turns out wrong, Santana will be Quinn's hot wife and the blonde will support the both of them. Quinn rolls her eyes but says nothing. They eat quietly, listening to music. This is a good type of exhaustion: it brings Santana some peace.

The next days pass by as dull and uninteresting as a waitress-slash-teacher's day can be, and there's still no sign of the blonde. Santana tries to ask around, but nothing comes out of it. It doesn't stop her from sleeping with other girls, of course, but she cannot deny she hadn't had a make out session that great in quite some time and Quinn still doesn't believe her story. It's frustrating, because it does sound very fantastic and unreal, this story of a girl too pretty to be true offering herself shamelessly to Santana.

When the opening comes, weeks later, she's in a killer green dress and so nervous she can barely breathe. This is it, she tells herself. Quinn is there, of course, and Santana feels grateful for having such a good friend – a person that had tests, classes, papers, a social life, and always managed to be there for the important moments. She smiles to the Ex's Father, the photographer who got it all started, as he tells her a story about his latest exposition. They both have a glass of wine in hand and she has a sneaking suspicion he's hitting on her just the tiniest bit. Oh well. Santana can't deny she loves to flirt, and that it is flattering, but if he's really thinking he's getting anywhere...

Then there's a flash of long, blonde hair and Santana's excusing herself without a second thought. She realizes she's going to the bathroom and her heart is beating faster with the mere prospective of seeing her again, what does make her feel like a creepy stalker. She realizes she's right with a perfect timing. Just before cherry bomb blonde opens the door, a tan hand covers a pale one and their eyes lock. The door is open and they both enter. “Fancy seeing you here,” Santana says, resting her weight against the door. The blonde answers she's glad to see her again, and Santana can swear the steps she takes in her direction are actually dance steps.

“Where were we?” Santana asks, walking forward so they meet in the middle. “This is so going to ruin your makeup,” the blonde amazon whispers right before their lips meet again. It's delicious and thrilling and this time it's Santana who takes the lead, hand on the back of the other woman's neck, tongue demanding entrance. The woman lets out a soft sigh, like she did last time. She tastes wine and something minty, a weird combination but lovely nonetheless. When her hands go to other woman's back, Santana moans at the feel of soft skin and marvelous, firm muscles and thank God to backless dresses.

The blonde sucks on Santana's tongue, very nearly making her moan, hands cupping Santana's face to take control of the kiss once more. She's the Michelangelo of kissing, and Santana lets go once more, her lips being nipped and sucked before her mouth is being assaulted by the blonde's for so long she starts feeling dizzy and breaks the kiss for air. Santana looks at the woman in front of her, lips swollen, breath erratic, and feels like saying something.

Instead, she directs her mouth the bombshell's neck, a smug smile appearing on her lips when the other woman throws her head back and whimpers. Now that's what she's talking about. She directs them to the wall, pressing their bodies together as her lips do their magic. The blonde's scent reminds Santana of summer and beaches, and she takes a few seconds to breathe it in, nose buried in the other woman's neck. She loves it and sucks on the spot beneath the blonde's ear, earning scratches on the back of her neck and Santana can die at that instant because really, life is wonderful.

They look at each other once again. “Told you I'd ruin your makeup,” the blonde says, and Santana laughs. She answers that she doesn't care, and much to her surprise she's stopped halfway when leaning in for another kiss. “We have to go back,” the taller woman says, and she means business. Santana blinks, but the blonde just goes to the mirror to reapply her lipgloss. “C'mon,” Santana pleads, but it only gets her a quick kiss before the blonde finishes her makeup and leaves. “Fucking tease.” Santana groans in frustration alone in the bathroom before pulling herself together, not believing that the woman is even real.

When she leaves she's in control again, all smiles and nurturing networks and getting her face known out there. She meets this young man, a short singer with brown hair and a skin way too soft for a straight man's, who seems fairly interested in her work. He wants to redecorate his house and put up one or two of her paintings. Santana smiles and introduces him to Blaine, her excuse of an agent – actually, just a friend of Quinn's who had offered himself for free – and the way their looks linger is to be enough for her gaydar to go crazy.

Not that she blames Kurt, the Broadway singer, because Blaine is kinda a sight for sore eyes with his pretty smile and sweet eyes. He looks really good in black, too. She only wishes they didn't have to be gay around each other right there, right then, half hoping she would sell Kurt something before Blaine got him under his sheets. Lord knows she can use the money. Kurt invites them both to a party, and even though Santana senses she's part of a let's-get-Blaine-drunk package, she isn't offended and accepts.

Her jaw almost drops when The Blonde – she calls her that in her head in the lack of a name – comes near and Kurt places a hand on her waist and she places her hand on his shoulder. “There you are,” she says, looking at him for a millisecond before looking right at Santana. “Hey babe,” he answers, pointing at Santana with his free hand, “Have you met Santana Lopez? She's quite the talented artist.” He's smiling, and she's smiling too. Kurt is blissfully unaware of the tension between them. “This is my girlfriend, Brittany Pierce,” he says. Santana cuts in and says they have met before. “Yeah, totally,” blonde says.

The handsome devil gets a name, at least. Brittany. Brittany Pierce. Santana wants to tell Kurt to get the hell out of Narnia and drop the ridiculous straight boy act, but she second guesses herself. Isn't Quinn always telling her she sees too much gay everywhere? What if Kurt is straight and Santana is Brittany's dirty little secret? Santana doesn't need that. She is too good to be anyone's dirty little secret, and she is surely not in the mood to handle baby lesbians who will end up falling right back into the closet.

She gets the hell out of the conversation as soon as she can, but much to her surprise, Brittany – it's weird to name her, Santana thinks – grabs her wrist before the opening is over and takes them to a unused part of the gallery. “You're staring,” she says. “You're cheating,” Santana answers bitterly. “It's not cheating if the plumbing is different,” she tells her. “Bullshit,” Santana answers. “Look,” blonde says with a sigh, “Kurt knows, he's like capital g gay.” She pauses, thinking a bit before continuing.” And kissing him is kinda like kissing a girl... His lips are so soft.”

Santana half wants to laugh and half wants to yell. The situation is absurd, and Bombshell Blonde apparently has some unique way of thinking. However, she doesn't betray her emotions. “Whatever,” she says, “this is too much trouble for me and I'm not going to be your dirty, little secret.” Santana is the one to leave the conversation this time, heels clicking as she finds her way to Blaine and Quinn to get the fuck out.

When Santana wakes up the next day the first thing she notices is that she has a headache. The second thing to come to her mind is flashes, as it seems too difficult for the moment to make one single coherent memory of the previous night. She grumbles under her sheets, having a flash of arriving at the party after the opening feeling on top of the world. She was getting somewhere with her life, finally.

Then there was dancing to indie rock music, her short black skirt, strong eyeliner and black boots making the perfect attire for the occasion. Someone showed up with more José Cuervo than they could handle, and there was a blissful moment of general drunkenness and laughing and having fun. Quinn disappeared and came back a while later, with a smirk on her lips and her Just Been Fucked hair, and Kurt – wait, was Kurt there before? When had he arrived? – yelled Body Shots! And everybody was clapping and laughing and looking for lemons and salt.

Things were going fast, but no one was giving a damn, so Blaine took off his shirt, displaying his oh so nice six pack, and lay down on the table. Santana promptly followed, taking off her shirt to lie down as well because really, a couple was a must. Kurt, the gaywad, of course drank his from Blaine’s perfect abs, and Santana hadn’t even remembered the Cherry Bomb existence until she was right beside her, staring at her body and saying that it was her turn. Then came the best body shot of Santana’s life, tongue swirling on her stomach as AC/DC’s song You Shook Me All Night Long played on the background and really, it couldn’t be any more appropriate.

She also remembers dancing between Quinn, who looked smokin’ hot in her tiny black dress, and Cute Asian Guy, who had a site set of abs and a penchant for blondes, or so it seemed. But Quinn wasn’t interested in him, nor in telling Santana who had been the lucky one to give her that smug sooner, so they just dance and dance, and Santana fake flirts with Quinn and the both of them laugh at Asian Guy’s reaction, who looked like he was going to have a heart attack from watching porn in the making, because how silly was that and couldn’t he see that the both of them had absolutely no chemistry or sexual attraction between them?

Santana closes her eyes again, cursing under her breath at the memory and gathering the courage to get up and get herself some water. Her next memory is just sitting on the couch, head thrown back, trying to get herself a little less drunk and a little more put together, when Handsome Devil sat on her lap, straddling Santana, and began to assault her neck like she owned it. Santana moaned shamelessly, nails sinking in Brittany’s thighs when Bombshell took a slow bite, the loud music pumping in their ears and swallow any sound they might have made.

It wasn’t Santana’s fault, because she is so very drunk and she didn’t ask for that, she hadn’t even seen it coming, but what could she do when skilled lips sucked on skin, long fingers sunk in black, long hair and the longest pair of legs of her life – and she has a thing for legs that she just can’t help – are pressing against her?

They were soon kissing, and Santana couldn’t care less about Kurt, because Blonde was doing the sighing thing and arching her back against Santana. She kissed her hungry and demanding, grabbing a fistful of yellow hair and biting the other woman’s lower lip before exploring once more a mouth that tasted like tequila and something else of utter deliciousness. They stopped, because Brittany apparently loved Alors on Danse and Santana groaned, because Quinn was already obsessed with the damn song and this was probably her doing.  Except that she didn’t want to dance with all people – her boyfriend and Blaine were getting pretty much cozy there and Quinn was dancing on a table, that attention whore – and took Santana somewhere only she knew, because Santana herself was paying more attention to Blonde’s ass to pay attention to where they were going.

There’s a blur in her memories once more, and Santana bites her lip trying to remember what had happened between dancing and being in a closet – how fucking ironic was that, fucking in the closet with Closeted Sexy Blonde Lesbian? – going down on Brittany, standing on her knees as the blonde threw her body against the closet door. It was pure adrenaline, risking getting caught, being horny enough to do it with their clothes on and, specially, the taste of that girl, making Santana take long, slow licks, then short, quick licks, then draw circles, then suck, and doing it so right that Blonde’s knees were almost giving, her mouth couldn’t say anything with the remotest sense and her hands had a firm grip on her hair.

Santana can’t remember anything else about that night. She wonders how Brittany had left, as the girl had the strangest of timings and modern girls always have to go right on time. She turns around in bed, finally coming to terms with the idea of leaving it to shower and eat, when she finds out she’s not alone and her eyes go impossibly wide.

Brittany Flawless Pierce was laying beside her, naked as she came into the world, the sheets tangled in her legs, her body exposed nearly in its entirety – and such a nice body she had, Santana can’t help but think, as the sunlight enters her bedroom and stretches over Brittany. It makes her feel guilty, because she promised herself she would not be anyone’s dirty little secret. No baby lesbians, she had told herself once, and now there she was, breaking her own rules.

Rule Breaker Blonde chooses that moment to wake up and look to Santana lazily, grinning adorably and stretching a hand to touch Santana – who only then realizes she’s naked too and damn damn damn it is awkward – and pull her closer. “You know,” she says very seriously, “I totally just realized you have the same problem as me.” Her hand is on the small of Santana’s back, tempting. “What would that be?”, Santana asks out of curiosity. “My name is Brittany S. Pierce, got it? Britney Spears? I’ve lived under her shadow my entire life, just like you and Jennifer Lopez,” is the answer, and Santana laughs so hard she can barely breathe.

“You’re crazy,” she says, “and I’m taking a shower.” And she does it, hoping that Trouble Woman will be gone by the time she returns. When she re-enters the bedroom, properly dressed in jean shorts and a grey wife beater and with an aspirin on her system, Blonde’s clothes are still there and the house smells great: like eggs, bread, and maybe bacon.

Turns out Endless Legs Blonde is cooking. Cooking. Santana can’t remember when was the last time her kitchen was used for that. And, now that she noticed, she’s wearing one of Santana’s dresses – a light, cotton, one, a gift from someone who clearly didn’t know Santana would not wear such cute clothing – and it looks great. Santana wonders if there is anything that woman might wear and not look like a Greek goddess.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Blonde says. Santana blinks. “Brittany, you can’t just barge into my life like this.” Endless Legs puts the eggs and the bacon on a plate and goes to the table. “You weren’t saying that last night when you brought me here,” she says with the calmest of looks, as if she was stating the most obvious of information. She gestures for Santana to sit and says the food will get cold. Santana is actually hungry, and her hangover stomach growls in anticipation, so she gives in and sits down. “Okay, Brittany, I did do that, but at the current state of things, I don’t think we should be doing it again.”

Brittany serves her some orange juice. She frowns, not understanding what is going on, as she says “but you said the opposite after I gave you your third orgasm.” Wait. Third orgasm? Santana almost chokes on her juice, because oh my god, when has drunk sex ever meant three orgasms and morning after breakfast and wearing the other person’s clothes and why, why does this woman always has the answer to everything?

“You have a boyfriend,” Santana says exasperated. “It means you and I can’t do this again, you know.” She begins to eat the eggs and it actually tastes good, so this girl cannot only dance and give her orgasms, but also makes a kickass breakfast. Orgasm Giver Blonde eats her toast before answering, “he doesn’t mind, it’s not cheating if the plumbing’s the same.” Santana rolls her eyes, because that should win the award Lamest Excuse of the Decade. “You cannot be serious," she says.

“Yes, I can,” Blonde answers, as if Santana had said something stupid, and if Santana wasn’t being so well fed and well fucked she would surely have turned on her Bitch Mode. “Listen, Santana, I’m going to tell you a secret, because I like you. But you can’t tell anyone, okay?” Santana nods, but she thinks to herself when had they even arrived at the “I like you” stage? That woman had a very unique perspective on relationships. Blonde continues, “I’m gay and Kurt is gay, too, and we are friends since high school. Our agents say it would be very, very bad for our career to come out and that we should date each other, so we do it.”

Santana eats the eggs with the bacon – it’s true for women too when they say you can get a man through his stomach – and places a hand on Brittany’s. “I don’t do closeted women,” she says, “because you’re either with me or without me. Too much trouble, for your identity, for my life, for everyone, if you hide who you are and who you are with, so let’s not do this.”

She is surprised once more when Blonde’s lips meet her, hand resting on the back of her neck. She tilts her head slightly before she realizes what she is doing and pulls away. “You get goosebumps when I kiss you and I think it’s a good thing,” Brittany says and goes back to her orange juice. Santana just looks at her, at this most unusual person, and can’t bring herself to disagree – she does get the shivers, after all.

“Oh no you didn’t,” Quinn looks at her over her mug of coffee, staring at her with mock and disbelief. It’s been a week since the party and it’s the first time they get to meet and talk about the happenings. Santana sighs. She has this crazy logic, she tries to explain, so it’s impossible to disagree. Quinn laughs, stopping only to ask, “So she’s that good in bed, huh?” Santana hides her face in her hands in frustration. Bitch.

“And she doesn’t take no as an answer,” Santana says. “I try to dump her the next morning but she makes me breakfast and kisses me. She takes my phone without asking just to add her number to my agenda. She uses my clothes!” Santana grumbles and throws herself on the bed, defeated. “I don’t know what to do with her. Did I tell you what she did the other day? She got out of a dinner party, took the leftovers and showed up at my place, just like that!'

Quinn lifts one eyebrow. “I bet you ate it and  had sex afterwards,” she says. Santana doesn’t answer, because it is the truth. Quinn puts her mug aside and enters the bathroom to brush her teeth, pausing solely to tell Santana she’s whipped. “You’re her secret love affair, Lopez.”

Santana rolls her eyes and waits for her friend to leave the bathroom before continuing. “Talking about secret love affairs, what about yours?” She demands, because Quinn is wearing a baby blue dress she just bought, high heels, and she’s going through her makeup like her life depends on it. “By the way,” she continues, “you look like a Republican Daddy’s Girl.” Quinn dismisses her with a wave and finds her blush. “My father is a Republican and I am a Daddy’s girl, Santana,” she says as she looks at herself in the mirror in the search for an imaginary flaw. “And I go to Law School, what implies that I dress impeccably and conservatively.”

Santana agrees on that one, asking herself how come Quinn’s parents managed to produce a Fabray like her best friend, who had gotten pregnant at 16 and given up the baby, who had a lesbian best friend, and who had stole liquor from her father’s cabinet so many times Santana still wonders whether they had a silent pact she was never told or if her father was just stupid. Quinn tries to balance it out, of course, as she’s thirsty for Daddy to accept her since he threw her out and then accepted her back. So she goes to Law School, has impeccable grades, and presents a nice guy from a nice family to her mother every once in a while.

“Stop being so neurotic, you look great,” Santana says in all honesty. Quinn applies her mascara as she disagrees, stating that make up is a girl’s best friend. Santana rolls her eyes again before answering, “God you’re such a lipstick lesbian.” Quinn gives her a stare. “I’m not a lesbian,” she says, and “I’m not telling you anything because you’ll laugh and make fun of everything and be all over Facebook. I don’t even know if this is going to last long enough to be worth the effort, okay?” Santana decides to leave her to it.

It’s a Saturday night, but she’s not in the mood for partying. So, when she leaves Quinn’s, she decides to settle for ordering in and painting. Two possible buyers are going to take a look at her work the following week, and the more she had to show, more things they could want to buy, right? She puts on her painting overall, a grey shirt, and takes her things. It’s the first time she holds a brush after the party, and the result has a vague resemblance to a woman’s body, lying on a bed. Smooth lines of a feminine back and long locks of hair are perceptible to the trained eye among the various tone of red, beige and black. Santana doesn’t realize it.

She loses track of time, as usual, until her doorbell disturbs her and almost makes her ruin the canvas with the scared-y jump she takes. She opens the door and it’s Brittany, of course, because who else would show up unannounced in her house. Santana is dirty, probably a little sweaty, and still holding her brush. She frowns, because she doesn’t want to be seen that way and she isn’t ready to show her work to Unstoppable Blonde.

Brittany disarms her once again, kissing the bridge of her nose and asking if she could come in. Santana sighs but opens the door. Brittany throws herself on the couch, and only then Santana notices Bombshell is wearing black pants and a black shirt that insinuates the perfect amount of cleavage. She puts her brush aside and kneels in front of Blonde, hands on her thighs. “Brittany, she says, you can’t just show up like this. I need a warning, a phone call, because I might be busy, or just feeling like being by myself, and I need to have the chance of saying no. I’m painting tonight, so I really don’t want to go out to do anything. I don’t like being watched as I paint.”

She’s irritated when she says that. She expects an argument, a discussion, a disagreement, but Brittany just nods and looks to the ground, playing with her own fingers. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I just thought it is a Saturday night and we hadn’t seen each other in days.” Annoyance dissipates into thin air when Santana realizes Hurricane Blonde looks like a kicked puppy, and she squeezes Brittany’s thighs. “Hey, don’t give me that look,” she says, looking into her eyes. “You make me sound like Cruella de Vil.”

Brittany laughs softly and says she’ll leave Santana alone and maybe come back another day, but Santana can’t stand the look of shame and disappointment and kisses Brittany. She earns that sigh she’s growing used to, and long, pale arms wrapping loosely around her neck. “Not fair,” Blonde answers with a smile, you stole that kiss. Santana pulls close, so that their bodies are touching and says, “Oh well, give me one, then.”

Blonde does give in, lips parting willingly when Santana demands entrance, tongue sweeping to taste her. Bombshell sighs, legs wrapping around Santana to pull her even closer. Santana groans, hands sneaking under clothing to feel a strong back. She remembers for a second she should go back to painting, but then her lower lip is being bitten and pulled and God this woman is so distracting and how can Santana even breathe?

“You should paint,” Hurricane Blonde whispers, lips hovering above Santana’s. Santana nods and begins to kiss Brittany’s neck. “I should,” she agrees, shifting positions so she lies down on top of Blondie. “This is not painting,” Endless Legs says but tilts her neck anyway, legs stretching over Santana. “It isn’t,” Santana agrees, moving her hips against Brittany’s and getting scratches in response. “We totally should get naked,” Blonde says, pulling Santana in for a kiss so long and intense she feels dizzy afterwards.

They look at each other for a moment. Santana likes the sight of swollen lips, erratic breathing and wild yellow hair. There is something about Brittany, about her unapologetic ways and stunning figure, that she can’t quite put into words. “You’re a great kisser,” Brittany says. “No, you are,” Santana answers. She is smiling when she takes Brittany’s hand and takes her to the bedroom, where that storm of a woman strips for her. First the blouse, and Santana’s eyes go from her shoulder line to her perfect breasts to her sculptural abs, never settling because Brittany is one to be devoured whole. Second, the pants reach the floor and Santana’s mouth go dry in admiration of legs that are so long it cannot be real. Stormy Weather Blonde cannot be real, so she stretches a hand to touch that skin and pull her close.

Blonde complies, pushing Santana back on the mattress. That woman is inexplicably as good in turning tables and getting her way as she is in bowing to Santana’s requests, and Santana has given up understanding for now. “Baby, won't you please run your fingers through my hair?” Brittany hums as she takes Santana’s clothes off. “Can’t you see that we’re wasting time?” She murmurs contentedly when the both are in underwear. Her gaze over Santana leaves her hot and bothered, hand running through tanned skin just for the sake of admiration and build up. Every girl and boy needs a little joy, Santana answers as she turns Blonde Dancer over. They kiss, unrushed, hips rolling on their own, tiny moans escaping their throats. “Take me,” Brittany begs, and this time Santana complies.

Brittany’s fast asleep in her post orgasm nap when Santana gets up, puts on a dress shirt and goes back to the canvas, a lot more satisfied than before. The result is equally powerful in its dark, rich green and grey, but is not quite so aggressive as her previous work. She looks at the blonde to find her completely naked, sheets tangled at her legs. Santana surely doesn’t mind the view.

Weeks pass and Santana falls into this strange, strange pattern with Brittany. Not only the woman is, in every sense of the word, unexpected, but also is their relationship. They go out together, and it feels normal. They go out dancing, sometimes, and Santana gets to show off her incredible girlfriend – no one has made it official, though, so they’re not committed to each other. Not that they can make it official, because Brittany is already someone’s girlfriend.

They have dinner together in all sorts of restaurants, like a normal couple. Brittany never lets her pay for dinner and they always share the bill everywhere they go, because apparently Blonde is one for equal rights and there is no need for someone to wear the pants in a lesbian relationship, as that is so last century. Also, very much like a regular couple, Brittany has met Santana’s friends. Actually, Brittany and Quinn get along very well and soon enough started calling the trio the Unholy Trinity and having all sorts of inside jokes. The three of them go out for coffee every time they can, as coffee is the love of Quinn’s life and Santana does need her daily dose of caffeine.

She crashes at Santana’s as often as she can. Santana doesn’t mind, because waking up to a naked Brittany is a fantastic way to start the day. She massages Brittany’s feet when the blonde arrives from a practice exhausted and sleepy and the blonde always, always cooks a breakfast of the champions. Santana sometimes looks at Brittany and wonders how she got that lucky.

She goes to Kurt’s house once, of all places. She brings Blaine along, because she knows it will help her sell a few more paintings. Kurt’s a show off before anything else, and when he sees Blaine his eyes light up and he wets his lips, the entire visit becoming a performance. Blaine predicted it, because he is wearing his best shoes and a navy blue blazer with a white shirt and he even winks at her when Kurt is not looking. He shows them his house, big and impressive and all kinds of gay – including a huge painting of Madonna in the living room and an entire shelf in his TV room dedicated to the all the gayest in Hollywood films.

He shows them a corridor and an entire room waiting for decoration and they talk about the canvas he had seen, the ideas he had had and how much he loves how intense Santana’s works are and how they would fit so nicely into the idea he had for that particular room. It’s hard for Santana to look over the fact that he was Blonde’s boyfriend, and Blonde was hers, and not his, and how come people don’t notice he is so beyond gay he can’t even see gay from where he’s standing? She’s fucking his girlfriend four times a week, at least, and she’s taking Blonde to dinners and he doesn’t even blink.

“Oh, Britt, there you are,” Kurt suddenly says, and when Santana turns around Blonde is coming in their direction. Time stops for a moment. If Aphrodite had a human alter ego, it would be that woman, walking barefoot in their direction in those tiny jean shorts and white wife beater, looking at Santana like she’ll devour her, and Santana is surely not used to feeling like a prey but damn. “Here I am,” Goddess says, kissing Santana fully mouthed in front of Kurt, that crazy blonde human being is kissing Santana in front of her own boyfriend, tongue exploring Santana’s mouth, hand on the back of Santana neck.

It’s over sooner than she realizes and Kurt is smiling, actually smiling as he talks to Blaine with all sorts of casual touches. Blaine winks at her again, hand finding Kurt’s back to show him something and negotiate prizes. Santana looks dumbstruck at this Couple’s Swap Gay Style, as it feels like an alternative universe of some kind. “What was that for?” She asks Brittany, gesturing between the two of them. “I miss you,” Aphrodite says, “we haven’t seen each other in days.” Santana frowns and says, “In front of your boyfriend?” Blonde shrugs. “I told you he knows, he’s totally cool with it. He likes you,” she answers.

“I made us some Appletinis!” Kurt and Blaine return, each one of them holding a glass in hand. The four of them toast to future achievements. “You know, Santana, Blaine just had this amazing idea,” Kurt says, “about you being the one to paint that white wall in my trophy room. You can take as long as you want, of course, I will not be the one to rush an artist! Just imagine, my house being so much more integrated with art… Blaine really is a genius.”

So it’s settled, and she goes to Kurt’s house, of all places, a lot more than she would have ever dreamed of. Blaine comes over sometimes to distract Kurt with his prettiness and get a few drinks. He and Santana make a pact that he would only make a move once they had been paid, for everyone’s sake. It is quite a sum of money for someone like Santana, who is more often than not broke and penniless and has spent most of her stay in New York working two jobs – crappy jobs – to make ends meet. She lets it be, then, and embraces the permanently bizarre occasions when Brittany is over and they do that Couple Swap thing. Brittany makes her lemonade and cookies when she’s at Kurt’s, so at least there’s that.

Time passes and next thing she knows, the four of them are doing double dates together. Going to the movies together, playing War together, having dinner together… The media starts noticing, and Blaine and Santana end up in a few magazines. Speculation goes wild, but it earns her a description as a young, hip, upcoming artist and phone calls start to arrive and people actually want to see her work. She leaves one of her jobs, trusting she’s beginning to stand in firmer ground, and actually making some money out of her paintings. Which is crazy, just crazy.

She finishes it in a month, just in time for Kurt to get himself a Tony and go hysterical about it. He decides he absolutely must throw a party to celebrate and somehow Santana ends up helping the Mariah Carey reincarnation. She chooses the drinks, because her drinking manners do imply in a vast experience on the matter; she chooses the waitresses and waiters, because she has worked with quite a few who could use the money and were good professionals; she chooses the DJ, because Lost In Narnia Kurt doesn’t know much beyond musicals and the pop divas. It earns her as many invitations as she so desires, at least. She sends two invitations to Quinn and tells her to bring along her mysterious date.

She underestimates herself, however. The party is the first occasion she is not allowed to behave as Brittany’s girlfriend, and it gets under her skin. Kurt walks around, hand in Brittany’s waist – why Dios do they have to be so very much touchy-feely? –, exchanging quick pecks here and there. Brittany sits on his lap, gets his drinks, plays with his hair, and laughs at his jokes. And Santana is there, in a party she doesn’t know most people, trying not to look over too much.  Blaine whispers on her ear to take it easy on the alcohol, but she shrugs him off and gestures for Jack to make her another mojito. Jack was just too good for his own good. His mojitos were a unique experience, always.

She meets a few clients, makes some new contacts, and at least the party has this good side of taking her networks to a whole new level of famous and rich. She gives up her card here and there, but it starts to get tiring and people start to get drunk. Quinn arrives just in time, gorgeous and all, holding hands with a guy with a mohawk. Santana lifts one eyebrow, because Mohawk has trouble written all over him and his strong arms and malicious smile.

Quinn introduces Mohawk as Puck and they make a toast together to new people and another to great parties. They talk a bit about Puck and his side occupation as a singer in a rock band. Makes sense, on Santana’s opinion, because Quinn really did always have a thing for boys in rock bands. They talk about Santana’s painting and she even shows them the finished wall, but she carefully avoids discussing her exact relationship with Kurt and Brittany. For a start, she doesn’t think she can explain it.

She begins to have fun, avoiding Kurt, but not too much fun – this isn’t the environment for that, and even though she’s more on the wild and undisciplined side, she knows where and when to stop. Quinn and Mohawk go to the dance floor when Alors on Danse plays, but Santana dismisses them and decides to sit on a couch nearby. A redhead is already there, and she looks at Santana from her tango shoes to her black hat. “Hi,” she says, and they engage in a flirtatious conversation. She asks if Santana is seeing someone. The answer would be yes if it weren’t no, and Santana does not like the reminder of how deep into the closet she is.

Redhead invites Santana to dance and so they go, dancing together to a pop song, hands touching each other as Santana sets their rhythm. Redhead isn't a great dancer, but she has a great set of breasts and a willingness to brush her lips to Santana that compensate for her dancing skills. Santana notices Blonde’s eyes on her, but decides to ignore it. She’s not doing anything – yet – and she does not wish to talk to Brittany. There’s a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she ignores it. She exchange numbers with the woman as she says goodbye and promises to call her. “Please do,” redhead says, placing an enticing hand on Santana’s stomach before giving her a peck and leaving.

Santana is still smiling at the number carefully kept on her bra when Blonde arrives, looking displeased and taking her by the arm to the privacy of the TV room. “What are you doing?” she asks, hand on hip. “I did nothing.” Santana answers bluntly. “Is this a joke?” Angry Blonde asks and steps closer to Santana. But Santana is tipsy and she never backs off a fight, so she crosses her arms and prepares herself for conflict. “Brittany,” she says, “we are not girlfriends. I don’t know if you ever noticed, but Kurt is the one you’re kissing tonight. At least that girl is not afraid to be seen with me in public.”

Feisty Blonde comes closer and Santana feel trapped between the wall she’s leaning into and the other woman. “You always get it wrong,” Brittany says, hands on the side of Santana’s head. Santana’s hands go to Brittany’s shoulders to push her away but then she’s being kissed and this time is rough and oh so sexually arousing. She doesn’t want to kiss back but she does, because this feels like a breakup and Santana just wants to tell the world that Brittany belongs to her and not fall into this situation in which she has to lie and watch any other person claim her blonde. Santana groans and sinks her nails in pale shoulders when Brittany’s mouth descends to her neck to bite and suck. “Don’t mark me.” she orders, causing the opposite effect and earning another bite in a sensitive spot. “You’re mine and you know it.” Territorial Blonde whispers on Santana’s ears in a way that makes her hips jerk forward against the blonde, begging for pressure.

“I’m just your secret,” Santana snaps back, angry at Brittany, at Kurt, at herself, and turns Brittany around so that the blonde is the one to be sandwiched between Santana and the door. Santana places a leg between Brittany’s thighs, bodies touching everywhere. “We’re just passing time,” she says even though it hurts her too. She’s lifting Blonde’s black dress to feel toned thighs when Blonde holds her hands and makes her stop. “Look at me, Santana, she says. Santana obeys, even if she’d rather avoid the eye contact. “I’m in love with you,” Brittany says softly, and Santana feels frozen in place. When had they gone from arguing to making love declarations? “You’re crazy,” she says, even though she’s now disarmed and anger is being replaced with insecurity. She doesn’t know what they are or where they’re standing and she hates the feeling more than anything. “I’m in love with you and I don’t want to be with anyone else but you, Santana,” Brittany says and it’s what Santana has wanted to hear for weeks now.

They fight, a lot. Disagreements are plenty and bitter, and both of them are unafraid to voice them to each other. Brittany dislikes when someone flirts with Santana, but what can Santana do if she’s a hot piece of ass? It happens whether she wants it or not, and she hasn’t act on it once. Even though they still have to figure out their agreement, Santana doesn’t do as much as look at another woman. Endless Legs Blonde is more than she can handle at times, and more women do mean more trouble more often than not.

Brittany is becoming increasingly busy, as well. Santana arrives on time and thinks it’s disrespectful to be kept waiting – something her old grandma imprinted on her, probably. So when she has been waiting at an Indian restaurant for 54 minutes, she just leaves. Thirty minutes later, there’s a call from Busy Blonde asking where she is. They fight on the phone, and then they fight at the little dirty bar Santana found her way to, because Blonde doesn’t do it on purpose and Santana doesn’t accept being second place to anything else. Of all people, Kurt is the one to call her the next day and tell her to drop her diva act because she’s hurting Britt and whatnot. She yells with him and tells him to mind his own business – who did he think he was, to intrude in her personal life with such certainty and closeness? She tells him he is not a part of her relationship to Brittany, in spite of any public convenient arrangement of theirs.

Santana hates the gossip magazines, so intrusive and revealing. They show Dancing Days Blonde hand in hand with Kurt – who even manages to look straight in those calculated public appearances –, in parties with Kurt, and, this one time, kissing Kurt. She and Brittany fight over it, because Santana is someone’s dirty, little secret, and why do they have to put so much effort into this act, but it’s for the best, and Santana should know it doesn’t mean anything. They’re in Santana’s apartment, lucky enough, and no one gets to know they’re making a scene and Santana is starting to yell in Spanish when she decides to take a shower to cool off. Blonde goes after her a few moments later, undressing and standing with her under the cold water. The makeup sex that follows is mind-blowing.

Things go more smoothly in her professional life, thankfully. Santana lives such a cheap life that the payment for the mural in Kurt’s house can last several months if she’s careful. Santana leaves her other job when another Broadway Singer, Rachel Berry, hires her to paint a huge wall in her living room. It seems that this Berry woman – incredibly short, obnoxious and loud – has this little competition with Kurt, from what Santana has picked up. They are always trying to overcome each other, hit a higher note, get another solo and start the biggest productions. Santana finds it funny and prefers to ignore it, as it had at least given her another job.

Rachel Berry earns her respect on a sunny day, when Santana stops painting to drink some juice and hears her sing. It’s lovely and mesmerizing and it makes Santana feels bad about her own voice, which is a lot more husky and raw than the one she is hearing. Rachel is about to get her first lead in a musical, and she just can’t stop practicing. It takes no time for Santana to know each song by heart, and she hums along, each stroke of her brush in sync with the melody.

The best thing about being there is not the decoration, the endless supply of orange juice she is given, or the sheer satisfaction of being given a deadline, a purpose, and the necessary materials. The best thing about being in Rachel Berry’s house is a Friday afternoon that Santana gets to see the precious moment when Berry opens the door and kisses a blonde woman on the lips, telling her to come in for a moment because she has a call to make and when the blonde enters the house it’s no one but Quinn.

Santana smiles her best Santana smile, as this is so juicy and so exquisitely hilarious. Quinn blushes furiously and doesn’t move once she spots Santana. She asks about Puck, only to hear they just hooked up a few times. The dots connect themselves: the secrecy, the dressing up for every single date, the new haircut, the Republican Daddy Girl act that matched so well Berry’s elegance and style. When Berry comes back the silence is heavy. The tiny woman apologizes for not introducing them, but Santana interrupts to say they are well acquainted. When the couple leaves, Santana can’t stop laughing. Such a lesbian.

Later on, she tells it all to Brittany, who giggles and almost lets her ice cream fall on the ground. A teenage boy interrupts them to ask for Brittany’s autograph and makes Santana extra aware of their necessity to display a public facade. It bothers Santana, even if she tries not to show it. Going out with Narnia Kurt and Sweet Eyes Blaine has been drawing more and more attention. Brittany herself has been gathering more and more attention. Santana is not famous in any way, she knows that. She gets the side attention, being the artist who paints famous people’s houses and hangs out with a few of them.

Brittany turns her attention back to Santana and she’s adorable and sincere. Santana tries to get those thoughts out her head. They begin to walk, side by side, shoulders brushing, until they reach Santana’s place. It bothers Santana that she still hasn’t seen Brittany’s apartment, but there’s always paparazzi in the neighborhood and it wouldn’t be safe, or so Blonde says. Santana opens the door for Brittany and gets herself a beer before sitting on the couch. Brittany straddles her lap, as it seems to be on her list of favorite things to do, and makes Santana put down the beer. They look at each other, long fingers caressing Santana’s face. Brittany asks if Santana is still mad at her.

How can Santana not be sad when she sees Blonde in a gossip magazine in a make out session with someone else? She explains it and reaches for her bottle once more, taking a few long sips. Brittany sets it aside again, and it’s not fair how she’s on top of Santana, monopolizing her attention and not giving her anything else to focus on but this argument. Santana’s hands go to the back of Handsome Devil’s thighs, supporting her weight and marking territory. “I don’t like it,” she says, “and I’ve asked you not to do that.”

“It doesn’t matter, San,” Blonde whispers, tracing feather kisses on Santana’s forehead, nose, and jaw line. Santana closes her eyes and sighs, not very convinced. “You matter,” Snake Enchanter Blonde whispers over and over again, kissing Santana’s chin, neck, shoulders, until Santana stops her and searches for her mouth. Santana’s hands sneak under Bombshell’s shirt, pulling her as close as possible. She basks in the kiss, tongue exploring the entirety of the blonde’s mouth, pulling her lower lip, sucking on her tongue, because she doesn’t know how many more times she will be able to do that. She doesn’t have the girl, she can’t claim Brittany as hers in any other way than that, gestural and private.

Santana’s kisses go to Blonde’s neck, open mouthed and hot. She needs to drink Brittany, to savor her whole. When she takes off the other woman’s shirt, she’s hoping she’s making herself understood. She’s growing attached to Bombshell, she’s falling for her and she doesn’t want it to end even though she sees no future for them. She hasn’t said she’s in love with Brittany. It hurts Goddess, she knows, but she can’t bring herself to say it and let the other woman hold all the cards. They have been fighting all the time, but they are making up all the time and Santana’s beer lies forgotten when Blonde moans her name.

She looks at the Aphrodite on her lap, perfect abs and perfect breasts and perfect lines and perfect swollen lips. “You’re gorgeous,” she breathes out in adoration. Aphrodite smiles softly and tilts her head to the side a bit, blonde long hair falling on Santana. Her hands take off Santana’s shirt, tracing her lace bra immediately after and giving Santana a questioning look. “Well, you know,” Santana says, “just in case you came over afterwards.” Sex Bomb Blonde bites her lower lip and cups Santana’s breasts over the bra, whispering me gusta. “Muy bien”, Santana answers, hands going higher under skirt.

Pale fingers run over her breasts, her neckline, and stop at her lips. “Hey, San,” Brittany says, “I could break up with Kurt.” Santana’s heart races and she uses her hands to pull Blonde closer. She is barely processing anything when Brittany talks about the agents, and maybe a public, consensual breakup. Kurt had agreed already, so it would be just a question of figuring out why and how. A few appearances after that to show they were friends still and things would be solved. Santana’s left hand goes to the back of Brittany’s neck and she pulls Blonde in for a kiss, back arching so they’re skin against skin. “Si, si, si, si,” she says between kisses. “I’d like that.” Blonde’s bra goes to the ground, as does her skirt. She smiles in the kiss. “Thank you,” Santana says, but what she means is I’m so head over heels for you.

Santana takes her to the bedroom. There’s no time to lose if Blonde can’t stay over the night because of some irrelevant meeting. The sun is setting outside and she doesn’t bother to close the windows, wanting the light to fall over Brittany and make her skin glow. Her investment on underwear pays off when she takes off her pants and Blonde looks at her like she’s the most desirable thing alive. Soon enough she’s being pushed to the mattress and she’s not complaining to have Dancer on top of her, undulating her body so skillfully and pressing her thigh against her in a way she forgets how to breathe.

Santana looks at Quinn, who looks at Rachel and squeezes her hand. Santana rolls her eyes and drinks her mojito in big gulps, half because it is half assed and half because Rachel is more overwhelming than a pack of hyenas and she just can’t stop talking. And she’s all Oh Santana how nice it is to have the three of us here getting to know each other, not that we are strangers, mind you, as Quinn and I have been dating for a while and you and I have had a marvelous however brief time together when you painted that mural on my wall, but I told Quinn last week we should hang, the three of us, now that our romantic relationship has recently come to your attention, so I can get to know you as a friend and go beyond our previous professional relationship.

Santana tries not to be hostile with Man Hands. But it’s hard, and Santana wants to die. She drinks more of her mojito as Berry goes on about her two gay dads – really, like she cares – and how they taught her to live a life unafraid of other’s judgment, so when came the time in Julliard when she desired to experiment with her sexuality, she felt comfortable to do it, and when Quinn crossed her way at that party she absolutely felt drawn to her friend. Santana makes her stop right there face, and Quinn luckily enough understands it and cuts of the story. Santana couldn’t love her more. One thing she does not need to know is the intimate details of her friend’s adventures in lesboland.

Quinn apologizes for not telling Santana, but she didn’t know if it would last more than that one encounter and it was nobody’s business and Santana stops listening, because she knows Quinn has slept with women before but refuses to be open with her sexuality. How tight can a girl remain, after all those years? Santana knows Quinn is, very much, a bisexual, but it always feels that admitting to be in any kind of relationship with someone of the same sex would be the start of World War III to her friend. And, really, Berry, of all three billion women in the world? She was short, obnoxious and what was wrong with that nose of hers? Didn’t she stop to breathe between sentences, ever? Santana prefers the distanced proximity of listening to her sing. Having Berry’s full attention was a little too much and she hadn’t had sex in days so she’s already an irritated cat. Thankfully, Quinn distracts Shortie with a conversation Santana doesn’t have to be a part of, so there are a few moments of peace of mind. But then of course Midgety turns to say something and Santana drinks some more, because it is going to be a long night. At least, Berry pays the bill.

She calls Brittany when she arrives home, and the woman is at some fancy restaurant with friends. Santana turns down the invitation to pass by, because she’s trying to lower her budget and make her money last a few weeks more. Blonde is a good but expensive company to have, with her restaurants and clubs and parties and her high-earning circle of people, and Santana does not fit into the category. She’s starting to worry how she’ll keep up with their relationship. She finds out the city of NY was going to choose a young artist to paint some murals and create some art interventions, and well, she’s young and she’s an artist, so she signs up for it. She needs the money, and it wouldn’t hurt to have her work out there.

Santana ends up deciding to leave the apartment and go to a friend’s concert at an obscure pub, because this is a Friday night and she’s too young to be dwelling on the parties she can’t afford. She puts on her leather jacket, miniskirt, and out she goes. She still gets a thrill of living in that town, of its beauty of concrete and lights, even after all those years. There’s always something to do, there’s always somewhere to go and nights are never ending possibilities. Santana takes the long way to the pub, enjoying the breeze and the loneliness.

When she arrives the place is packed and loud, with dangerous blondes and their guitarist boyfriends and skinny brunettes and their vocalist girlfriends. Santana smirks her Santana smirk, because she loves the atmosphere and the loud thumping on her ears. Someone’s going to pay her drinks and someone is going to try to get her in bed, and if she was lucky this someone would be a woman and the drinks would be plenty. She gets herself a beer and goes straight to the stage, very aware of the looks in her direction and feeling hot as hell.

“Santana!” Mohawk yells her name and eyes her from top to bottom. She likes his amount of bad attitude. “Long time! How’s Quinn?” They toast and Santana answers Quinn is busy with Law School and they engage in conversation, because Santana doesn’t know the band playing and he’s fun. He says he’s with Zizes now, who is a singer too, and when Zizes arrives Santana almost chokes on her beer, because the woman is large and tall and large and for someone who was dating Quinn this Zizes is surely a whole lotta woman.

They end up dragging her to the stage on the allegation she knows way too many rock songs to forget any lyrics. That’s a truth, and she rocks out with Puck and his guitar, Zizes and her crazy vocals and it’s good to be up there singing some fine music, closing her eyes to focus on the instruments and opening them to see a crowd jumping and having fun. And God, is she good with her deep, raspy voice.

Drinks show up in her hand when she’s finished and she takes them but doesn’t give much for anyone to engage in conversation with her. Taking someone to her place seems just wrong after so many times Blonde has slept there, naked as God made her. Flirting is nothing, though, and accepting some beers here and there isn’t hurting anyone, is it? Puck is there too and they dance together, and they shout some lyrics together when Santana’s friend goes to the stage and they rock out like crazy.

She arrives home sweaty, exhausted, and with four phone numbers she tosses in the trash with no regrets. Puck’s invitation to sing with them more often linger on her mind as a temptation, because she knows it doesn’t make nearly enough money and she should be focusing on painting, but damn it is fun. She has just taken a nice, long shower when Brittany calls. It’s late, but she lets Dirty Dancer come over. She brings hamburgers, the blessed woman, and Santana’s heart grows a little. She watches her set the table and get the glasses and something in the way she moves moves her like no other lover.

“I wanna try a little something,” Indecently Short Dress Blonde says, back turned to Santana, and when she turns she walks to Santana and she kisses Santana. There’s the sigh and the instant melting against her body that Santana loves. Blonde parts her lips, and when Santana’s tongue enters her mouth there’s the pleasant surprise of a thick and utterly delicious layer of chocolate. Santana immediately comes to the conclusion that what is perfection if not Brittany and chocolate all at once? She moans and pulls Chocolate Sensation Blonde closer, renewing her effort to explore Brittany’s mouth.

Santana’s exhausted no more, but Blonde pulls away and giggles “Your hamburger will get cold,” cleaning a smudge of chocolate on the corner of Santana’s mouth with her thumb and licking it afterwards. “Tease.” Santana answers, savoring the taste of chocolate in her mouth and trying not to rip Chocolate Factory Blonde’s dress off right there right then. “Eeeeeat.” Brittany says, pulling Santana by the hand and sitting by her side, hand running on Santana’s hair. Santana eats, her grumbling stomach thanking her for that. Brittany’s all smiles and funny stories, and Santana forgets how much she needs money just to keep up with her and she talks and laughs and spoons the blonde when they finally go to bed.

Santana wakes up and the sun creeping in her window announces a lazy day. Sleeping Beauty Blonde is naked beside her, leg over Santana’s body. She smiles and wakes up the other woman by caressing her back, earning the soft mewls Blonde always makes when she’s sleepy as she tangles herself in Santana even more and cuddles. Santana kisses the top of Brittany’s nose and she crunches it in response, asking for five more minutes.

Another hour passes before they finally leave the bed, Sleeping Beauty in a green t-shirt and underwear and Santana in shorts and a top. Santana stays in the bedroom for a while even though she’s starving, because she has to make her weekly call to her abuela. Talented Hands Blonde heads off to the kitchen. It’s a surprise, and Blonde has been mysterious about it, so when Santana actually leaves her room, there’s a delicious smell in the air and Brittany is cooking waffles, for the love of God. The woman is cooking waffles and she’s beautiful from head to toe, with her disgruntled hair and distracted humming of a song.

Santana hugs her from behind and kisses her neck. I love your sweet lady kisses, Blonde Cook says with a sigh. It’s surely a nice break from all that scissoring, Santana answers. A quiet moment passes like this, with the feeling of Brittany pressed against her  and the smell of waffles – that Blonde bought all the ingredients and brought the waffle iron, that beautiful human being. Hey, she finally says, I’m in love with you. It’s out now, out in the world, and her heart beats faster in apprehension and anticipation. From the day before Brittany was officially a single lady, press statements issued and publicists properly oriented, so what was there to hold her back?

Brittany turns around and steps closer. She’s smiling like she won a prize as her arms wrap themselves around Santana’s neck loosely. I’m in love with you, Santana gathers the courage to repeat, enjoying the sheer feeling of pronouncing the words looking in Blonde’s eyes. I’m in love with you too, San, Blonde says, and Santana asks herself who gave permission to that woman to go around creating cute little nicknames for her, who is far from cute. She’s fierce and determined, she’s a storm in the brewing, but Brittany is kissing her neck and what was she thinking anyway, what is there left to think when there’s warm lips on her skin and God that is a sensitive spot and she’s shivering and throwing her head for better access and Maria madre de Dios what is Aphrodite’s leg doing between Santana’s with not nearly enough pressure-

Brittany goes on tour. Santana doesn’t confess, but she misses Blonde. They hadn’t gone three days without seeing each other – the last three weeks surely feel odd. She realizes she has grown used to Long Legs, to calling her at the end of the day, to buying food for two, to unexpected and sudden appearances at her apartment, so the fact that she’s in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Washington and whatnot doesn’t feel right.

So she hangs out with Quinn, and with Quinn and Rachel, who should be awarded Most Disgusting Couple Of All Times with their hand holding, ‘babe’ this ‘babe’ that, pulling chairs, opening doors and being disgusting. And Blaine, who has proven he is not so bad and who’s been letting his hair grow - and it’s the fluffiest thing in all history of fluffy and makes Santana itchy to touch it because it’s so beautifully curly and soft. This one time, she even went to dinner with Blaine and Kurt, but only because they were paying and she’s not the one to pass on a free meal.

She paints, too, a lot, probably as a result of all that pent up sexual energy already getting on her nerves by the end of the first week and the lack of the distraction Blonde always seem to provide just by existing. She decides to send one to her abuela, produced in a distracted Wednesday to the resemblance of a certain Matisse painting. Maybe the summer course she had just taken on 20^th century art was being too much of an influence. To spare herself the accusation of plagiarism and to please her favorite family member, she ships it along with a letter the following day. She wonders for a second before mailing it if she should say something to her abuela. Was it meaningful enough? Had enough time passed already? Was it too soon?

She hangs out at Rachel’s too, because Quinn is there more often than not and Rachel is so determined to win Santana over that she feeds Santana, rents movies for them to see, and even lets Santana and Quinn hang out there when she’s not. Santana likes the place and loves the food. A little playing along has never hurt anybody, after all. The woman is still unbearable and annoying most of the time, but Quinn sometimes gives Shortie a long, lovingly, yearning look and Santana just knows she will have to put up with this one whether she likes it or not.

Another good thing about Rachel is that her need for approval ends up working out better than expected for Santana. Apparently, Tanned Hobbit has a mother, Shelby – which would be so obvious if she hadn’t two gay dads and what’s with these modern families, anyways? –, also in Broadway. A mother that just bought a summer house, and who has just been convinced what she needs is Santana to paint her a mural. A summer house that happens to still need a lot of work on and it’s not big, but would happen to fit Rachel and Santana and two more guests very comfortably. Because if Santana is to spend her time painting there would be no reason for her to be alone, and why not take the opportunity for some vacation time for everyone? Quinn is on vacations, Rachel’s musical came to a successful end and she is taking her time to calculate her next step… Oh, and it’s also in Hawaii. Santana just looks at Rachel, and then at Quinn, who has the same dumbstruck look, and can’t find the words.

When Santana meets Shelby, she’s impressed at how beautiful she is, tall and with a broad smile, brown hair falling on her shoulders. The resemblance is light, but when the woman opens her mouth to sing there’s nothing but genetics to explain the same powerful range and that clear, demanding voice. They’re at Rachel’s, who’s nervously serving them dinner to introduce her mother to both Quinn and Rachel. Santana has been told Rachel only met her mother in high school, and only started a real relationship after her graduation, when Rachel moved to New York. Santana understands the nervousness, the need for approval, for an exteriorization of parental love.

Shelby looks at the Rachel’s wall and she seems to like it. She mentions that her husband, who’s a businessman of some sort from what Santana has deduced from the conversation, was sure to love it as well. Santana asks herself if people actually like her work because of its merits or because someone told them to like and the chain effect was too strong for them to break it. Well, one way or another, she was getting paid – with the latest benefit of a trip to Hawaii. She drifts off for a moment to imagine Blonde being there, looking great in a blue bikini, laying with Santana on the sand, swimming with her on the beach. Rachel interrupts her daydreaming, unfortunately, and Santana agrees with the whole idea, still marveled at how much money attracts money.

The house, she finds out, is more than enough for the four of them – Rachel, Quinn, Santana and Blaine. It’s not very furnished and it does give the impression no one has lived there in at least a few months, but the most basic things are there: couch, table for six, beds, drawers, in wooden tones that remind Santana of old houses with stories to tell. The kitchen also has the essential equipment, and Santana can’t ask for much more. After taking a look at the place, the first thing the quartet does is to get to know their surroundings. Maybe it’s because they are tourists, maybe it’s because they’re on vacations, but even the most pedestrian street, building or little shop seems fascinating and poetic. They buy enough food to feed an army, sunscreen, and a CD with Hawaiian songs. It’s a nice end of afternoon and it takes Santana’s minds off the aching for Brittany she thinks is driving her crazy.

Santana is not the one to deal with distance and absence. She needs the touch of Blonde’s skin to remind her of everything, she needed the smell of her shampoo when Blonde has just left the bathroom, her purring in the mornings refusing to wake up, and the unlimited sex drive that woman had. Weeks had gone by already, and even if Santana hated to feel and seem needy, time couldn’t pass fast enough and phone calls just weren’t enough.

Brittany does call that day, when Santana has just got to bed. It’s been a long and tiring day, with traveling and unpacking and exploring and going to restaurants. Santana’s drawn out and she’s feels embarrassed when she talks with Blonde on the phone in front of other people, so thankfully Blaine is fast asleep by then. She tells Brittany she has seen a magazine that stated Blonde was “Ke$ha’s and Britney Spears’ lovechild” and Handsome Devil just laughs deliciously, flattered. Going on tour wasn’t easy, and the Unstoppable Hurricane was tired in most of their phone calls. She tells Blonde she wishes she could be there just before they hang up.

Days pass in pure bliss. She paints, experimenting with new techniques – it’s important to make unique pieces, so each work would be outstanding and separate, making each one of those famous people proud to have something all for their own. She goes to the beach and gets her tan back, something she knows Brittany is going to love when she gets back. She calls Brittany every day. She swims, she jogs at dawn and she makes castles out of sand with Quinn like they are 5 years old. They drink and they go out dancing and it’s so great that they can pass anonymous and avoid Rachel’s Broadway fame.

It’s funny how it’s all linked, she thinks one night when they are playing cards and drinking. Rachel is so drunk she’s actually funny, or maybe it’s Santana who’s drunk and tolerant. And thoughtful, because being there and having fun and doing things she loves is such an unexpected turn in her life. One way or another, her life had changed twice the last couple years, first with the painting and second with all the circles of people Brittany had inadvertently brought along when she had decided to hit on Santana that night. It’s one person taking her to the next and to the one after that and then suddenly she’s in Hawaii, painting and committed with that unreal woman. Santana work there is done and their short stay is coming to an end, so this feels like a goodbye. They have only two more days and real life starts again with Quinn’s classes, Rachel’s music and Santana’s struggle for a career she could barely say she had.

The next day she wakes up and goes downstairs to brew some coffee. She has just gotten to the kitchen when the bell rings, and when she opens the door it’s no one but Blonde, tall and beautiful and staring at her. They stay like that for a few seconds, until Santana breaks the spell and moves, pulling her in and pulling her close and pushing her against the wall all at the same time. They hug, Blonde’s bag falling to the ground, and Santana doesn’t even care how her woman got there or why isn’t she somewhere else across the States. Brittany laughs for no reason and Santana laughs too, and they share a few light kisses. She cups Blonde’s face and just looks at her in what essentially is joy, and the kind of smile she has hasn’t been seen by many.

She whispers an I missed you and she gets in return her ass being grabbed and her neck being assaulted and she’s not complaining at all. They have plenty of time for explanations and questions and talking in general. She sinks her nails in Blonde’s back in response to a particularly emphatic sucking, eyes fluttering at the feeling of wet tongue and the prospect of having Brittany naked after six unbearably long weeks. Brittany whispers in her ear she’s too easy and Santana would disagree if she wasn’t starting to ride Brittany’s thigh very slowly – but she couldn’t be more ready, really, with the lack of sex and their agreement not to touch themselves during their time apart. Santana cups Blonde’s breasts and searches for Brittany’s mouth with a shameless moan. When Blonde sighs and melts it’s just what Santana has been longing for all this time.

It’s wonderful, and it’s in Hawaii, and Blonde’s hands are grabbing her ass and making her ride Blonde’s thigh and Santana has been waiting for this for too long. She doesn’t even care they’re at the door, and that the house has three other people in it, three other people that could show up anytime, because Handsome Devil is sucking her tongue and she’s not wearing a bra under her shirt and it has been six weeks, for the love of God, six unbearably long weeks.

But of course there are sounds of footsteps and Quinn shows up with her I Hate Mornings face. “Santana, where’s the coffee?” She mumbles, sounding a lot like a child. Brittany stops her wonderful ministrations and giggles like it’s no big deal they’re being interrupted in some hot action. “Go away, woman.” Santana growls and hides her face in Brittany’s neck. “You promised you would make coffee before everyone got out of bed and I need my coffee!” Quinn says exasperatedly. Santana doesn’t know if that’s someone up there mocking her life. Or why is she even friends with Quinn. Or even why Quinn has to be the grumpiest person in the world.

“C’mon, San, let’s make baby Quinn her morning dose of caffeine.” Madre Teresa Blonde says, and Quinn is really lucky Blonde is so much nicer than Santana because Santana obliges and they go to the kitchen. She looks at Quinn and whispers so Brittany couldn’t hear, “you’re so going to pay me for this! When have I ever cockblocked you?”

Santana starts making the damn coffee, mentally cursing herself for letting Quinn classify her coffee as the most delicious coffee in all history of coffee all this years ago. Quinn just sits there, useless as always, eyes half closed. Brittany starts looking around the kitchen for ingredients, brushing against Santana every time she can, that teasing little thing. Does she really need to reach over Santana and press her hips against Santana’s ass to grab a freaking frying pan? Santana growls, but Cherry Bomb just goes to her ear and, with a hand on the other side of her neck, quietly says “just wait until I get you alone” and Santana just wants to die.

Of course Rachel and Blaine show up, her in Teddy bear pajamas and him in black boxers, and of course the both of them hug Brittany excitedly as if they, too, weren’t getting in the way of Santana’s long awaited sexual release. Blonde hugs everyone and serves scrambled eggs and bacon and toast and it’s ridiculous how they’re all almost falling in love with her because she gave them food. The five of them sit to eat, and Santana wonders how Rachel can talk for so long without taking a breath because she’s telling Blonde absolutely everything that had happened, from the best experiences to the most irrelevant details.

The thing about Blonde is the faces she can make, like when she looks at Rachel in what seems deep attention but her hands are actually between Santana’s legs, over her shorts, and Santana is almost choking on her eggs. Even the ever observant Quinn, who seems to be regaining rational thought with each sip of coffee, is blissfully unaware of what is going on, and why does Blaine love to walk around the house in his boxer briefs, again? But then Blonde is adding extra pressure and Santana almost rolls her eyes in satisfaction.

Their deal is that Blaine washes the dishes after breakfast, so when they’re done and Santana is almost begging for some alone time, Blonde says she’s tired from the trip and she’ll take a shower before heading to the beach and Santana just beams. Quinn gives her a knowing look and Blaine begins to sing Let’s Get It On and Santana just gives them a death glare and follows Blonde, because she couldn’t care less.

If there’s one thing better than sex it must be shower sex, Santana thinks as she watches Aphrodite’s clothes fall off. “You coming?” Brittany asks, turning the water on, and she’s oh so naked that Santana just nods and watches for a few seconds the water running down Blonde’s amazing body before taking off her own clothes and joining. Santana makes her turn around and face the wall. “You are a tease. Did you know that?” She asks, running her hands through that perfect back, scratching slightly. “And this is payback.” She adds, touching Brittany’s breasts and earning a low purr. She caresses both of them softly, playing with the nipples so efficiently Blonde spreads her legs wider without Santana telling her to. Santana takes her time, though, waiting until Blonde has her mouth half open, her eyes closed and begins to whimper, to take her hands downwards. “You’re too easy.” She says, smirking when Blonde gasps with the faintest of touches. She caresses Brittany’s folds, trying not to show she’s getting as turned on as Brittany by then. She’s as anxious for this as Aphrodite, but they still haven’t reached the perfect point.

“Please.” Brittany says, hips bucking when Santana touches her center and adds pressure. “Please.” She moans once more, and Santana doesn’t think she has ever been this turned on in her life. Santana obeys, groaning loud at the wonderful sensation of two fingers entering Brittany, then one more, and her girlfriend starts making all this little noises and there’s hot water falling on Santana’s back, and they she never took Brittany from behind like this and what a great sight it is, Blonde with both hands on the wall, legs spread wide and by the way Brittany is so wet it’s flattering and she’s moaning Santana’s name and that only happens when she’s on the edge, so Santana picks up the pace and curls her fingers. She feels Brittany’s walls clenching and when her other hand touches Blonde’s center it’s the perfect timing and Brittany comes undone in a long moan.

Santana can’t hold back her smug grin. “That was almost too easy.” She says, taking her fingers out and licking them and Blonde always tastes amazing, so she closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them again Sensual Seduction Blonde pulls her close for a slow kiss and Santana lets her mouth be explored in any way Brittany so wishes. Blonde is smiling into the kiss and Santana can’t help but smile at the fact the woman always gets so silly in her post bliss. Blonde bites Santana’s lower lip and pulls before diving in for another kiss, hands exploring Santana’s body, unrushed.

Blonde has this look on her face when she runs a thumb over Santana’s lip, a look of adoration and care, and Santana kisses her again, this time sweetly, realizing for the first time that Brittany has undoubtedly fallen for her. “I really missed you.” Brittany says, with a serious expression, running a hand through Santana’s hair. “I just had to come here and see you when one of my shows got cancelled.” Santana’s heart is racing when she nods. She’s not very good at feelings, but she tries.

“Hey, we’re heading to the beach! Careful not to waste too much water, it is not environmentally friendly!” Blaine yells at the bathroom door, and the both of them laugh. “Maybe we should get out of the shower.” Santana says, turning off the water and reaching for a towel to envelop Brittany gently and dry her body, drying herself after as the both of them leave the bathroom and enter the bedroom. Santana thinks she should say something because that moment does mean something, but nothing comes to her mind. Brittany is making sacrifices to be there, and she looks at Santana in a way that makes her blush.

When she turns again to Brittany, the blonde is wearing shorts and a blue bikini. “Come here.” She says, kissing Blonde when she gets within her reach, slow and tender. Brittany lingers for some more, arms around Santana’s waist, just looking at her. “I’m really glad you’re here.” She says, and she means to say really glad you chose me, but that isn’t something light to say. Blonde kisses her, pressing Santana against the dresser and stopping just before they get too hot again.

It’s a beautiful day out there and even though Santana does want to have 10 uninterrupted hours alone with her girlfriend, she does have to give in and smile to the sight of beach, sun, and the smell of salt and Brittany’s sunscreen. Blaine is surfing, or making some sad attempt at it, but he laughs and laughs when he falls off the board and two of their Hawaiian friends are there as well, patiently waiting for him and making some sweet moves themselves so everything’s okay. Quinn and Rachel must have gone to their morning jog in one of their old couple things, and Santana wonders how two people can know each other for less than a year and still look like they have been married for decades.

She realizes she knows Brittany for only a little longer than Quinn knows Rachel, mere six months, but she already wants to call her abuela and tell her all about Blonde and her life and how amazing her girlfriend can be. They choose a spot and Santana get her things ready, takes off her shorts and lies down on her back, ready to go back to New York with nothing less of a fantastic tan.

Brittany surprises Santana once more and starts applying sunscreen on her legs, and even though it does feel amazing they are touching in public, in public touching, and Santana is too dumbstruck to even say anything. Her hands go the inside of Santana’s thigh, higher and higher, and Santana is almost rolling her eyes at the feeling. She wonders about the paparazzi and the gossip and the people looking; Brittany then goes to her back and Santana stops freaking about the complications. It feels so good, so majestically good; Santana is a lot tenser than she ought to, but Blonde is undoing her knots and adding pressure to the right spots and she starts to relax. Brittany’s intimacy with Santana’s body is very obvious to the casual observer.

“I love you.” Blonde says, and Santana stops breathing for a moment. She turns around, facing Brittany and her nervous face. How had they even reached that stage? Weren’t they in the ‘I’m in love with you’ type of declaration? “I’m sorry, San, but I love you and the last few weeks have been horrible without you.”  She cups Santana’s face and they look at each other in the eyes. “I needed to tell you that.”

“It’s okay.” Santana says quietly, looking around to see if anyone is paying attention. She decides to dare, to take more risks than she had allowed herself to, adds “I love you too,” and kisses Brittany in public, preparing herself to be rejected and pushed away because it’s in public and forbidden. Except it doesn’t happen, and she breaks the kiss a few seconds later by her own accord. “I just wish I could tell that to everyone.” She doesn’t love a lot, she doesn’t love often, and this is important; she can imagine herself with Brittany for the long run, she can imagine being with Brittany even if they’re hiding, even if she can’t tell her abuela – or anyone, for that matter –, even if they still have a lot to work on.

Santana is trying not to moan. Cherry Bomb is assaulting her neck like she has nothing else to do with her life, biting and sucking, slow and determined, hand on the other side of her neck and an arm around her waist, bringing Santana as close as possible. It has been too long, and Santana hasn’t exactly gotten her release yet; by the time Blonde reaches her pulse and places a wet kiss on it she has her nails sunk in Brittany’s thighs and all she can do is try not to tremble in arousal.

“Brittany…” She breathes out, head thrown back to rest on Brittany’s shoulders and wishing so very hard they weren’t sitting on a beach. Brittany pulls her in for a kiss, claiming her mouth in front of everyone; it is thrilling to be desired by Blonde in public, like they didn’t even care, even if there was probably no one to out them there. When they part Santana can barely breathe; she looks at Brittany’s swollen lips and smiles, shifting position so she’s straddling Sex Goddess lap. “You definitely should miss me more often.” She says, dark hair falling on Blonde as she dives in for another kiss.

“Why, if I can have you everyday?” Blonde asks right before their lips meet, hands going the small of Santana’s back; Santana nudges her lower lip and grabs a fistful of yellow hair. Brittany trails her kisses down to Santana’s collarbone and the valley between her breasts. This is torture, complete and utter torture; she wants to take Brittany right then, right there, she wants them in a king size bed, she wants them naked and sweaty. “You have a point.” She gasps, closing her eyes and trying not to be overwhelmed by the throbbing between her legs.

Then of course Blaine starts singing Let’s Get Physical, with the help of Rachel Berry and Quinn Fabray, and Brittany starts laughing and giggling and the moment is gone, flying through the window; Santana hides her face in Brittany’s neck and grunts something incoherent and she really really really should choose better friends. “Lemme hear your body talk,” Rachel and Quinn back Blaine up, choreographing some stupid move. Santana gets up and goes after the Cockblock Trio; they obviously are not taking her seriously, because they just run and laugh and go to the water and before she knows it they are throwing water at each other and Brittany is there too, fake drowning everyone. “¡Van pagar por eso, sus coños!” She’s aware she’s not very threatening when Blonde is hugging her from behind, but she yells anyway. She’s so going to poison their next breakfast.

Time passes by too quickly. When they’re all exhausted it is time for lunch already; they choose a tiny restaurant by the beach so they don’t risk any media exposure for Brittany. They spend hours there, eating and drinking and talking like there have no rush, like they can sit and enjoy a meeting, for a change. It has a calm unknown to Santana, and a new familiarity when Brittany casually places a hand on her thigh, or runs a hand through her hair. This is what feels to be a couple, to eat with friends like normal people. Brittany smiles at her warmly from time to time; Santana can feel the affection and she basks in it. She can get used to this.

Before they know it the sun is going down after an afternoon of walking around town with Brittany and showing her the good and the picturesque. She buys hats and a present for Kurt, in spite of Santana’s jealous glare because why does Blonde still speak with Rainbow Princess anyway? She takes Brittany by the waist because Brittany is hers, only hers, before realizing what she is doing and letting go.

Blonde gives a few autographs, and everything feels very in control and very soothing. She ignores the kids’ faces when Blonde calls her love. Everyone would get used to it, including herself, so she just stands in the back while Brittany takes pictures and signs tshirts and goes back to Santana and Cockblock Trio. Truth be said, she can imagine the headlines and the pictures and the gossip around it if word got out, but she tries to ignore it and go with the flow, as she always does, as they go to the next store and Brittany remains too seemingly calm.

She wonders when Blonde will have to leave; the mere thought of it is unsettling and unpleasant. They had said so little, and even if she doesn’t knows exactly what, it feels there was so much more. She opens her mouth sometimes, but nothing comes out when she tries to articulate anything at all. By the end of the afternoon Quinn is asking her what is wrong and why the usually opinionated Santana is so silent all afternoon, but Santana merely shrugs in response and dismisses the worry. There is nothing wrong, but quite the opposite.

There is Brittany’s touching the small of her back to guide her inside a small shop. There’s her stunning figure in a blue bikini, sunbathing. There’s the warmth of her skin from being too long in the sun. There’s the echo of Cockblock Trio singing let’s get it on and the smirk it brought to her lips. There is the fun in Blonde’s eyes when she and Quinn do a duet of a Britney’s song. There’s the thrill of a slow kiss when they reach the house by the end of the afternoon and the way Blonde licks her lips right after, as if she had just tasted something delicious. There’s the permanent sensation of being special, somehow, for the way Brittany focused on her and only her until something broke the moment.

There’s Santana’s question about how things would be when they return home. There’s Santana look at Brittany, expecting her to dismiss her request once more. That’s their dynamics: she wants to go public, Blonde doesn’t – or can’t, which is the same. Maybe she should just accept loving Brittany meant loving her in private for as long as her career in pop music lasted, like it or not. She looks at Blonde and realizes she’s still nervous; Santana waits for it to pass and some apology to be issued.

There’s a silence. “About that.” Brittany is always a surprise, so she has stopped to guess a long time ago. “We always talk about it, or fight about it, and I hate it.” Santana nods and cups Brittany’s cheek to sooth her. She wonders what could possibly be bigger than I Love You, but you never knew what was the next step with Cherry Bomb Blonde.

“You’re the awesomest person I know. With you, I believe anything is possible.” Blonde continues, and Santana catches her breath, unprepared to hear it. God, things were getting too serious, too soon. “I don’t want to see random girls hitting on you. I don’t want to lie anymore. I don’t want to hide. And I don’t want you to hide your awesome.” Santana looks at Brittany and how she’s frowning with fierceness and determination. She kisses Blonde’s lips softly and pulls her close, unable to say anything because she was never good at this. Brittany continues, looking into Santana’s eyes. Santana smiles at her, because she’s as beautiful as Renaissance and the works of Michelangelo and El Greco. “I want to show you to the world.”

Santana blinks, frozen in place. “Sorry?” She asks; this is too easy, this is too much to be real. Brittany takes a deep breath and continues, “I want us to go public, if you agree. Of course you’ll have to talk to my PR and stuff, so we can decide how to do it, but I want us to go public.” Blonde looks at Santana and Santana nods. “You sure?” She asks, and it is Brittany’s turn to agree.

“Of course.”

Santana walks around furiously. She’s trying to set her thoughts straight, but two gossip magazines keep staring at her in a silent mock: Brittany’s new affair? They ask, displaying dozens of pictures of Brittany and the Asian Guy Santana met on a party, who apparently is one of Brittany’s dancers and with whom she was seem several times. And they are standing too close, talking too brightly, and casual touches are everywhere and Santana hates for letting herself go this easily, be tamed for someone who was not ready to tell the world about them, about herself, someone who she wasn’t even sure was faithful.

She had just gotten out of a rehearsal with Puck and the band – who were pretty rad and let her sing a few songs now and then and show up in their rehearsals whenever – and the last thing she would have imagined she’d encounter were two of the biggest gossip magazines with Brittany and Asian Guy all over them, doing couple-y things in casual clothing. How had Blonde even managed to meet Asian Abs that many times without Santana knowing it?

Of course she bought the magazines, because there was nothing else to do at first but torture herself with the mental images, the humiliation of not only being hidden, but now being replaced for a guy. She felt the blood rushing to her head, the faster thump of her heart, and before she knew she was screaming with Puck in Spanish, hitting his chest with the magazines until he held her hands and told her to get her shit together.

He took her to his boxing studio, a crappy little place with no living soul in sight. Then he let her scream and hit him and throw the fit she wanted to throw, just to wrap her hand and tell her to hit a huge punching bag. So she did it, relentless and screaming, for an hour, until she was so tired she could barely walk. Puck looked at her with his serious eyes, and she hated to be given that look from someone who lived his life light and fun, and he told her she should go home and talk to Brittany.

She doesn’t answer, and she knows he is right, and she knows that is why he let her scream and he took her there until she was sweating and had let loose her initial outburst of energy and disappointment. She knows she and Brittany are meant to meet that night and order something in and just be together and she doesn’t think she can face Blonde’s face.

She doesn’t want to go back to Brittany’s one day to find her being fucked in all fours by Asian Mike, because she has been there done that, and she doesn’t want the lack of trust. Brittany enters the apartment with her own key, because Santana trusted her with a set of keys, and she hates that her trust was so easily given like that to this girl who was so different from her. Brittany tries to kiss her but Santana turns her face and walks to the table, grabbing the magazines. “Care to explain before I kick you out and go all Lima Heights on this guy?” She says, all her fury spilling over and filling the room.

Brittany looks at both magazines and at Santana and Blonde looks actually afraid and hesitant. She has never seen Santana like this, out of control, and when Santana says she is a force of nature she is not exaggerating, and God helps when she lets herself loose. “Because the way I see it you’ve wandered back into straightville without bothering to tell me y se piensas que soy estúpida o algo así estás engañada, no one cheats on me and gets away with it!” She takes a magazine from Brittany’s hands and she rips it apart, tearing apart Asian’s ugly face and Asian strong arms and Brittany’s short skirt and throwing it on the ground.

“San, calm down,” Cheating Blonde tries to say as she reaches for Santana, “we are just friends!” Santana pushes her away and points to the pictures. “So why is he taking you to the movies and buying you popcorn and opening the door for you and your hand is on his shoulder and why, Brittany, do you look like a fucking couple in every single one of these photos?” She walks away and pushes the couch in anger. “Am I not good enough? Because breaking up with Kurt just to go after Asian Explosion is not an option!”

“San, Mike and I have been friends since forever.” Blonde throws her purse on the floor and walks towards Santana, who ignores her and says, “I did not sign up for this bullshit.” Blonde touches her shoulder but Santana brushes it away. “Don’t touch me. No me toques, que no sé qué coño haré si lo hicieras.” Santana has showered a long cold shower, and she tried to cool down, in vain. Her cheeks are burning and Brittany is not saying the right things, she’s just pissing her off even more. “And the best part is that I find out a week before our first year together!” She continues, laughing bitterly at the irony. “Do you even know when it was the last time I spent more than four months with anyone? Do you even fucking know how much it means to me to be back in the closet just because you are too afraid of the talks and the looks and the effect it might have on your career?”

Blonde looks hurt and Santana knuckles are white from the sheer force she’s holding on to a chair. “You know what, Brittany, leave. Just fucking leave.” It’s typical, Santana never in control, she’s never navigates this ship, they’re always working with Brittany’s schedule and Brittany’s priorities and it is awful to have become so tamed and so unlike the top dog she is. She won’t be scorned and left behind; the least she can do is to turn her back first and end things on her terms. “Just go back to fucking Narnia, if life that’s much more pleasant in the closet.”

Blonde leaves, on the verge of tears, and Santana changes clothes and goes out jogging until she ends up sweaty and exhausted again in front of Berry’s house, a long time later. She rings the doorbell and Quinn opens the door in her pajamas, because it’s midnight and Santana knows she’s disturbing their night activities, but if she is to spend the night alone she knows she’ll break something or someone in the process and she needs to be stopped from being violent and from looking up Asian Explosion’s address to show him what happens if someone messes with Santana’s girl.

“She fucking cheated on me, Quinn, she fucking cheated on me and a gossip magazine is how I find out and I need you to stop me from going nuts with the fucking idea of Brittany fucking a man just before sleeping with me or something disgusting like that.” She says at once, giving enough time to Vegan Midget show up with a sleepy face. “I know I’m disturbing, but I don’t care, because you’re my person and if I kill Mike Fucking Chang you’ll help me hide the body and oh God you just made me quote a stupid medical show.” Berry pulls her in and closes the door, offering her a glass of water. Santana realizes how thirsty and how miserable she is, drinking in big gulps as if it would make it any easier. “I’m not fucking going to accept cheating, Quinn.” She says, ignoring Midget.

“Breathe, Santana. Breathe, sit and explain.” Quinn commands with a soothing hand on her shoulder so Santana sits and explains the best she can, from the moment she sees the magazine to where they are to the fact she was going to explode in anger and betrayal because she would have never imagined. Then Quinn asks and investigates and tries to understand the situation and Berry fills Santana’s mind with doubt about the veracity of the information and uncertainty about the situation and, in a way, with hope, even if Santana doesn’t realize it. Santana goes to bed in Quinn’s old pajamas, after taking a shower, and dreams troubled dreams in which she’s looking for Brittany but no matter how hard she tries, she never finds her blonde.

Santana is as miserable as she thought she would be when she told Brittany to leave, and refuses to take any calls. She’s not used to being like this after a breakup, because she’s not used to being so attached to anyone; Blonde must have cast a spell on her, there was no other explanation. She drinks beer and stays in most of the time, especially now that her murals are all over New York, Blaine had sold all her paintings over the last few months and she had built up quite a bit of savings for someone with her expenses.

She doesn’t need to paint if she doesn’t want to, and so she drinks beer and stays at home when she’s not out with Puck, or boxing with Puck until her lungs hurt, and singing with Puck and his guys. Puck doesn’t look at her like he feels sorry for her, he just carries her on his back at 4am when there’s no one on the streets and they had one too many tequila shots. He’s a nice guy and he makes her forget about her own problems and he knows what she needs to take the edge off without her telling him so.

Brittany calls every day, so Santana stops using her cellphone. She doesn’t need to meet that many people anyway, and those who matter know how to reach her. She rehearses every Thursday and Wednesday night with the band, Rachel often hijacks her on the weekends to fill her time, and Quinn grows a habit of spending with Santana the nights she’s not spending with Jewish Barbra. Santana wonders how that girl even manages to keep the grades she keeps with a problematic friend like Santana and a demanding diva like Berry, but often Quinn is at Santana’s reading something or studying something, drinking Santana’s coffee and staying awake long after Santana has passed out on the couch watching something stupid on her new television.

Kurt and Blaine try to stage an intervention during the second week. Blaine says she’s miserable and Kurt finishes his sentence saying that Brittany is miserable, too. Santana doesn’t care, and she’s tired of second guessing and being bossed around. Except that Santana cares and her heart aches to talk about Brittany in any way and it takes all of her energy to pull herself together. “You’re meant to be, Santana.” Blaine says, and she almost cries. “She cheated on me. And we’ve been living by her rules for a year. It’s time it stopped.” She answers, leaving her beer behind and leaving the bar they had found her in.

Her main distraction is the band and the show on Saturday where she will sing a couple of songs. It will be a great opportunity for them and a great diversion for Santana, who even buys some chains to add a punk touch to her dark, ripped jeans, and excels on her smoky eyes and her fuck me make up. They are doing some AC/DC, some Rolling Stones, some pop songs turned into rock, and Santana is actually a bit nervous before it starts and downs some vodka to loosen up before going up on stage.

They do great and people love them and Puck’s guitar solos and how his voice blends with Santana’s and how they fake flirt. The lights blind Santana to everything but Finn’s drums and Puck’s guitar, Tina’s bass and how her heartbeat syncs with every song. She jumps around, she plays with everyone, and people are singing along and cheering; one thing people can’t say is that she has no stage presence.

When they leave the stage she spots the manager smiling in the back and she has a feeling Puck might be coming back a few more times if it’s up to the public’s response. She’s happy for him. They all share a beer, and just as predictably as possible, people start hitting on them. This is the first time Santana is exposed to that kind of thing since the fight, and even though it’s easy to turn down men in general, when a girl comes to talk to her she hesitates and thinks of Blonde.

The worst moment is when Sugar comes to talk to her and even though that girl is completely crazy and absolutely convinced that her horrible voice is fit for singing, she’s nothing short of amazing under the sheets and she’s looking great. Santana’s sitting on a stool, and obviously Sugar takes advantage of that to stand between Santana’s legs and place her hands on Santana’s thighs. She’s talking to Santana like their proximity is no big deal and Santana hasn’t had sex in three weeks and she’s human. Her body is responding even though she wishes it weren’t, and Sugar’s cleavage is tempting and she’s wearing that same citric perfume.

Santana thinks for a moment she has seen Brittany and her breath catches. It would make sense, a lot of sense, as Blonde has known about the concert they were rehearsing for at that big club and could very well have decided to show up. But Sugar is leaning in and their lips are touching and that girl is wonderful at kissing, so Santana decides to forget the rush of yellow hair that could or could not be Blonde and closes her eyes, letting Sugar explore her mouth and place herself between Santana’s legs as her hand finds Santana’s hair. When they part Sugar is smiling dangerously and leaves to buy them both a drink.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Blonde actually shows up and all blood leaves Santana’s face. She’s wearing high heels and a black strapless dress that barely leaves room for imagination and she’s as much of a goddess as she was three weeks ago. “Who is that girl?” Santana finishes her beer, trying to calm herself down, before answering. “Someone I used to go out with. Not that it is any of your business.”

“Of course it is my business. You are my girlfriend.” Blonde takes a step further, invading Santana’s personal space like it is no big deal and setting Santana’s glass aside. She has an edge Santana can’t explain, an aura of danger. “Mine.” She says before cupping Santana’s face and kissing her hot and demanding, pressing against Santana in such a way that Santana’s head spins and all her blood rushes south before she can say Mike Chang. Her tongue massages Santana’s and she bites and pulls Santana’s lower lip before diving in again, sucking Santana’s tongue and there’s nothing left to do but moan. Her hand is at the back of Santana’s neck and at rare times has she ever been this controlling and it takes Santana some time to realize what is going on and push her back.

“Last time I checked you were straight and dating one of your dancers.” She says coldly, running the back of her hand over her mouth as if to wipe it clean of Brittany’s taste. “I’m tired of the hiding and the gossip magazines. You kissing me won’t change a thing.” She says, even though she’s staring at Blonde’s perfect lips more than she’d like, and when Sugar returns with two beers there’s a long, tense silence until Brittany introduces herself as the girlfriend, Santana interrupts saying not anymore, and Sugar looks at the both of them, hands Santana her beer and says she’ll come back later.

“Look at what you’ve done.” Santana says, irritated, and looks at her beer, drinking a few large gulps. Blonde places her hands on the counter behind Santana, hovering over Santana and trapping her in place, dangerously close again. “Santana, it’s been three weeks. We’ll have to talk eventually.” Brittany says, in a sure tone, overwhelming Santana with her perfume. “You know that, don’t you?” Santana nods, trying not to act on their proximity. She’s still hurt, and she still doesn’t trust Blonde.

She takes the initiative this time and kisses Handsome Devil, this time slow and gentle. She wonders how two people can have a connection like theirs, and how a mere kiss gets her hot and bothered like that, and how it’s possible to be so blindly in love. When they part, she looks into Blonde’s eyes for a long moment. “When you’re ready for me, let me know.” She says, and leaves.

Santana calls Sugar instead of Brittany the following week, and before she knows it she has endured Quinn’s stern look and Rachel’s puppy eyes, and what kind of world is this in which she has to put up with any of Man Hands’ shit but for the sake of her own sanity she lets it go and makes a mental note she should stop hanging out at Berry’s so often. Sugar is there, available, proud and wanting her. Santana is not one to be forgotten, and it feels flattering somehow to have Sugar’s interest even if she doesn’t have Brittany’s sweetness, or her voice, or her perfume. Still, she takes her on a few dates, holds her hand and lets her play with her hair.

Blaine comes up to her and tells her she needs to start working again. She is too young to stop working whenever she feels like it, and if he actually manages to close a deal and get her a spot in an upcoming exhibit, she better have something worthwhile to show or whatever. She’s no child; she knows that, and she knows that she can’t live off her savings forever, but she tells him to mind his own business anyway. He looks at her with a strange look over his beer and she is tired of people taking ownership of her pain and bossing her around, so she meets Sugar again that night, because Sugar is too busy with her own personal madness to bother telling Santana what to do and how to feel.

She says she wants to take it slow, but Sugar doesn’t take it too seriously because she takes her to her ridiculously expensive apartment and gives her so much wine her head begins to feel dizzy and out of control. Santana tries to think straight, tries to remind herself she’s just passing time, she’s just waiting for Blonde to come over, and her head feels heavy and light and she throws it back. The couch is big and comfortable, Santana thinks, as Sugar turns on her fancy stereo that can be heard all over the apartment and some soft electronic music plays as Santana’s glass is refilled once more with delicious, expensive, red wine and they kiss, slow and languid and Santana wants Sugar, she wants her body beneath hers, she wants her surrender and her obsession.

Sugar begins to dance, and she does have a sweet ass that begs to be touched and Santana is a lizard, she needs a warm body beneath her, but she holds her hands still. She holds her entire body still when an equally drunk Sugar climbs her lap and hovers her lips over Santana’s and hums with the beat. Santana hums too, breaking her own spell to place a hand on Sugar’s back and she pictures for a second Sugar’s hair is blonde, her legs are longer and she smiles like a child on Christmas morning when she’s happy. So she kisses Sugar with drive and intent, nipping at her lower lip, sinking her nails into Sugar’s waist and pulling her closer. She bites, Sugar moans and places a hand on Santana’s breasts. Santana hasn’t had sex in weeks, and she needs some release, her body is begging for it, and Sugar is opening her blouse buttons when it sinks in.

This is not right. Someone that is not Brittany is undressing in front of her and displaying a bright pink bra that makes her breasts very appealing, and she knows she is going a step too far. Sugar is not enough, and it is not fair to sleep with her imagining Brittany is there. She wants Brittany, she wants her relationship back, she wants Brittany to break through so they can continue on firmer ground, she wants to tell her abuela all about Brittany and invite her over to meet her favorite family member. She wants to work on their relationship because she can see them together in the long run, settling down and making plans and she can see herself growing old with Blonde, even if the mere thought of it terrifies her, even if she doesn’t think she’s ready to be making these kinds of plans, even if she has always thought she should not make this type of prediction. She wants Blonde’s little sigh when they kiss and she wants to hear her moan Santana’s name, she wants everything related to Blonde. Her hands are trembling, and she feels equally awful for feeling anything towards Sugar and for waiting for Blonde like a fool. Stop, stop, stop, stop, she thinks out loud before she can stop herself. “What is it?” Sugar asks, blouse wide open and lips parted. “I’m not-I’m not feeling well, we should call it a night.” Santana says, setting her glass aside and retreating the hand previously traveling through Sugar’s back. “I’ll give you a call.” She mumbles, untangling herself from the other woman until she’s on her feet and out the door.

Her abuela notices, because she always notices, and Santana doesn’t know what to answer. She doesn’t know how to tell her abuela about cheating and disappointment and broken hearts, even if the woman is the most understanding, kindred spirit Santana has ever encountered. She tells Santana her voice is lower, and her drive is unfocused like it once was. Santana agrees, but says she’s working on that even though she is doing nothing to feel better but the same old things she used to do before Brittany entered her life.

When she stops by at Rachel’s that weekend, Jewish RuPaul is in a frenzy. Quinn just stares at her and at Santana and smirks her signature Quinn smirk, like she knows something Santana knows not and Santana stops to ask what on Earth is wrong with Tiny Dwarf. “I have the most thrilling news!” Rachel says with a huge smile on her face that makes Santana question why her teeth are so impossibly white and if it was true that she flossed between classes in high school, and shows her the cover of the latest The Advocate issue: Brittany and Kurt. Santana’s mind spins around as she holds the magazine, dumbstruck. “How perfect is this, and how romantic!” Tiny goes back to babbling, but Santana tunes it out as she’s already learned to, and looks at Quinn, who looks at her with an arched eyebrow.

Quinn is pushing Santana, silently daring her to say something, do something, like she always does, because Quinn is the thinker and Santana goes with her gut. Santana opens the magazine and there is the happiest, cutest photoshoot in the history of photoshoots, and Kurt and Brittany hug each other, smile at each other and say they were best friends who decided to pretend to be together. But we were tired of fearing and hiding, Kurt says in his interview, and we thought we should come out in style. Quinn’s voice behind her is almost a purr. “The Advocate is surely a good beginning, isn’t it?” She says, finger running over the photo in which Kurt and Brittany share an ice cream.

Santana looks at her and at the picture alternately, still silent, because she doesn’t even know what she is feeling. This is huge, and absurd, and outrageous, and exciting, and she’s thinking about so many things she can barely pay any attention to her surroundings besides Quinn’s hand on her shoulder. This could mean so much for Blonde’s career, and life choices, and Santana knows this is The Grand Gesture Berry keeps talking about, this is The Grand Gesture Santana has been fighting for, and now that it’s on her lap she doesn’t know what to do with it.

Rachel squeaks again, holding her hands together as if she just earned the Nobel Prize of Lesbian Drama, “Now you girls can be out and proud together! We should call her about this fantastic issue this very moment! Oh, the things I’ve heard already. The internet is going positively crazy with this information! Apparently there is a poll going on to decide whether Brittany or Amber Heard should be considered the hottest lesbian in the entertainment industry.” Rachel turns to Quinn, hands on her hips as if she just noticed something, “which is, I must stress, slightly offensive, considering that you and I have been seen in public for months now. Well, a girl can’t compete with a blonde vampire and a blonde pop singer!”

No, of course there is nothing between me and Mike, Brittany says in her interview. He is a very good friend, but we both play for the same team. I have my eyes set on someone else, but that is all I’m saying for the moment.

Yes, we thought about the consequences. Kurt says on the next page. But is it worth it? What kind of message were we giving? Lie about who you are to be accepted? We have an established career, and we decided to embrace the consequences, because the advantages are so much bigger.

Santana goes home in shock and takes out her supplies and materials. She doesn’t leave her painting room for 10 hours straight, until she’s sweating and exhausted and wants to die or punch someone in the face or eat a whole cow. Quinn shows up with Mexican food and cheap wine and lets Santana sleep with her head on her lap without asking questions, so Santana decides she should give Quinn a gift. And maybe Midget too, if she promises not to hug her in return. She dreams Brittany shows up and straddles her lap and laughs deliciously, and blonde hair cascades over Santana as pale hands trace her features. The advantages are so much bigger, Blonde says over and over again, and Santana feels that feeling of being the only one in the world, of being unique in a way.

Santana turns on her cellphone the next day, but makes no calls. Not to Sugar, not to Brittany. Blaine passes by and he is pleased with what he sees, and that does make Santana smirk. She still has it, and honestly there is enough material for the exhibit, for a few buyers, and for a few gifts and a few fucking awards for brilliance and technique and all that jazz. She’s proud of herself when she sees the canvas all over the room, marked in strong, aggressive colors, sending some kind of message even if no one else understood it.

One of them goes to Brittany, with a note on it that says Congratulations on the cover. Santana isn’t one to make grand love declarations, and she is also not one to make heartfelt apologies. But it feels wrong not to acknowledge such a big moment, and so she calls Kurt for him to deliver it to her. He drops by to pick it up, and they exchange a meaningful look before he leaves because Blaine is waiting for him in the car, which is kind of ridiculous because he was supposed to be the enemy, not play on Team Santana as hard as she knows he does.

She does call Sugar after that to say things are complicated and they should stop seeing each other for a little while. She doesn’t take it well and throws eggs at Santana’s door, but it is a fair price to pay. If her rich father doesn’t show up to ruin her life and her career and eat her soul, things will have ended for the better.

Santana has another gig coming up that Saturday at that same club, because apparently she is hot stuff and Puck is hot stuff and even Finn is talented enough as a drummer to make himself desirable. It’s fun and there’s a feeling of déjà vu when she steps onto that stage to sing and instantly has the audience wrapped around her finger. She feels like herself again, and she does love to perform even if her past experiences working in a group have failed miserably. But she and Mohawk are made of the same mold in many ways, and they get along.

They have reached the rock’n’roll version of Aguilera’s Candyman when she spots Brittany in the crowd, in high heels and a black dress so indecent it should be forbidden. Santana almost stutters, and she even wonders for a second what Berry would think of a performance with a mistake like that before continuing with her husky Sweet, sugar, candy man line. “Brittany Pierce, everyone!” Puck says as the crowd goes crazy at the realization that someone as famous as Blonde is there, and Santana would say something if Blonde’s smothering look wasn’t so demanding as she actually goes up on stage and begins to dance.

Santana never knew one could dance to rock like that, and the next song is so ironically appropriate she smirks. Garbage’s The World Is Not Enough is one of her favorite songs; when she sings I know how to hurt and I know how to heal, she looks at Brittany, who stops fake flirting with Mohawk to do the sexiest walk Santana has ever seen in Santana’s direction. I know what to show and I know what to conceal is the inevitable next verse andBrittany gets to her, going to the floor so close to Santana that their bodies are almost touching, and the crowd goes especially crazy with the sexual tension.

She almost smiles at the thrill of being on a stage and at their silent dialogue. The world is not enough, she sings as if answering, and Brittany dances behind her when she sings but it is such a perfect place to start, my love. Puck looks in their interaction like he’s watching lesbian porn, and that would be disturbing if she wasn’t too distracted by Blonde’s legs and the fact her hand is going from Santana’s left shoulder to her right as Blonde circles her and together we can take the world apart, my love.

Brittany has that mischievous look when she grabs the back of Santana’s neck and kisses her, open mouthed and shameless, in front of hundreds of people, as the music ends in the background. Santana feels the flashes against her closed eyelids, but she couldn’t care less as she pulls Handsome Devil closer and smiles into the kiss at the crowd’s cheering and Puck’s voice singing I can get no satisfaction.

After Santana leaves the stage, Blonde doesn’t hesitate to take her to the back of the club. “I want you back.” She says, looking fierce and determined like never before. Santana doesn’t answer. She is not one to be impressed with love declarations that don’t solve their problems, and she doesn’t like to be pressured into things. “I want you back.” Cherry Bomb repeats, slowly, cornering Santana until the wall hits her back and Blonde is pressed against her, for the first time since forever. It feels suffocating to have Blonde’s eyes on hers, her full and unrestricted attention like that, and her breath catches. “What are you doing?” Santana asks in a defense mechanism, but Blonde is ignoring her and joining their lips, and this time is wonderful and the way her tongue slides against Santana’s gets her to moan in no time, hands gripping blonde hair because she missed this, she missed them, she missed Blonde sucking her lower lip. Santana takes the initiative the second time, standing on her toes to reach Blonde’s mouth, listening to the comforting sigh she makes and being securely held when her arm encircles Santana’s waist and her free hand goes to the back of Santana’s neck. “Let’s go to my place.” Santana says, because they aren’t getting anywhere in that deserted alley and she needs her privacy.

She can swear the ride is the longest she has ever taken her entire life, with Blonde’s driving with ruffled hair and swollen lips, a growing urgency between them. When they finally arrive Santana fumbles with her keys as Brittany presses against her, mouth on her neck, until she finally opens the door and is thrown against it the very second it closes, moaning at the feeling of Blonde’s body and the utter freedom of being alone and willing. She envelops her legs around Blonde, being held by strong hands as Blonde Temptress presses her hips against Santana’s and it has been way too long since they were last like this, way too long. There’s an unusual, but not unwelcome, dominance in her girlfriend, in how she handles Santana like she owns her, like she’s not submitting, like she’s claiming Santana, that makes Santana’s blood rush south like crazy.

Santana is then being carried, but she doesn’t mind because she’s busy kissing Blonde like there’s no tomorrow, tongue against tongue, biting and moaning and hanging tight onto Brittany for dear life. Blonde bumps her against a few walls just for the sake of pressing against her and regaining balance, teeth against Santana’s skin. It ends with her being thrown on her own thankfully king sized bed and she would smile, but Brittany has that look on her face like she’s going to devour her whole and is laying on top of her, sucking her neck and moving her body like a wave, so she just closes her eyes and surrenders.

“You’re my girlfriend, do you understand?” Blonde says before biting and sucking Santana neck, earning a deep moan. “Mine.” She growls and rips Santana’s shirt apart in a matter of seconds, licking her lips at the sight of a black bra and thank God for front clasps, because Blonde’s hands are touching and caressing and Santana can’t breathe, not at all, especially when Blonde’s mouth replaces her hands and who cares if she just lost a shirt, a purposefully provocative shirt, she can buy shirts every day but this, Jesus Christ, this is amazing. Santana whimpers, because how can she not love that thirst and that hunger Brittany seems to be feeling, and if absence makes the heart grow fonder, jealousy should also have a line like that, for the love of God.

“And you are not kissing, or touching, or flirting with anyone but me, understand?” She asks, using each pause to press her thigh harder and harder between Santana’s legs and Santana nods, helpless. “I don’t care who her gazillionaire dad is, this Sugar chick will not see the light of day if she ever even looks at you again.” It shouldn’t be this hot, but it is. Brittany takes off her dress and throws it on the ground, letting Santana stare at her like it’s the first time. Had the woman become even more perfect during those weeks? Santana lifts her body, pulling Blonde close with one arm and kissing the valley of her breasts. Brittany takes advantage to throw the remains of Santana’s shirt and her bra aside, grabbing a handful of black hair to control Santana’s ministrations, head thrown back and eyes half closed.

Santana stops to take her jeans off, looking forward to the sensation of being skin against skin and it’s as glorious as she thought it would be, as overwhelming as it usually is, and she moans Brittany’s name out of sheer contact when they kiss and she’s being straddled by her girlfriend. “God, I missed you.” She whispers into Blonde’s skin, kissing her again and again until she has her breathless and trembling.

“I’m not done.” Brittany says, and before Santana knows it she’s lying on her stomach with Blonde settled between her open legs. “You and I will have a photo shoot next week.” She says, soft but commanding, one hand pressing against Santana’s back to hold her in place as the other caresses her folds, too gently, too smoothly, making Santana whine for more. “It will be for a lesbian website and we will be introduced as a couple.” Santana agrees, because she’s saying yes to anything if Brittany just, just and just there, dear God, yes there, and Santana grasps the sheets for dear life. “Ellen DeGeneres will interview us too, this month, live, on her show. And we, Santana, will be the hottest thing the world has ever seen.” They already are, no need to put an effort into that because Brittany is already hotter than the sun and every fucking star combined. Santana begs and whimpers until Blonde finally lets her have her way and enters two fingers, then three, and Santana can’t tell right from left, up from down and north from south, she can just groan Brittany’s name and raise her hips for better access and hold onto the sheets because it’s close, she’s close, it’s building and Brittany is doing that thing she does, Jesus Christ, and she’s so amazingly good at it, and it feels so good and perfect and Santana can’t even breathe, she can just grab the sheets and arch her back as the most delicious orgasm runs through her entire body in waves and waves, until she can take no more and collapses on the bed.

She turns around, still breathless and taken aback, and Brittany lies on top of her, kissing her tenderly. “Hey.” Santana manages to say after a few moments, arms lazily wrapped around Blonde’s waist. “Hi.” Handsome Devil answers, with a smile so big Santana can’t help but smile as well. “I missed you.” Santana gives in, drawing slow circles on Blonde’s back. “Yeah, me too,” It’s the answer, followed by a kiss on her nose. Santana flips them around, as she’s not one to be selfish. “You know, it’s not fair, making demands when I clearly am not thinking.” She smirks at Blonde’s delighted face before hovering her lips over that neck and making her shiver and gasp before answering, “it was the easiest argument ever.”

Santana’s mouth goes south, until Blonde’s legs are open and willing and her breathing is shallow in expectation. She loves seeing Brittany like this, with eyes close and mouth half open.  “What were you saying, love?” She asks, licking her lips in anticipation and smiling at Blonde’s groan before giving in, spreading Blonde’s legs and keeping them in place and taking a long, slow lick. Brittany’s hips buckle, beyond ready, and Santana has been anxious for this, and so she goes deeper and stronger, greedily wanting to taste Blonde all over and to listen to the noises that woman makes as she grabs Santana’s hair and makes her go wherever she wants her to. It is so unbelievably sexy and she loves the taste and the smell of Blonde, so she continues relentlessly until Blonde is begging for release and the only thing she needs to do is to focus on Brittany’s center to get her trembling and moaning, muscles tensing and head being thrown back. It’s breathtaking to look at her like that, and in a way Santana realizes she doesn’t feel like running away, she doesn’t imagine herself leaving, she’s not going anywhere.

Blonde pulls her in for a kiss, exploring Santana’s mouth. When they break there are tears in her eyes threatening to fall. “Don’t leave me again, okay? Please.” Blonde says, and Santana hates the way her voice trembles and she’s almost crying. Santana nods, kissing her face tenderly as she holds her close. “I won’t.” She whispers in Blonde’s ear, because she has no intention of going through those weeks again, unsure and lonely and lost. “I won’t.” She repeats and pulls the covers over them, kissing Brittany to prove her point. “We will work everything out.” She promises, running a hand through Blonde’s hair until she’s soothed and her breathing is even. The things they are saying are too intense, too raw, but she takes it in like she takes it all in, even though her heart is racing and she’s nervous. “I love you.” Brittany says, looking into Santana’s eyes. “I love you too,” she answers. A long silence follows, but none of them are bothered by it.

Santana is almost falling asleep, spooned by Blonde, when the woman whispers, “You know what would be awesome? You in a blue sailor suit.” Santana can’t help but agree.