Aftersex

'You do know this is just casual, right? I'm not into girls, I just like my pussy licked. And you like to lick it. That's our dynamic, no more, no less.'

AU: Santana and Quinn are college roommates with a bizarre sexual dynamic. Inspired by/an elaboration upon Nikki and Kat's story in the 2007 film After Sex.

Sunlight streams through the crack in the curtains, casting a straight line of brightness over a chintzy colourful rug and directly hitting Quinn Fabray's face as she licks her lips and smiles. She pushes herself up on to her elbows and looks straight at the woman lying half underneath her, her dark eyes rolling in her head with desire and her fingers untangling themselves slowly from Quinn's blonde hair.

Santana Lopez leans back, breathing heavily. Throwing an arm out to her bedside table, taking a clove cigarette from the pack sitting on top of her books, smirking as Quinn climbs up her frame and rests her head on her stomach, hands lazily tracing up and down her legs. She clears her throat. "Well, that was nice," she says, her voice low and husky.

Quinn kicks her feet into the air and runs her hand through her hair, grinning and turning her face to the light coming in from their dusty window. "Oh, yeah? Want to do it again?" She cocks her head to the side, dragging her nails a little harder into the smooth skin of Santana's thigh.

She feels Santana shift beneath her and pulls back, biting her lip; knowing she can't push it too far, like always. She moves her hands up the body of the Latina beneath her, placing her palms flat on the muscles of Santana's abs. She does it calmly; she likes to think, and she finds Santana's eyes with a wide smile spreading across her face.

"No, no. I just want to marinade in this for a little while," Santana replies, flicking her lighter and exhaling with a sigh. Quinn just stares searchingly until Santana blinks their eye contact away, directing her gaze to a point in the corner of the room. "You do know this is just casual, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I do. Of course." Quinn lowers her gaze, her smile faltering for a few fleeting seconds.

"Good," Santana taps the ash of her cigarette on to the ashtray balanced behind her. "I just don't want you freaking out on me, catching feelings and shit. I'm not into girls, I just like my pussy licked. And you like to lick it. That's our dynamic, no more, no less."

"Right, yeah. I know," Quinn rolls away from Santana so they lie parallel, staring up at the ceiling.

"Look, Q… I just want you to get it into your head, that's all."

"No, I know. It's understood, no feelings whatsoever." She pauses. "I'm not, you know – solely into girls either."

Santana rolls her eyes and scoffs, and Quinn subconsciously inches away from her in bed. "Yeah, right. Q, I don't care if you're gay or not. It's whatever. You can do whatever you want, I just don't want you thinking this –" she gestures around her, "is a thing, you know? Like, love. I don't have the patience for that kind of bullshit from anyone, man or woman."

Quinn swallows. "Okay," she says, and the word leaves her lips sharply. Sharper than she intended. "I don't see how having had a girlfriend makes me gay, like, I've had boyfriends before, too. It's just different." She glances at the silver watch on her wrist and sighs. "Class starts in like, half an hour. We should get ready."

Santana pops out six perfect smoke rings, smirking as Quinn pushes her finger through each one of them, winking a hazel eye suggestively. "You know, I've never had an actual boyfriend. It's whatever, it doesn't bother me. Relationships are fucked up and stupid, and I just don't get the point, you know?" Quinn climbs over Santana and out of bed, pushing aside the room separator and padding into the kitchen.

She raises an eyebrow before responding. "Only one night stands? Damn, Santana. Like yeah, sure, I've had one nighters with woman but I've had four proper boyfriends and one proper girlfriend, and they all fucked me over in one way or another, but I kept –"

"Going back, yeah. Because you're a total glutton for punishment," Santana interrupts, fiddling with her fingers and the cigarette in her left hand, staring steadfastly at a spot on the ceiling.

"Mmm. Do you want a cup of tea?" Quinn ignores Santana's remark and yawns, flicking the kettle on and picking at a box of teabags.

"Why are you drinking that shit? You're so dysfunctional. I'll have a black coffee, Q."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm the dysfunctional one? You've just had an orgasm and you're still firing at one hundred percent bitch," she says conversationally, measuring out two shots of coffee in the expensive machine Santana's father bought for them. He had financed a lot of the expensive electrical goods in their apartment, and Santana had always looked upon them with some sort of unknown resentment. Quinn knew her parents were still together, but as far as she could tell, they were not happy. Quinn's own mother's influence had come in the various multicoloured rugs and totem poles and statuettes - all the stuff Santana would refer to as 'hippy bullshit' but really secretly like, and would remind Quinn of home and her lovely, kooky single mom. "Do you have that sociology essay done?"

"Maybe not finished, but I've done some of it. I don't have the time –"

"In between getting completely wasted and fucking every boy on campus? And me?" she whispers the last two words, for fear she's already overstepped the line.

She has, and hurt flashes momentarily across Santana's face. She wordlessly stubs out her cigarette and swings her legs over the side of the bed, kicking them back and forth, her eyes fixed to a point on the ground. She picks up her flared denim skirt and pulls it on, unresponsive.

"Sorry, San…" Quinn laments, regretting what she's just said. She knows it's probably not what Santana needs, especially not from her.

"What, did you say something?" Santana makes her way over to the kitchen counter, grabbing a cereal bar from the cupboard and throwing one at Quinn, moving closer and closer to the blonde's back; until she's so close Quinn can feel her breath on the back of her own neck. The tension is palpable, and Quinn curses Santana for being so amazingly able to manipulate so many situations; and curses her habit of getting incredibly defensive the second anyone brought up anything she didn't like. "Sorry. I was just distracted by your ass in those tiny… little… shorts."

Quinn giggles, turning round and gently pushing Santana away. "Dick. Can you do me a sandwich? And not with those doorstep sized slabs of cheese again, I didn't think it was funny -"

"We don't have time. We've only got like, ten minutes, and we have to get to class, you said it yourself." Santana pinches Quinn's waist and her hair brushes Quinn's bare arm; and the blonde almost drops the kettle. "Well, you have to get to class."

Quinn narrows her eyes, and the coffee machine beeps. "What are you doing then? Get your coffee."

"I," Santana pauses dramatically, taking her mug away from the machine with a flourish, "am going to go to the library and eyefuck the guy behind the desk under the pretence of finishing my sociology essay. And you," she pauses again, placing her drink on the counter and sliding over to Quinn so she's holding her hips from behind, "are going to take a shitload of notes. And we, we are going to graduate and be the editors of the very greatest magazine for sarcastic disillusioned Americans the world has ever seen."

Quinn pats the hands that lie teasingly on her hips, smiling. "Oh. Well, I can see you've thought that through."

"Mmm," Santana whispers in her ear, before grabbing her coffee and stomping off to her bedside table, which itself is completely piled high with books. She extracts the correct textbook and Quinn punches the radio on, filling their shitty little apartment with some forgettable pop song; just watching her roommate flit around and pack a battered rucksack full of books and pens and her laptop, standing and drinking her tea.

"Wow. How many essays are you behind on, exactly?" she jibes, her tone both effortlessly condescending and moderately joking.

Santana groans and growls at the same time. "Don't even go there, Quinn. Too fucking many."

"You should really –"

"You're not my fucking mother, Q! You're my roommate!"

Quinn raises an eyebrow, sceptically. "Roommate. Is that all?"

Her question has the predicted effect, and she chuckles as Santana takes a deep, rattled breath. "You're my best friend." Her voice changes, from her own snappy manner to a poor imitation of Quinn's slower, west-coast drawl. "'And best friends are supposed to care about one another, so don't be a little bitch about me trying to help you out –'"

"Ay, enough!" Quinn raises her hands in surrender, laughing at Santana's scowl. "Grow up!"

Santana throws another couple of missiles at Quinn – her trainers and a hoodie – and bends down to tug her own beaten-up Nikes on. Quinn's eyes widen. "Stop leering," she says with a giggle, and Quinn immediately feels her face redden; even though she should be used to little prods and snarks like this from the Latina, even though it's not like it's untrue.

"Please. You're asking for it –"

"Would you not utilise an ass like this?" She grabs her own ass and wiggles it theatrically as she pulls an old high school sweater on over her white tank top.

Quinn grins despite herself and blow Santana a kiss as she stands in the doorway, grinding against the frame. "Slut! Get out, and save me a seat in the goddamn library because I have a poem analysis to finish," she calls, and Santana catches the kiss and spins on her heel, slamming the cheap wooden door.

Finishing her cup of tea, Quinn shrugs her own hoodie on over her shoulders and loads the mug into the dishwasher, pausing for a second in thought. She adjusts the lying figure of Buddha that adorns their windowsill and absentmindedly flicks on their lava lamp.

The DJ whose voice blares from the speakers asks her an open ended question, not giving her the time to reply. "So, how are y'all doing this beautiful bright sunny Wednesday morning? It's ten in the morning and 73 degrees out there, so –"

"Fucked," Quinn says to the DJ, and to herself. "Fucked."

"So, what does it taste like, anyway? Chicken? Potatoes?" Santana slumps down beside Quinn on the floor of the library where they're working, surrounded by books and lame band posters, banging down two cups of coffee and a cookie for them to share. She's wearing her glasses, and Quinn can't stop herself from biting her lips when she looks up. "Pussy," she clarifies when Quinn doesn't reply.

"Jesus. Do you always have to be so abrasive… crude, like?" Quinn winces at Santana's wording and turns the page of her psychology paper, avoiding the question.

Santana flips her off with a flick of her wrist. "Please, Q. You know me. I'm blunt; I call things as they are."

"Really?" Quinn raises her left eyebrow, and Santana glances away for a split second, her eyes lowering very slightly.

"Yeah," the Latina continues, reminding herself not to tap her foot like she always does when something sets her off. "And I'm just asking you what it tastes like. I don't see the problem."

"Uh, you know San; I'd rather not. What are we doing for dinner tonight?" Quinn fixes her gaze on her essay plan, doodling swirls in her margins; acutely aware with every passing second of Santana's leg, hot against her own.

"I bought some frozen pizza from the store." Quinn opens her mouth to interrupt and Santana presses her middle finger against Quinn's parting lips, quieting her immediately. "And before you say it, no. I didn't get the one with the hidden pepperoni, I've totally become accustomed to the fact you're a vegetable –"

"I'm a vegetarian –"

"And all that feng shui bullshit you hang up around the house, I'm totally okay with it. And I am genuinely sorry about the time you ate the pizza with the sausage without realising what you were doing. I can't help the fact that I like meat –"

"Right, whatever," Quinn stops Santana's tirade with a snap and a prod to the ribs. "I'm just happy you've stopped bringing me bacon in the morning."

Santana snorts. "Please, Q. That was never for you. That was a way of making and eating two without having to deal with the guilt that comes with being a greedy piece of shit," she pauses, and Quinn nods. "Does it taste like bacon?"

"Santana –"

"Hey, I'm not being vulgar! I just eat a lot of bacon. Does it taste like bacon?" she repeats, and Quinn comes to the conclusion she's not going to give up any time soon.

Begrudgingly, she responds. "Everyone tastes different." She slams her textbook shut.

"Is that all I'm getting?" Santana says nonchalantly, tapping out a few words of a sociology essay. It's about proxemics, and she's making the point of how physical closeness inevitably is a sign of/leads to emotional closeness. She swallows.

"Uh… You really want to know?"

"Yeah," Santana says abruptly, pushing away her laptop and turning to face Quinn completely.

Quinn motions to open her legs and derives a little satisfaction from the horrified look that crosses Santana's face. "You want to know?" she says again, glancing sideways at the girl sat beside her, smirking.

"No – no, okay, I don't want to know that bad," Santana rushes out, and Quinn grins, closing her legs. "I'm just curious, that's all."

Oh," Quinn says, her tone still chiding and teasing Santana. She looks pointedly away, reopening her textbook and picking up her pen. "Oh, well. It tastes good. I like it."

Santana stares at her with a mock amazement. "Really? Q, I know you like it. I mean like, what does it taste like? Liken it to a food. Does it taste like bacon? Lettuce? Pizza?"

Quinn slams her book shut again and glares at Santana, who's leaning over her with a big stupid smile painted on her face. "It depends, okay! It depends." She takes a deep breath, and Santana waits with wide eyes for her to continue. "It's always different. And I guess… a little salty." She smiles, her eyes crinkling and warming at Santana's dopey stare.

"Oh." Santana seems satisfied, and blinks a couple of times before picking at her fingernails. "What do I taste like?" she asks, almost shyly.

Quinn hides her shock at the question surprisingly well. It's not like Santana to be concerned about stuff like that; she exudes, oozes confidence like boiling water exudes steam. She lets the silence envelope them for a few seconds, before dipping her head to within inches of Santana's. "You… honestly want to know what you taste like?" she murmurs, watching Santana curl her hands into balls and hearing her purr and take a deep breath.

Santana's body moves up against Quinn's of its own accord, and she whispers right back. "Well, I asked, didn't I?"

There's nobody in their little corner of the library, just books and scuffed carpet and the low hum of Santana's laptop.

"Okay," Quinn replies, her voice even. "Lean back," she commands, and Santana relaxes against the wall of texts behind her, her gaze anchored to Quinn; whose own heart quickens at the inherent trust pouring from Santana's beautiful huge brown eyes. "Open your legs," she says simply, and Santana complies with a sharp intake of breath as Quinn wastes no time in grazing her fingers along Santana's inner thigh.

Santana bangs her head gently against the spine of the book behind her head, her breath hitching and gasping once more as Quinn slides her own leg over Santana's and pushes her fingers inside of her, thrusting deeper and deeper and feeling Santana growing wetter and wetter with each touch. Her nose pressed against Santana's sharp cheekbone, she pulls her hand from underneath the Latina's skirt and brings it to her mouth, all the while staring into Santana's eyes. They've entered that familiar darkened state and Quinn feels a pull in her stomach; all she wants is to kiss her and be kissed right back. But she knows she can't have that, so whatever she can have will do.

She sucks her fingers and tips Santana's jaw back with her left hand, cocking her ear up to Quinn's stained red lips. "You taste… so… fucking… good…" she hums, and Santana presses against her in the few seconds after their closeness, her eyes slowly shutting and her breathing still slightly ragged.

A minute passes, and Santana pulls away with a cough. "Uh. So,"

Quinn clears her own throat. The two of them are smiling, though, and Santana is tapping a light tune on Quinn's exposed thigh. "Uh, yeah." She opens her textbook once more and falls to a page examining the life and works of Freud.

Santana squints over with a smirk and their eyes meet in understanding, Quinn suppressing a giggle. "What the fuck would Freud have to say about us?" she says bluntly, and Quinn laughs out loud.

"God knows, San. God knows."