#sorry if this sounds really wanky

[distant--shadow]

Can you share a little bit about your art process? I'm curious to know about how you use references and how you figure out compositions. Your pieces are always so nice to look at and I love how you post a full piece and then a close up, and both of those look really nice on their own.

Love your art <3

(hooo this is long. sorry I love 2 chat.)

well it's multiple factors; in regards to being able to crop a close up and having that work as its own image, that's thanks to the scale the digital medium allows with ease; if these were traditional pencil drawings they would have to be pretty fucking big to have that much detailing on the face, and that in turn would make the drawing process different as you'd be having to step back often, but it's a lot easier digitally to just zoom in back and forth, check things are working from zoomed in and out, flip the image to see things with fresh eyes and make sure things are looking alright etc. I've been drawing on paper for years, and mostly draw/paint in a completely different style to how I do for my fanart, so coming in to digital and seeing it as a hugely different beast actually kinda helps in that sense (tho I'd say most of the time the digital thing really hinders me).

on that digital vs traditional note though, I take pretty much all of my inspiration from traditional artists, so when I'm drawing fanart I'm thinking about how I want the drawing to give me the feeling and sorta composition that those pieces I admire have, whether it's more modern queer and fetish art or old masters and book illustrators. it's having an awareness that the human brain wants to focus in on a face or find eyes, getting as much emotion across in that area but also being conscious and having fun of the potential narrative telling of other details and what the body is doing, sewing in your own symbolism.

for figuring out poses, I have a visual mind, I can see compositions pretty well in my head, so for example; if someone who is commissioning something states the details they would like in a piece, I can usually tell without beggining the sketching stage that, for example, maybe they wouldn't be able to see the hand they want doing something specific if characters were interacting that way and we were seeing their faces as well, or you wouldn't be able to see one of their faces, and if you value seeing their expressions maybe let's chose what you prioritise in terms of what the viewer sees. idk what to give in terms of advice for that, I'm lucky I've got a photographic brain when it comes to stuff like drawing or other boons it grants me irl (but I'm useless with numbers and words so, it balances out).

as for reference I feel like I've touched on this a few times: reference is great! it's important if you're doing the style of drawing I'm doing here (but I also really love work that is more stylised as well, i love folk art and goofy and expressive things) at this point for the likes of Imogen and laudna (and I'm getting there with fearne) - I've drawn them so many times that I just reference myself, and if there's a specific expression I'm needing then I keep a shaving mirror near by and look at myself, same with hands, they're right there, draw straight from em or take a photograph (saying this I am not good at hands lol). other than that yes I will often look for reference of something that roughllly resembles what I wish to draw in terms of posing, and then it's a mixture of kinda treating the reference images like a frankenstein paper doll with metal pin joints and arranging them how I need, but as I've also said before I like to not have a 1:1 reference and duplicate because i want to get my own hand in there, figuring out angles and limbs with lines gives a little bit of movement, proportions being a little off shows what the maker wishes to exaggerate or minimise, these are all enjoyable things to me, I'm not tryna make something photo realistic. so yeah, reference good, reference teach, but your own hand is very important too.

in summary I use a combination of photo/painting/screen cap reference and just my intuition from years of drawing and looking at people for the bodies, and my own drawings and a mirror for the faces. sketching it all out takes quite a bit of time, and I often won't realise until near "the end" (after spending hours colouring caus idk the proper digital ways to do it) that I'm not happy with a thing or two. sometimes I try to "fix" this, sometimes I say "fuck it, it's an excercise and is what it is". people who have commissioned work from me might have had this happen where I've said I'm sending the drawing over and then been like actually can u wait a while I need to tweak some things and spend an hour doing so, caus part of my process is sending the image from my laptop to my phone, and not only is the colour different from my phone to my laptop, but once again it's like seeing it with a new set of eyes and pretty much always reveals a bunch of "mistakes" I've made. the phone thing also goes back to what I said earlier and what you brought up, of that intuition to look at an image both zoomed out in it's full composition, but also pushes our intuition to tap and zoom in (I'm sure there's essays on this shit about viewing art digitally and specifically on phones vs irl) this can be used to your advantage! maybe you have a style that suggests detail but when zoomed in it's very satisfying certain wide strokes of colour, or yeah you can pack in tiny details made with a finer point that you can't see zoomed out. one of the things that sucks about the style I do for my fanart is it's way more obvious when something is wrong. when it's stylised to you it's never gonna be wrong, yknow? uh. anyway. I hope this sorta answers your question. I'm happy to talk about making all day long, I always think what's best is to find what works for you. for me being inspired by things outside of the space youre making things for is really important, and plays part in us all not making similar end results. keep putting your own hand and brain to it and have fun.

thank you❣️

[bodycountgame]

i’ve been wanting to make an IF for a while, but i don’t think i’m the best writer? my writing seems so simple compared to others who are really good at describing things. do you know how to navigate that?

my advice: fuck it! if you're having a good time and enjoying what you're doing, who cares whether it's good or not? if i have learned anything on my journey writing interactive fiction, it's that you should write for you and fuck everybody else.

now i'm going to try to give you actually helpful advice and sorry if it sounds a bit wanky, but it's sort of impossible to earnestly answer asks like this without sounding super wanky.

in general, it's worth remembering that there is no one way to write, or to write well. more often than i should probably admit to, i'll read someone else's work and have a crisis of confidence because holy shit that was amazing and why don't i write like that?? the answer i guess is because only they can - and only you can write like you. cultivating your own voice, in my experience, only really comes with time, but i think it's one of the most important things about growing as a writer and storyteller. it doesn't just happen overnight, though - writing is a muscle and you've gotta flex it, yaknow?

a more immediate tip that i'd give is to play to your strengths. i'd describe my writing style as pretty simplistic (i say only because you describe yours in the same way, so i get being insecure about it), but i think my strengths lie in characterisation (don't correct me if you think i'm wrong let me have this one lmao). i'm writing a really character-driven story to put the thing i'm confident about front and centre, and you'll probably notice that my descriptions are pretty sparse because i don't feel as confident about them. over time i'll hopefully grow into a more well-rounded author, but if you're just starting out then you shouldn't expect yourself to be - see above re: it doesn't happen overnight.

i hope that helps??? soz for sounding wanky and soz if this is terrible advice, but i wanted to have a go at answering this one because been there felt that etc etc. good luck with your story! xoxo

[smanfa]

Any characters you want to Goth but haven't gotten a chance to?

ooh bit of a nerve pinched with this one - to be totally honest, i don't feel any desire to "goth up" characters any more - i know it's what i gained a lot of my popularity doing, and it was fun for a short time, but idk, i just got a little bored of it, and as much of a hipster as it makes me sound, a lot of other people started doing it, and i just lost interest - yet the legacy still follows me...

it isn't really fulfilling any more for me to just draw X character wearing Y outfit in where the appeal of the piece is purely the aesthetics of this super glammed-up character and they feel like they're models posing for a photo (and i've tried a few times recently) - i get way more out of drawing something that feels like it captures an every day candid moment, or tells a little story ykno? that's the sorta stuff i wanna focus on going forward

sorry to get all wanky about such a simple question lol, thank you for asking :)

[pynkhues]

Hi Sophie, so sorry if this is a double ask but I can’t tell if tumblr ate my first one…I was wondering if you would be comfortable sharing anything about your writing process (for both original projects and fics). Do you outline? Or is it more freeform with a general idea of where you’re going?

Hi! I'm so glad that you re-sent it, because it's not a double in my inbox. I'm more than happy to share about my writing process! I've been writing for a long time, and I think I might like talking about actually writing things more than I like actually talking about the finished story, haha.

My process is pretty much the same for both fic and for original works, and in that, I do a lot of wriitng in my head before I start actually even 'officially' writing it. To the point where I'll usually have a pretty strong sense of what the underlying idea of the story is, where I want the emotional anchor of the story to be, and often have roughly choreographed a few climactic sequences in my head in a way that gives it not necessarily structure or an outline, but a general shape.

So in writing Ungodly Hour for instance, I knew that I was interested in this sense of perception as the underlying idea of the story - Lestat's perception of himself and what happened to him, Louis' perception of what happened to Lestat, Daniel's potential perception of Lestat through the interview.

Then I knew I wanted the emotional anchor to be in Lestat telling Louis what happened with Magnus, and this collision of those perceptions, because I just found that like - - exciting creatively, and I had these scenes in my head - weirdly, the gallery one was quite formded for me, then the dressing room blowjob, then the fight (although I re-wrote the fight quite a few times).

So I had all that in my head when I actually started to write it, and at that point, my process really becomes a matter of asking 'Why?' I ask that constantly when I'm writing, because at the end of the day, writing is just cause and effect. One of the best bits of writing advice I ever got was that your story is always 'And so this happens' or 'But this happens', never, ever 'And then this happens'. Good scenes are built on the backs of the ones that came before them, so they need to have purpose for there to be any payoff.

As a result, anything that feels either instinctual or appealing to me, I end up asking it well, why, or how, or what needs to happen to make this feel right? I find that usually steers me in the best direction, and it helps me to especially get into a character's head, or even sometimes the context of the story overall.

In terms of the actual writing though, - this sounds so wanky, haha - but I generally say I'm a bit of a painter when it comes to writing. I like to lay a base coat and then build from there. I'll usually start with scenes that are fairly skeletal with what's effectively placeholder dialogue that evokes the vibe of the final dialogue that I'd like, just so I know what emotional beats I'm wanting (and these can and do change), and so that I have a full story on the page, and then I go back over and over again and build it up and up and up.

I'm kind of at that base coat skeleton stage with the reunion fic now, so to give you a sense (and please don't judge, like I said, this is basically a skeleton of a scene with some placeholder dialogue!) it'll usually look a bit like this:

So yeah, it'll start pretty thin, but it'll be what I know I want it to be, and sometimes I'll keep parts of it, but usually it's entirely re-written by the time I post or it gets published.

Things often fall into place late too. As I've gotten more experienced as a writer, I think I'm better at trusting my instincts? Like in Ungodly Hour, the gallery scene was the first thing I wrote in full, and I think I even posted here that I almost cut it several times. It was so fully formed for me, and I knew on a gut level that it belonged in the story, and more than that, needed to be the opening scene, but I didn't really get how it folded in until later in the writing process when it just clicked that it not just established the themes of the story, but placed Louis in a rawer emotional state to be entering this particular night with Lestat.

So yeah, I build up ideas basically, haha.

[god-has-entered-my-body]

❤️🥳

Hiii thanks for this!!

❤️ What is your favorite line that you’ve written in a fic?

one of my faves is a small bit from If you're too shy pt 1 (pt 2 coming super soon i promise xx) 'The creak of the bed as he throws himself onto it is incredibly loud. The sound of his zipper is even louder.' I do have a few others, but it's mostly banter i wrote for MPIND. I do have the opening line for IYTS pt 2 that i'm sort of proud of 'They say feeling diminishes over time, sensations are lost to memories, forgotten.' bit cringey now that i read it but its here x Also theres the classic 'I'll show you hobbit feet you fucking cunt' from MPIND's first chapter that i got a lot of laughs on, i did actually giggle a bit whilst imagining that scene. Love u MPIND George you will always be famous.

🥳 Why did you start writing fanfic?

I started writing because i couldn't really find fic that fit my sort of 'niche' preferences anywhere on tumblr or Ao3, so i just decided to write my own thinking people wouldn't really read it? Especially with fics like the first few chapters of MPIND or Facedown/Please be naked, i had thought that it wouldn't really get any attention since a lot of the fics on tumblr feature a more dom Matty, and that just seemed to be the most popular version of him at the time. But i've gotten so much love and support for MPIND and IYTS and how i characterize Matty in both those fics and i'm so grateful for all the positive feedback and compliments, they really do motivate me to keep writing even through some of the worst moments of my life. Writing fic has become my escape, i can just open my glitchy ass 2014 macbook and forget everything in a google doc. Its an outlet of sorts, which i think is a bit obvious with the darker/more serious themes of MPIND. I guess i've also sort of migrated from being terrified to write smut to it being the only thing i really do write, even if it is a bit shit in my eyes, you lot seem to enjoy it xx God this has become a super long rant but i do have a few thing i need to get off my chest and this seems like the opportune moment? I'm sorry for not having a regular post schedule, and its either 4 fics in two days or one every two weeks. Bit wanky, but writers block is real for me too. You're all actually amazing if you read, like, or comment on any of my stuff, it does find its way into my little 'ppl like you (maybe)' foto album and i look at it sometimes if i'm going through a bit of a dry patch. You guys are so so so nice to me even if i've been here since about March, and i've only been writing fic for like a month and a half. Love u guys so much, keep well for me x

[steelycunt]

also hi sorry if this is a weird question but i am currently attempting to formulate my own r & s playlists and ive seen urs and it is impeccable 🤌🤌

yeah i was wondering if u know any other r & s playlists that have interesting songs on them (yk, not just like a few arctic monkeys songs, a marina song and 🙊😱 a singular david bowie song)

sorry if this sounds overly wanky :P feel free to ignore

thank you sm i glad you like mine!! they were very carefully crafted (although its been a while i expect both could probably do with a refurb)...i dont really have any other playlists for you though, sorry abt that!! n have fun with yours xx

[lokisgoodgirl]

How do you have a lot of friends? Any advice?

I’m assuming you mean on Tumblr because in real real life I have like…five friends. Which suits me just fine.

I’ve never really thought about it. Some of the connections I have here I started speaking to because I reached out. I really admired their work or we crossed paths. Some reached out to me or our comments on trains etc spilled over to messages.

I guess just be open to speaking to new people, and creating actual bonds in this weird place. I find my tumblr friendships very nourishing, there’s so many interesting and absolutely incredible and hilarious people from different countries and backgrounds I’d never usually get to speak to and we already ALL HAVE SOMETHING IN COMMON that’s mad 🤣 so many opportunities for shenanigans.

So I suppose just put yourself out there and say hello and don’t take yourself too seriously…what’s the worst that could happen 🥰 ps sorry if this sounds proper wanky and a bit long i didn’t think I’d be answering this kind of question like…ever

[gaypiratebrainrot]

Sorry for sending another ask, but apparently my brain is still not done with WFU. 

First, I saw that you mentioned on other asks that different people have very different takes about whether the story is rpf or not. It made me realize that for me, it's the most non-rpf and the most rpf fic for this pairing at the same time. On the one hand, like you and many others said, the name swap and the mixed characteristics distanced me, naturally, from the real people this story is about. But, on the other hand, this fic also represents real events and relationships from the real life of these people much more closely than others I've seen. It's the most 'canon compliant' rpf (sorry if I sound insane, I couldn't think of a better term to explain myself). Other fics, as you even mentioned in the fic itself, choose to deliberately fictionalize some of the details of their life, mainly to avoid the cheating.

And the second thing: I thought about it for some time and couldn't decide on an answer, so I'll ask: why did you tag it as dubious consent?

Thank you for your patience and all your thoughtful answers!

hi! never apologize for sending me asks about this fic, i will literally always be delighted to receive them!

yes, it's so fascinating to me, on the writing level, that the name swap sort of permitted me to use so many of the real life details i might have shied away from if i'd used their real names. it's been a great exercise for me in the line between fiction and reality--to paraphrase myself, "not a great stone wall but a vast and spectral shadowlands". ALL fiction takes from real life, and there is a vast spectrum of how much real life detail ends up in any given story. i think the rpf debate belongs to a bigger cultural discussion that includes stuff like true crime, or reality television, or auto-fiction, all of which ask questions about how we translate real life into stories, and the consequences of how those stories shape real life. i have no interest in drawing any lines in the sand about what's "okay" and what's not okay to write about, but i do love love love to get people asking those questions for themselves!

re: dubious consent--part of it was an over-abundance of caution. i knew people would be clicking on this fic because i wrote does the body good, which many, many people commented on as a super healthy depiction of consent. when i pick tags of a fic, part of my reasoning is, "what will i get wanky complaints about if i don't tag it," and i can imagine a reader interpretation of WFU that considers the consent depicted as dubious. the line i was most worried about is the bit right before the blow jobs begin where ed searches for the ability to say no and can't because stede is sucking on his fingers--if i'm explicitly saying a character wants (even just in part) to say no and can't, it's gettin the dubious tag regardless of my own opinions about whether or not that moment is dubious consent.

i also can envision an interpretation where stede's actions through the whole scene at ed's house could be seen as coercive. do i think that's the correct interpretation? no, but only because i don't really believe in correct interpretations. there's a bit of a game to tagging for the archive, especially with regards to consent, cause my definitions are not everyone's definitions, and ultimately, i don't want someone reading something they're not prepared for. i felt the consent was muddy enough for some people to consider it dubious, and i wanted to be sure those people get the heads up they need.

all that being said, many people have now commented that there is no dubious consent in the fic, so i've probably been overly cautious, but i like to play it safe rather than sorry on the archive :)

thank you again for sending more of your thoughts!! <3

[whump-town]

Ok hi idk if you’re taking request or just want to talk about ideas. BUT I thought of like reader getting injured and then being with Garcia when bau are on a case and like hotch calls to check up on her continuously and Penelope is just 🥺🥺🥺🥺

I have no clue how this work but I did my best so have a little mercy because I am very new to this:

Garcia hates it when her little babies get themselves into trouble and this time is no different. Mercifully, she does range from smothering to angered but right now, she’s out getting food for you both. Which, of course, couldn’t come easily. You had to have a very in-depth conversation about your schedule for painkillers and what food you have or haven’t eaten. Which is zero because it’s twelve at night and you’ve both just come from a round a table meeting.

And Hotch fucking grounded you. 

Asshole. 

A few busted-up ribs haven’t stopped anyone else! Why should you have to stay?

“--and I’ll get right back with you, suga’.” Garcia comes back into the room with a bag of bagels. She comes to a stuttering halt, frowning and glances at you out of the corner of her eye. “Well, sir,” she toys with her lips with her teeth, grimacing at whatever Hotch is saying. “I would, sir. I really would but-- yes, sir-- I would say very mad.”

That makes your cheeks hot, uncomfortably so, because you know they’re talking about you. Pushing your hair back out of your face, you end up lowering your head as you play with a stray strand of hair. It’s starting to get a little too long for your taste. Maybe you’ll get it cut.

“Sir, I can’t--” Garcia sighs and you know Hotch has won whatever little pouting contest he’s put on. “Fine,” Garcia caves. “Yeah, yeah--” you smile as Garcia rolls her eyes at Hotch’s sweet-talking. “You owe me,” she tells him but smiles and shakes her head again. “I will give it my best shot, sir.” She raises her hand and nods her head as he keeps talking. “Okay. Be safe. I love you, sir.”

Garcia shakes her head and tosses her earpiece onto the keyboard. 

“What did he say?” the worst part is that you can still feel how hot your cheeks are and it only gets worse as the question leaves your mouth. Stupid Aaron Hotchner and his stupid charming ways. Why does your boss have to be so damn hot? It’s… it’s pretty much a fantasy but also your worst nightmare.

Garcia ignores the question and sets out on her mission of making you eat. She wins brownie points for the black tea that she replaces your normal coffee with (it should be Hotch points considering he was the one that told her about your love for black tea). “One blueberry bagel with strawberry icing,” she says placing it in your lap. 

You start to remove the paper but there’s no way you’re going to be able to eat knowing that she’s talked to Hotch about you. “What did he say, Garcia?” The eye contact you make is just to break her and she doesn’t stand a chance against your commitment to finding out what was said. 

With a sigh that deflects her entire body she caves. Of course, she does, she loves you. 

“Fine,” she grumbles half-heartedly. She puts her bagel on her desk and stares at the ground for a moment, deciding exactly how she’s going to tell you what they talked about. It’s unnerving. “He was just…” she frowns. “He worries,” she says. “He worries way too much but he blames himself for what happened--”

What happened? It’s far from his fault that you couldn’t handle a simple undercover mission. Emily wouldn’t have blinked an eye. She wouldn’t have gotten beaten up, either. Even Reid does better undercover and he hates it. 

“He blames himself and he knew you were mad at him for making you stay home--”

“I didn’t need to!” you justify yourself hotly. Okay, a little over the top but still. He wouldn’t have made anyone else stay home.

Garcia raises a hand, stopping you from going any farther. Right, you breathe, you’ve already ranted to her about this. But he does always treat you differently. He didn’t even want to send in undercover but Emily had advocated for you and you couldn’t even do that right… so maybe he is right.

Maybe you’re not meant for this job.

“Woah,” Garcia waves a hand in front of your face and you have to swallow around the thick emotions swelling there. You open your mouth to divert her attention back to the subject at hand but she’s not having it. “What in the wanky world was that sweet cheeks?”

You shake your head… “Uhm--” no. That’s not what Hotch thinks. You know that. He thinks you’re capable. He thinks you’re smart. He thinks-- You’re phones ringing.

Fishing it out of your pocket, grimacing at the pull on your sore ribs. “Son of a bitch,” you mumble, flashing her the screen. It does seem pretty silly to be mad at him when his contact photo is that goofy picture on his I.D. badge. That thing hasn’t changed in years-- not that it should. 

You roll your eyes and accept the call. Of course, you don’t bring the level of sass you’re feeling into your answer, “sir.”

It’s hard to tell what’s going on but you can hear the low murmuring of the others in the background. It takes a moment but the noises die down and Hotch has managed to find somewhere quieter on the jet. The way he says your name is a simple, soft sigh. Relieved. “I hope you’re not too terribly mad with me.”

The worst part is that you aren’t. 

“It was unfair of me to ask you to stay back,” he whispers. “I apologize.”

You glance at Garcia-- she’s leaning back in her chair and watching the exchange out of the corner out of her ye. Giving you privacy without actually leaving or even pretending not to be eavesdropping.

“I was being a pain in the ass,” you reply. “Neither of us was being very helpful.”

He grunts and you know you’ve managed to pull a corner of his mouth into a smile.

“Besides, I can use all the reprieve I can get from Derek’s ugly mug.” Where Garcia makes a horrifying little noise, Hotch stifles a chuckle, and now you can’t help your own grin. 

It’s enough to make him keep calling. It feels like every freaking ten minutes but Garcia figures out the schedule pretty simply: each time he sends the others out to check a scene or visit the morgue. Each time he as a second for free time. 

“What can I do you for,” you grumble as you pinch the phone between your shoulder and chin.

His reply comes deadpanned, “I’m sorry? Are you busy?” 

Dumb question but you don’t point that out verbally. You roll your eyes and pull your attention from your laptop. You’d been sending Emily text updates about what you were finding out about the women. Garci’a system is complicated but with the teacher there to help, you found you’re actually pretty good at this deep web stuff. 

“No,” you push yourself back from the desk and wave to Garcia as she comes in.

Her jaw opens and she raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Again,” she mouths.

You nod. “You don’t have to keep calling,” you tell him, accepting the tea that Garcia hands you. “I am fine. Everything’s fine here.” 

He makes a sound and you realize that it’s two in the morning in Utah-- that’s still about four in the morning here in Virginia but you’d snagged a nap.

“I-uh,” his voice is rough. “I just…” a nightmare, you deduce. Why else would he be calling at two in the morning? The others are in bed, Morgan had sent you and Garcia to bed a few hours earlier. She’d taken the couch in her own office and you’d taken the one in Hotch’s office. Not that he needed to know that.

But this knowledge makes your throat tight. “Are you okay,” you ask.

He shakes his head but manages a rasped yes. 

“I bet you wish you’d let me come along now, huh?”

He does because if you’d come he could just knock on your hotel door and see you. “You’re safe in Virginia,” he says, starting to sound a bit more like himself. True but still. “I, uhm,” he clears his throat and you can hear how uncomfortable he suddenly is with his vulnerability. 

“Go get some sleep,” you interrupt.

He nods, “okay.”

You smile at your phone, at him. “And Hotch?”

“Hm?”

“When you get home I’m going to give you a hug, okay?”

He smiles, “okay.”

[mintjamsblog]

Hi! Could you do 7 and 26 for Tommy, as well as 18 for Alfie? I loved reading the 2 first ones you've posted :)

Hey, sorry this was so long coming!!!

7) already answered here.

26) Greatest extravagance Tommy allows himself.

Everything's an extravagance when you grew up on a hundred year old slum estate. And he indulges now in many things. Nice clothes, of course: tailored suits and cashmere socks and bamboo woven sportswear. He drives a nice car. Eats in good restaurants. But the one thing he really notices, in the wintertime at least, is warmth. These days he puts the heating on. Turns the thermostat up high. Wanders round barefoot on the under-heated floors and makes the house so hot he only needs to wear a t-shirt. Because he can. Because now he doesn't have to go to bed cold or find coins for the electric meter or wear every jumper he owns at once just to keep out the draft. And it is an extravagance, he knows that, but it helps to ward off the cold that sometimes creeps up his back for no reason. That taps on his shoulder at night. At least now he knows it's all in his head, it must be, 'cause he turned the thermostat up, didn't he? And he can pay the fucking bill.

18) First thing Alfie notices about someone.

Their energy. He has a very instinctual reaction to someone's overall presence. Whether they're positive or negative, put energy into a space or suck it out. Which might all sound a bit wanky but is, in actual fact, very simple. Dogs do it all the time, make snap judgements based on a person's overall vibe. And if it's good enough for dogs, it's good enough for Alfie.

It's not foolproof, right. If it were foolproof then he'd have kicked Chester Campbell into touch at that first fuckin' meeting, wouldn't he? But the thing is, he was so distracted by Tommy's energy (the sheer force of will with which he was repressing it more than anything) that he missed the signs with Cambell. But watching Tommy was like watching a fuckin' pylon, weren't it? He was rigid and rooted to the spot, but buzzing with so much power it threatened to arc out and fry him if he touched it wrong). So yeah. Energy. And even dogs get that wrong sometimes.

[grayintogreen]

I was not technically tagged, but at least two people on my dash were like DO WHAT YOU WANT NO ONE IS YOUR GOD, and you know what? They’re right and valid. 

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

96! And 90% of them are from just this year. Can’t wait to find out what the big 100 is gonna be. Any one of my WIPS could be Disney’s next 100th fic.

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

455,024 (also mostly from this year...)

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

In my entire life??? Since I was twelve??? I don’t even know, man. I wrote a lot of ooc crackfic and fic for cartoons when I was on FF.net, and then I was on LJ and wrote for a TON of different fandoms, but on AO3, I have written for Critical Role (so much CR), Yashahime/Inuyasha, Guardians of the Galaxy, His Dark Materials (TV), Steven Universe, Bleach, Alias, Supernatural, Dollhouse, Pushing Daisies (the last four were all transferred here from LJ, though)

4) What are your top five fics by kudos?

- turning wine back into water (Critical Role, de-aging fic with plot, 30457 words)

I STILL CANNOT BELIEVE HOW POPULAR THIS FIC IS. It beat out two of my super popular GotG fics that have been up since 2017 BY A LOT. Apparently, there was a market for the Mighty Nein being adorable cocktail brats and saving the world. Thanks, Liam’s Quest!

It is probably one of the most wholesome fics I will ever write too. I love it.

- Sunshine Came Softly (Guardians of the Galaxy, Rocket and Mantis friendship, 3188 words)

THIS FIC STILL GETS HITS EVEN TODAY. It was written right after I saw the movie so it hit hard and fast on the hype train. 

- Mine Is Just a Slower Sacrifice (Guardians of the Galaxy, Rocket-centric, 2248 words)

BOY YOU CAN TELL THESE FICS ARE ANCIENT BECAUSE I HADN’T DEVELOPED MY TITLE NICHE YET. where are the lower caps and Seanan McGuire lyrics!!

Anyway, this was written probably IMMEDIATELY after I saw the movie and had to process Rocket’s emotions during the last moments, because of who I am as a person. For what’s mostly a character study, it got some mileage on it.

- they drink dreamers up like brandy (Critical Role, 1625 words)

Back to Critical Role! I wrote this one when I was in a fucking blind post-finale haze and producing massive amounts of Kingsley content and I wanted to write a silly fic about Caleb being tiefling catnip. 

- if adversity breeds character (we’ve character enough for two) (Critical Role, Beau and Molly-centric, 1824 words)

I feel like most of my most kudos-ed CR fics are Beau-related, which is funny because I never really wrote her EVER. I guess I need to write her more often. ANYWAY, this one got jossed immediately after 141, but I needed to write Beau and Molly bantering and I couldn’t get her flipping him off after revealing her card is Rumor out of my head.

(Incidentally my sixth most kudos-ed fic is my Fjorester next gen fic, WHICH I WAS NOT EXPECTING AT ALL. IT’S A FIC BASED ON MY OC FANCHILDREN!! I’M VERY EMOTIONAL ABOUT THAT!!)

5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Usually!! There are times when I forget and then it’s been so long that I never go back, but I like responding to comments. They make me so happy and I want to make sure the people who take the time to comment know that I see them and appreciate them. Especially if they give me long comments. You long commenters know who you are and I value you and also flail incoherently in your direction.

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

God, probably this church takes no conversions simply because, like, the whole ending scenes are MISERABLE AND FULL OF ANGST and then it has the hopeful ending that is actually a bullshit lie.

But second place probably goes to what couldn’t i offer, what couldn’t i give, which is just misery porn in disguise as a character study. Sorry, Cree.

7) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Okay, so back in the day when I was a tineh fanbrat I wrote a lot of self-indulgent crossovers featuring my friends and I in true Mary Sue format being ~saviors of the world~ alongside our favorite fictional characters and after I grew out of that, I very rarely did it again, because as someone who can only write AUs if they’re high concept and can only write crossovers if the canon welding is pristine, it’s difficult.

I have ideas for some! I just haven’t written them yet. Or they’re sitting in Google Docs partially written.

8) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not to my recollection, which is insane, because I’ve written some things in my youth that deserved it, but also I was a kid, so maybe I definitely did not deserve it. Don’t send hate to kids!!

9) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

The first smut I ever posted on AO3 involved some fucking American Gods flesh horror shit, so that answers your second question.

Basically, yes, but I write smut to facilitate character development in a way that regular story beats can’t, mainly with characters who are in some way deeply fucked up and have unbalanced dynamics. 

So basically chances of me writing smut that isn’t Creecien or Lucigast? Very low. (I haven’t written Lucigast smut yet but I will. Inevitably.)

10) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that anyone’s told me, but one time when I was a teenager someone ripped off an entire group messageboard RP I was in and tried to pass it off as a fic they wrote.

11) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that anyone’s told me!

12) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I tried and it did not work out, because of (non-wanky) reasons, but it’s just not something I’d be very good at. I was the kid who wanted to work alone on group projects. I’m bad at group work.

13) What’s your all time favourite ship?

That I’ve WRITTEN??? Because that at least narrows it down significantly. Sesshoumaru/Rin hands down. It’s a good dynamic and they’re fun and sad at the same time. 

My self-indulgent ass does also enjoy writing Creecien though. I’m putting it out there because I want it.

14) What’s a WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

GOD POOR SUPERNOVAS OF ALL SOUND AND LIGHT. THAT FIC COULD’VE BEEN A CONTENDER, but I unfortunately posted it RIGHT BEFORE the White Diamond episodes aired and it became so jossed by canon so fast that I gave up on life with chapter two half finished. I need to delete it but I can’t bring myself to bury my shame.

15) What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and meta-narrative and character-specific stuff. I go into every story with CHARACTER FIRST mentality, which is how I end up writing so many damn character studies or why my word counts explode. I’m just out here naval gazing because I love character stuff SO MUCH.

I’ve been told I’m good at fight/action scenes too, which... Shocks me, but I think watching and playing a lot of D&D stuff has really improved how I write fighting and action sequences.

16) What are your writing weaknesses?

[whispers] too much naval gaze. dial it back, bitch. 

I get really caught up in character stuff and forget to do important things like ADVANCE THE SCENE OR DESCRIBE THE SCENE OR LITERALLY ANYTHING. I also don’t think my prose is all that great, but I’m pretty sure every writer feels that imposter syndrome bullshit, so /waves hands. All I’m saying is I have seen some writers on AO3 who are writing some fucking vivid imagery and stringing flawless sentences together and weaving introspection and description together like beautiful baskets and they are stronger than any US Marine and I salute them and wish to be them.

17) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Iiii try not to. There’s times where I want to throw in, like, a little Zemnian for Caleb flair, but I try to stick to things that are either untranslatable (like German compound words), common phrases (like please or come here), or insults/curses/ pet names. Things that I don’t think Google will fucking lie to me about.

18) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

I think it was a Sailor Moon crackfic about Haruka being forced to enter a beauty pageant which was just a blatant rip-off of Ms Congeniality and oh my god was it awful. I don’t even wanna talk about it.

19) What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

this church takes no conversions, probably BECAUSE it’s my little red-headed stepchild of a fic involving so many things that are just never going to make it popular (backstory fic, fic that is almost 85% headcanon, doesn’t involve popular characters, etc.), but godDAMMIT I love that fic so much. It was fun and I use every bit of that headcanon in almost everything like it’s my job.

shattered stage is a close second, because it was such a crazy concept for a fic that I PULLED OFF SOMEHOW and is this wonderful mix of crazy plot and character and lore and my three favorite tieflings having to work together. And also Jayne Merriweather as the main villain. 

A lot of love went into both of those fics and they are my babies. this time next year we’ll see if I add Creedemption and shoot at fate to this list- probably. All of my epic long fics resolve to be my babies because I spent so much time on them, and I have to love them and cherish them because I raised them into gigantic wordy attempts to write a doorstopper.

[bisluthq]

Wanky lyrics anon here,

No lyrics interpretation here, but I saw conversation about TPAB, 1989, and Taylor's influence and wanted to contribute. (Sorry for the long ask haha)

I'm in the probably not very controversial group, but maybe among swifties, that TPAB definitely deserved to win AOTY, and saw someone say that's not the case as they don't think Kendrick is very influential. My opinion here is that the influence in the case of TPAB doesn't matter, as TPAB is basically "The History of Black Music: The Album" but giving it a modern twist. Which is basically what Daft Punk did with Random Access Memories, which was basically "The History of Dance Music: The Album." And both artists featured legends of their respective genres to pay tribute to that history: George Clinton and Ronald Isley on TPAB, and Georgio Morodor and Nile Rogers on RAM. Both albums have had little influence on how modern music sounds, but the serve as masterclasses of genre, engineering, and how to construct on album. Which is what is supposed to matter with the awards: how good is the end product.

As for Taylors influence, my controversial take, is that musically, Taylor hasn't really been that influential on pop music. I can hear her influence in country, though I don't know how much of that is just country music being country music, but I hear a lot of old Taylor in a bunch of up and coming female country singers.

There are people like Camila, Shawn, and Halsey who say how Taylor influences them, but I don't hear it in their songs. Though I do in Olivia Rodrigo, so the tides may be changing in that regard.

Taylors influence lies in the meta of the music industry. She made it cool to be a Singer-songwriter, she's the reason all artists suddenly started showing off their writing credits. The whole thing about artists being "authentic" seems from her. This is what makes it difficult to point at an album like 1989 and say it deserves whatever and that's its influential (I'd argue against 1989 being influential, but that's more because I don't like it haha), because with Taylor it's never really been important WHAT she makes, it's the fact that SHE'S the one making it, and how SHE'S grown/switched genres that's considered a big deal. Which is why I think Folklore will win AOTY, as I see it kind of like a TPAB/RAM of alternative/folk/country type music... kind of-ish.

Taylors closest comparisons for meta influence are Kany and Drake.

Kanye, because he was the one that made it cool to be the rapper that produces his own songs. Every rapper wanted to be a producer/have production credits after Kanye came on the scene. Before him, the only producer rapper that I can think of was RZA, and he wasn't even the most famous out of Wu-Tang. Still the popularity in the group went to pure rappers Method Man and Raekwon. Musically, the moody 808 emo rap stuff came from Kid Cudi. He was a major influence of 808's and Heartbreaks, and it's this sound that rappers still copy. Kanye's style was flipping old soul samples which no one really does anymore.

And the Drake comparison, because both Taylor and he have massively influenced the business side of the music business, though in different way. Drake has optimised his music for making money in the streaming age. His newer stuff having long tracklists, but short run times meaning it can be streamed more times a day than if the songs were longer is having a massive knock on affect. Ariana's newest album for example only having 4 out of 14 songs being longer that 3 minutes shows this trend (tiktok plays a role here too). They exploit the system that is in place to make as much money as they can and people copy them, whereas Taylor tries to change the system that's in place via her deals with Spotify, Apple music, her record label for example to try and alter how much people get paid. (Which I find kind of funny given the conversations here around her supporting Kamala etc. Haha)

But yeah, rambley take that I'm sure I've maybe got something wrong in here, but yeah :)

Wanky anon you’re genuinely one of a very small circle of men I genuinely like because even when I don’t agree with you - I don’t really disagree on this take but I have before - I’ve been like “ya I hear it”

[20xbetterthanu]

CHAPTER ELEVEN

friends in low places by @esperantoauthor

blaine becoming a RENT stan is everything to me

and ive never seen rent (oops)

AZIMIO I WILL CUT YOUR EYEBALLS OUT

aw yay klaine content even if its azimios fault 

AZIMIO DONT STEAL HIS SHIT YOU BITCH

and then throw it away what the fuck

dumpster diving with your one true love we love to see it

blaine blaine blaine no don't pick up the dumpster bra you don’t know who’s boobs those have been on

why was the bra in the dumpster at school

i will beat a bad teacher’s ass or at least make them quit the next year (i’ve done this to 4 teachers i’m sorry Ms.Hatcliff, Dr.Shiota, and Ms. Stone—i was mean. Mr.Clark you can kiss my ass your homophobic transphobic creepy ass i’m glad you quit.) especially if they take a kid with a learning disability and fuck them over like what do you think your job is bitch

how many times do i have to threaten to murder azimio

“Kurt, honey, are you into exhibitionism? Sounds like the boys want us to put on a show? I don’t know if it’s really my thing but I’m game if you want to.”

wanky

sarah—sarah go away these are horrible people 

YAY THEY FOUND THE BINDER

[benditlikepress]

today on “jess talks for 3 hours about a scene that aired a decade ago” i would like to talk about the bathroom scene in reunion

we all know it’s is iconic but can we talk specifically about the ACTING and CAMERAWORK

it's mainly about Tony because while Ziva is leading the conversation and being really brave and open, accepting her wrongdoing and making admissions about how she sees the world, Tony is the one leading the scene through his complex reactions and body language in response to what she says. the conflict he shows is incredible

the use of the mirror as a barrier between them and a way to reflect what Tony is thinking!! it's artistry!!

Much rambling below >>

I watched ncis in real time from season 5. The Aliyah/TorC arc though is what made me fall in love with the show. I remember I skipped school to watch TorC when it came out. It’s this arc that for me separates NCIS from other similar crime/procedural shows. Not to sound wanky, but I think the way it was portrayed is pretty unique to this genre. The emotions are so real, everything is so intense and visceral. I can't explain why (for example) Tony and Ziva's confrontation in Israel in Aliyah feels so raw and different to anything else I've watched on tv, but it does. This storyline rests upon a couple of fantastically portrayed scenes between the two of them (the 'are you jealous' scene in Legend, the Aliyah confrontation, the reunion in TorC). And this scene I'm about to go into is another great example. It's the feeling that gets portrayed, how visceral it is, that made this arc outstanding.

The most interesting thing about this scene to me is how, after the nutter butter staring in the bullpen, Tony can barely look at Ziva. It’s (presumably) the first time they’ve been properly alone since the confrontation in Aliyah, and he is cornered. It’s like he knows there’s no escape - she has followed him determined to talk about what they have been very strictly ~Not Talking About~, and he isn’t sure what she’s going to say. Several times he turns his head towards her, but his eyes never actually reach her until near the end of the scene. He’s awkward, and uncomfortable, and very un-Tony.

This starts when he first realises Ziva is behind him. They begin to talk and like I said, while he looks over his shoulder a few times, he doesn’t actually look at her.

As he walks over to the sink, he gives her the briefest of glances before again looking away.

Ziva seems to notice his reluctance, because before she starts to talk she looks at him twice as though for reassurance.

This is something Ziva does with Tony quite often - the most notable examples that come to mind are in Kill Ari, before she tells him about Tali, and in A Desperate Man, when Tony tells her she’ll “find somebody someday”. It’s what she does when she’s trying to gauge Tony’s emotions and how he is going to react to something.  

The early tone of the conversation is just that - conversational, though there is a little barb behind it particularly when Ziva points out that Tony was violating protocol. A few times Tony turns to look at her, but he never actually meets her eyes (one time he flicks water at her, another he turns to her but looks downwards). The way he almost can’t help himself but interrupt her here is another sign of him avoiding confronting this issue - he’s making comments about��“I wasn’t standing” and “double-parked” to avoid Ziva getting to the point she’s arriving at 

The use of the mirror throughout this scene is fantastic. We get one of them in the foreground but can still see the reactions of the other - it shows the disconnect between them at this point, how they are basically in two different realms. Very reminiscent of in Aliyah when Ziva looks at the reflection in the door and sees Tony approaching her before they have their argument. 

While Ziva is still talking, Tony braces his arms on the sink like he’s bracing himself for the conversation. He is still avoiding looking at her. His face here is the most telling thing about this whole scene. He looks really hurt and shut-off, when have we ever seen Tony look like he does here? He’s not only not looking at her but it’s like he’s physically forcing himself not to. I think this is most interesting because even though this is essentially the end of the arc, throughout this whole Rivkin storyline this moment is the first time we actually get a real first-hand insight into Tony’s feelings surrounding Ziva (+ Rivkin and Eli) accusing him of doing what he did out of jealousy. It’s the first time we get a proper view into how much it hurt him. 

Ziva says it doesn’t matter what happened to Michael and Tony says in a whisper “so what does”. We know by now that that is the voice Tony uses when he’s hurt - like he can’t say it out loud so he whispers it (see also: “we must have different interpretations”)

Ziva puts her arm inbetween his and moves her head to try to force him to look. The whole time she is seeking his gaze. She can sense he is avoiding her eyeline - and thus avoiding the conversation, but she needs to get these words out. “That you had my back. That you have always had my back. And that I was... wrong, to question your motives.”

The good stuff!!!

 the camerawork here uggghhhh. Tony comes into focus staring at her through the mirror after she says this line - her admission of wrongdoing after so many months. This is halfway through the scene and yet is the first time he actually looks at her face, can look her in the eye, though there is still a literal barrier between them. He seems almost incredulous. Looks away from her again, almost immediately. He wants to listen but it’s like he’s fighting with himself - as though he thinks that if he looks at her he’s not going to be able to stay strong and get his answer like he clearly wanted to. Still whispering, "so why did you?”

Tony’s reaction when Ziva says Ari’s name is the moment his defences crumble. He immediately exhales and looks down - he wasn’t expecting her to be open like that. It’s almost like it takes the wind out of his sails. Though she did it in a conversational way, Ziva has been brutally honest about the pedestal she placed Tony on and why she couldn’t bear to put her trust in him in case she lost him or was betrayed by him like so many other important people in her life.

After Ziva's admission, Tony’s demeanour completely changes. He opens up. The slight smile, then he turns to her. His voice is back to normal now, no more of that hurt whisper, and there’s a little hint of a tease in it. Him turning towards her is the equivalent of an olive branch. “I thought you weren’t sure what to say” is a very veiled way of him confirming that what she said was what he needed to hear. 

Ziva looks hopeful when Tony turns around, but also kind of looks like she might be about to cry. She still has no read on the situation. Just like us, she’s never seen Tony how he was in this scene - so determined not to engage, so closed off from her. Tony looks at her for a while, trying to find the right thing to say, and in the end apologises. (fwiw I think Tony was right to say sorry even if he ultimately did the right thing with regards to Rivkin)

Ziva immediately shoots it down. She can see that Tony is allowing for bridges to be rebuilt, but to do that she has to say her piece and get everything off her chest.

When Ziva approaches him to kiss his cheek, Tony is immediately stoic again. Still doesn’t want her to see what he’s thinking, still allowing her to do/say what she needs to after the beginning of the scene when he was interrupting and being kind of churlish to put her off. The way he doesn't look at her or react in any way when she kisses him or tries to catch his eye when she pulls back is just incredible. WHY ARE THEY THE WORST?

The end of this scene is so interesting. Ziva says something that triggers Tony’s thoughts about the case, and he seeks out her touch. He grabs her face and glances at her lips when he calls her a genius, and it’s like subconsciously he’s acknowledging that there is still something between them. It seems like nothing, like a throwaway connection to the next scene, but I honestly think it’s really important to their relationship going forward. It’s basically the reassurance Ziva needs that, if nothing else, she and Tony can still work together. Even after the hurt and the betrayal and the being-held-prisoner, he still can’t help but reach out to her.

anyway in summary i love this scene

[duchessofostergotlands]

The amount of discourse a pink suit can create in this fandom from people unable to fact check their claims is astonishing. Running a blog is something anyone can do. But they MUST make it clear if and when they’re exaggerating or extrapolating - they have a responsibility to know their shit before they purport to answer questions. Jess, I’m glad you’re here every bloody day. I’m sorry if you think this is too shady (if it helps, I don’t think you know these blogs) I just think it’s unethical.

I haven’t seen any, thankfully. I must be following good people haha. I appreciate that, you’re a sweet heart :) It’s a weird thing. This will sound incredibly wanky but I remember a couple of years back seeing something I’d said being quoted to one of those people in the fandom as evidence of some point they were making, without mentioning me specifically. And it was really weird to see that even though it’s a very very tiny influence in a very niche pocket of the internet, there are people who listen to what I say and there’s a huge amount of responsibility to that. I think I’m pretty free to say what I want to say, I will always have limitations on what I can do in terms of checking the blogs who follow or reblog me or whatever, I don’t have the resources of someone who does this for a living! But there are some things I have to be careful about, especially in terms of mental health. I want to show the reality of living with mental illness without encouraging any irresponsible behaviours. That was a bit of a ramble but I think it’s a weird situation to balance when people listen to what you say but you’re not doing it as a career or getting paid for it. It’s just weird 

[purrpickle]

Random Pezberry Thought of the Day #333

A/N: So this is a fic I started with someone back in March of 2013. As we’re sadly not in contact anymore, this fic won’t ever get finished, but gosh, it was so exciting when we were writing it. But as it got so far (to where I definitely think it’s worth sharing - and it’s certainly long enough), I’m going to go ahead and post it. Just be aware that, to make it even more emotionally impacting, I included a kind of ‘behind the scenes’ thought at the end. Enjoy the angst!

(By the by, the *s denote the switch from writers, while the ------------s mean a time lapse.)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Santana finds Rachel alone on the couch, crying, when she gets back from the grocery store. She throws the burlap grocery bags that Rachel made her take down on the counter carelessly, but then walks slowly towards the crying brunette in front of her.  

“Rachel?” She’s never been great at dealing with tough emotions. Her first instinct isn’t to comfort or console, but to make harsh witticisms and enraged insults. She tries her hardest not to be herself for once, if only because Rachel needs someone. ”What happened?” 

Her voice is gentle, even soft, and Rachel shoots her a look of surprise. “When—when did you get here?” Rachel mumbles out, turning away from her and grabbing a tissue. ”I—I thought you were out.”

“Yeah, well, the thing about going out is that you have to go back in at some point.” 

Rachel rolls her eyes and attempts to hide a small smile playing at her lips. 

”So… What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Rachel says quietly, wiping at her tears. ”I mean, it’s something, but it’s nothing for you to worry about.” 

Santana frowns and places her hand gently on Rachel’s knee. “Please tell me? I want to help you.” 

Rachel glances down at Santana’s hand, but looks away quickly. 

Santana strains to hear her, but she’s positive of what she’s heard: “I think I might be pregnant.” The words are so simple, but the implications of those words are nothing but complicated.

Santana doesn’t know what to say. And in reality, what can she say that will make her pain disappear?

Instead, she hugs Rachel, pulling her close and letting her cry again.

“Did you go to a gyno yet? Maybe… Maybe it’s a false alarm. Brittany once thought she was pregnant—and guess what? She wasn’t.”

“You know as well as I do,” Rachel says through tears, “That there was never a chance she was with child.”

*

That was fair. 

Santana frowns. "Well, why do you think you're pregnant? Aren't you, like, Prophylactic PowerPoint Berry? Or is Brody buying the cheap shit? Do I gots to pull out my razor blades on his ass?"

Rachel's small shoulders shake in Santana's arms. "No, no, I think it might have been a f-freak torn condom. And," she presses weakly against Santana's arm, pushing back to glare at her with red, swollen eyes, "I'm insulted you'd automatically think this was my fault."

"Well, you are the one letting Little Brody near your lady bits," Santana drawls before she can fully think about what she's saying. She's already acknowledged the fact she's bad at doing the gentle thing.

Rachel's response, however, isn't what she immediately expects. Instead of throwing an angry defensive outburst back at her, the girl pales and sags back into herself, looking down. "It... It may not be him."

What? Someone else is digging in the berry patch? "What?" Santana hopes her expression isn't completely stupid looking. Instead, while waiting for Rachel to respond, she pulls the girl back into her arms as she dissolves into quiet cries again.

"At the non-wedding," Rachel takes in a huge breath, hands curling in the sleeves of Santana's dress, "I... Slept with Finn."

Santana blinks. The Finncredible Hulk? There could be a baby whale brewing in Rachel's stomach? "I..." She swallows, "Wow. I didn't know you had that in you. Does Brody know?"

*

Rachel lifts her head a bit, and Santana can feel her nod her head. ”Yes,” she mumbles, “I told him, though not until he questioned me. We’re in an open, Sex and the City type of relationship, because apparently that’s what New York girls do.”  

Santana can’t help it; her mouth drops and she bites back a gasp. ”I thought… I mean, you were always little miss monogamous back in high school. We all thought you’d hogtie Finn and stick him in your trunk… You were that girl, Berry.” 

Rachel looks up at her with wide, horrified eyes, and Santana realizes she may not have been the kindest. She clears her throat awkwardly.

“Well, I’m certainly not that girl anymore. Brody can sleep with whomever he wants,” Rachel says, sniffling. 

Tears pour down Rachel’s face again, and Santana’s at a loss of what to do yet again; Rachel’s mouth says one thing, but her tears say another.

“We need to take you to a doctor before you cry a river, JT,” Santana says, rubbing her back. ”But until then, I can pull some Lima Heights shit on Brody for this Sex and the City garbage you’re spewing. The Rachel I know would gag at the thought of some other skank hopping on her man’s—” 

Rachel stops her. “Don’t, Santana!” 

Santana can’t help but laugh just a little at Rachel’s innocence. “I thought you were some high and mighty New York seductress… I thought you were Samantha, Berry. I don’t think she’d have a problem saying ‘dick.’” 

Rachel’s mouth goes slack and Santana’s happy to have her focused on something other than the parasite that may or may not be overtaking her uterus.

“Okay, okay,” Rachel grumbles, sitting up and avoiding Santana’s playful gaze. ”You know very well I don’t like this situation. But it is what it is. Brody likes sex and our dance teacher, and I like Brody, so it’s…”

“It’s fucked up, Berry, that’s what it is.” Santana doesn’t sugarcoat the truth; she never has, and she isn’t about to start to. ”It would be fine if you were fine, but you’re not. You’re not even close to it.”

“What do I do?” Rachel says after a couple of minutes of silence pass. ”Who do I tell?” She bites her lip. ”And who’s going to come with me to the doctor? I can’t go alone!” 

Santana can see a panic attack rising and she quickly comes to Rachel’s rescue.

*

"Whoah, whoah, calm your tits." Pushing her hands down on either side of Rachel's shoulders, Santana looks her straight in the eye. "Berry. What am I? Chopped liver? I'm not gonna just let you turn into a pathetic statistic." She shrugs, smiling, "What kind of friend would I be?"

Rachel's eyes are wide and very, very dark brown as she stares back at Santana. "What...?"

Santana barely holds back an eye roll. Pulling her hands back, she flips her hair back, behind her shoulder. "I. Will. Go. With. You," she sounds out slowly, overly obvious. After a second, she can't help adding, "Duh."

A giant, slow-growing disbelieving smile grows on Rachel's face. Her body wavers, and Santana sighs sufferingly, opening her arms; Rachel jumps into them. Her chest smacks into Santana's, cheek sticky against Santana's neck.

"You know," Santana smirks as she rubs Rachel's back, "I'm insulted you completely forgot about me." She really doesn't mean it. She knows how crazy Rachel gets, and how oblivious that craziness can make her. God, part of her hopes Rachel's not pregnant just for the sake of not having to deal with a hormonally crazy Rachel in the future.

But she pushes that thought away. Pregnant or not, Santana knows she's at least willing to try to be there for her friend. Since she'd moved in (or, if Santana was completely honest with herself - since the last third of senior year), she and Rachel had come to more of an understanding about how the other worked and how to deal with each other. And with that understanding, a pretty strong friendship had been flirting with becoming reality.

"Well, to be truthful, I had hoped you would want to go with me," Rachel murmurs, "...Even if I didn't initially wish for you to walk in on me." Settling more of her weight onto Santana's thighs, she gingerly sits back; Santana immediately slides one hand down to support her lower back, "Thank you for that."

Rachel looks terrible. Her cheeks and nose and eyes are red, tears still clinging to her eyelashes. Santana makes a face, stretching her arm sideways to bat the tissue box Rachel had been using closer to her until she can grab one. "Here," she proffers the tissue, smirking at the blush that causes, "You look terrible. You should fix that."

*

-----------------------------------

Rachel manages to make an appointment with a gynecologist the next morning, but the earliest the doctor can see her is next Tuesday—a whole week later. Santana swears she can hear Rachel grinding her teeth from across the room.

“They shouldn’t be able to do that to a potentially pregnant woman!” Rachel complains, her eyes still slightly swollen from the late night tears. She pushes her hair back behind her ear while pursing her lips.

“Well, when we get in there we can steal a plastic vag if it’ll make you feel better,” Santana says as if it’s the only logical solution. ”Lord knows we could teach our girl Hummel a thing or two with it.”

Rachel chuckles a little, and throws herself on the couch, exhausted. Santana follows suit. “Maybe even Brody.” 

Santana laughs. “I knew it; my dick’s probably bigger than his,” she jokes. 

Rachel blushes, and Santana smirks.

“Anyway,” Rachel says loudly, awkwardly changing the subject, “The appointment’s at 9:15 in the morning.”

Santana’s not done though. ”Have you ever liked sex before? I mean, I’ve been tackled by that ex-quarterback of yours and I know that’s no picnic. And then with Grody and his—” Santana stops abruptly when she sees the look of embarrassment on Rachel’s face. ”Sorry,” she says, not really meaning it. ”But I’m just saying. You sound like Quinn at the non-wedding.”

*

Rachel's eyes widen. "I sound like Quinn before she slept with you?"

Santana pauses, then smirks. "Well, yeah, but that wasn't what I was meaning. Still, wanky. Coming onto me, Berry?" Enjoying the look on Rachel's face, she chuckles and flops back, sliding her arm around Rachel's shoulders, "No, no, not gonna let you change the subject. Tell me. Do you even like sex?"

Fidgeting, her hands picking at the bottom of her sweater, Rachel licks her lips. "It's... Fine. I've heard that it's supposed to get better, and so what if I have to wait until my thirties to get into my prime? It's not like sex is that important." Her voice is getting steadily louder and more like she's trying to convince herself.

What the fuck is this shit? Santana stares down at the top of Rachel's head. Involuntarily, her arm tightens around Rachel's shoulders. "Rachel," she says lowly, moving her hand to lift up Rachel's chin. "Are you going to start telling me that it must be something wrong with you? Because if you are," she narrows her eyes, "Shut the fuck up. I don't want to hear it."

Rachel looks away. "But what if..."

"No. Cállate. Tell me who I have to bitch slap."

*

“You don’t have to do that to anyone,” Rachel says shyly. ”I mean, Finn tried his best, and Brody—well, he’s… I don’t know… I think he’s trying?” Her face is sweetly innocent, her eyebrows furrowed, and Santana shakes her head.

“If you have to ask, then he’s not. He’s playing on your naivete and getting his rocks off without doing any work for you. It’s like an unaired scene from an episode of The Donna Reed Show,” Santana says. ”And Chubby Checker can try all he wants, but when he thinks the word ‘clitoris’ is French for butterfly, there are bigger issues.” Santana takes a breath and tries to gauge Rachel’s reaction. 

She twiddles her thumbs nervously, but shakes her head. “Like I said, it’s fine. Sex isn’t everything.” Her voice wavers, but Santana can’t help but notice the facade of confidence she puts on.

“You can’t tell me that after dressing like a sexually frustrated schoolgirl all these years, you’re perfectly satisfied with a sexless relationship?” Santana imagines her briefly in one of her short, plaid skirts that fly up with any and every small movement. It sends a shiver up her spine, but because it’s Rachel, she pretends to ignore it.

*

"Our relationship isn't sexless, Santana. I would think - I would think this...  Drama," Rachel's hand trembles as she sweeps it up and down over her body, "Would make that obvious."

"It's sexless if you're not getting off." Santana shifts so she can hold up her hand, wiggling her fingers. "And if this and Vibrating Velma is the only way you're Slip n' Sliding, you're getting short shafted. Pun definitely intended."

Pulling away, Rachel swivels enough so it's obvious she's attempting to give Santana her back without moving from her embrace. "That's really none of your business and I don't know why I'm entertaining the notion of continuing to talk to you." She tilts her head back, briefly meeting Santana's eyes, "Besides, I know everything I say you will twist into diatribes against Brody and men in general."

Santana smirks and leans back into the couch. "Your choice in men, and I use that term loosely, definitely. All men?" She looks at Rachel still turned away from her again, "Nah." She lowers her voice, making it as suggestive and coaxing as she can, "You wanna hear about the rest of the guys in glee in case you want to move up? I can tell you length, width, average time devoted to foreplay, and degree in cunni - " She laughs when Rachel's hand whacks her thigh. "You're still so innocent, aren't you?"

*

“I think I’ll always be that innocent girl,” Rachel says, sighing. ”It’s ingrained in me. I might even be typecast into the role.” She fingers the edge of her shirt. 

Santana shakes her head and smirks, tilting her head and scooting a smidgen closer to Rachel. “The day I hear you through that curtain screaming someone’s name because you can’t not, then I’m pretty sure the Vestal Virgins take your membership card away.” Her voice is sultry, and she knows it. She can see Rachel swallow, and maybe Santana’s imagining it, but she’s pretty sure she feels her move closer, too. ”I guarantee, once you dump your drug dealing minuteman, we’ll find you someone who will make you feel just as good as Barbra does when she’s belting ‘People.’” Her voice turns into a near whisper at the end; she knows Streisand is the only way to sell Rachel on anything.

“Well, if I’m pregnant…” Rachel says, “How can I dump him?” 

Santana smiles, realizing Rachel’s at the very least entertaining the idea. “You don’t need to be together to pop out a baby. And why would you want someone around your kid who’s snorting coke off the stomach of some prostitute and then selling the leftovers to anyone looking for a dime?” 

In reality, Santana thinks, the baby would be better brought up by Rachel, Kurt, and herself. Really, between the three of them, that baby would be incredibly well cared for.

“I’m pretty sure you’re exaggerating, Santana,” Rachel mumbles, glaring. ”We have no idea what Brody’s doing with his time; that pager was purely coincidental. Maybe he’s starting up an a capella group of gentle old men who don’t know how to use cell phones?”

*

"Right, and I'm Jimmy Kimmel in drag. The sooner you accept that your Grody ain't so pure, the better you and that possible bean in your belly'll be better off." 

Honestly, aside from a somewhat attractive face, Santana doesn’t understand the appeal of Brody Weston. It was becoming increasingly obvious Rachel had the worst choice in men.

Santana frowns. Maybe it had to do with whoever showed her attention.

That was sad. Really, really sad.

Sighing, letting out a big breath of air, Rachel suddenly leans her head against Santana's shoulder. "Do you really think he's doing something so... Uncouth... And irresponsible?"

Uncouth. Santana shakes her head. "If you gotta ask, it means you're suspicious of him anyway. Don't you guys ever talk? Or is it all grunting and fake orgasms and walking around naked like he really thinks he's got the goods?"

Rachel's shampoo smells really nice and floral. It's incongruous to the whole situation, but it's so normal and Rachel that she'd have really nice smelling shampoo that Santana doesn't blame herself for dipping her head to get a better sniff. Girl practically offered it, after all.

Rachel sighs again. Shoulders and chest and neck relaxing, like she's too exhausted to keep herself up anymore, she settles more against Santana. Her voice is small and resigned as she lifts a hand to rub her eyes, "At least he liked me. Not many people... Guys... Do. I'm particular and severe and controlling and crazy. Who would want to put up with that?"

*

Santana pauses, more because it stings her to hear such a harsh statement, (especially since her personality is just as strong and just as severe), than because she doesn’t have a response.

“You’re being too harsh on yourself,” Santana says, leaning into her and pulling her a bit closer, trying to provide some sort of comfort. She takes another whiff of her hair, and then continues. ”You just know what you want. And yeah, sometimes you can be an ambitious bitch about it, but that’s a good thing, Berry. You’ve got balls and you’re not afraid to go after what you want. You’ll find someone who loves that.”

Rachel sniffles, and shifts herself so that she can look into Santana’s eyes. ”Do you really think so?” 

Her eyes are so hopeful and it touches Santana that she holds her opinion so highly after everything that’s happened between them, after everything she’s put her through. It hits her, yet again, that they really are friends.

“Yeah, I do,” she mumbles, hugging her closer. She’s not sure what else to say, so there’s a silence, though it’s not awkward or uncomfortable. Rachel snuggles into her a bit more, and Santana squeezes her gently.

“I think that’s one of my biggest fears, beside becoming a star,” Rachel says after awhile. ”Not finding someone who’ll put up with me.”

“I think that everyone’s got that fear; it’s human,” Santana mumbles. She feels Rachel nod against her. She’s not sure when their conversation got so heavy, but she feels somewhat closer to the girl in her arms. ”But you don’t have to cry out in fake ecstasy in order to keep a guy, Babs.”

*

Rachel's silent for a long time. Santana, almost counting the seconds, finally forces herself to ignore it as her ears attune to listening for whatever excuse her friend will come up with. She expects one. 

Instead, Rachel relaxes even further in Santana's arm. Her voice smiles, "I like it when you compare me to Barbra."

Santana is honestly shocked. "Uhm... Yeah," she says like it's obvious, and it really is, "It's not like you're secretive about your worship of her. And I have ears." Shrugging, Santana's arms tighten around Rachel; even if she's not attracted to the smaller girl - she's really not - she's not going to deny there's an obvious and noticeable parallel between Rachel and her idol.

"You mean that or you're just trying to butter me up?"

"For what?" Santana laughs. "Like you need a bigger ego. I calls it like it is, kay? And you're boss. So?" she continues, nodding her head and tapping Rachel's thigh, "Shuts the fuck up and listen to me when I tells you you're worth so much more than what you're settling for. Preggers or not."

Uncharacteristically again, Rachel's quiet for a couple of minutes. Her body doesn't move; Santana's beginning to wonder if she's broken her somehow. "Why are you doing this?" Rachel finally asks. It's like she's not even sure she's supposed to be able to say what she is.

Santana stares down at the top of her head again. "What?" For some reason, no matter what, she can't get Rachel's shampoo out of her head. That's just too strange and not supposed to happen. At all.

"Why are you being so nice?"

...What? That's ridiculous. "I'm not being nice."

"You are." Pressing lightly against Santana's forearm, Rachel's hand suddenly curls around Santana's wrist. "With this whole thing. With me. Where... Where is this coming from?"

*

Santana doesn’t exactly know what to say, so she rolls her eyes dramatically and says, “It’s not like I was going to verbally beat down a girl who’s preggers; we’re not on Teen Mom.” 

Rachel smiles, shaking her head, and Santana raises an eyebrow. ”What?”

“Maybe I’m wrong, but I think you’ve got a bit of a soft spot for me,” Rachel mumbles happily, a twinkle in her eye. 

Santana pretends to gag, more to hide the blush rising to her cheeks then anything else. “God, no, no, no,” she denies adamantly, but Rachel keeps smirking, and her voice becomes weaker. ”I mean, we’re friends, right?” Santana’s voice cracks. ”That’s all. Friends. This apartment has turned into a gay, overemotional version of that stupid show.”

“You know, I’m actually named after Rachel.” Rachel shrugs. ”My dads had a thing for that ‘stupid show.’” 

They grow silent again, because really what is there to say?

“So,” Rachel starts after a few more minutes pass. ”You like me. Who would’ve thought you’d be friends with a girl you called Chevy Chase for her entire freshman year of high school?”

“That was a mistake; Chevy Chase has bigger tits then you nowadays,” she says and Rachel laughs. Santana grins at her throaty, and even somewhat beautiful chuckle. It’s like she throws her whole heart into it, Santana thinks. She wants to make her laugh again, just so she can hear it, and just so she can make her smile.

God, Berry was right. She was being nice. Too nice.

*

"So. Right." Squinting her eyes, Santana pretends that she's trying to remember something. In actuality, it's more like she's trying to forget something. No matter how - surprisingly - nice it is to have Rachel in her arms and close like this, it's still Rachel. Definitely not the time to start perving on not only a straight girl, but one possibly pregnant as well. 

"Take a shower," she suddenly pushes Rachel off of her as she rises from the couch, smirking at her and raising her eyebrow, "It's time to gets ready."

Rachel stares at her. "For what?" she asks huffily, propping herself up on her elbows. Her bangs have fallen over her eyes, and it's entirely too humorous because it makes Rachel look like a petulant girl.

Santana rolls her eyes, chuckling. Crossing her arms, she pops out one of her hips, continuing her teasing smirk. "Like you really don't know."

"I don't."

"I'm hurt. Truly." Chuckling again, Santana shakes her head and heads to her section of the apartment. "Dress warmly," she calls back, "I'm sure if you think hard, you'll remember. It's not like we hadn't had this planned for weeks." She pauses, tapping her fingernails on the lamp next to her futon, "You wanna meet Kurt, or should I brave the pervert and homeless infested subway alls by myself, grab him, and come back?"

She hears Rachel rise from the couch. "Oh my god! The art show! How could I have forgotten? No, no, I can meet you guys - "

"Yeah, no way." Pushing back out of the curtain, Santana waits until Rachel meets her eyes to give her a pointed look. "Not gonna let you be at the mercy of pregnancy fetishists."

Rachel opens her mouth, eyes darkening. "We don't even know if I'm... Or not, and besides. I wouldn't even hardly be showing!"

"Don't care." Santana raises one of her fingers, cutting the girl off again, "You've gotten lucky so far, but look at you, Berry. No matter the rape whistle, you're tiny. Not gonna happen. Got it?"

*

”Yes,” Rachel says, her cheeks flush, clearly flattered by Santana’s gesture, but perhaps maybe even embarrassed by her absent-mindedness. ”Got it,” she mumbles, rushing to her room to put on something a bit classier, and a bit warmer, than the furry slippers and pajama shorts she is wearing. 

Santana waits on the couch, silently, trying not to think about anything in particular. Of course, she thinks, that always backfires; when you want to think of nothing, you end up thinking about everything you were avoiding. An image flashes in her head of a nude Rachel, scrambling to put on a bra and fresh underwear. She shakes the picture out of her mind, and tries to replace the scene with another, only to find a naked Brittany in her place.

“God,” she whispers to herself, pinching the bridge of her nose. ”It’s like I’m fucking Callie Torres.” She folds her arms over her chest, leaning back on the couch. ”Come on, Dawn Wells, you can put your hair up in pigtails on the way there.”

“Give me a minute, I want to look halfway decent; I’m pretty sure Brody said he was coming.” 

Santana sticks her finger in her throat and pretends to vomit when she hears his name. “Like you should care what that prick thinks; he’s balls deep in fairy dust,” she remarks. ”And if I remember correctly, we already had this conversation. Get a move on.”

Rachel stumbles into the living room, her purse swinging on her shoulder as she puts in her left earring, and then the right.

“How do I look?” she says, rather breathlessly.

*

Santana raises an eyebrow. "Not bad," she finally drawls, trying not to show how Rachel's new wardrobe is actually kind of really sexy and not helping with the thoughts of naked her and Brittany floating in her brain. Yeah, it's probably a good thing she's supposed to have the apartment to herself for the evening, with Brody doing whatever the hell it was he did that probably involved gallons of lube and burning nasal cavities, and Kurt and Rachel off to a NYADA party. It's definitely time that she gets her lady jam on.

Beaming, Rachel walks over and takes Santana's arm as soon as she's done straightening herself up. "I'll take that," she smiles and turns Santana towards the door, patting her forearm and pressing close to her side, "Ready to go?"

Clenching her jaw to keep her expression neutral, Santana lets out a put-upon sigh, lengthening her stride to take the lead and pulling away slightly to push open the door for them, "For ages, Berry. You know, I'm convinced that if you were set on fire, you'd stop to stare at yourself in the mirror before you jumped into the shower."

"Thought often about setting me on fire, did you?" Rachel smiles up at her. Preceding Santana out, she waits for her to join her, once again automatically retaking her arm.

Well. Not really surprising she'd be clingy, Santana tells herself. It's kind of nice having a sizzlin' hot babe on her arm, anyway. 'Bout damn time. People might think Santana's lost her mojo, and that's fuckin' ridiculous.

When Rachel's hip softly brushes against hers, Santana realizes the girl's still waiting for her response. She smirks. "Practically every day during sophomore year, and those oh so rare times during the years whenever your righteous brand of crazy got too much to stand."

*

And now it’s Brody you want to set on fire,” Rachel says, smiling. ”Oh, how things have changed.” 

It’s true, Santana thinks; she doesn’t think as much about the ways she can torture the girl who’s fingers are brushing oh-so-subtly against her wrist. She’s pretty sure the roles are reversed—but Rachel doesn’t realize just how torturous her unintentional grazes are.

“As if,” Santana retorts. ”While setting you on fire is no longer a wet dream of mine, it still occurs to me when you spend an hour trying to look nice for Bruce Bigalow.” 

Rachel blushes, but protests as they walk down the steps to the subway station. “Last time I checked, ten minutes does not constitute one hour,” she remarks smugly. She pulls Santana a little tighter to her side, and Santana wonders if it’s intentional. ”And I might be in your wet dreams, but I doubt it’s you setting me on fire,” she whispers, her voice a little shaky. The words are bolder than Santana ever imagined Rachel would go, and she must say she’s a bit floored.

It takes her a moment to compose herself. 

Did Rachel just insinuate that it was her getting Santana riled up in her own dreams? She turns to look at the girl beside her, and Rachel has the courtesy to look at least somewhat embarrassed.

“Touche,” Santana utters.  Rachel’s toying with the master; two can play this game. ”But when I think of you,” she mumbles, getting closer to Rachel’s ear, “Brody’s not even a part of the conversation.” She’s so close to her, she can feel her throat contract as she swallows.

Santana smirks, pulling away slightly, and dragging Rachel into the subway train that stopped before them only seconds earlier. ”Come on, you can continue to reenact the start of The Bare Bitch Project on the way to the art show.”

“Is that a—”

Santana cuts her off, laughing, “It’s a porno, Berry; deal with it. You mess with Snixx, you get it back in spades.”

*

Leading Rachel to the free seat in the corner of the car, Santana takes the standing spot in front of her. Normally, she would have glared at the person unlucky enough to sit where she wanted to be, but it was, surprise, surprise, a pregnant woman - either that or oddly fat. Either way, Santana doesn't want to give Rachel the wrong idea about how she'd treat her in the future.

Besides. This way, Rachel's face is perfectly positioned to get an eyeful of Santana's waist and thighs and hips and everything else Santana knows how to work. She smirks down at the red cheeks and wide eyes glowing up at her. Maybe this subway trip won't be such a goddamn drag like so many of them.

Rachel tugs on her hand. "You're liking this," she whispers into Santana's ear as she lowers herself, making sure not to flash the sketchy looking businessmen behind her. The small girl sounds more amused than anything.

Santana smirks, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I have no idea what you mean," she replies, "But it certainly seems like you now have your heart set on reenacting Subway Hos 6."

"Subway Ho - " Rachel cuts short her loud, strangled exclamation, eyes darting around. "Subway Hos 6?" she stage whispers. Obviously she stage whispers too enthusiastically, because the pregnant woman next to her stifles a cough. Blushing brightly, Rachel's eyes skim along Santana's thighs as she sways provocatively and very on purpose.

"Right." Smirking, Santana places her free hand on her hip. If the trip was going to be longer, she might be entertaining the idea of pushing their luck. But she's not and she's really not an exhibitionist no matter the amount of times she'd been caught doing the beast with two backs in the past. Doesn't mean she's going to pull Snixx back yet, though. "If you were scooted any closer to the edge of the seat, we'd be well on our way into the second act."

*

Rachel’s face flushes again, the girl purposely scooting back a bit on her seat. 

Santana smiles, her tongue between her teeth, and Rachel looks away, embarrassed. It’s easy to make the girl sitting before her red in the face, but she still finds it oddly pleasing when she does. It’s as if the stuff she dares joke about could happen, and though Santana hates to admit it, the idea of getting off at the hand of Rachel Berry in the subway is exciting, to say the least.

“I want no such thing,” Rachel mumbles, clearly entranced—and lying through her teeth—and she turns her head to look her straight in the eyes. 

Santana licks her lips slowly, moving her hand down her hip and a smidgen closer to center. 

”But it would seem,” Rachel says, breaking their stare and gazing at the placement of Santana’s hand, “That you’re… Interested in a certain subway seduction.” She scoots closer again, and mimics Santana by swiping her tongue over her full lips.

Santana gulps. She doesn’t expect such blatant flirting, but after the conversation she and Berry have had today, she’s not sure what to expect anymore. She quickly recovers though, placing her hand on Rachel’s shoulder, her fingers lacing in her hair.

“I’m not sure if you and your lovely lady lumps can handle it,” she says, leaning down to whisper in her ear, it just a plus that her cleavage is perfectly aligned with Rachel’s gaze. It hits her, just for a moment, that this is supposed to be a game—just a game—and she wonders briefly if it’s turned into something more. But it flits from her mind when she sees Rachel’s eyes turn instantly from playful to lustful. 

They remain quiet until the subway stops; Santana leans closer to Rachel as the throngs of people make their way on and off, and Rachel says, just loudly enough for Santana to hear, “That’s what you think.”

Rachel stands up as the subway starts up again, preparing herself for their departure at the next stop just minutes away, and their bodies brush against each other with the sway of the car. Rachel avoids Santana’s eyes, but she doesn’t try to move away; instead, she lets their bodies touch, graze, and she lets her eyes linger.

Santana doesn’t know what the hell she’s playing at, but she can’t say she doesn’t like it.

*

Reaching past Rachel, taking hold of one of the vertical poles, Santana makes sure her arm brushes along the smaller girl’s waist. Not even pretending that it's for support, she enjoys the little shiver Rachel does that's only helped by the sway of the subway car. Slitting her eyes, lips curling up, Santana takes the moment afforded to her by Rachel looking up, meeting her eyes, to think over things.

Rachel's possibly pregnant.

Santana's the only one who knows. 

Santana's maybe sorta strangely developed a soft spot for the hobbit. And maybe even honestly attracted to her. Somehow.

But weirdest of all, Rachel's possibly attracted to her and openly, in her crazy midget way, flirting back?

Okay, no, maybe weirdest of all, Santana likes it. Likes this. Likes this side of Rachel. It’s refreshing and appealing and new and…

Why is it happening? Because Rachel’s possibly pregnant and Santana’s the only one who knows?

Frowning, tilting her head away, Santana moves her gaze to the doors of the subway. She can feel Rachel’s curious gaze along the side of her face, but she ignores her. This is insane. And aside from Quinn, Santana’s always told herself to never get emotionally invested in straight girls. And goodness knows she and Rachel are friends, so that side is unemotional, no matter how hard she’d like to fool herself.

Santana shifts. Why did she start to think about these things? Hadn’t she just  been thinking about public subway sex and how much she can continue teasing Rachel with her body? Why can’t she go back to that, dammit?

As if feeding off Santana’s thoughts, she and Rachel are silent for the next couple of minutes. But as soon as they’re off, Santana automatically making sure Rachel’s in no danger of tripping or being bowled over by a fuckin’ asshole like that one guy tried to do, Rachel tugs Santana’s arm into hers again. 

“Santana?”

Santana gives in, looking back down at her. “C’mon,” she rolls her eyes, smirking, tightening her arm muscles to make Rachel glance down, “Let’s go be the hottest mothers at this art show. But I’m telling you now – gives me wine to make this worth it or I’ll hold this forever over you.”

Rachel’s fingers brush along Santana’s wrist again. “Over me?” she says, smiling, barely loosening her grip as they climb the stairs to reach street level, “I think something can be arranged…”

*

Santana bites her lip, torn between her recent thoughts and the clear sexual innuendo in front of her. Rachel’s eyes are playful, and she can feel the brunette tighten her grip around her arm. Santana doesn’t respond to Rachel’s remark, but instead smirks at her (figuring it is, perhaps, a safer option) and they walk quietly down the sidewalk.

“It’s not far from here,” Rachel murmurs, looking up at Santana. Her eyes are wide, as always, and her bangs are just brushing the tips of her eyelashes, and for just a moment, Santana admires how beautiful she is.

But when Rachel looks away, the moment passes, and she can feel herself being dragged by the gnome across the street. It’s enough to make Santana roll her eyes again. But this time, she’s not sure who she’s rolling them at—herself, or Rachel.

They stay pretty quiet until they make it to the art show. The building’s tiny and the lighting’s dim, with the exception of the lighted pieces, and Santana can already tell it’s not her scene. There’s a painting of what she can only describe as an abstract dick, and she makes a face. Of course this would be Kurt’s scene.

Rachel’s grabs her a glass of red wine off of a tray and Santana gulps most of it down pretty quickly. It’s been a long day and she needs a buzz. She glances at Rachel, who seems to be looking at the picture of the cock with befuddlement and she sneaks up behind her and whispers, “Pretty sure that’s meant to be a one-eyed snake, Berry.” 

Rachel jumps, putting her hand on her chest, and turns around to face her friend. “And you would know this how?” she asks with a raised brow, folding her arms over her chest.

“I’ve had quite a few cocks in my henhouse,” Santana replies, taking another sip of wine. 

Rachel blushes, clearly looking around to make sure there are no professors or dignitaries anywhere close. “Well, aren’t you quite the expert,” she mumbles, looking back up at the painting. ”What I don’t understand,” she nearly whispers, “Is why it’s blue.” 

Santana snorts, but revels in her curiosity, and even in her innocence. There’s something so magical about it. 

But then there’s a flash of sadness as she wonders briefly if she’ll lose it when (or if?) she’s a mother.

*

Deciding to let the girl have that momentary innocence, Santana fades back into the crowd, swiping another glass of wine from a passing waiter. Taking her time with this one, she watches Rachel move from the blue dick to another abstract painting, one Santana’s pretty sure is fellatio in progress. She doesn’t know when her mind became attuned to this particular painter’s psyche, and if she cared enough to think about it, she’d probably find herself disturbed, but it’s more like a passing thought, one in the back of her mind as her eyes take in the petite form she’d surreptitiously admired for years.

Right now, that petite body could be getting ready to expand for new life.

Hissing her breath out of her mouth, Santana clenches her jaw. At the least the girl’s not drinking herself. No, she’s just standing in front of god awful “art”, being the dutiful friend and waiting for the other friend who set up the whole evening to get there. Sometimes, Santana rolls her eyes, Rachel’s way too lenient.

“Oh god, sorry, sorry,” a very loud effeminate voice sweeps up to Santana’s side, Santana turning to find a flurried Kurt pulling off his jacket and scarf, an equally hurried Adam behind him, “But at least I’m here now!”

“Joy,” she replies, giving the two unimpressed looks. “Tell me,” she says over the pulsing faux-club music that seems to be the norm at stereotypical art shows, “Why am I being subjected to Clay Aiken’s mushroom induced wet dream?”

Kurt adopts a pouty look of self-suffering, exchanging a barely restrained rolling of his eyes glance with Adam. “It’s not that bad.”

Adopting her version of the disinterested, almost judging ‘mmhm’ comment as an expression, Santana waves her hand at the wall of paintings in front of her.

“Oh god,” Kurt’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open, “It’s worse.”

Santana nods, hiding her biting remark behind her glass of wine. Her eyebrows quirk up. Watching the bright blush and almost hyperventilating panic cross Kurt’s face before he hurries over to Rachel’s side with a tossed, “I’ll… Be right back!” she turns her gaze to a laughing Adam.

Seeing her looking at him, he grins, shrugging.

Santana’ll take that. Tilting her head, she smirks back, then knocks back the rest of her wine. “So tell me,” her lips quirk up, fingers fluttering at the wall of gay porn, “Got any comments on Fellatio #6?”

*

Adam bites back laughter, subtly snorting into his drink, and Santana places her empty wine glass on a table nearby that holds information about the artist. As long as Kurt doesn’t notice, she’s sure she’ll get away with it. 

“When Kurt told me this was a sexual exhibit, I thought it would be tasteful, but…” Adam’s voice trails off, and the two stare at a painting that Santana can only understand to be a hot pink cock sitting atop a set of incredibly muscular man boobs. Adam cocks his head to the side, and Santana shrugs.

“Whatever,” she grumbles, glancing at Rachel and Kurt talking intimately in a corner by a glass dildo on a pedestal. ”It’s not as if dicks are foreign to any of us, anyway—as flamboyant as this show is.” She looks around. ”I wonder if Elton John’s here.” She grabs another drink from the waitress passing by, and saunters over to Rachel and Kurt, leaving Adam without another thought.

“…And so we’ve just been flirting non-stop, Kurt, and I’m just—” 

It’s all Santana can hear before Rachel stops mid-sentence and looks up at her like a tarsier. She smirks, but pretends not to hear the beginnings of Rachel’s new book, Confessions of a Questioning Jew. “How are Glinda and Elphaba enjoying the colorful cocks of the 21st century?” 

Rachel rolls her eyes, while Kurt throws a hand in the air.

“I was told by the artist that it had something to do with pride and the intimacy of the political agenda to the personal sphere, but let’s be real—it looks more like a sex circus featuring Andy Warhol and Samantha Jones,” Kurt huffs out.

“At least it’s got a meaning,” Rachel says, glancing timidly at a painting of the purple dick again. ”Without it, it just seems trashy and…”

“Ridiculous?” Santana asks. The emphasis makes Kurt raise an eyebrow and Rachel furrow her brow. ”Sorry for trying to put a little fun into this cocks-only orgy. If I knew it was going to be a dickfest, I would’ve worn my strap-on for good measure.”

*

Kurt’s mouth opens as his Adam’s apple bobs. “Santana...” he clears his throat, shaking his head and purposefully not looking at Rachel next to him, “Please. We both know your ensemble would not support such a bold accent.”

Taking note of Rachel’s aghast expression, Santana gives her a quick wink before turning her attention fully to Kurt. “Really?” she asks, raising her eyebrows, “Because I’s pretty sure I’s can get away with whatever the hells I wants to get away with.” Smirking, she allows her mouth to be covered by her wineglass. 

“I don’t doubt that you have that expectation about yourself,” Kurt rolls his eyes, suddenly reaching over and grabbing a glass of what is probably champagne from a passing waiter; offering it to Rachel, he barely reacts when she immediately shakes her head, eyes flitting to Santana’s, “But that isn’t taking into account how your... Shall we say, action would be received by your audience.”

Surveying the crowd of mainly flaming RuPauls, Santana snickers. “Lady Hummel,” she reaches out, snagging his arm and lacing it through hers, barely remembering not to pat him with her hand full of wine, “Look at these queens. Frankly, I’d be surprised if they didn’t want to have a contest of comparison.”

“Santana.” 

Rachel’s voice is high and almost squeaky, so full of mortification that it automatically makes Santana want to press her luck even more. “What?” she asks, making sure to keep a hold on Kurt even as she turns her attention onto the other girl in their group - hell, practically the only other girl in the whole damn place, “Or, wait, I’m sorry, am I leaving you out?”

Rachel’s mouth clacks shut.

“I get it. You want a private show - “

“As I was saying,” Rachel suddenly throws out, practically yelling over her, “If this show does, indeed, have a meaning, no matter how... Uhm... Ineffectually  presented it is...”

It’s obvious she’s searching for a change of topic, and, for once, Santana decides she’ll allow it. Poor little virginal Rachel. It’s almost sad. Knocking back the rest of her wine, deciding it would do no harm to have another one - or two - Santana waves at the same waiter she’s already stolen two drinks from. “Fiiiiine,” she sighs after replacing her empty glass with some champagne, “Let’s pretend this isn’t just filthy smut.”

*

“I don’t know why Rachel is acting as though this is a new scene for her,” Kurt mumbles, waving his hand as to brush Santana off. Santana can see Rachel glaring at Kurt out of the corner of her eye as he continues. “I remember Finn telling me about a little party your fathers hosted about a year ago...”

Santana snorts, choking slightly. “I’m a little offended that Finn was invited to this little soiree and I was left to fiddle with my fake schlong all by myself.”

The heat rises to Rachel’s face. “Finn was not there! And I... Holed myself up in my room.” She folds her arms over her chest protectively. “And the image of you and... And that--” her voice lowers to a whisper, “--Fake penis is just--”

“--The reason why you holed yourself up in your room in the first place?” The words fumble out of her mouth before Santana realizes it, and although she knows she should stop making Rachel completely uncomfortable, she’s instantly pleased with her insinuation when she sees Rachel’s stunned and perhaps slightly horrified reaction.

“No!” is all that Rachel can bring herself to utter. She runs her fingers through her hair, fidgeting, and Santana can tell she’s looking for another way out of this dreadfully embarrassing conversation.

Kurt doesn’t notice--or pretends not to. He ignores Santana’s latest remark, and continues with his story. “Finn admitted to me that you, my dear Rachel, may have bought an item or three at this little shindig.” He raises an eyebrow at the petite girl, and says, “And I don’t blame you; I hear he was quite the minuteman.”

 Rachel groans, her cheeks flushing even further. She looks around the room anxiously, and then holds her wrist up. “Oh my gosh, look at the time!” 

“And where exactly am I looking, Rachel?” Kurt says, chuckling. “At the beautiful Michael Kors diamond-studded titanium wristwatch on your arm? Oh, wait--no--that would be my arm; yours is bare. Are you trying to look like a hag? No jewelry? And what’s with the shaved arm? Should I be worried that it’ll be your head, next, Sinead?”

Santana takes another sip of champagne, feeling slightly buzzed, and interrupts. “It really is a shame, you know; that ex of yours was no Andy Hardy. He came, he came, and the case of ‘where’s the clit?’ was never resolved.”

“I think it’s about time we go to that party, Kurt!” Rachel squeals, her voice pitchy, and Kurt rolls his eyes.

“Excuses, excuses.” Kurt points to the glass dildo nearby. “Was that one of your purchases?”

Rachel pouts, and Santana finishes off her drink and grins, “I think it’s time Charlotte and I hit the ladies room, bitches!” Shewatches Rachel visibly gulp and cackles, dragging Rachel behind her.

*

Rachel’s wrist is small in her hand, and Santana does her best not to focus on that fact. She’s betting, by the way the crowd has been in the past half hour, that the bathroom will be practically a graveyard, and as soon as she pushes the door open, she ignores Rachel’s protest that there’s no reason she needs to visit the ‘powder room’ anytime soon. “Barbra, chill,” she gives the smaller girl, pushing her farther into the bathroom when she hesitates near the door as soon as Santana lets go of her wrist, “Or did you want to continue hearing the Lady Gay talk about your toy collection - which, I might add, I am beyond curious about.”

Staring up at her, eyes wide and dark and suddenly blinking when she realizes what Santana means, Rachel’s cheeks darken. Her hands sliding up along her arms as she moves to the side of the bathroom as Santana turns to squint into the mirror, making sure her makeup is still flawless, it’s the obvious the girl wants to say something by the way her mouth opens and closes.

Santana rolls her eyes. “Yes, Berry?” she asks, meeting her gaze through the mirror, “Spit it out.”

Rachel sighs. “You’re really uncomfortable here, aren’t you?”

A loud bark leaves Santana’s mouth before she can stop it, and she turns around, shifting her weight onto the sink via her hip. “‘Scuze me? No. Shirley Temple. You’d have to be the one uncomfortable for this world to make any sense.” Like, what?

Rachel’s hand is waving in the air. “I just.” The girl takes a deep breath. “I mean. Lesbian?”

Santana squints at her. “Okay...” she starts, “Either you’re suffering from a stroke, or you’re speaking in tongues. Dammit, spit it out already.”

It legit seems like Rachel’s in the process of swallowing her tongue. Her arms are crossed protectively in front of her stomach, as if she’s already in the habit of protecting a baby, and Santana can’t deny it’s kind of creepy. That had to be evolutionary, or some such crap. Fuck, she is far too tipsy for this.

When she looks up again after shaking her head, Rachel is suddenly in front of her, and it takes all of Santana’s Lima Heights Adjacent cool to stop herself from jumping. Her forehead furrowing, Rachel’s reaching for Santana’s arm, and, for some reason, Santana lets her make contact.

“I just...” When Rachel sighs, her whole body practically deflates, fingers curling into her palm on the sleeve of Santana’s blouse. Her eyes flit up, meeting Santana’s, “I’m not comfortable here.” Her smile is small.

“Right, and you wanted to use me as an excuse even with your past adventures, huh?” Pursing her lips, Santana rolls her eyes again before she lifts her hands, curling them around Rachel’s waist. Ignoring just how small it really is, she waits until Rachel faces her fully. “Berry. Rachel. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but there’s nothing wrong with telling, well, more like insisting to Kurt you want to hurry up and head to the NYADA party.”

“Wha - oh. Right.” 

Santana frowns. “You are still going to that party, right?” she practically demands, not sure if it’s because she knows she needs the time to herself in the apartment more or because she’s trying to foster more independence in the other girl so she can continue to give herself more time. Though, fuck, what would Rachel have to do if she wouldn’t be drinking? Wasn’t that the whole point of parties like that?

Gritting her teeth, Santana tries to ignore that train of thought. She needs the apartment to herself. She does. Alone time. Brittany naked thoughts and Rachel - oh god. Santana growls imperceptibly in her throat. No. No Rachel thoughts. She just needs this because.

*

“Uhm, yeah, I guess,” Rachel mumbles, looking down at her feet. 

Santana’s eyes flit to Rachel’s hand, which is yet again cradling her might-be-preggers stomach, and she can’t help but sigh at the sight in front of her. She wonders when she became such a fucking pansy. She decides not to give into the girl, if only on principle.

“Look, I know it’s been a long night, Babs, but I think you and Judy need a night to yourselves.” Santana brings a finger to Rachel’s chin to lift her head up slightly. “Go sing a duet, or have a Pitch Perfect-esque show-off where Kurt ends up bawling because you’re just that awesome, Berry.” Santana drops her finger and smiles at her, adding, “Worse comes to worst, I pick you up early and we’ll go get some vegan dessert afterwards, okay?” 

Though she offers, Santana internally reprimands herself; with her luck, Rachel would be calling while one hand was down her pants, jerking off to the image of Brittany in her sexy Catwoman suit from two Halloweens ago.

But Rachel smiles broadly, giving Santana a gentle, easy hug, and Santana can’t help but be pleased she made an effort. 

Twirling her finger in her brown locks, Rachel turns back to look at the mirror and decides to add another coat of her clear gloss. 

Santana simply stands back and watches closely, eyeing Rachel’s lips with interest and--though she’d hate to admit it--attraction. It’s neither here, nor there, however, because Rachel smacks her lips and tosses the tiny tube back into her purse before she has a chance to truly fantasize--which is all for the better,  Santana thinks. 

“I guess I’ll tell Kurt I’m ready to go, then,” Rachel says, a little more cheerful than she was only minutes before. “Do you think he’ll really be okay leaving?”

Santana smirks, locking arms with Rachel as they begin to strut towards the door. “I don’t care how many hundreds of dicks he’s surrounded by, he’ll always choose you over them.” 

Rachel turns pink, and then chuckles, realizing the double meaning.

When they join Adam and Kurt again, Rachel exchanges Santana’s arm for her friend’s slightly bulkier, paler one. Leaning into his side, she looks up and says, “Time for the NYADA party, isn’t it? I think I’m ready to go.” Kurt nods, and then Rachel turns to look at Adam. “Are you coming?”

Adam shrugs and shakes his head ‘no’. “Not really my scene, to be honest. But you two have fun.” He smiles wholeheartedly, and Santana almost gags at his kindness.

“See you later, Santana,” Rachel mumbles, waving her hand quickly, and Kurt lifts a hand, bidding his roommate farewell.

“Go find yourselves some nice cocks of your own, ladies,” she says, winking. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she calls out as they roll their eyes and turn to leave.

Santana swears she hears Kurt yell back a reply of, “I have Adam--and last time I checked, ‘cocks’ are not on your list of things to do!”

*

A smooth, pleased smile on his face, Adam rocks back and forth on his heels. Looking at Santana, he raises his eyebrows.

Rolling her eyes, Santana doesn’t hold back her smirk as she whacks his arm. “Well?” she verbalizes for him, “Yeah, shut it.” 

Pushing her hair behind her shoulders and straightening, peering back over the crowd to see if any other helpless lesbian or bisexual or questioning girl is there that she can conscript into a satisfying quickie in the empty bathroom, she tries to ignore the nagging loss of a hug that hadn’t happened. It’s fine. It’s not like she and Rachel hug every time they say hello or goodbye to each other. In fact, it would be an anomaly if it happened. So she should just ignore it and continue...

There.

Zeroing in on the sinfully attractive redhead laughing across the room, Santana takes a couple of seconds to make sure this won’t be another mistaken bad lighting moment. 

Adam’s presence moves closer to her side. “Santana.”

“Hmm?” Narrowing her eyes, Santana taps her fingernails against her champagne glass.

A smile curls around Kurt’s boyfriend’s words, “That’s Charlene. Don’t worry. She’s gay and looking.” An infuriating smile easily crosses his face. “Want me to introduce you?”  

Santana shakes her head, only to find herself agreeing a second later. It’s not that she needs the help; it’ll just make it easier to get to the tasty payoff... 

One she’s been sorely lacking in.

---------------------------------

Charlene is hot and sexy and interested and responding in exactly the perfect way. She’s fit and barely taller than Santana, skinny in that dancer way, and her lips promise hours of pleasure. Her hand has been hot on Santana’s arm for ten minutes now, her voice pretty and laugh not annoying as they make their way around the art show for Santana’s first in-depth time, and Santana knows for a fact that if she just says one word, smiles that smile, they’d be in the bathroom or in a cab heading back to the loft lickety-split. It should be easy. It’s not like she’s a prude and she’s certainly no stranger to casual sex, and it’s obvious Charlene isn’t either.

The words are practically on the tip of Santana’s tongue, the fire a second away from erupting within her lady loins. It should be so easy.

But it’s not.

For some infuriating reason, Rachel and her sweet innocent look of confusion keeps on playing in front of Santana’s eyes. No matter how many fake phalluses she looks at, it’s Rachel’s dark gaze that looks back at her. No matter how many suggestive words Charlene whispers to her, it’s Rachel’s innocent comments that echo in Santana ears, the faint memory of Brittany swirling behind a second later. Though that’s not unusual, the inclusion of Rachel is, and the end result is that it’s not comfortable.

Finally, unable to find anymore reasons she can put off dragging this sinfully sexy woman around the show, Santana stops them in front of the same glass dildo she’d been with Rachel and Kurt. “Okay,” she forces a smile, lowering her voice and meeting Charlene’s bright green eyes, “I think we both know what’s going on. And as exciting this exhibit is, I’m thinkin’ it’s a bit... Counterproductive to me sayin’ I’m attracted to you.”

Charlene’s lips curl up. “That’s good,” she laughs lightly, moving her hands to Santana’s hips, teasingly dragging her thumbs up and down, “And bad. I guess.” She shakes her head, teeth white as she grins, leaning in, voice lowering as well, “But, I can assure you, you won’t be disappointed because the feeling is very mutual.”

“Good.” Agreeing, Santana lets an alluring smirk play with the corners of her mouth. It’s almost too easy how this is a sure thing. Almost... Off putting. 

Which is ridiculous, Santana chastises herself. This whole reluctance thing? Ridiculous. Charlene is hot and ready to go and practically - is exactly what Santana needs.

So Santana steps forward.

*

Santana laces her fingers with Charlene’s, reminding her almost immediately of how she held Rachel’s wrist just minutes before. It’s different, though, this time around. Rachel’s hand was smaller, and Santana’s grasp was less intimate, less sensual. She can feel Charlene’s thumb gently stroking her own, and it’s... Nice. Really nice. But nothing else. She waits to feel a shiver of delight down her spine, or perhaps a spark of desire in the pit of her stomach; all she ends up feeling, though, is the desire to bolt.

Of course, she doesn’t. She walks to the subway with Charlene’s soft, bony hand clasped in hers, not entirely sure of herself or the situation she’s put herself in. When they get to the subway, she pulls away, but only so that she can wrap her arm around Charlene’s waist and whisper delicately in her ear, “I’m not too far from here; just a few subway stops.” Santana wonders why she doesn’t add something dirtier, something seductive and tempting, but she decides to make up for it by sliding three fingers into the waistband of her jeans. Charlene’s skin is smooth and... Nice.

Santana pulls her fingers back and she’s thankful that the subway is close enough that she can begin to fiddle with her purse and pull out her MetroCard and do something productive. Charlene does the same, and when Santana looks up at her, she winks and a smile plays at her lips--it’s almost overwhelming, how unfazed she feels.

She puts on a smirk, takes her hand, and bounces down the stairs. At the bottom, she pulls Charlene close, pressing herself against the girl, and licks her lips with a certain confidence that sends noticeable goosebumps down Charlene’s arms. Santana places a chaste kiss on Charlene’s lips, then mumbles throatily, “That’s not the only place I want my mouth right now.” The line is cheap, and not Santana’s best, but it’s the best she can muster up in the moment.

The subway is nearly empty, which means Charlene is more than happy to nuzzle Santana’s neck, nibbling and sucking gently, uttering words that Santana’s usually the one saying. Not to be outdone, Santana moves her hand beneath the girl’s shirt, feeling the expanse of her stomach, inching upward dangerously. She can hear a breathy moan escape Charlene’s mouth, but Santana doesn’t feel the lust that usually overpowers her.

When they stumble off of the subway and up to the apartment, her hand is in Charlene’s back pocket like some sort of teenager, and it’s already nothing like her other hookups. She tries to inspire a little more excitement on her end, walking backwards into her apartment, Charlene’s lips attached to hers, their tongues brushing. Santana pushes her onto the couch, and then straddles her, grinding her hips against Charlene’s and cupping her breast while planting open mouthed kisses on her neck. Charlene tangles her fingers in Santana’s hair and Santana wants to feel something, but what it feels like is forced.

She pulls back to study Charlene’s face, just for a moment. Her skin is pink, her eyes are dark with lust, and her nose is just a little too perfect.

“What?” Charlene murmurs. But when Santana begins to respond, her phone vibrates against her hip bone.

*

Doing her best to ignore it, figuring it’s a text from a drunken Puck or someone as so not important at this moment, Santana leans forward again, heading past where Charlene’s eyes can follow her. Opening her mouth, she’s just about to latch back onto the already reddening neck, palms once again heading to slip under Charlene’s shirt when her phone vibrates again.

“You’re vibrating,” Charlene laughs huskily. Her fingers grip Santana’s hair, a hand sliding down her shoulder. “Is that a special talent or...?”

It’s obvious she’s teasing, and Santana suddenly starts to feel bad for her. Forcing a groan, she sits up and back, resting more on her heels than Charlene’s knees. “Sorry,” she grunts, smiling faintly as she digs into her pocket, “Depending, I can throw it away.” Digging the phone out, she shoves her hair behind her shoulder before pushing her hand into the back of the couch, above Charlene’s shoulder to keep herself balanced.

She doesn’t know who she wants it to be. Part of her hopes it’s Rachel or Kurt, meaning she’d have to bow out, while the other, more stubborn and forcibly oblivious part of her hopes it’s someone she can blow off. No matter her annoying misgivings about this whole thing, sex is sex and would be good for something.

Mamí Lopez glares up at her.

Groaning for real, it’s like a wash of cold water, and Santana rolls off and to the side of Charlene. “Sorry,” she puts her hand on the girl’s thigh, “Just a, gotta take - hello?”

“Santí! ¿Como estas?”

“Bien, Mamí. What is it?” Seriously? Now? Out of the corner of her eye, Santana can see Charlene doing her best not to make it obvious she’s listening as she shifts, fingers opening and closing in her lap. If it isn’t so awkward already, Santana would be laughing. Instead, she’s wondering if this’ll completely drain all the dregs of her libido still trying to stay involved.

“Hopefully I’m not bothering you, but do you remember where your Papí left his toolbox?”

A bark of laughter leaves Santana’s mouth. “Really?” she practically matches Rachel’s level of energy at any given time of day, “You’re calling - you’re  honestly calling your so not butch daughter to ask her where the toolbox is? Are you - I bet you don’t even know what time it is here, do you.”

Charlene stifles a laugh, and Santana turns, meeting her eyes to share her look of disbelief. Oh yeah. This is sexy. Shaking her head, she sighs.

*

She’s not sure what her mother says next, but she knows there’s an apology in there somewhere, so she groans, “Okay, Mamí, I’m in the middle of something, can I call you tomorrow? I don’t know where the toolbox is.”

“Okay, Santí. You take care. I love you.”

“Love you, too.” When she hangs up, she sighs and rolls her eyes, then shoves the phone back in her pocket. “Sorry about that.” And even though she’s not sure she’s even enjoying the sexy time she’s created for herself, she means it. 

Charlene smiles at her, and it’s this small, genuine grin that turns her stomach just enough to make Santana want her, right here, right now, only for tonight. So Santana finds her way back on the girl’s lap, her knees sinking into the couch cushions, the edges of her mouth curving upward. Her hips find their groove again, and Charlene places a hand on the back of Santana’s neck and pulls her down to kiss her.

Santana can sense a smirk growing on Charlene’s lips, and it riles Santana up more than she’d care to admit. She pulls her mouth away from Charlene’s just long enough to mumble, “Bed. Now,” then plants another kiss on the girl’s lips and strips herself of her shirt, throwing the thin fabric to the floor without a second thought, before sliding off of Charlene and taking her hand, pulling her gently toward the bedroom. Charlene releases her hand only to shimmy out of her own blouse, and Santana’s impressed. Her tits are bare for her to ogle, no bra to be seen.

Santana can’t wait until the bedroom. Pulling Charlene flush against her, Santana kisses down her chest slowly, passionately, and palms her breast easily. When Charlene sighs to herself, practically inaudibly, Santana pauses only to unhook her own black lace bra. It’s only when their jeans and panties are off that Santana realizes that they’ve left a trail of clothing from the couch all the way to the bedroom door. She gazes at the path, cringing slightly, thinking for a moment about Kurt and Rachel--Rachel--but then Charlene clears her throat and Santana turns around and suddenly her brain is void of any logical thought.

“Come here,” Charlene says huskily, her legs parted, her pink thong hanging from her index finger. Santana’s throat goes dry as she gazes at the girl laying so hungrily on her bed. In the brief second before she positions herself between the girl’s legs, Santana can hear a phone vibrate against the wooden floor. It’s a few feet away, and she knows it’s Rachel. She knows in her gut that it’s the girl that has taken a small place--a really small place, mind--in her heart. But she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t allow herself to get it. Instead, she steps out of her boy shorts and crawls onto the bed. She crawls onto the bed, between this stranger’s open legs and doesn’t think. She can’t think.

If she stops to think, she’ll stop altogether, and she deserves this.

She licks her lips and grasps Charlene’s thighs and ignores her. She slides her tongue to meet Charlene’s desire head on, and just gives in to the feeling of lust overwhelming her. The smells, the sounds--the taste of her skin and her sweat and her arousal--it surrounds her, it engulfs her, and she can’t help but indulge.

*

Charlene is a practiced lover, responsive and delicious, full of moans and heat and not afraid to use her fingernails. She grips Santana’s hair and neck and ears as she goes down on her, rolling her hips and making noises that makes it obvious she’s very appreciative of what Santana’s doing. It feeds Santana’s ego, which in turn fans her libido. 

Yes. This is exactly what she’s been missing, hanging out with Miss Priss Virgin Mary One and Two: sex. Scratching an itch. Because if the way Charlene is reacting is descriptive of how she’ll reciprocate, Santana’s set. 

God, she slowly licks up, swirling her tongue around the hard point of Charlene’s clit, she missed this. 

Charlene’s trembling, chest heaving, the scrape of her fingernails sharp along Santana’s skin. She’s mewling, head twisting back and forth as she arches up, taught on her shoulders. “Oh,” she gasps, “You’re good at that.”

Chuckling, Santana dips back down. Damn well better should be, she thinks, but doesn’t verbalize it. Instead, with a quick glance up at Charlene’s pleasure stained face, she pushes two fingers into her, curling them up. She tells herself she can’t surely be hearing her phone vibrate on the floor from here, with what’s overwhelming her senses and ears. 

She has to convince herself she can’t hear it, at least. An uncomfortable pit in her stomach she can’t fully refute tells her it’s so she’ll be able to look Rachel in the eye when this is all said and done again. To force that away, she pushes herself up, swallowing a pert nipple.

God she loved women.

It’s getting more intense by the second. Charlene’s cresting, getting hotter and wetter each passing moment, and it’s all because of Santana. Her lower stomach is pulsing, tensing, hands grasping around pale thighs to keep the girl open. Maybe she’s actually achieving this. Maybe she can - no, she is losing herself in this girl. She - Charlene shudders, comes undone with a high-pitched, tight whine, clamping down around Santana and sucking her in, crashing Santana’s mouth to hers with a jerk of her hand and forcing Santana to splay out on top of her, covering her, pressure on where she needs it most - and with a gasp and a large juddering hunch of her hips into Charlene, groan and tensing core, she finally achieves what she’s been trying to do. There’s no way she can concentrate on her phone now.

In her last few moments of lucidity, she refuses to acknowledge the fact that she has to tell herself she’s still doing the right thing.

--------------------------------------

*

When she wakes up, groggy and naked, it’s nearly one in the morning. Santana momentarily forgets Charlene, forgets the pleasure she’d felt just hours before, and searches blindly for her phone. She stumbles out of bed, wrapping a sheet around her body, her legs a tad weak from sleep, and uses the moonlight shining into her bedroom to seek out her lifeline.

After a minute or two, she hears a buzz come from the living room, and dashes (as quickly as she can, given her current, rather sleepy state) to retrieve it. When she finally picks it up and turns it on, what she sees makes her stomach sink and her throat turn dry.

Eight missed calls. Twelve new text messages.

Before she hears them, before she reads them, she knows they’re all from Rachel. Rachel, who’s stuck at the NYADA party with Kurt. Rachel, who Santana promised to pick up and grab ice cream with. Rachel, who could be preggers... Rachel... The girl who was and is so much more than nice.

Santana calls Rachel back immediately. She hears it ring, and after a moment, she hears Rachel’s angered, but somehow still soft voice. “I thought you were going to pick me up.”

“I’ll be there, Rach, just give me a few minutes, I’m on my way.” The words are rushed, and Santana can barely keep herself from shaking. She hears Rachel hang up, and then bolts to her room to change. She throws on sweats and a pair of sneakers, her mind focused on Rachel, on how she’s surely miserable, drinking a soda and pretending to be interested in the throngs of drunken girls and twinky guys and the lame ass Once soundtrack that Rachel only admitted she didn’t like after intense prodding. Santana’s thoughts are deluging her, ransacking her mind, and it’s only when she’s on the subway, watching a man grind up against one of poles, that she realizes she’s nearly there.

It hurts her to think Rachel’s hurting, and although she’s rarely the sentimental type, Rachel’s her friend and she knows she may have fucked up. Just a tad.

Maybe a little more than just a tad, she thinks.

Rachel’s sitting outside the apartment building when Santana arrives. She looks... Well, angry. And cold. Her hands are wrapped around her upper arms, and Santana takes off her sweatshirt and hands it to her. Rachel doesn’t meet her gaze, but accepts the article of clothing and shimmies into it.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Santana barks, folding her arms over her chest. “You’re by yourself on an empty street where the next up-and-coming Ted Bundy could kidnap you.” As Santana hears the words stream out of her mouth, she knows they’re harsh, but it’s easier to get mad at Rachel than be mad at herself.

Rachel glares, standing up from the stoop. “Yeah? Well maybe you should’ve thought about that when you ignored my cries for help.” 

Santana watches Rachel huff off in the direction of the subway, and follows behind her, carefully keeping an eye on her, but giving her the space she needs before the all out brawl she expects to take place at some point tonight or tomorrow manifests.

In her head, she tries to justify it one more time. I needed that time to myself, she thinks, but even she knows it’s a weak defense. She’s no longer able to believe it, not without the post-coital daze she was in before, and not while Rachel walks in front of her, venomously kicking stray pebbles that are seemingly in her way.

*

Frowning, starting to feel the cold on her now that Rachel was wearing her sweater, Santana realizes she is walking around New York in nothing but a white tank top, and swearing under her breath, she brushes her hair over her shoulders before crossing her arms. Good thing it isn’t anything that could get her arrested, but not that she’d ever let it get that far, anyway. 

Shaking her head, looking back up to Rachel, she notices they’re approaching the entrance to the subway. Not sure if the still tightly walking girl had noticed or already knew that, Santana groans and steps up her pace. “Berry. Hey.” She isn’t sure if the girl freezes or just jerks at her words, and Santana rolls her eyes; what now?

“Oh, Berry is it?” Rachel snaps as soon as Santana meets up with her, whirling around so fast Santana actually has to reach out to try and catch her because it looks like she’s going to fall, but all that happens is Rachel whacks away her hands, stepping closer to hiss out as she searches Santana’s eyes, wild and hard and hurt all at the same time, “Want to fall back into our original roles to distant yourself from your humongous screw up?” She then honest to god throws her hands up in the air in the most dramatic expression of fury in the history of Rachel Berry freak outs, and it erases all the effect her eyes may have started on Santana’s state of mind. “Want to forget what you said - what you promised me you’d do?”

Okay. No. Now? Feeling her own anger start to curl in her stomach, Santana for once tries to push Snixx back into her very thinly restrained box. “Fine, Rachel,” she manages to make Rachel’s name a step up from the spat expletive it almost was. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, like you suddenly care about what I call you, yeah, Miss Only Place You Belong Is On A Stripper Pole, Santana,” she continues, staring at the very angry, very almost scary small girl in front of her, tossing her head back in one of her practically patented Lima Heights Adjacent moves, “And right, yes, I fucked up. Newsflash, it’s not like  you’re so perfect, either.”

“Me?” Rachel blinks. Her mouth drops open. “This is suddenly about me?”

*

Does she really want to go there? Santana’s not sure it’s so smart to answer affirmatively, so she defers the question. “This is about the fact that everyone  makes mistakes, Rachel. You’re not fucking Mother Teresa, Jesus.” Santana glares, but her facial expression softens slightly when she spits out, “And neither am I--I made a mistake.” She swallows hard, and avoids looking at the girl in front of her. There’s guilt and regret sitting on each of her shoulders, and she can’t bear to see the disappointment plaguing Rachel’s face.

She hears Defying Gravity blast from Rachel’s pocket, and she watches as Rachel pulls her cell out. “This, Santana, is what you do when your phone rings. You pick. It. Up.” 

Santana scoffs and listens to Rachel’s annoyed, “Hello, Kurt?”

The street around them is eerily quiet, and it makes it rather easy to hear the sounds of assholes making fools of themselves by singing a rather strange, a capella version of “Party Rock Anthem”. Santana can’t help but snort.

After a moment, it occurs to Santana that Kurt’s the one belting the shitty song, and she figures Rachel’s realized seconds later when she hangs up without another word. Kurt is rather notorious for his butt dials, Santana thinks. She remembers one time, when she overheard his rather breathy moans that she could only assume were sex sounds. She’d hung up before she could be completely sure, thank GOD.

She wishes she could mention it to Rachel with a smile and a chuckle, but Rachel begins to walk towards the subway again, as if nothing’s just gone down on the corner of Motherfucking Hell and Why Didn’t I Just Pick Her Up. She knows the fight is far from over, but she’s rather content with the silence for now.

When they get into the subway car, there’s one seat, and Santana lets Rachel take it (though she suspects Rachel would’ve put up a fight for it, had she not) because she does feel sorry, even if she’s shit at showing it. Rachel gazes out the window across from them, and Santana watches her stare at the tiles, which are blurred from the speed of the car, clearly lost in the easy, monotonous motion of the train.

When they walk back to their place from the station, Rachel walks five feet ahead of her, and Santana lets her, because, just like before, the silence is sweeter than the cacophony of angry noises they had joined to compose before.

It’s that silence she misses when they trudge back into their apartment. Rachel’s keys hit the coffee table with a thud, and her own sneakers thud quite nicely against the wood floor when she kicks them off. These little noises, which seem to be nothing more than white noise, end up being, perhaps, Santana’s worst nightmare. It’s only when Rachel slams a cup down on their counter, that Charlene steps out of Santana’s room and makes herself known.

“Mmm, babe, come back to bed,” she mutters, dragging her feet as she saunters over to Santana. She’s in nothing but a bed sheet--the same sheet Santana had wrapped herself in to call Rachel back.

Santana can’t believe she forgot about Charlene. She wants to bury herself in the ground, or stick her head in the sand, like an ostrich, just like she saw on the Discovery Channel when she was a kid. She wants to escape, she wants to be anywhere but in the middle of this mess.

*

Santana hears the cup Rachel had just slammed down on the counter rattle as if Rachel’s hand had jumped and taken it with it. No, well, Santana would bet that it was her whole body that jumped. 

Fact was, she hadn’t told Rachel there could have been the smallest chance that someone would be in their apartment. But of course, she thought, staring at Charlene with wide eyes, unable not to see how appealing and, yeah, well fucked she looked, she hadn’t even noticed the girl when she’d woken up. Maybe somewhere in the back of her head she’d hoped the girl would have left, but obviously, that hadn’t happened.

“Oh?” Charlene’s husky, sleepy and sated voice sounds too loud in the silence of the apartment. Pausing at Santana’s side, her hand warm and kind of familiar after their earlier activity on Santana’s arm, the girl who felt too much like an interloper looked Rachel up and down. “Is she joining in?”

“What?” Rachel strangles out, sounding both close to tears and close to overloading again, “How, how dare you - “

Santana slaps her hand over Charlene’s mouth. Fuck fuck fuck. It isn’t clear who Rachel addressed that to, so it just feels hurtful. Better to get out of there, both of them, before the building storm in Rachel’s body she can see again erupts. 

Taking the corner of the bed sheet closest to her so she won’t flash Rachel, Santana pulls Charlene back towards her room. She wants to demand to know why the girl is still there, really just wants to get her away from Rachel. “You,” she hisses, almost unconsciously meeting Rachel’s betrayed gaze from over Charlene’s shoulder, “My room, now.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” Charlene purrs as soon as Santana pulls her hand away, shifting so she can thread her arms around Santana’s neck and pull her into her even as she pushes forward. It’s like she doesn’t care Rachel’s there or isn’t aware of how awkward this whole thing was. Normally Santana would find that sexy as hell, knowing how god damn irresistible she is - like, duh, but this is just... Somehow, it’s weird. Argument and her fuck-up aside, it’s still...

“Oh, great, no shame. No shame,” Rachel’s voice rose, “And no wonder you didn’t pick up the phone, huh? You, you’re, I can’t believe you!”

Anger had replaced all the hurt in Rachel’s voice, and even though Santana knows how this looks, knows how it is, and very aware of Charlene’s hot breath on her neck and body arching into her, mumbling, “Is this your girlfriend? No wonder you went after me,” she still has no fucking clue what she should do at this moment. Her body, almost guiltily, is starting to respond to Charlene’s presence, memories of their previous fuck sparking inside her. It’s true she’s still a little cold from her practically half-naked trek across town, and it’s always been helpful for roiling emotions to get herself off. Which she knows Charlene can. 

She certainly can’t say she likes what Charlene’s implying about Rachel, though.

But, Rachel, her girlfriend? That was something Santana really does not want to think about. Like, ever.

“Santana!” 

Oh fuck. Of course Rachel had heard that. It’s like she has ears like a bat.

Rachel’s face is red, lower lip trembling as her jaw works in her mouth. Her eyes are big, dark, stricken, and one of the greatest betrayed expressions Santana has ever seen is swirling inside them. Her cup is now clutched in her hands, the sleeves of Santana’s sweater almost but not quite covering the white of her clenched knuckles.

Fuck. “Rachel.”

Shifting, now more awake, Charlene seems to have suddenly realized that there is actually something going on.

*

The three girls stand silently and Santana can feel the tension hovering between them. She eyes Rachel, staring at the way her fingers curl tightly, almost painfully, around the glass, how her eyebrows furrow and her forehead creases... And the seconds that pass by them feel more like minutes... Agonizing, soul-numbing minutes. She’s a fucking asshole, and it takes all she has not to throw the ugly vase on the coffee table. 

After a moment, Charlene clears her throat. “I think... I think I should get going.” 

She looks between the two girls, her eyes wide with uncertainty, and then shuffles back to Santana’s room. Santana can hear her getting her shit together, and she wishes she could fast-forward the process, because Rachel’s glaring at her fiercely, unabashedly. It’s infuriating, really, but she knows she deserves it, so she keeps her mouth shut and attempts to push away the urge to roll her eyes. It wouldn’t help her case, to say the least.

Santana sees a flash of red hair out of the corner of her eye, and turns to see Charlene, clad in only a bra and jeans, scamper towards the couch and retrieve her shirt. 

Santana pinches the bridge of her nose. Fuck. What a fucking mess. 

As Charlene slides her shirt on over her head, Santana swears she hears a low growl come from Rachel’s direction. And then she realizes... Fucking shit. Rachel can see Charlene’s fucking back, covered in scratches, in physical evidence that they did the nasty. 

It’s almost too theatrical for Santana to bear. She sneaks a glance at Rachel, whose fiery eyes are glued to Charlene, and she’s just not sure how she can make it out of this situation alive, her friendship with Rachel still intact.

Charlene mouths the words, “I’m so, so sorry!” to Santana before she slips out and leaves the two girls alone. 

Santana turns towards Rachel again, audibly sighing. 

Rachel scoffs and, with the glass still attached to her hand, moves into the living room, looking a bit like a predator about to attack its’ prey.

“What was it, Santana?” Rachel hollers, her tone somewhat amused. “What was it that made her so irresistible?” Rachel twists the cup in both of her hands as tears threaten to fall. “Was it the red hair? I bet it was the red hair.”

Santana can feel the rage rising, and before she can stop herself, she fumes, “Actually, it was her tits that really did me in. Nice, perky handfuls. I just couldn’t help myself.” 

She watches as Rachel glances down at her own breasts, though only for a second, then folds her arms over her chest protectively, her glass accessory still attached to her hand, resting on her upper arm. Guilt creeps up on Santana, inching its way from her stomach into her chest, but she ignores it, letting the fury control her.

“Well, good then,” Rachel fumbles out, her eyes thinning, “I’m glad you ruined a friendship for a nice rack! If they were a couple of B cups--well, then I’d really feel sorry for you!”

*

“Ruined a - ruined a friendship?” That’s it. Santana’s seeing red. “Friendship?” she repeats, voice low and sharp as ice, cold, colder than she’s heard it in a while since she’d left the halls of McKinley, taking a step forward to get both parts equal of a better look at Rachel and forcing her backwards with sheer fury. “Wouldn’t we need a friendship before it could get ruined?”

Even with Rachel’s immediate, instant gasp and tears to her eyes as she takes in what Santana’s just said, Santana doesn’t care. “So what the fucking hell if I wanted to get lucky? What - you can but I can’t?” Still shouting, she slashes her hand up in the air, pointing at Rachel, “Oh, you’re such - you threatened to kick me out and we’re friends?”

------------------------------------------------------

And one last bit that has ALWAYS stuck with me, years later: the insider knowledge that, Santana having run out of the loft without showering, and with giving Rachel her sweater... Rachel could smell her. Her and Charlene.