Day 05: Headcanon

and I'd be smart to walk away, but you're quicksand

When this whole thing started, Quinn would never have guessed that it would lead to this. She hadn't thought their "two time thing" at a snazzy hotel in Lima would have led them down the road to cohabitation.

Yet here they are, lugging up the last pair of boxes of Santana's possessions into Quinn's quaint New Haven apartment.

Quinn likes to use the word quaint because it reminds her of storybook cottages, covered in snow, with snakes of smoke curling upwards from their chimneys. It reminds her of the kind of postcard life she was promised she would have while she was growing up – and even though she's discarded many of the trappings of her childhood, some things aren't so easy to leave behind. So she calls her apartment quaint, and likes to pretend.

Santana doesn't call it quaint; she calls it drab and dreary, a step up from the projects. Quinn tries to ignore her – it's typical Santana – but she feels a little overprotective and proud of the whopping 900 square feet that she calls her own. She worked hard to get it, worked hard for everything inside of it, and Santana's pithy remarks always put Quinn's teeth on edge.

Her parents didn't want to let her get an apartment off campus. They fought her every step of the way, even going so far as to threaten to withhold money for her tuition. Quinn knows that it was a last ditch effort for them to maintain some kind of control over her life, because she's turning twenty-two in the spring and it makes them feel old. Quinn applied for scholarships and grants and student loans, and got a part time job working at a book store. Her parents relented when she signed the lease for this place, and now her dad deposits money in her checking account every month. Quinn feels a rush of triumph when she remembers that, because even though almost nothing has changed, it still feels like a step towards independence – she challenged her parents, and she won.

"And now you don't have to go home every Thanksgiving and spring break," Santana had told her, with that cocksure smirk on her lips, when Quinn informed her about the apartment. "I bet that just tears Judes up inside, that you won't be there for every Easter mass from now on."

Quinn hadn't thought of that. She hadn't thought of how, now, when classes went on break, she wouldn't have to go back to Lima unless she wanted to. The last three years had left Quinn feeling mildly transient; always halfway here, and halfway there. Now she has her own place, a stable place. A home.

It hadn't been much at first, because the floors were scarred, unfinished wood and the walls were dirty and dark. She got her sofa from a thrift store and bought rugs from the flea market, and ordered wall hangings from Ikea. Quinn spent the first few weeks buying knick knacks and baubles to fill up the empty spaces, and gradually it came together.

Now, Santana is moving in, and although Quinn feels a little nervous about the transition, she knows that she's happy about it overall.

They've had a more on-than-off thing since that Valentine's Day three years ago, and since things haven't exactly taken off for Santana in New York, she was willing to accept Quinn's offer. Besides – long distance relationships suck, but they're even worse when they carry on forever. And since Quinn plans to go all the way in law school, Santana knows that Quinn won't be leaving New Haven any time soon. It was a logical decision.

"Here we are," Quinn says, setting the last of Santana's boxes down. "Do you think that you'll be finished unpacking by tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Santana says, flopping down on the threadbare sofa. "Let's watch The Wizard of Oz."

Quinn thinks that Santana spending so much time with Rachel had an inherently detrimental effect on her character.

When Quinn gets home from her shift at the book store, her apartment is completely demolished. It actually looks like a small whirlwind went through it – and she can hardly breathe over the immediate anxiety she feels at the disarray. Quinn likes her things orderly. She likes everything to be in its place.

Nothing is in its place. Nothing.

The living room – which is usually so carefully put together – has piles of clothes on the floor, remote controls, magazines, DVDs, pictures. Even the little basket where Quinn keeps her knitting materials (yeah, she likes to knit, so what?) has been overturned, and now there's yarn everywhere. Quinn has to sidestep a pile of what appears to be Tupperware containers in order to actually enter the apartment, her eyes growing as wide as saucers on her face the more she takes in. From what she can see of the kitchen, every cabinet is cracked open and all of the drawers are upended – she can even see the glow from the little lightbulb inside the microwave, because the door is hanging open. Quinn walks quickly through her living room and then into the hallway, and bites her lip hard at the sight of the linen closet open, with all of her towels and sheets strewn everywhere.

Somewhere, deep inside of her, a spark of rage ignites.

Carefully, very carefully, she pushes the door open to her bedroom.

Santana is digging around inside the dresser, and Quinn is knocked back by the relief she feels at seeing that her room is still mostly intact. The bed, with its lavender-and-rose patterned comforter, is still made nicely, and her books are all still neatly in their shelves. Quinn lets out a breath she didn't even know she was holding, and then turns to Santana with her fingers curled into loose fists.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Santana doesn't even look up. She keeps rifling around in Quinn's socks and underwear, her hair falling in a loose dark curtain around her face. Quinn can tell she hasn't done much except ransack the place since she woke up – she's still wearing the silky polka-dot boy shirts and tank top she slept in, and she doesn't have any make up on.

"I'm just going through your stuff."

Quinn's throat closes on a choking noise, and the room spins for a moment – she can't believe the cavalier way Santana said that. The spark of rage in her chest intensifes.

"I can see that." Quinn clenches her jaw and tries to stay calm. "Why?"

"Oh, it's a thing I do," Santana says casually. She throws a pair of lacy pink panties over her shoulder. Quinn watches it as it makes an arc and just barely misses landing on the bed.

"The apartment is torn apart," Quinn states unnecessarily.

"I'll clean it up."

Quinn feels pressure behind her eyes.

"Santana." She says the name slowly and deliberately. "Look at me."

Distractedly, Santana glances up, but her hands don't stop their exploration of Quinn's drawer. "What, Q?"

"What exactly are you doing?"

Santana shrugs. "I just have to do this when I—"

She stops, her eyes widening. Santana's body freezes, and Quinn furrows her eyebrows, annoyed at the sudden halt.

"What?"

"Quinn, what is this-?" Santana pulls her hand out of Quinn's drawer, and of course clutched in her palm is Quinn's vibrator.

Quinn's cheeks flush instantly to a dark crimson. She ducks her head, pulling her lip in her mouth, and her eyes skip away from Santana's curious ones.

"Uh—"

"Why didn't you tell me you have one of these?" Santana's face is split in a wide grin. "Q—"

"Babe," Quinn can't help the way her voice has a slight whine. "Just leave it alone."

"No." Santana chuckles. "How long have you had this?"

Quinn shrugs uncomfortably. "A few years."

"Years? Quinn!" Santana closes Quinn's drawer – with the clothes still a messy pile inside – with a dull thud.

"What?" Quinn drags the word out, and she feels anxiety blossom in her chest. "It's natural to masturbate, Santana."

Santana chuckles. "I know! It just surprises me that you do!"

Quinn rolls her eyes. "We've been dating for three years, and you think it's so strange that I masturbate?"

Santana rolls Quinn's vibrator in her palms and squeezes it. "I guess I just never imagined –" Then she rocks back on her heels, and her eyebrows fly up. "Wait. I'm imagining it. That's hot."

"Santana," Quinn says with a scowl. "Stop. Be serious."

"I am being serious." Santana grins at Quinn. "I'd love to see this baby in action."

"Ugh." Quinn makes a face. "Forget about it, Santana."

Santana gets a look on her face, then – and Quinn jerks back, just escaping Santana's lunge.

"No!" Quinn swats at Santana's hands. "Stop!"

"Aww, baby," Santana smirks, shuffles out of Quinn's arm reach, and then ducks inside of it – pressing her body close to Quinn's, lining their hips up. Quinn struggles, for just a second, against the dead weight of Santana leaning against her – but then she gives up with a grievous sigh, rolling her eyes. Santana runs a soothing hand down the length of Quinn's forearm.

"Santana." Quinn's face wrinkles with irritation. "I'm not going to do – whatever you're implying."

"But Quinn.." Santana's smile is slow and deliberately seductive, and Quinn scowls at the transparency of it – even though it still makes her heart race.

"Nope." Quinn pushes a finger against Santana's lips, warding off a kiss. "You're a pervert."

"I am not." Santana grins. "I mean, unless you want me to be –"

"Santana!" Quinn's cheeks flare with color.

"All right, sweetie," Santana says, and when she leans in, Quinn allows the kiss – but only briefly.

"I want to use this thing." Santana gestures with the vibrator, still clutched in her hands.

Quinn sighs, giving Santana a look. "All right, Santana," Quinn relents. "But not until after you help me clean up this mess—"

Santana is already gripping Quinn by the hips and moving her towards the bed. Quinn stutters out a laugh and then a whomph of air as Santana topples her, landing them both in a heap on top of the bedspread. Quinn's laugh is silenced by Santana's mouth, which is hot and wet and insistent; after a moment, she forgets what she was saying, or how to breathe at all.

"I'll clean it up later," Santana mutters, running her tongue along the curve of Quinn's neck.

Quinn grunts in assent. She can't really process what Santana is saying, anyway, because a rather distracting tugging has begun somewhere in her navel and moved downwards –

"You won't have to help me, either," Santana says, nibbling on Quinn's collarbone. "I can put it back so you wouldn't even know I did it."

Quinn squirms, impatient, and tugs at Santana's hair.

It takes a moment for it to dawn on her what Santana is actually saying.

"Wait." Quinn shifts, and Santana pulls her head up to look at Quinn. "Just how many times have you done this, before, anyway-?"

Santana blinks. "Uh, I don't exactly keep count, babe,"

"No!" Quinn's laugh is short and startled. "No, I meant – the other thing. The thing where you make it look like Hurricane Santana went through here."

"Oh." Santana tilts her head, pulling the corner of her lip into her mouth. Then she shrugs. "I don't know. A bunch."

Quinn stares at her for a full minute before she slowly closes her eyes. "You are so weird."

"Hey, you wanna talk about weird?" Santana's eyebrow quirks. "You're the self-proclaimed Christian who owns a vibrator. And in about ten minutes, you're going to be going down on me, so—"

Quinn snorts. "Ten minutes? You think pretty highly of yourself, don't you?"

Santana grins, and then rolls her body so that it presses against Quinn in all the right places – and Quinn doesn't let herself react, except for a quiet intake of breath.

"You just can't resist—"

"Stop talking," Quinn orders, and pulls Santana's face back to hers.

A/N: Sorry it's so short, guys. I kinda lost momentum. I really appreciate all of the feedback I've been getting, though! Thank you guys! You're all really lovely.