"It's not cheating if we're both girls." Santana drawls, nails dragging along your cheek like that makes any sense at all.

It was your fault for assuming she meant anything innocuous when you responded to her late night, u cming ovr 2 study or wut? Like, come on. Nevermind the fact she wasn't out yet. She thought you of all people would be smart enough to pick up on the orange-white-pink literally radiating out from her. Or at least, she felt like it was.

Paranoia aside, she clocked you. Surely you clocked her. Gaydar, and all that. If you hadn’t picked up her signals, maybe you were just a fucking idiot. (Or she could be the one reading it all wrong. Even the idea makes her chest tighten, unfathomably. Worst case scenario; up close, maybe the radiation would seep from her pores and infect you, too. Sounds about right.)

When you don't immediately bend to her will, Santana sits up, bristling in blatant irritation. "Oh, don't get all up into a twist. It doesn't count if there's nothing to put in." She nips at your ear, perfectly manicured nails digging—impatient.

God, boys are so much easier. Simple-minded creatures who'd be slobbering all over her palm with a quick whip of her skirt. Girls were so much more complicated—which was a nuisance, since one moment she'd been going hand-to-head with Puck's flagpole, as usual, and the next she'd looked down and realised she's been carrying a flag for the dykę parade this whole time.

Or, maybe you were just a frigid bitch. All things to consider.

Her breath ghosts, hot along the shell of your ear. "Now are we gonna lez it up, or what?"