Gladiator (1/2)
Title: Gladiator (1/2)
Pairing: Brittany/Santana, side Rachel/Quinn
Rating: R; sexuality, girl-on-girl, and Santana’s got a mouth
Spoilers: None; more or less AU. I'm just shamelessly playing
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profits gained.
Summary: Costume party at Finn’s. Quinn wants Rachel. Santana just wants a decent Friday night. Enter Brittany.
“No.”
“Santana,” her best friend whines unattractively, hands clasped against the front of her sterling white tank top. “Come on.”
“No,” Santana repeats, nudging her sunglasses up a little on her nose and closing her eyes. “Absolutely not, Fabray.”
The pair have stretched out in lawn chairs in Santana Lopez’s backyard, choosing the tried-and-clichéd-but-true summer method of lemonade and the skimpiest shorts available to beat the unseasonable October heat. It’s Friday-Santana’s favorite day of the week-and some awesome hellbeast must have reared up from the depths of Ohio’s furthest crater to distract every teacher at McKinley High, because not a single piece of homework has been dumped on either of them. It is blissful.
Or, Santana thinks with an annoyed scowl, it would be so-if only Quinn Fabray could shut her damn mouth.
“Come on,” Quinn says again, her voice pitching even higher. She has turned onto her stomach, arms draped lazily over the side of her chair, and is peering with the biggest, most frustrating puppy eyes Santana has ever seen at the Latina girl. Quinn probably thinks she is charming and undeniable. Santana just thinks she looks like a jerk.
A jerk who is really not getting the hang of ‘no’ as a concept, it seems.
“No,” Santana fires back, licking a bead of sweat from above her top lip. “Forget it, Fabray. I’m not doing it.”
Quinn flops back, dragging the brim of the Indians cap she always seems to steal from Santana low over her eyes, and huffs. “Well, why the hell not?”
Santana considers her options. “Um,” she says slowly, eyes cracking open to glance at her desperately-aggrieved and horrendously-irritating friend. “Maybe because costume parties are for suckers?”
Quinn rolls her eyes magnificently. “That’s pathetic, Lopez.”
“Because only a complete and utter loser would be seen at Hudson’s?” Santana tries, drumming her fingers relentlessly against one tan thigh. “You know how that boy is. Can’t even tie his own fucking shoelaces; how the hell can we rely on him to keep the booze in stock and the geeks out?”
“That’s weak. You’re forgetting about Puck,” Quinn reminds her, smirking. As much as Santana would rather not admit it, the girl’s got a point; for all of Finn Hudson’s many (many, many) failings as a forward-thinking human entity, Noah Puckerman makes up in aggression, tactical brilliance, and an uncanny ability to throw a fucking great party.
Still. This is Friday night they’re talking about, one without math problems or Spanish conjugations, or (she prays) Coach Sylvester roaring through blearily-accepted cell lines at three in the morning. It’s too good to waste on some pathetic attempt at Halloweening it up. They’re too old for that shit anyway.
“I’m allergic to lame,” Santana says resolutely. “And polyester. Forget it, Fabray, I’m not fucking going.”
***
Three hours later, they stand in Santana’s bedroom, and Santana thinks she might just have to kill her own best friend.
“Fuck. This,” she hisses, because, as she stares herself down in the mirror, she finds herself thoroughly at a loss for words not associated with rage. “Fuck this. Goddammit, Quinn-”
“Lord’s name. Vain. Don’t,” Quinn mumbles absently, tugging a piece of her own costume into place. Furious, Santana chews on the inside of one cheek.
“Why the fuck,” she asks as calmly as is humanly possible, given the circumstances, “am I standing around on my Friday night in a fucking gladiator costume?”
“You wanted badass,” Quinn remarks, hazel eyes flashing briefly to meet Santana’s before darting back to the task at hand. “Gladiators are badass.”
“Gladiators are dead,” Santana retorts, slamming one frustrated hand down on her dresser. “Not going to Hudson’s fucking pathetic party is badass.”
Quinn smirks a little at her own reflection, apparently pleased with her decision to don leather pants, a ripped band t-shirt, and wrist cuffs and call it a costume. Santana has to admit that the girl looks pretty hot-her normally-precise blonde hair is ruffled, and she’s even gone so far as to tuck a pair of drumsticks into her back pocket. Not that she’ll ever tell Quinn fucking Fabray that because, honestly, even if theirs wasn’t the sort of friendship based on quips and barbs, the last person on earth who needs an ego boost is Fabray. The girl already thinks she owns the whole damn school.
“Remind me,” Santana says, deliberately steering the conversation back to the issue at hand, “why I’m even doing this.”
“Because I asked you to,” Quinn replies simply, leaning across Santana to carefully apply mascara to her already sickeningly-long lashes. “When do I ever ask you for anything?”
“Gee, let me think.” Santana narrows her eyes. “How about every time you’ve ever wanted to do anything? Ever? In the history of ever?”
“Not my fault you’ve got the car,” Quinn jabs. Santana hefts the surprisingly heavy plastic sword she’s been fitted with, wondering how much effort it would take to actually murder someone with it.
It’s not that she doesn’t look great, she clarifies silently, catching another glimpse of herself around Quinn’s head. The dark brown skirt is short, the silver breastplate is tight, and thanks to months of military-intensive Cheerio training, her bronze skin has never gleamed brighter. She’s fucking hot, and she knows it. But that’s not the damn point.
“We’re not doing this for who I think we’re doing this for, are we?” she demands, poking Quinn hard in the spine with her sword. The blonde fires a glare over her shoulder and gropes for a tissue with which to fix her smudged make-up.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Santana snorts, twirling her wrist so the sword spins expertly. Her few years of Star Wars geekdom in elementary school have at least prepared her to play this part with ease, even if doing so does make her want to gouge someone’s pretty hazel eyes out.
“Look, I don’t particularly give a shit who’s blowing your skirt up these days,” Santana taunts, grinning when Quinn’s jaw tightens visibly. “Especially if it’s still Motormouth Berry you’re after. You know how I feel about that obnoxious midget.”
“I’m not,” Quinn snaps, but Santana sees her cheeks flame instantly. “I’ve never-”
“Yeah, yeah.” Santana waves the sword disinterestedly. “Whatever, Q. Fuck whoever you want. As long as I don’t have to deal with the hobbit.”
“She’s not a-I mean, I’m not…” Blowing out a long breath, Quinn swivels to pin Santana with her strongest glare. “Shut up.”
Grinning, Santana taps the blonde girl gently over the head. “Goddamn. You’ve got it bad for that loser.”
“Lord’s. Name,” Quinn seethes through gritted teeth, face so utterly pink that Santana kind of thinks she should drop this whole rocker chick look and aim for emulating Winnie the Pooh’s bestie instead. “And shut up.”
It takes all of her energy not to fling her head back and cackle. Of all the girls in the damn school to go all lesbo for, Quinn would fall right on her annoyingly beautiful face for Rachel Berry. It’s just too fitting, too perfect, and too irrationally pathetic. Even better, it’s been years-Quinn’s been just this hopeless since they were maybe twelve years old, the year Berry waltzed into school wearing a skirt that barely covered her ass and a t-shirt that clung to a body barely more developed than it is at sixteen. Santana, at the time a scrawny tomboy, didn’t see the allure-and still doesn’t. Quinn, it seems, hasn’t been able to see anything else since.
It would be cute if Berry wasn’t so fucking grating, and if there weren’t so many hilarious elements to the biggest queen bee bitch in school secretly lusting after a girl whose ego probably has a shrine built to itself. These things considered, Santana can’t legally find any part of it endearing; she can only point and laugh, thanking Quinn’s God all the way that she doesn’t find brunettes attractive in the least.
Because, good Lord, imagine if it had been Santana falling all over herself at the mere sight of some musical theater chick. She shudders, disgusted with the very thought.
It’s sad, though, really; Quinn has spent years looking despicably lonely, mooning after this girl, and Santana has to admit she’s pretty sick of it. For Christ’s sake-when they were fourteen, Quinn even learned how to play the fucking guitar just in case Berry someday needed an accompanist. She’s at that level.
It’s gross. It’s lame. Quinn won’t do anything about it, so Santana might as well.
“Fine,” she says, clapping Quinn so suddenly on the shoulder that the other girl drops the tube of lipstick she’s clutching with a clatter. “We’ll go. I look too smokin’ not to. Maybe I’ll work Puckerman over for some really expensive shit, get nice and hammered, and then punch him in his junk. But you have got to get this Berry thing out of your head, all right? Kiss her, or slap her, or both-I cannot phrase to you exactly how little I care. I’m just bored with your damn moping. Got it?”
“I don’t mope,” Quinn mutters, but her eyes are shining with something that looks uncomfortably like gratitude. Santana shakes her head.
“Don’t get weepy on me, Fabray. Bitch it up. Get the girl. Keep it out of my fucking face. I’m nauseous just thinking about it.”
The way Quinn is grinning almost makes Santana wonder if she’s been tricked into this whole thing. She gives her friend another world-weary bop over the head and grabs up her authentic Roman helmet from the bed, smirking when Quinn rubs the offended location and flips her the bird.
“Classy, Fabray. Real fuckin’ classy.”
***
“What if she’s not here?”
Throwing the sedan in park, Santana thumps both hands against the wheel and sighs. It’s the fifth time Quinn has posed a similar question in as many minutes. It isn’t particularly insane to think Santana deserves a medal for not driving them both into a tree on the way over, especially considering the number of times the stupid helmet has slipped down over her eyes.
Again, it would be hilarious if it weren’t so sad. This is Quinn Fabray: the biggest bitch to ever stalk McKinley’s allegedly-hallowed halls, the girl who single-handedly overturned and gathered control of the entire Cheerios squad her first year in, the girl who started the Slushie parade that rains regularly down on McKinley’s finest. Quinn Fabray-the only girl smart enough and scary enough to match Santana. And what is she afraid of?
A child-sized Jew whose idea of fun revolves solely around six-syllable words and belting showtunes in the dark.
Santana thinks if Rachel Berry weren’t so completely heinous, she’d be required to give the girl a hearty handshake for doing the unthinkable: dismantling Quinn fucking Fabray.
Thank God for loser immunity.
“Q,” Santana hisses in a low voice, “you asshole, you know I love you. But if you fucking ask me that fucking question one more fucking time, rest assured, you won’t be worrying about the answer anymore. Because you will be in a coma.”
Quinn bites her lip and peers out the passenger window at Finn’s house, too distracted to fight back. Santana resists a groan. This really is a lost cause.
Reaching across the seat, she grasps a fistful of red t-shirt-The Clash; a nice, non-Quinn choice, and Santana wonders which show choir-hating burn-out she stole it from-and yanks the girl so that they are nose to nose. Quinn’s eyebrows tighten under tousled bangs.
"Listen up,” Santana commands, giving her friend a little shake. “Game plan. You ready?”
Quinn’s head rocks from side to side, though whether that’s a negatory sign or simply a side effect of the shaking, Santana can’t say. She squeezes the other girl’s shoulder.
“We are going to go in there. We are going to look hot. We are going to take the place by storm. You are going to find the freak. You are going to get freaky with her. And I am going to go elsewhere, because I really enjoyed dinner tonight, and I’d prefer to keep it down.” She shakes Quinn again, mostly because it’s rare that her friend allows such brazen physical abuse, and she’s kind of enjoying it. “We good?”
Quinn’s head shifts subtly in what Santana guesses will have to pass for a nod. She releases the atrocious shirt, ignoring the blonde’s grimace, and fishes her keys from the ignition.
"Right. Into the breach then, motherfucker. Hi-fuckin’-ho.”
They get all the way to the door before Quinn sways a little as if she’s going to pass out. Hands flashing out, Santana catches her around the shoulders and growls, “Goddammit, Fabray, breathe.”
“Lord’s name,” Quinn wheezes, vigorously whipping her head from side to side and gulping greedily at the air. “Knock that off.”
“Only if you knock off this swooning bullshit,” Santana gripes, keeping one steadying hand on the small of her friend’s back and twisting the doorknob with the other. “Tit for tat, bitch.”
The mahogany door swings merrily inward, revealing three Jedi Knights trying to cart an over-large, over-intoxicated Dumbledore up the Hudsons' stairs. Santana arches an eyebrow.
“I’m so very impressed already.”
Quinn, uselessly enough, wavers again until Santana takes it upon herself to deliver a smack to the back of the girl’s head with an open palm. The glare she receives is excellent payment.
“Go get a damn drink and pull yourself together, woman,” is all she feels the need to say in reply. Blanching, Quinn sucks in a deep breath and obediently strides deeper into the house.
Rolling her eyes, Santana follows at a slower pace. Finn’s home is not all that large and packed wall to wall with all manner of teenagers-popular and unpopular, she notes with a sneer. Hudson never has known the meaning of social partition. Which, for Quinn’s sake, is pretty convenient. If this party were being held at Puckerman’s abode, there would be absolutely no chance whatsoever of Rachel Berry’s attendance-unless Puck happened to be in one of his rare “hot geeks” phases.
Santana is just trying to sneak by a rather bumbling homemade dragon costume, worn with clumsy pride by (she thinks) three baseball players, when a massive beaming Batman blocks her path. She heaves a world-weary sigh and jabs him lightly in the chest with one finger.
“Hudson.”
"Santana!” Batman has never looked so gleeful. Finn really doesn’t get the concept of getting into character. “You made it!”
"Apparently,” Santana drawls, tapping her sword distractedly against her thigh. He gives her a once-over, nodding enthusiastically.
“You look great. Very Russell Crowe.”
"That was the aim,” she responds, craning her neck to look beyond one hulking shoulder. “You seen Quinn around? Kind of lost her.”
“Quinn’s here too?” Finn looks positively delighted. He reaches up to straighten his mask, then strikes a pose, both hands fisted on his hips. He looks like an overgrown six-year-old. If not for this being his home, Santana would deck him on principle; this level of stupidity should just not be allowed.
“She’s looking for RuPaul,” Santana settles for saying. Finn’s forehead scrunches together under the mask.
“Who?”
“Berry,” she amends, annoyed. “God, Hudson, get with it.”
He looks, if possible, even more perplexed, and Santana wonders what good a mask is if it doesn’t manage to conceal emotions. “What would she want with Rachel?”
The use of the girl’s first name makes Santana’s mouth taste kind of like a used gym sock. She pulls an appropriate face.
“Far as I can tell, she wants to club her over the head, toss her over one shoulder, and make for the nearest secluded room.” Finn’s mouth twists curiously. She rolls her eyes, reconsidering the whole no-punching thing. “She wants to do her, Hudson. Jesus Christ, how did you make it out of seventh grade?”
“Quinn Fabray…is gay?” Finn squeaks, and Santana bares her teeth in a satisfied grin. About time this got hilarious.
"She bleeds rainbows where Smurfette is concerned. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling a little raspberry vodka tonight.”
Finn numbly steps aside, rubbing his temples as if she’s struck him with the most explosive migraine in history. As she strolls away, dragging her sword lightly across questionable blue wallpaper, Santana thinks maybe outing Quinn wasn’t the kindest thing she could have done for her friend, but honestly, the stupefied look on Hudson’s oafish face was so worth it. And it will be nice for Quinn to no longer have to contend with his goofy blundering attempts at courtship. Really, it was all kinds of a favor she just granted.
Feeling slightly better about herself, Santana lets her gaze rove restlessly over the throng of people packed into Finn’s living room. Just about everyone seems to be here, all dressed like complete idiots. A couple of the older Cheerios have managed to pull off outfits almost as sexy as hers-most of them animal-print-based, which makes Santana smirk because how fucking predictable are they?-but otherwise there is almost no competition. She’s actually kind of embarrassed about it; where’s the fun in surpassing everyone in the room if no one is even trying to keep up?
Her lip curls when she takes notice of a particularly pathetic foursome over by the kitchen. That wheelchair kid, Artie Abrams, is laughing with his girlfriend, Tina whatshername-and Santana realizes abruptly that both of them are dressed as each other. She gags a little, partially because the bow tie and suspender combo Tina is trying to rock looks completely atrocious and partially because Artie’s long black wig does nothing to accentuate exactly how much face paint he has slopped on under his geek glasses. Both “costumes” could benefit from a long rendez vous with a flame thrower.
Almost as sad is the other pair loitering around the disgustingly happy couple. Mercedes Jones (who actually has the potential to be kind of cool, if ever she’d just drop the whole Beyonce obsession) is wearing a pretty decent imitation of the Sister Act nun habit and idly twirling a plastic microphone. Her flamer of a best friend, Kurt Hummel, is dressed in what appears to be a bedazzled priest collar. Santana bites back on a snort, hoping Quinn will stumble upon this scene sooner or later, because few things are funnier than a Fabray on a religious rampage. Hummel won’t know what hit him.
Aside from that potential for hilarity, however, there isn’t much to hold her attention. She can see Puck across the room, dressed as a Blues Brother, wailing on a harmonica while no fewer than six young women stare. Not far from him, Mike Chang and Matt Rutherford are shooting back drinks like their lives depend upon it, alcohol dribbling carelessly onto their matching military-grade uniforms. Across the room, Dave Karofsky is pummeling the air to the tune of an AC/DC drum solo, his poorly-sewn Ninja Turtle shell whipping from side to side on his back.
It is a truly pathetic display.
Santana is seconds away from swinging her sword into the nearest jock’s head, a blind effort to start what would at least amount to an interesting riot, when she sees it happen. Quinn, wine cooler clamped tightly in one shaking hand, has spotted her prey at last and is making her way unsteadily over. Santana finds herself feeling thankful her friend is not actually in the wild, relying upon her wits alone for survival, because judging from the terrified expression plastered to her beautiful face, she’d be off the food chain in a heartbeat.
Still, she is descending upon Man Hands Berry with remarkable efficiency, even considering the ‘I’m totally going to throw up on your shoes’ pull to her mouth.
The midget, for her part, is blissfully unaware of the whole proceeding. She appears to be dressed as Tinkerbell-or, Santana corrects blithely, an extremely inappropriate version of the beloved Disney bitch, since the lime green skirt barely covers her ass and her sleeveless shirt dips down so far at the collar, Santana is pretty sure one could see all the way to her waist without missing a single line of skin. Her brown hair is a tousled mess and there appears to be a faint sheen of glitter coating every available reigon of her body.
That part is almost as thoroughly unsurprising as the pair of wings that have been tied loosely across her chest, extending a couple of inches in either direction off her back. Trust Berry to go all the way.
Were she anyone else, Santana has to admit grudgingly, RuPaul would land reasonably close to being competition.
Quinn is almost on top of the obnoxious girl now, and she looks as though she’s sincerely regretting every decision made since this afternoon. As Santana watches, Berry gives a particularly enthusiastic pirouette, bobbing her head in time with the whumping bass, and Quinn flushes so violently, Santana’s surprised she doesn’t just go for broke and explode on the spot.
For a second, the Latina amuses herself with a mental image of Quinn Fabray, The Amazing Burning Woman. It would be very Fantastic Four, minus the shitty acting and contrived plotline, and as an added bonus, Finn’s hideous carpet would be irrevocably destroyed. Santana wonders what sort of deranged housewife would actually choose a shade this close to vomit, then remembers that Carole Hudson, for all her kind eyes and gentile nature, is also under the impression that denim is still remotely in.
Shaking the decidedly unhelpful thoughts away, Santana zeroes in again on her best friend, who now appears to be forcefully considering the door. Even from twenty-five feet away, Santana can recognize a flight instinct when she sees one. Her lips purse.
No fucking way, Fabray.
She takes a few determined steps, completely prepared to charge across the room, exhibit a spectacular flying leap, and bodyslam the blonde directly into the arms of her pathetic munchkin crush when a warm body collides with her own. Thrown off balance, Santana stumbles, helmet crashing spitefully over her eyes for the seventh time tonight. She growls.
"Watch where you’re stomping, Grace,” is what tries instinctively to leap from annoyed lips, primed as she is to rip whichever bumbling jock had the nerve to run her over a new one.
"Buh?” is what, in all actuality, slips free. Because when she pushes the helmet furiously aside with the heel of her hand, Santana finds herself face to face, surprisingly, with a very specific type of non-Neanderthal-meathead.
A type that just happens to line up with “freakishly hot blonde”, in fact.
It’s embarrassing as fuck, but Santana’s mouth flops open and hangs there, astonished, all the same.
The girl is tall-not creepily so, like Hudson, but taller than Santana-and lean, athletic-looking. Dressed in a white collared men’s shirt, form-fitting black slacks, and thin black suspenders, her golden hair is wound tightly atop her head, stuffed under a jauntily tilted black fedora. She is, in a word, gorgeous.
Santana stares.
“Sorry,” the blonde drawls, not looking apologetic in the least as she stands there, one hand dipping casually into her pocket. The first few buttons on her shirt gape open, revealing skin so white and smooth, Santana isn’t sure how it can be real. She swallows.
"S’okay,” she mutters. The blonde smiles.
"What were you lookin’ at?”
It’s strange, but Santana finds she can’t remember looking at anything at all before this mafia-costumed goddess smoldered her way into the room. The ridiculous breastplate locked over her chest feels entirely too tight, like it’s grown twenty pounds heavier in mere seconds. She frowns.
“I…what?”
The blonde turns, glancing over her own shoulder, and points across the room. “Was it them? Because I can’t blame you for that one. They’re hot.”
It’s on the tip of Santana’s tongue to blurt another mindless ‘what?’, but the blonde’s flame-blue eyes aren’t cutting through her own anymore, and the air seems to be gradually pumping back into the room. Gulping a mouthful, she arches up on her toes, staring over the girl.
Quinn and RuPaul are still about where she left them-miraculously, Fabray seems to have retained the stones she has been displaying every day at school for years and has not gone bolting away from the dancing diva. Somehow, she must have convinced the brunette to unstrap those stupid wings, because she has managed to gather Berry into her arms, pulling the girl’s back tight against her chest without restriction, and is moving with a slow, seductive purpose. Santana will never admit it, but she’s actually a little proud as she watches Quinn’s hands slide along the tiny girl’s waist and up, splaying across Berry’s stomach as their hips rock steadily together.
For her part, Berry looks confused, but pleased. One small hand has reached back and up, tangling in Quinn’s hair, pulling the blonde’s head down so it presses firmly against brown hair. She moves earnestly, free hand gripping Quinn’s wrist in place against her body, and beams her obnoxiously bright megawatt smile. All in all, it is, to Santana’s chagrin, one of the sexier images she’s laid eyes on in a long time.
Barring, of course, the blonde in the fedora, who is watching this whole display with unshrouded interest. It is only at this very moment that Santana realizes the girl just called Fabray and Berry hot-which, while not expressly untrue, does draw the focus annoyingly off of Santana Lopez.
And, bitch, please; no one is hotter than Santana Lopez.
"That’s my friend,” she says calmly, uncharacteristically delighted at her own ability to keep cool in the face of the most attractive woman on the planet. Until this point, Santana didn’t even know she was into chicks-because, honestly, chicks are annoying, and crazy, and prone to all kinds of PMSing, jealous, back-stabbing bullshit. She’s been around Quinn long enough to know that even the most beautiful girls are downright evil most of the time. It’s not really something she’s ever considered to be worth the hassle, minor crushes on her Cheerio teammates aside. But this girl? This girl isn’t even real. She can’t be. There something frighteningly flawless about her, about the depth of her eyes and the way a single tendril of hair has snaked free from under her hat, roguish and sexy.
“The little one?” the blonde asks, craning her neck and smiling when Quinn’s hand runs adventurously up to trail just below Berry’s breasts. The brunette’s cheeks catch fire instantly; even from this distance, Santana can see Fabray’s eyes light up with a self-satisfied hunger.
She snorts and shakes her head. “That tranny? Fuck no. Berry’s a perpetual pain in my ass.”
The beautiful stranger cocks a strange glance Santana’s way, and the Latina feels the air begin to slowly drain away again. “She doesn’t look like a tranny. She’s pretty.”
With anyone else, Santana would roll her eyes disdainfully. With this girl, she can only shrug. “She’s not actually...she’s just…annoying. Loud. Doesn’t know how to shut the fuck up. You know? Anyway, no, she’s not my friend. The other one, the blonde. Quinn Fabray. I’m here for her.”
Across the room, Quinn has apparently hit her groove. Burying her face in Berry’s neck, Santana can see her brush her lips gently against the skin there-so lightly, probably, that Berry doesn’t even know she’s being kissed. The brunette’s fingers catch against Quinn’s wristband, toying with the material, and if Santana were anyone else, she might be inclined to pump a fist gleefully in the air because Quinn is so in.
The beautiful blonde beside her raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t really look like she needs the help.”
Santana shrugs again, watching as Quinn gently presses a series of kisses and tiny licks to tan skin. Berry’s eyes widen, and she arches back a little, giving Quinn more to work with as the blonde slowly sucks at every available inch of her neck. It’s impressive, how easily she’s drawing Man Hands in.
And a little insulting, that this gorgeous stranger thinks Fabray could have pulled this all off without a wingwoman.
"She wouldn’t have even gotten through the door without me,” Santana scoffs, smirking when Quinn drags her teeth visibly down the side of Berry’s throat and recieves a surprised squeeze to the back of her own neck for her troubles. “Woman’s a fucking basketcase. Thought she was going to heave all over Hudson’s lawn.”
"Doesn’t look like a basketcase now,” the blonde comments idly, as Quinn reaches the joint between Berry’s neck and shoulder and bites gingerly down, fingers stroking under the hem of the brunette’s top. Even over the thump of Lady Gaga, Santana can hear the low squeal produced by the action; Berry whips around in Quinn’s arms, locks both hands behind the blonde’s neck, and wrenches her down into a bruising kiss. Quinn looks like she could more or less die happy.
Santana’s just glad her friend’s too distracted by the foreign tongue in her mouth to look over and force the Latina into an energy-draining bout of mimed gagging.
Still, to keep up appearances, it's not exactly prudent to keep gaping like an idiot while Fabray and Berry engage in their too-public tonsil hockey display. As Quinn’s lips part slowly above Berry’s, stroking her tongue brazenly into the smaller girl’s gasping mouth, Santana pointedly looks away and affects boredom. It would be completely pathetic to keep staring, though half of the room is doing so, even if Quinn’s hand is teasing up the edge of Berry’s blinding skirt, even if the brunette’s nails are scraping hard against the taller girl’s scalp, even if the very non-RuPaul-esque leg wrapping itself around Quinn’s waist is disturbingly lovely.
It would be pathetic, and Santana is just not.
To her surprise, when she tears her eyes away, the blonde stranger at her side isn’t performing the expected baffled stare at the spectacle. Unlike every other person in the room, she doesn’t seem to care that the Head Bitch of McKinley is reverently cupping the cheek of Streisand-and-Cher’s lovechild, or that Stubbles is insistently grinding her pelvis against the front of Quinn’s rock star pants. She doesn’t seem to realize exactly how socially unnatural this all is, like a dog and a seahorse going at it; if anything, she seems mildly amused.
“They look good together,” is all she says when she notices Santana’s eyes on her. “Light and dark. Complimentary. Very hot.”
Her gaze holds Santana’s, stone-strong. The implication isn’t lost on the shorter girl, who really wishes the Hudson home was better equipped with a working ventilation system because this no-air thing is getting ridiculous.
"They’re all right,” Santana forces out from between gritted teeth, doing her best to grip the blonde’s eyes with her own instead of allowing her vision to roam lower. “I’ve seen better.”
She wants to say more-wants to reach out and grab the blonde by one small wrist and tug her close, wants to feel her out and see if she moves the way she looks, weeping sultry confidence from every pore. She wants to run her fingers along pink lips, press her forehead to ivory cheeks, tug that maddeningly sexy hat off and hurl it across the room as blonde hair tumbles down, down, down forever.
She wants, and that isn’t new, not for Santana Lopez. What is new is this frozen feeling layered over the desire, locking her feet to the floor, pinning her arms to her sides. She feels very suddenly young, incapable.
The blonde smiles.
"Do you want-” The words skate halfway out of her mouth and retreat, stupefied by the abrupt howl sent up by the crowd around them. Santana tears her eyes away from the girl staring her down, looking up just in time to see Quinn slam Berry hard against the wall, one thigh dramatically crushed between the brunette’s legs, mouths still vacuum-sealed together. Santana makes a face because, really, she’s proud of her girl and all, but there is a line and Quinn has just trampled the living fuck out of it.
"Fabray!” she roars over the din of pointing hockey players and a very pale, bewildered Finn Hudson, who is muttering something rapid-fire under his breath. “You’ve got a motherfucking audience, you idiot! Get a fucking room.”
Quinn swings the arm not supporting Berry’s keening frame around, expertly signaling for Santana to fuck herself, but obediently yanks her mouth away from the midget’s and hauls her out of the room before anyone else can comment. Santana blows out a half-amused, half-disgusted breath.
“Attention whore,” she grumbles. The blonde taps the brim of her fedora with one contemplative finger, grinning.
"Good show, though, you have to admit.”
"In a gross mutant kind of way,” Santana replies. The helmet dips down over her eyes again, and she rips it off, tucking the bulky thing under one arm. Her hair, plastered to her forehead with sweat, probably looks completely atrocious, but she can’t imagine her allure is much higher rocking the whole “this is Sparta” thing, so she tries not to care. Either way, the blonde is still looking at her with something decidedly akin to interest. She affects a charming smirk. “So, why haven’t I seen you around?”
The girl’s shoulders twist. “Probably because I haven’t been.”
"Fair enough,” Santana allows. She doesn’t particularly want to stop talking, because silence has thus far served only to reduce her to a previously unknown and extremely uncomfortable state of shyness. Unfortunately, the blonde doesn’t seem overly concerned with conversation. She’s too busy staring Santana down like she wants to fucking eat her or something.
Well, Santana decides resolutely, there are certainly worse ideas.
It’s weird to be on this end of things, but not entirely lacking enjoyable qualities. The beautiful stranger steps closer, one hand toying with her own suspenders, tugging it off her shirt and allowing it to snap slowly back again. She smiles, predatory, and Santana wills herself not to back away because, Christ, she is Santana motherfucking Lopez. No Lopez has ever run from a beautiful woman, no matter how long her legs or how intimidating her gaze, and she’s not about to ruin that track record.
Although, as the blonde continues to close the gap, watching Santana from beneath long dark lashes, she must admit the resolve it takes to stand her ground. She’s not scared-of course not, it’s not like this girl is a goddamn Muppet or something-but there is something unequivocally unsettling about being so out of control. The girl keeps advancing, and Santana’s legs tremble a little as she holds tight to her spot on the carpet, and suddenly there’s a hand stroking her matted hair back from her forehead.
She sucks in a breath, tempted to rock forward and back at the same time and unable, therefore, to do either. “Fuck,” she hisses when the girl rakes her nails gently over the top of Santana’s head, digging gingerly into her scalp as they go and catching the curve of her skull to hold her in place.
Those lips, so incredibly difficult to look away from, crook upwards at the corners. “You don’t say.”
Santana bites down hard on her own tongue and says nothing. The maddening smile widens.
“You know, that looked like fun.” When Santana cocks her head curiously, the girl shrugs, biting her lip and twitching her own head back towards the living room. “You know. That. Those girls, going at it. Pretty hot, don’t you think?’
Before she can stop herself, Santana is nodding. The girl’s grin looks about ready to launch right off her beautiful face.
"Gotta be honest, though, I’m not sure these small-town kids can handle any more heat tonight.” The blonde leans her forehead down against Santana’s and sighs. “Know anywhere else we could do this?”
Santana arches an eyebrow, biting back the urge to groan. “Presumptuous much?”
The blonde flings her head back, laughing hard enough to nearly dislodge the hat from her head. “Oh, sweetie,” she says cheerfully. “You think I can’t see what I’m doing to you?”
Santana wants to retaliate, wants to claim something about how the blonde has nothing on her, nothing at all, but it’s hard to find words with slender fingers tugging relentlessly on her hair. The girl is entirely too close for someone she’s barely just met, radiating warmth, and Santana can’t remember the last time her throat was this dry. She tries to scowl, only to be met with another giggle.
"Come on,” the girl whispers, craning her long neck forward until her lips trace the edge of Santana’s ear. “Could be fun.”
"Could be,” Santana hears herself rasp back. She is almost horrified to find her left hand clutching frantically at the blonde’s front, swirling around each button and fisting the material of that crisp white material in her oddly-sweaty palm. The strange girl beams, at once sexy beyond reason and intolerably giddy.
This is crazy, Santana reminds herself as the blonde snakes a hand down her body and entwines their fingers. This is completely crazy, and going so fast, and she hasn’t even had time to find a fucking drink yet, but the girl is dragging her through the room, back and around, and Santana can’t find it in herself to fight back.
[Part 2]
Pairing: Brittany/Santana, side Rachel/Quinn
Rating: R; sexuality, girl-on-girl, and Santana’s got a mouth
Spoilers: None; more or less AU. I'm just shamelessly playing
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profits gained.
Summary: Costume party at Finn’s. Quinn wants Rachel. Santana just wants a decent Friday night. Enter Brittany.
“No.”
“Santana,” her best friend whines unattractively, hands clasped against the front of her sterling white tank top. “Come on.”
“No,” Santana repeats, nudging her sunglasses up a little on her nose and closing her eyes. “Absolutely not, Fabray.”
The pair have stretched out in lawn chairs in Santana Lopez’s backyard, choosing the tried-and-clichéd-but-true summer method of lemonade and the skimpiest shorts available to beat the unseasonable October heat. It’s Friday-Santana’s favorite day of the week-and some awesome hellbeast must have reared up from the depths of Ohio’s furthest crater to distract every teacher at McKinley High, because not a single piece of homework has been dumped on either of them. It is blissful.
Or, Santana thinks with an annoyed scowl, it would be so-if only Quinn Fabray could shut her damn mouth.
“Come on,” Quinn says again, her voice pitching even higher. She has turned onto her stomach, arms draped lazily over the side of her chair, and is peering with the biggest, most frustrating puppy eyes Santana has ever seen at the Latina girl. Quinn probably thinks she is charming and undeniable. Santana just thinks she looks like a jerk.
A jerk who is really not getting the hang of ‘no’ as a concept, it seems.
“No,” Santana fires back, licking a bead of sweat from above her top lip. “Forget it, Fabray. I’m not doing it.”
Quinn flops back, dragging the brim of the Indians cap she always seems to steal from Santana low over her eyes, and huffs. “Well, why the hell not?”
Santana considers her options. “Um,” she says slowly, eyes cracking open to glance at her desperately-aggrieved and horrendously-irritating friend. “Maybe because costume parties are for suckers?”
Quinn rolls her eyes magnificently. “That’s pathetic, Lopez.”
“Because only a complete and utter loser would be seen at Hudson’s?” Santana tries, drumming her fingers relentlessly against one tan thigh. “You know how that boy is. Can’t even tie his own fucking shoelaces; how the hell can we rely on him to keep the booze in stock and the geeks out?”
“That’s weak. You’re forgetting about Puck,” Quinn reminds her, smirking. As much as Santana would rather not admit it, the girl’s got a point; for all of Finn Hudson’s many (many, many) failings as a forward-thinking human entity, Noah Puckerman makes up in aggression, tactical brilliance, and an uncanny ability to throw a fucking great party.
Still. This is Friday night they’re talking about, one without math problems or Spanish conjugations, or (she prays) Coach Sylvester roaring through blearily-accepted cell lines at three in the morning. It’s too good to waste on some pathetic attempt at Halloweening it up. They’re too old for that shit anyway.
“I’m allergic to lame,” Santana says resolutely. “And polyester. Forget it, Fabray, I’m not fucking going.”
***
Three hours later, they stand in Santana’s bedroom, and Santana thinks she might just have to kill her own best friend.
“Fuck. This,” she hisses, because, as she stares herself down in the mirror, she finds herself thoroughly at a loss for words not associated with rage. “Fuck this. Goddammit, Quinn-”
“Lord’s name. Vain. Don’t,” Quinn mumbles absently, tugging a piece of her own costume into place. Furious, Santana chews on the inside of one cheek.
“Why the fuck,” she asks as calmly as is humanly possible, given the circumstances, “am I standing around on my Friday night in a fucking gladiator costume?”
“You wanted badass,” Quinn remarks, hazel eyes flashing briefly to meet Santana’s before darting back to the task at hand. “Gladiators are badass.”
“Gladiators are dead,” Santana retorts, slamming one frustrated hand down on her dresser. “Not going to Hudson’s fucking pathetic party is badass.”
Quinn smirks a little at her own reflection, apparently pleased with her decision to don leather pants, a ripped band t-shirt, and wrist cuffs and call it a costume. Santana has to admit that the girl looks pretty hot-her normally-precise blonde hair is ruffled, and she’s even gone so far as to tuck a pair of drumsticks into her back pocket. Not that she’ll ever tell Quinn fucking Fabray that because, honestly, even if theirs wasn’t the sort of friendship based on quips and barbs, the last person on earth who needs an ego boost is Fabray. The girl already thinks she owns the whole damn school.
“Remind me,” Santana says, deliberately steering the conversation back to the issue at hand, “why I’m even doing this.”
“Because I asked you to,” Quinn replies simply, leaning across Santana to carefully apply mascara to her already sickeningly-long lashes. “When do I ever ask you for anything?”
“Gee, let me think.” Santana narrows her eyes. “How about every time you’ve ever wanted to do anything? Ever? In the history of ever?”
“Not my fault you’ve got the car,” Quinn jabs. Santana hefts the surprisingly heavy plastic sword she’s been fitted with, wondering how much effort it would take to actually murder someone with it.
It’s not that she doesn’t look great, she clarifies silently, catching another glimpse of herself around Quinn’s head. The dark brown skirt is short, the silver breastplate is tight, and thanks to months of military-intensive Cheerio training, her bronze skin has never gleamed brighter. She’s fucking hot, and she knows it. But that’s not the damn point.
“We’re not doing this for who I think we’re doing this for, are we?” she demands, poking Quinn hard in the spine with her sword. The blonde fires a glare over her shoulder and gropes for a tissue with which to fix her smudged make-up.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Santana snorts, twirling her wrist so the sword spins expertly. Her few years of Star Wars geekdom in elementary school have at least prepared her to play this part with ease, even if doing so does make her want to gouge someone’s pretty hazel eyes out.
“Look, I don’t particularly give a shit who’s blowing your skirt up these days,” Santana taunts, grinning when Quinn’s jaw tightens visibly. “Especially if it’s still Motormouth Berry you’re after. You know how I feel about that obnoxious midget.”
“I’m not,” Quinn snaps, but Santana sees her cheeks flame instantly. “I’ve never-”
“Yeah, yeah.” Santana waves the sword disinterestedly. “Whatever, Q. Fuck whoever you want. As long as I don’t have to deal with the hobbit.”
“She’s not a-I mean, I’m not…” Blowing out a long breath, Quinn swivels to pin Santana with her strongest glare. “Shut up.”
Grinning, Santana taps the blonde girl gently over the head. “Goddamn. You’ve got it bad for that loser.”
“Lord’s. Name,” Quinn seethes through gritted teeth, face so utterly pink that Santana kind of thinks she should drop this whole rocker chick look and aim for emulating Winnie the Pooh’s bestie instead. “And shut up.”
It takes all of her energy not to fling her head back and cackle. Of all the girls in the damn school to go all lesbo for, Quinn would fall right on her annoyingly beautiful face for Rachel Berry. It’s just too fitting, too perfect, and too irrationally pathetic. Even better, it’s been years-Quinn’s been just this hopeless since they were maybe twelve years old, the year Berry waltzed into school wearing a skirt that barely covered her ass and a t-shirt that clung to a body barely more developed than it is at sixteen. Santana, at the time a scrawny tomboy, didn’t see the allure-and still doesn’t. Quinn, it seems, hasn’t been able to see anything else since.
It would be cute if Berry wasn’t so fucking grating, and if there weren’t so many hilarious elements to the biggest queen bee bitch in school secretly lusting after a girl whose ego probably has a shrine built to itself. These things considered, Santana can’t legally find any part of it endearing; she can only point and laugh, thanking Quinn’s God all the way that she doesn’t find brunettes attractive in the least.
Because, good Lord, imagine if it had been Santana falling all over herself at the mere sight of some musical theater chick. She shudders, disgusted with the very thought.
It’s sad, though, really; Quinn has spent years looking despicably lonely, mooning after this girl, and Santana has to admit she’s pretty sick of it. For Christ’s sake-when they were fourteen, Quinn even learned how to play the fucking guitar just in case Berry someday needed an accompanist. She’s at that level.
It’s gross. It’s lame. Quinn won’t do anything about it, so Santana might as well.
“Fine,” she says, clapping Quinn so suddenly on the shoulder that the other girl drops the tube of lipstick she’s clutching with a clatter. “We’ll go. I look too smokin’ not to. Maybe I’ll work Puckerman over for some really expensive shit, get nice and hammered, and then punch him in his junk. But you have got to get this Berry thing out of your head, all right? Kiss her, or slap her, or both-I cannot phrase to you exactly how little I care. I’m just bored with your damn moping. Got it?”
“I don’t mope,” Quinn mutters, but her eyes are shining with something that looks uncomfortably like gratitude. Santana shakes her head.
“Don’t get weepy on me, Fabray. Bitch it up. Get the girl. Keep it out of my fucking face. I’m nauseous just thinking about it.”
The way Quinn is grinning almost makes Santana wonder if she’s been tricked into this whole thing. She gives her friend another world-weary bop over the head and grabs up her authentic Roman helmet from the bed, smirking when Quinn rubs the offended location and flips her the bird.
“Classy, Fabray. Real fuckin’ classy.”
***
“What if she’s not here?”
Throwing the sedan in park, Santana thumps both hands against the wheel and sighs. It’s the fifth time Quinn has posed a similar question in as many minutes. It isn’t particularly insane to think Santana deserves a medal for not driving them both into a tree on the way over, especially considering the number of times the stupid helmet has slipped down over her eyes.
Again, it would be hilarious if it weren’t so sad. This is Quinn Fabray: the biggest bitch to ever stalk McKinley’s allegedly-hallowed halls, the girl who single-handedly overturned and gathered control of the entire Cheerios squad her first year in, the girl who started the Slushie parade that rains regularly down on McKinley’s finest. Quinn Fabray-the only girl smart enough and scary enough to match Santana. And what is she afraid of?
A child-sized Jew whose idea of fun revolves solely around six-syllable words and belting showtunes in the dark.
Santana thinks if Rachel Berry weren’t so completely heinous, she’d be required to give the girl a hearty handshake for doing the unthinkable: dismantling Quinn fucking Fabray.
Thank God for loser immunity.
“Q,” Santana hisses in a low voice, “you asshole, you know I love you. But if you fucking ask me that fucking question one more fucking time, rest assured, you won’t be worrying about the answer anymore. Because you will be in a coma.”
Quinn bites her lip and peers out the passenger window at Finn’s house, too distracted to fight back. Santana resists a groan. This really is a lost cause.
Reaching across the seat, she grasps a fistful of red t-shirt-The Clash; a nice, non-Quinn choice, and Santana wonders which show choir-hating burn-out she stole it from-and yanks the girl so that they are nose to nose. Quinn’s eyebrows tighten under tousled bangs.
"Listen up,” Santana commands, giving her friend a little shake. “Game plan. You ready?”
Quinn’s head rocks from side to side, though whether that’s a negatory sign or simply a side effect of the shaking, Santana can’t say. She squeezes the other girl’s shoulder.
“We are going to go in there. We are going to look hot. We are going to take the place by storm. You are going to find the freak. You are going to get freaky with her. And I am going to go elsewhere, because I really enjoyed dinner tonight, and I’d prefer to keep it down.” She shakes Quinn again, mostly because it’s rare that her friend allows such brazen physical abuse, and she’s kind of enjoying it. “We good?”
Quinn’s head shifts subtly in what Santana guesses will have to pass for a nod. She releases the atrocious shirt, ignoring the blonde’s grimace, and fishes her keys from the ignition.
"Right. Into the breach then, motherfucker. Hi-fuckin’-ho.”
They get all the way to the door before Quinn sways a little as if she’s going to pass out. Hands flashing out, Santana catches her around the shoulders and growls, “Goddammit, Fabray, breathe.”
“Lord’s name,” Quinn wheezes, vigorously whipping her head from side to side and gulping greedily at the air. “Knock that off.”
“Only if you knock off this swooning bullshit,” Santana gripes, keeping one steadying hand on the small of her friend’s back and twisting the doorknob with the other. “Tit for tat, bitch.”
The mahogany door swings merrily inward, revealing three Jedi Knights trying to cart an over-large, over-intoxicated Dumbledore up the Hudsons' stairs. Santana arches an eyebrow.
“I’m so very impressed already.”
Quinn, uselessly enough, wavers again until Santana takes it upon herself to deliver a smack to the back of the girl’s head with an open palm. The glare she receives is excellent payment.
“Go get a damn drink and pull yourself together, woman,” is all she feels the need to say in reply. Blanching, Quinn sucks in a deep breath and obediently strides deeper into the house.
Rolling her eyes, Santana follows at a slower pace. Finn’s home is not all that large and packed wall to wall with all manner of teenagers-popular and unpopular, she notes with a sneer. Hudson never has known the meaning of social partition. Which, for Quinn’s sake, is pretty convenient. If this party were being held at Puckerman’s abode, there would be absolutely no chance whatsoever of Rachel Berry’s attendance-unless Puck happened to be in one of his rare “hot geeks” phases.
Santana is just trying to sneak by a rather bumbling homemade dragon costume, worn with clumsy pride by (she thinks) three baseball players, when a massive beaming Batman blocks her path. She heaves a world-weary sigh and jabs him lightly in the chest with one finger.
“Hudson.”
"Santana!” Batman has never looked so gleeful. Finn really doesn’t get the concept of getting into character. “You made it!”
"Apparently,” Santana drawls, tapping her sword distractedly against her thigh. He gives her a once-over, nodding enthusiastically.
“You look great. Very Russell Crowe.”
"That was the aim,” she responds, craning her neck to look beyond one hulking shoulder. “You seen Quinn around? Kind of lost her.”
“Quinn’s here too?” Finn looks positively delighted. He reaches up to straighten his mask, then strikes a pose, both hands fisted on his hips. He looks like an overgrown six-year-old. If not for this being his home, Santana would deck him on principle; this level of stupidity should just not be allowed.
“She’s looking for RuPaul,” Santana settles for saying. Finn’s forehead scrunches together under the mask.
“Who?”
“Berry,” she amends, annoyed. “God, Hudson, get with it.”
He looks, if possible, even more perplexed, and Santana wonders what good a mask is if it doesn’t manage to conceal emotions. “What would she want with Rachel?”
The use of the girl’s first name makes Santana’s mouth taste kind of like a used gym sock. She pulls an appropriate face.
“Far as I can tell, she wants to club her over the head, toss her over one shoulder, and make for the nearest secluded room.” Finn’s mouth twists curiously. She rolls her eyes, reconsidering the whole no-punching thing. “She wants to do her, Hudson. Jesus Christ, how did you make it out of seventh grade?”
“Quinn Fabray…is gay?” Finn squeaks, and Santana bares her teeth in a satisfied grin. About time this got hilarious.
"She bleeds rainbows where Smurfette is concerned. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling a little raspberry vodka tonight.”
Finn numbly steps aside, rubbing his temples as if she’s struck him with the most explosive migraine in history. As she strolls away, dragging her sword lightly across questionable blue wallpaper, Santana thinks maybe outing Quinn wasn’t the kindest thing she could have done for her friend, but honestly, the stupefied look on Hudson’s oafish face was so worth it. And it will be nice for Quinn to no longer have to contend with his goofy blundering attempts at courtship. Really, it was all kinds of a favor she just granted.
Feeling slightly better about herself, Santana lets her gaze rove restlessly over the throng of people packed into Finn’s living room. Just about everyone seems to be here, all dressed like complete idiots. A couple of the older Cheerios have managed to pull off outfits almost as sexy as hers-most of them animal-print-based, which makes Santana smirk because how fucking predictable are they?-but otherwise there is almost no competition. She’s actually kind of embarrassed about it; where’s the fun in surpassing everyone in the room if no one is even trying to keep up?
Her lip curls when she takes notice of a particularly pathetic foursome over by the kitchen. That wheelchair kid, Artie Abrams, is laughing with his girlfriend, Tina whatshername-and Santana realizes abruptly that both of them are dressed as each other. She gags a little, partially because the bow tie and suspender combo Tina is trying to rock looks completely atrocious and partially because Artie’s long black wig does nothing to accentuate exactly how much face paint he has slopped on under his geek glasses. Both “costumes” could benefit from a long rendez vous with a flame thrower.
Almost as sad is the other pair loitering around the disgustingly happy couple. Mercedes Jones (who actually has the potential to be kind of cool, if ever she’d just drop the whole Beyonce obsession) is wearing a pretty decent imitation of the Sister Act nun habit and idly twirling a plastic microphone. Her flamer of a best friend, Kurt Hummel, is dressed in what appears to be a bedazzled priest collar. Santana bites back on a snort, hoping Quinn will stumble upon this scene sooner or later, because few things are funnier than a Fabray on a religious rampage. Hummel won’t know what hit him.
Aside from that potential for hilarity, however, there isn’t much to hold her attention. She can see Puck across the room, dressed as a Blues Brother, wailing on a harmonica while no fewer than six young women stare. Not far from him, Mike Chang and Matt Rutherford are shooting back drinks like their lives depend upon it, alcohol dribbling carelessly onto their matching military-grade uniforms. Across the room, Dave Karofsky is pummeling the air to the tune of an AC/DC drum solo, his poorly-sewn Ninja Turtle shell whipping from side to side on his back.
It is a truly pathetic display.
Santana is seconds away from swinging her sword into the nearest jock’s head, a blind effort to start what would at least amount to an interesting riot, when she sees it happen. Quinn, wine cooler clamped tightly in one shaking hand, has spotted her prey at last and is making her way unsteadily over. Santana finds herself feeling thankful her friend is not actually in the wild, relying upon her wits alone for survival, because judging from the terrified expression plastered to her beautiful face, she’d be off the food chain in a heartbeat.
Still, she is descending upon Man Hands Berry with remarkable efficiency, even considering the ‘I’m totally going to throw up on your shoes’ pull to her mouth.
The midget, for her part, is blissfully unaware of the whole proceeding. She appears to be dressed as Tinkerbell-or, Santana corrects blithely, an extremely inappropriate version of the beloved Disney bitch, since the lime green skirt barely covers her ass and her sleeveless shirt dips down so far at the collar, Santana is pretty sure one could see all the way to her waist without missing a single line of skin. Her brown hair is a tousled mess and there appears to be a faint sheen of glitter coating every available reigon of her body.
That part is almost as thoroughly unsurprising as the pair of wings that have been tied loosely across her chest, extending a couple of inches in either direction off her back. Trust Berry to go all the way.
Were she anyone else, Santana has to admit grudgingly, RuPaul would land reasonably close to being competition.
Quinn is almost on top of the obnoxious girl now, and she looks as though she’s sincerely regretting every decision made since this afternoon. As Santana watches, Berry gives a particularly enthusiastic pirouette, bobbing her head in time with the whumping bass, and Quinn flushes so violently, Santana’s surprised she doesn’t just go for broke and explode on the spot.
For a second, the Latina amuses herself with a mental image of Quinn Fabray, The Amazing Burning Woman. It would be very Fantastic Four, minus the shitty acting and contrived plotline, and as an added bonus, Finn’s hideous carpet would be irrevocably destroyed. Santana wonders what sort of deranged housewife would actually choose a shade this close to vomit, then remembers that Carole Hudson, for all her kind eyes and gentile nature, is also under the impression that denim is still remotely in.
Shaking the decidedly unhelpful thoughts away, Santana zeroes in again on her best friend, who now appears to be forcefully considering the door. Even from twenty-five feet away, Santana can recognize a flight instinct when she sees one. Her lips purse.
No fucking way, Fabray.
She takes a few determined steps, completely prepared to charge across the room, exhibit a spectacular flying leap, and bodyslam the blonde directly into the arms of her pathetic munchkin crush when a warm body collides with her own. Thrown off balance, Santana stumbles, helmet crashing spitefully over her eyes for the seventh time tonight. She growls.
"Watch where you’re stomping, Grace,” is what tries instinctively to leap from annoyed lips, primed as she is to rip whichever bumbling jock had the nerve to run her over a new one.
"Buh?” is what, in all actuality, slips free. Because when she pushes the helmet furiously aside with the heel of her hand, Santana finds herself face to face, surprisingly, with a very specific type of non-Neanderthal-meathead.
A type that just happens to line up with “freakishly hot blonde”, in fact.
It’s embarrassing as fuck, but Santana’s mouth flops open and hangs there, astonished, all the same.
The girl is tall-not creepily so, like Hudson, but taller than Santana-and lean, athletic-looking. Dressed in a white collared men’s shirt, form-fitting black slacks, and thin black suspenders, her golden hair is wound tightly atop her head, stuffed under a jauntily tilted black fedora. She is, in a word, gorgeous.
Santana stares.
“Sorry,” the blonde drawls, not looking apologetic in the least as she stands there, one hand dipping casually into her pocket. The first few buttons on her shirt gape open, revealing skin so white and smooth, Santana isn’t sure how it can be real. She swallows.
"S’okay,” she mutters. The blonde smiles.
"What were you lookin’ at?”
It’s strange, but Santana finds she can’t remember looking at anything at all before this mafia-costumed goddess smoldered her way into the room. The ridiculous breastplate locked over her chest feels entirely too tight, like it’s grown twenty pounds heavier in mere seconds. She frowns.
“I…what?”
The blonde turns, glancing over her own shoulder, and points across the room. “Was it them? Because I can’t blame you for that one. They’re hot.”
It’s on the tip of Santana’s tongue to blurt another mindless ‘what?’, but the blonde’s flame-blue eyes aren’t cutting through her own anymore, and the air seems to be gradually pumping back into the room. Gulping a mouthful, she arches up on her toes, staring over the girl.
Quinn and RuPaul are still about where she left them-miraculously, Fabray seems to have retained the stones she has been displaying every day at school for years and has not gone bolting away from the dancing diva. Somehow, she must have convinced the brunette to unstrap those stupid wings, because she has managed to gather Berry into her arms, pulling the girl’s back tight against her chest without restriction, and is moving with a slow, seductive purpose. Santana will never admit it, but she’s actually a little proud as she watches Quinn’s hands slide along the tiny girl’s waist and up, splaying across Berry’s stomach as their hips rock steadily together.
For her part, Berry looks confused, but pleased. One small hand has reached back and up, tangling in Quinn’s hair, pulling the blonde’s head down so it presses firmly against brown hair. She moves earnestly, free hand gripping Quinn’s wrist in place against her body, and beams her obnoxiously bright megawatt smile. All in all, it is, to Santana’s chagrin, one of the sexier images she’s laid eyes on in a long time.
Barring, of course, the blonde in the fedora, who is watching this whole display with unshrouded interest. It is only at this very moment that Santana realizes the girl just called Fabray and Berry hot-which, while not expressly untrue, does draw the focus annoyingly off of Santana Lopez.
And, bitch, please; no one is hotter than Santana Lopez.
"That’s my friend,” she says calmly, uncharacteristically delighted at her own ability to keep cool in the face of the most attractive woman on the planet. Until this point, Santana didn’t even know she was into chicks-because, honestly, chicks are annoying, and crazy, and prone to all kinds of PMSing, jealous, back-stabbing bullshit. She’s been around Quinn long enough to know that even the most beautiful girls are downright evil most of the time. It’s not really something she’s ever considered to be worth the hassle, minor crushes on her Cheerio teammates aside. But this girl? This girl isn’t even real. She can’t be. There something frighteningly flawless about her, about the depth of her eyes and the way a single tendril of hair has snaked free from under her hat, roguish and sexy.
“The little one?” the blonde asks, craning her neck and smiling when Quinn’s hand runs adventurously up to trail just below Berry’s breasts. The brunette’s cheeks catch fire instantly; even from this distance, Santana can see Fabray’s eyes light up with a self-satisfied hunger.
She snorts and shakes her head. “That tranny? Fuck no. Berry’s a perpetual pain in my ass.”
The beautiful stranger cocks a strange glance Santana’s way, and the Latina feels the air begin to slowly drain away again. “She doesn’t look like a tranny. She’s pretty.”
With anyone else, Santana would roll her eyes disdainfully. With this girl, she can only shrug. “She’s not actually...she’s just…annoying. Loud. Doesn’t know how to shut the fuck up. You know? Anyway, no, she’s not my friend. The other one, the blonde. Quinn Fabray. I’m here for her.”
Across the room, Quinn has apparently hit her groove. Burying her face in Berry’s neck, Santana can see her brush her lips gently against the skin there-so lightly, probably, that Berry doesn’t even know she’s being kissed. The brunette’s fingers catch against Quinn’s wristband, toying with the material, and if Santana were anyone else, she might be inclined to pump a fist gleefully in the air because Quinn is so in.
The beautiful blonde beside her raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t really look like she needs the help.”
Santana shrugs again, watching as Quinn gently presses a series of kisses and tiny licks to tan skin. Berry’s eyes widen, and she arches back a little, giving Quinn more to work with as the blonde slowly sucks at every available inch of her neck. It’s impressive, how easily she’s drawing Man Hands in.
And a little insulting, that this gorgeous stranger thinks Fabray could have pulled this all off without a wingwoman.
"She wouldn’t have even gotten through the door without me,” Santana scoffs, smirking when Quinn drags her teeth visibly down the side of Berry’s throat and recieves a surprised squeeze to the back of her own neck for her troubles. “Woman’s a fucking basketcase. Thought she was going to heave all over Hudson’s lawn.”
"Doesn’t look like a basketcase now,” the blonde comments idly, as Quinn reaches the joint between Berry’s neck and shoulder and bites gingerly down, fingers stroking under the hem of the brunette’s top. Even over the thump of Lady Gaga, Santana can hear the low squeal produced by the action; Berry whips around in Quinn’s arms, locks both hands behind the blonde’s neck, and wrenches her down into a bruising kiss. Quinn looks like she could more or less die happy.
Santana’s just glad her friend’s too distracted by the foreign tongue in her mouth to look over and force the Latina into an energy-draining bout of mimed gagging.
Still, to keep up appearances, it's not exactly prudent to keep gaping like an idiot while Fabray and Berry engage in their too-public tonsil hockey display. As Quinn’s lips part slowly above Berry’s, stroking her tongue brazenly into the smaller girl’s gasping mouth, Santana pointedly looks away and affects boredom. It would be completely pathetic to keep staring, though half of the room is doing so, even if Quinn’s hand is teasing up the edge of Berry’s blinding skirt, even if the brunette’s nails are scraping hard against the taller girl’s scalp, even if the very non-RuPaul-esque leg wrapping itself around Quinn’s waist is disturbingly lovely.
It would be pathetic, and Santana is just not.
To her surprise, when she tears her eyes away, the blonde stranger at her side isn’t performing the expected baffled stare at the spectacle. Unlike every other person in the room, she doesn’t seem to care that the Head Bitch of McKinley is reverently cupping the cheek of Streisand-and-Cher’s lovechild, or that Stubbles is insistently grinding her pelvis against the front of Quinn’s rock star pants. She doesn’t seem to realize exactly how socially unnatural this all is, like a dog and a seahorse going at it; if anything, she seems mildly amused.
“They look good together,” is all she says when she notices Santana’s eyes on her. “Light and dark. Complimentary. Very hot.”
Her gaze holds Santana’s, stone-strong. The implication isn’t lost on the shorter girl, who really wishes the Hudson home was better equipped with a working ventilation system because this no-air thing is getting ridiculous.
"They’re all right,” Santana forces out from between gritted teeth, doing her best to grip the blonde’s eyes with her own instead of allowing her vision to roam lower. “I’ve seen better.”
She wants to say more-wants to reach out and grab the blonde by one small wrist and tug her close, wants to feel her out and see if she moves the way she looks, weeping sultry confidence from every pore. She wants to run her fingers along pink lips, press her forehead to ivory cheeks, tug that maddeningly sexy hat off and hurl it across the room as blonde hair tumbles down, down, down forever.
She wants, and that isn’t new, not for Santana Lopez. What is new is this frozen feeling layered over the desire, locking her feet to the floor, pinning her arms to her sides. She feels very suddenly young, incapable.
The blonde smiles.
"Do you want-” The words skate halfway out of her mouth and retreat, stupefied by the abrupt howl sent up by the crowd around them. Santana tears her eyes away from the girl staring her down, looking up just in time to see Quinn slam Berry hard against the wall, one thigh dramatically crushed between the brunette’s legs, mouths still vacuum-sealed together. Santana makes a face because, really, she’s proud of her girl and all, but there is a line and Quinn has just trampled the living fuck out of it.
"Fabray!” she roars over the din of pointing hockey players and a very pale, bewildered Finn Hudson, who is muttering something rapid-fire under his breath. “You’ve got a motherfucking audience, you idiot! Get a fucking room.”
Quinn swings the arm not supporting Berry’s keening frame around, expertly signaling for Santana to fuck herself, but obediently yanks her mouth away from the midget’s and hauls her out of the room before anyone else can comment. Santana blows out a half-amused, half-disgusted breath.
“Attention whore,” she grumbles. The blonde taps the brim of her fedora with one contemplative finger, grinning.
"Good show, though, you have to admit.”
"In a gross mutant kind of way,” Santana replies. The helmet dips down over her eyes again, and she rips it off, tucking the bulky thing under one arm. Her hair, plastered to her forehead with sweat, probably looks completely atrocious, but she can’t imagine her allure is much higher rocking the whole “this is Sparta” thing, so she tries not to care. Either way, the blonde is still looking at her with something decidedly akin to interest. She affects a charming smirk. “So, why haven’t I seen you around?”
The girl’s shoulders twist. “Probably because I haven’t been.”
"Fair enough,” Santana allows. She doesn’t particularly want to stop talking, because silence has thus far served only to reduce her to a previously unknown and extremely uncomfortable state of shyness. Unfortunately, the blonde doesn’t seem overly concerned with conversation. She’s too busy staring Santana down like she wants to fucking eat her or something.
Well, Santana decides resolutely, there are certainly worse ideas.
It’s weird to be on this end of things, but not entirely lacking enjoyable qualities. The beautiful stranger steps closer, one hand toying with her own suspenders, tugging it off her shirt and allowing it to snap slowly back again. She smiles, predatory, and Santana wills herself not to back away because, Christ, she is Santana motherfucking Lopez. No Lopez has ever run from a beautiful woman, no matter how long her legs or how intimidating her gaze, and she’s not about to ruin that track record.
Although, as the blonde continues to close the gap, watching Santana from beneath long dark lashes, she must admit the resolve it takes to stand her ground. She’s not scared-of course not, it’s not like this girl is a goddamn Muppet or something-but there is something unequivocally unsettling about being so out of control. The girl keeps advancing, and Santana’s legs tremble a little as she holds tight to her spot on the carpet, and suddenly there’s a hand stroking her matted hair back from her forehead.
She sucks in a breath, tempted to rock forward and back at the same time and unable, therefore, to do either. “Fuck,” she hisses when the girl rakes her nails gently over the top of Santana’s head, digging gingerly into her scalp as they go and catching the curve of her skull to hold her in place.
Those lips, so incredibly difficult to look away from, crook upwards at the corners. “You don’t say.”
Santana bites down hard on her own tongue and says nothing. The maddening smile widens.
“You know, that looked like fun.” When Santana cocks her head curiously, the girl shrugs, biting her lip and twitching her own head back towards the living room. “You know. That. Those girls, going at it. Pretty hot, don’t you think?’
Before she can stop herself, Santana is nodding. The girl’s grin looks about ready to launch right off her beautiful face.
"Gotta be honest, though, I’m not sure these small-town kids can handle any more heat tonight.” The blonde leans her forehead down against Santana’s and sighs. “Know anywhere else we could do this?”
Santana arches an eyebrow, biting back the urge to groan. “Presumptuous much?”
The blonde flings her head back, laughing hard enough to nearly dislodge the hat from her head. “Oh, sweetie,” she says cheerfully. “You think I can’t see what I’m doing to you?”
Santana wants to retaliate, wants to claim something about how the blonde has nothing on her, nothing at all, but it’s hard to find words with slender fingers tugging relentlessly on her hair. The girl is entirely too close for someone she’s barely just met, radiating warmth, and Santana can’t remember the last time her throat was this dry. She tries to scowl, only to be met with another giggle.
"Come on,” the girl whispers, craning her long neck forward until her lips trace the edge of Santana’s ear. “Could be fun.”
"Could be,” Santana hears herself rasp back. She is almost horrified to find her left hand clutching frantically at the blonde’s front, swirling around each button and fisting the material of that crisp white material in her oddly-sweaty palm. The strange girl beams, at once sexy beyond reason and intolerably giddy.
This is crazy, Santana reminds herself as the blonde snakes a hand down her body and entwines their fingers. This is completely crazy, and going so fast, and she hasn’t even had time to find a fucking drink yet, but the girl is dragging her through the room, back and around, and Santana can’t find it in herself to fight back.
[Part 2]