Fic: Easy as
yuletide 2009 fic for maddie508.
Easy as
Brittany/Santana - Glee
R | 2k+ words
Not that it's some huge deal, or anything, but being the Lima Lezzie wasn't exactly number one on Santana's to-do list.
One.
When she's fourteen, a bright-eyed freshman at McKinley High School, Santana is invited to join the Cheerios. It's a stupid name for a cheer squad and Santana has heard too many rumors about Coach Sylvester not to be afraid of her, but Santana understands that it's a total privilege to be asked and that's pretty flattering. So she goes. So does Brittany. So does Quinn.
(Santana's less thrilled about that part, but whatever. Keep your enemies closer and all that.)
What Santana loves about cheerleading she can count on one hand. She loves the instant respect. Sometimes that respect looks like fear or jealousy, but it amounts to the same thing. Santana loves the power that comes with popularity. The popularity is cool, too. And she's been in cheer with Brittany since Pop Warner when they were six, it's how they met. Maybe Coach Sylvester is kind of a crazy bitch and the work-outs kick Santana's ass, plus Santana hates that she can never wear her hair down, but it's totally worth it and she has her BFF to stick it out with her. She figures she can ride this wave all the way through high school, at least, and that does not suck at all.
Also, the boys.
A cheerleading uniform is like boy-Kryptonite, or something. It makes them all weak. For whatever reason, most of the guys go after Quinn Fabray, probably because she's always going on about Jesus and morals and sinning, or whatever. What Santana hears is Blah, blah blah, I'm a nervous prude. Boys just like the challenge, is all. So, Santana's kind of easy. It's not like she's a huge slut, she's just not walking around with an iron chastity belt on under her cheer spankies like some people. Chastity is overrated as far as Santana's concerned. She quit being a virgin the first time she had sex.
Two.
Speaking of sex. It's pretty awesome. Okay, maybe not the first time. The first time Santana was fifteen and it was awkward and slippery and it hurt. There were arms and legs everywhere and Santana was a bit drunk, so she doesn't remember it with startling clarity, but she knows she's had more fun doing homework than she did getting her cherry popped. She mostly just did it to get it out of the way. She'd spent the night at Brittany's one weekend the summer before sophomore year and Brittany told her she'd gotten her V-card swiped by a life-guard at the community pool. Santana listened while Brittany recounted every detail-haltingly and with limited adverbs-and Santana had been really impressed and sort of jealous and kind of grossed out by the whole thing. She resolved then and there to return to McKinely High a virgin no more.
After the first time it got easier. Santana learned a lot from Cosmo and porn and Brittany, so by the time she was getting laid regularly Santana was pretty good at it. And it's not like getting into a guy's pants was a hard thing to do. She only had to be making out with them for five minutes before they started clumsily coaxing her hands into their boxers.
(Santana's checked with Brittany; the general consensus is that boys are just as easy as they are.)
One thing Santana discovers about herself is that she really, really likes oral sex. Receiving it, anyway. Even giving it isn't too bad, but no one has ever mistaken Santana Lopez for a giver. Thing is, Santana hasn't had much luck finding guys anxious to perform oral sex and those who do are seldom, if ever, experts at it. She asks Brittany one day when they're painting their toes McKinley black and red in Santana's bedroom. Sex, surprisingly, is one subject at which Brittany excells.
“You've been eaten out, right?” Santana asks. If Brittany's thrown by the non-sequitur she doesn't show it. They were just talking about what Santana should get her grandmother for Christmas.
“Yeah, lots of times.”
“Lots?”
“Sure,” Brittany affirms. Santana watches as Brittany carefully caps the tiny bottle of Candy Apple red and fits a set of spacers between her toes.
“But not every single time you've been with a guy.”
“No way, it's not like I can let him go down on me if we're at dinner or in the library or in front of his parents--”
“Every time you've slept with a guy, Britt; fucked him,” Santana clarifies. She quells the urge to ask Brittany what she was even doing in a library.
“Oh...” Santana can practically see the wheels turning in Brittany's head when she understands what Santana is actually asking. “Oh, no. Not every time. But, like, more often than not?”
“And it's good?”
Brittany shrugs and begins to examine her toes for smudges, completely oblivious to the fact that Santana is trying to have a serious conversation and get some perspective. “I guess. I'm not saying it's like, fantastic? But it beats doing Chem homework, usually. I don't understand why science has numbers when math already has numbers and letters.”
Brittany has a tendency to get tangential so Santana figures their sex talk is ending there and she's going to have to explain the difference between chemical equations and algebraic equations again, but Brittany looks up at her with an uncharacteristic amount of attention and focus and asks why Santana wants to know how often she's getting her pink sea parted.
“I'm only curious because it seems like every guy that goes down on me gets lost. They never seem to know what they're doing and sometimes they give up before I can even get off.”
Brittany looks confused again, like she isn't sure what Santana's getting at. “So, you're saying... What exactly are you saying?”
“I'm saying I don't know if it's them and they just don't know what they're doing because the only business parts they've ever gotten their hands on are their own, or if it's me and I'm just like, frigid.”
“No, I think it's probably the first thing you said. I don't think it's you. If frigid means what I think it does, you're too hot to be frigid.” Brittany smiles and nods once like she's just resolutely solved Santana's problem. Brittany's grin disappears as fast as it came and she furrows her brow. “Frigid means like, cold. Right?”
“Basically.”
Brittany goes back to her nails and Santana's stuck with all these serious thoughts. If boys are the problem, though, that can be fixed. She just needs to find one with more experience than she has. She's heard some promising things about Puck from football, but Santana would sooner sleep with Brittany than Noah Puckerman. She has some standards.
Three.
Turns out her standards aren't as high as Santana thought they were. She does sleep with Puck, who is everything she expected. But Santana also sleeps with Brittany, who is not. Again, Santana is not a slut, even if she's sort of slutty. She just enjoys things that are fun and sex happens to be one of them.
(She also enjoys singing--and by extension glee--but she will deny this if asked. It's one thing to be roped into glee club by Quinn and Coach Sylvester, but it's another entirely to enjoy it. Even if she totally rocks at it.)
Puck is good a sex, but more importantly, Puck is good at oral sex. Which Santana will bend over backwards for. She has, too. Puck is also creative when it comes to erotic positions. She's never seen Puck read a book, but if Santana had to put money on it she'd bet Puck has skimmed through the Kama Sutra, if nothing else. So that's why she has sex with Puck, he's kind of a legend. He's also kind of an asshole who not only sleeps with his best friend's girlfriend, but gets her pregnant. Santana may be slutty, but there's no way in hell she'd let herself get knocked up by some meathead with a mowhawk. That's one reason Santana stops hooking up with Puck; the last thing she wants are Quinn's sloppy seconds.
Why she had sex with Puck in the first place is pretty self-explanatory. Santana isn't entirely sure why she has sex with Brittany. Besides the obvious, anyway. Brittany may not be the brightest crayon in the box, but she is a fucking genius at making Santana come. They started messing around at one of Puck's parties and things sort progressed from lazy, drunken make-outs to impress boys to tentative, private make-outs in their bedrooms until they fall asleep. Somehow that turned into to them screwing like rabbits and Mormons had nothing on 'em. If sex with Brittany didn't totally blow Santana's mind, she wouldn't be doing it. Not that it's some huge deal, or anything, but being the Lima Lezzie wasn't exactly number one on Santana's to-do list.
“Does this mean you're gay?” Brittany asks one afternoon. Santana is a little busy sliding Brittany's skirt down and trying to kiss her neck without leaving hickeys, so it takes her a second to answer.
“Does it-no. No.”
Brittany's considering this while she pulls Santana's top off. When she talks, Brittany's looking at Santana's chest so it seems almost like she's asking Santana's boobs. “Does this mean I'm gay?”
“No, Brittany, god,” Santana sighs. She pushes Brittany down on the bed once they're both naked and straddles her waist. Santana reaches up to pull her hair out of its ponytail so when she leans over Brittany it cloaks both their faces like a curtain. Santana is shocked to hear how soft her voice sounds. “No one is gay.”
Brittany lifts her head to meet Santana's lips with her own. She drops kisses along Santana's jaw to her throat and nips lightly at Santana's pulse point. Santana is sure Brittany can taste the effect she has on Santana in the thunder of her heartbeat.
“I don't know,” Brittany hums. “This feels kind of gay.”
Santana freezes on top of Brittany. She's got one hand in Brittany's hair and the other on Brittany's stomach heading south. Brittany is breathing warm and fast against Santana's neck, which is distracting, and Santana waits for her to say something else. She doesn't.
“So, what?” Santana asks. She pulls away and sits up, settling her weight on Brittany's thighs. “You want to stop?”
Brittany fixes Santana with a look Santana's seen a million times, uncertain and expectant. She looks at Santana the same way she does when someone tells a joke and Brittany isn't sure whether or not she should laugh. She's waiting to see how Santana reacts before she does. “Do you?”
Santana leans forward and rests one hand on either side of Brittany's ribcage, fingers splayed to feel the way she breathes. Santana doesn't miss the way Brittany's breath hitches when Santana rocks against her. “Just answer my question, Britt.”
Brittany closes her eyes-to think, Santana assumes, Brittany thinks better with fewer distractions-but she takes so long Santana worries Brittany might've fallen asleep beneath her. Santana's about to shake her awake when Brittany opens her eyes again. Brittany sits up so fast that Santana nearly falls out of her lap. Brittany takes Santana's waist to steady her and the embrace feels oddly intimate, which is ridiculous considering just how intimate she and Brittany are on a regular basis.
“You said the other day that sex does not equal dating.”
“Yeah and you agreed,” Santana reminds her. “Kind of. It sounded like it.”
“I don't think that's what I meant.”
Santana huffs, “Then what did you mean?”
Brittany starts tracing shapes on Santana's lower back with her thumb. When Santana focuses, they feel like little hearts. “Maybe I want to be dating. To date. You.”
Santana feels her ears burn which means she's probably blushing furiously. Even though it's dark in her room, Santana ducks her head to hide her face in Brittany's hair. She smells like the Victoria's Secret perfume Santana got her for her birthday; Sexy Little Things. Santana breathes deeply.
“Maybe?” Santana queries through a smile.
“Definitely. But, like. If you want.”
Santana shakes her head wraps her arms around Brittany's neck. Going gay can't be more socially damaging than having a dumb jock's bastard. She'll still be top-dog over Quinn. Cool chicks making out is way hotter than a baby bump and stretch-marks, ask anyone. Santana doesn't see herself losing too many brownie points over this. And fuck it if she does, Brittany's maybe worth it. “What the hell,” Santana says. “Everyone probably thinks we're gay together anyway.”
Even in the near pitch-black of the bedroom, Brittany's answering smile is blinding. Brittany says something that sounds like awesome, but Santana swallows it with an open-mouthed kiss. Scratch that maybe. Brittany's definitely worth it.
Easy as
Brittany/Santana - Glee
R | 2k+ words
Not that it's some huge deal, or anything, but being the Lima Lezzie wasn't exactly number one on Santana's to-do list.
One.
When she's fourteen, a bright-eyed freshman at McKinley High School, Santana is invited to join the Cheerios. It's a stupid name for a cheer squad and Santana has heard too many rumors about Coach Sylvester not to be afraid of her, but Santana understands that it's a total privilege to be asked and that's pretty flattering. So she goes. So does Brittany. So does Quinn.
(Santana's less thrilled about that part, but whatever. Keep your enemies closer and all that.)
What Santana loves about cheerleading she can count on one hand. She loves the instant respect. Sometimes that respect looks like fear or jealousy, but it amounts to the same thing. Santana loves the power that comes with popularity. The popularity is cool, too. And she's been in cheer with Brittany since Pop Warner when they were six, it's how they met. Maybe Coach Sylvester is kind of a crazy bitch and the work-outs kick Santana's ass, plus Santana hates that she can never wear her hair down, but it's totally worth it and she has her BFF to stick it out with her. She figures she can ride this wave all the way through high school, at least, and that does not suck at all.
Also, the boys.
A cheerleading uniform is like boy-Kryptonite, or something. It makes them all weak. For whatever reason, most of the guys go after Quinn Fabray, probably because she's always going on about Jesus and morals and sinning, or whatever. What Santana hears is Blah, blah blah, I'm a nervous prude. Boys just like the challenge, is all. So, Santana's kind of easy. It's not like she's a huge slut, she's just not walking around with an iron chastity belt on under her cheer spankies like some people. Chastity is overrated as far as Santana's concerned. She quit being a virgin the first time she had sex.
Two.
Speaking of sex. It's pretty awesome. Okay, maybe not the first time. The first time Santana was fifteen and it was awkward and slippery and it hurt. There were arms and legs everywhere and Santana was a bit drunk, so she doesn't remember it with startling clarity, but she knows she's had more fun doing homework than she did getting her cherry popped. She mostly just did it to get it out of the way. She'd spent the night at Brittany's one weekend the summer before sophomore year and Brittany told her she'd gotten her V-card swiped by a life-guard at the community pool. Santana listened while Brittany recounted every detail-haltingly and with limited adverbs-and Santana had been really impressed and sort of jealous and kind of grossed out by the whole thing. She resolved then and there to return to McKinely High a virgin no more.
After the first time it got easier. Santana learned a lot from Cosmo and porn and Brittany, so by the time she was getting laid regularly Santana was pretty good at it. And it's not like getting into a guy's pants was a hard thing to do. She only had to be making out with them for five minutes before they started clumsily coaxing her hands into their boxers.
(Santana's checked with Brittany; the general consensus is that boys are just as easy as they are.)
One thing Santana discovers about herself is that she really, really likes oral sex. Receiving it, anyway. Even giving it isn't too bad, but no one has ever mistaken Santana Lopez for a giver. Thing is, Santana hasn't had much luck finding guys anxious to perform oral sex and those who do are seldom, if ever, experts at it. She asks Brittany one day when they're painting their toes McKinley black and red in Santana's bedroom. Sex, surprisingly, is one subject at which Brittany excells.
“You've been eaten out, right?” Santana asks. If Brittany's thrown by the non-sequitur she doesn't show it. They were just talking about what Santana should get her grandmother for Christmas.
“Yeah, lots of times.”
“Lots?”
“Sure,” Brittany affirms. Santana watches as Brittany carefully caps the tiny bottle of Candy Apple red and fits a set of spacers between her toes.
“But not every single time you've been with a guy.”
“No way, it's not like I can let him go down on me if we're at dinner or in the library or in front of his parents--”
“Every time you've slept with a guy, Britt; fucked him,” Santana clarifies. She quells the urge to ask Brittany what she was even doing in a library.
“Oh...” Santana can practically see the wheels turning in Brittany's head when she understands what Santana is actually asking. “Oh, no. Not every time. But, like, more often than not?”
“And it's good?”
Brittany shrugs and begins to examine her toes for smudges, completely oblivious to the fact that Santana is trying to have a serious conversation and get some perspective. “I guess. I'm not saying it's like, fantastic? But it beats doing Chem homework, usually. I don't understand why science has numbers when math already has numbers and letters.”
Brittany has a tendency to get tangential so Santana figures their sex talk is ending there and she's going to have to explain the difference between chemical equations and algebraic equations again, but Brittany looks up at her with an uncharacteristic amount of attention and focus and asks why Santana wants to know how often she's getting her pink sea parted.
“I'm only curious because it seems like every guy that goes down on me gets lost. They never seem to know what they're doing and sometimes they give up before I can even get off.”
Brittany looks confused again, like she isn't sure what Santana's getting at. “So, you're saying... What exactly are you saying?”
“I'm saying I don't know if it's them and they just don't know what they're doing because the only business parts they've ever gotten their hands on are their own, or if it's me and I'm just like, frigid.”
“No, I think it's probably the first thing you said. I don't think it's you. If frigid means what I think it does, you're too hot to be frigid.” Brittany smiles and nods once like she's just resolutely solved Santana's problem. Brittany's grin disappears as fast as it came and she furrows her brow. “Frigid means like, cold. Right?”
“Basically.”
Brittany goes back to her nails and Santana's stuck with all these serious thoughts. If boys are the problem, though, that can be fixed. She just needs to find one with more experience than she has. She's heard some promising things about Puck from football, but Santana would sooner sleep with Brittany than Noah Puckerman. She has some standards.
Three.
Turns out her standards aren't as high as Santana thought they were. She does sleep with Puck, who is everything she expected. But Santana also sleeps with Brittany, who is not. Again, Santana is not a slut, even if she's sort of slutty. She just enjoys things that are fun and sex happens to be one of them.
(She also enjoys singing--and by extension glee--but she will deny this if asked. It's one thing to be roped into glee club by Quinn and Coach Sylvester, but it's another entirely to enjoy it. Even if she totally rocks at it.)
Puck is good a sex, but more importantly, Puck is good at oral sex. Which Santana will bend over backwards for. She has, too. Puck is also creative when it comes to erotic positions. She's never seen Puck read a book, but if Santana had to put money on it she'd bet Puck has skimmed through the Kama Sutra, if nothing else. So that's why she has sex with Puck, he's kind of a legend. He's also kind of an asshole who not only sleeps with his best friend's girlfriend, but gets her pregnant. Santana may be slutty, but there's no way in hell she'd let herself get knocked up by some meathead with a mowhawk. That's one reason Santana stops hooking up with Puck; the last thing she wants are Quinn's sloppy seconds.
Why she had sex with Puck in the first place is pretty self-explanatory. Santana isn't entirely sure why she has sex with Brittany. Besides the obvious, anyway. Brittany may not be the brightest crayon in the box, but she is a fucking genius at making Santana come. They started messing around at one of Puck's parties and things sort progressed from lazy, drunken make-outs to impress boys to tentative, private make-outs in their bedrooms until they fall asleep. Somehow that turned into to them screwing like rabbits and Mormons had nothing on 'em. If sex with Brittany didn't totally blow Santana's mind, she wouldn't be doing it. Not that it's some huge deal, or anything, but being the Lima Lezzie wasn't exactly number one on Santana's to-do list.
“Does this mean you're gay?” Brittany asks one afternoon. Santana is a little busy sliding Brittany's skirt down and trying to kiss her neck without leaving hickeys, so it takes her a second to answer.
“Does it-no. No.”
Brittany's considering this while she pulls Santana's top off. When she talks, Brittany's looking at Santana's chest so it seems almost like she's asking Santana's boobs. “Does this mean I'm gay?”
“No, Brittany, god,” Santana sighs. She pushes Brittany down on the bed once they're both naked and straddles her waist. Santana reaches up to pull her hair out of its ponytail so when she leans over Brittany it cloaks both their faces like a curtain. Santana is shocked to hear how soft her voice sounds. “No one is gay.”
Brittany lifts her head to meet Santana's lips with her own. She drops kisses along Santana's jaw to her throat and nips lightly at Santana's pulse point. Santana is sure Brittany can taste the effect she has on Santana in the thunder of her heartbeat.
“I don't know,” Brittany hums. “This feels kind of gay.”
Santana freezes on top of Brittany. She's got one hand in Brittany's hair and the other on Brittany's stomach heading south. Brittany is breathing warm and fast against Santana's neck, which is distracting, and Santana waits for her to say something else. She doesn't.
“So, what?” Santana asks. She pulls away and sits up, settling her weight on Brittany's thighs. “You want to stop?”
Brittany fixes Santana with a look Santana's seen a million times, uncertain and expectant. She looks at Santana the same way she does when someone tells a joke and Brittany isn't sure whether or not she should laugh. She's waiting to see how Santana reacts before she does. “Do you?”
Santana leans forward and rests one hand on either side of Brittany's ribcage, fingers splayed to feel the way she breathes. Santana doesn't miss the way Brittany's breath hitches when Santana rocks against her. “Just answer my question, Britt.”
Brittany closes her eyes-to think, Santana assumes, Brittany thinks better with fewer distractions-but she takes so long Santana worries Brittany might've fallen asleep beneath her. Santana's about to shake her awake when Brittany opens her eyes again. Brittany sits up so fast that Santana nearly falls out of her lap. Brittany takes Santana's waist to steady her and the embrace feels oddly intimate, which is ridiculous considering just how intimate she and Brittany are on a regular basis.
“You said the other day that sex does not equal dating.”
“Yeah and you agreed,” Santana reminds her. “Kind of. It sounded like it.”
“I don't think that's what I meant.”
Santana huffs, “Then what did you mean?”
Brittany starts tracing shapes on Santana's lower back with her thumb. When Santana focuses, they feel like little hearts. “Maybe I want to be dating. To date. You.”
Santana feels her ears burn which means she's probably blushing furiously. Even though it's dark in her room, Santana ducks her head to hide her face in Brittany's hair. She smells like the Victoria's Secret perfume Santana got her for her birthday; Sexy Little Things. Santana breathes deeply.
“Maybe?” Santana queries through a smile.
“Definitely. But, like. If you want.”
Santana shakes her head wraps her arms around Brittany's neck. Going gay can't be more socially damaging than having a dumb jock's bastard. She'll still be top-dog over Quinn. Cool chicks making out is way hotter than a baby bump and stretch-marks, ask anyone. Santana doesn't see herself losing too many brownie points over this. And fuck it if she does, Brittany's maybe worth it. “What the hell,” Santana says. “Everyone probably thinks we're gay together anyway.”
Even in the near pitch-black of the bedroom, Brittany's answering smile is blinding. Brittany says something that sounds like awesome, but Santana swallows it with an open-mouthed kiss. Scratch that maybe. Brittany's definitely worth it.