Glee -- HFSD
Title: Holy Freaking Shit, Dave
Fandom: Glee
Characters: Santana Lopez, Dave Karofsky (who ship Santana/Brittany and Karofsky/Kurt, respectively)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,115
Warnings: shoddy editing, language, Santana, major spoilers through 2.18 ("Born This Way")
Summary: An emergency strategical meeting of Beards Anonymous, McKinley Chapter (members: two).
Author's Note: First: writing Santana is pretty much like taking a jet-pack powered by crazy rockets over the Himalayas. Second: let's play a very easy round of the Spot the Doctor Who Reference game! XD Third: tagging this "friendship" is bizarre, but I don't have a "[genre] partners in crime/idek" tag. Lastly: DAMN THIS COCAINE!SHOW TO A FIERY HELL; I WANT MY LIFE BACK.
HOLY FREAKING SHIT, DAVE
Santana never expected this plan-despite its not-inconsiderable brilliance and general, characteristic cunning-to go off without a hitch. This is because Santana is not freakin’ stupid.
“Consider picking on someone your own size,” Dave says, slightly woodenly but with enough menace to make Kyle McLaughlin quake a bit in his torn-up Nikes.
“For the record,” Santana adds, “that was not meant to have any implications that could qualify as sexual harassment.”
Kyle stares at them blankly for a long moment. Either he’s thicker than the wads of cash Coach Sylvester sometimes hands to journalists, or it’s the berets again.
“…what?” Kyle manages.
“She’s not saying you have a small dick,” Dave says, diplomatic as always. “But you probably do, if you have to beat up on… whatever this kid’s name is… to feel cool.”
Isaac Newberry is shaking three times as hard as Kyle, which isn’t too surprising; Brittany said he almost pissed his pants when she made out with him (this was towards the bottom of the list of boys at McKinley). Isaac is five-foot-two and wears glasses that dwarf his face, though they’re usually not quite enough to distract from all of the T-shirts with Albert Einstein quotes. Santana actually mostly left him alone in her heyday-first of all, it’s too freaking easy when the target is such a dweeb he practically makes fun of himself; second, she has a hazy premonition that he might be inventing a laser gun in his garage.
“We’re not going to tolerate bullying at this school anymore,” Santana tells Kyle, who turns his disbelieving gaze on her. “That’s what it says on the jackets, which I know you know already, because you’ve been staring at my boobs. You might want to quit it with that kind of objectifying behavior in the future, by the way, or my boyfriend Dave will beat the shit out of you in a totally non-bullying way.”
“That’s not even poss…” Kyle begins. His mouth keeps moving for a moment without any voice coming out of it. “Never mind,” he rasps then. “I’m out of here.”
True dat, he makes a run for it. Santana watches him go, enjoying the warm satisfaction blooming in the center of her mostly-natural bosom.
There is a long silence.
“I’m so confused,” Isaac Newberry says weakly. “Please don’t kill me. And please don’t kill me for being confused about the fact that you haven’t killed me yet, because maybe you’re planning a more spectacular death for me, and I’m sure it’s a really amazing one, but-”
“Chill out,” Santana says. “We’re just making the halls of McKinley safe for everyone.”
“Even pasty nerds who talk too much,” Dave mutters.
“Um,” Isaac squeaks, “thank… you…?”
“Just doing our civic duty,” Santana tells him. “Now do your civic duty and skedaddle.”
Isaac nods so furiously that his glasses almost fall off of his nose and then bolts before they can change their minds.
“Hey, hot girlfriend,” Dave says. “Can we talk for a second?”
“Of course, Dave,” Santana says. She seizes his hand and drags him to the Latin classroom, which is always empty at lunch because the teacher is usually out buying weed (from that professional creeper Ryerson, natch) in the hopes of dampening his suicidal urges. Unfortunately, given that he’s an Ohioan high school Latin teacher, he’s probably fucked no matter how often he gets baked.
Santana closes the door-labeled ianua, which is probably Latin for “Goodbye, cruel world”-and turns, folding her arms. “Well?”
Dave’s eyes are dark and cold, and a vein in his neck is twitching. Worry for her safety does not cross Santana’s mind, because she could totally take him even if there weren’t two dozen smackdownable chairs within easy reach, but she’s kind of interested to see what he’s cooked up. Dave is way more fun than any of the games on her phone right now.
“This,” Dave says, “is bullshit.”
Yawn.
“Most of the time,” Dave goes on angrily, “when I tell some kid I wish he was dead, I mean it, because the thought of that dumbass clogging up the gene pool makes me wanna puke.”
“Speaking of which,” Santana says, “that’s one of the reasons I was actually really glad to find out you were batting for Team Fabulosity. It makes it so much harder for you to procreate and fill the world with tiny football-playing monsters who always wear one of about three striped polo shirts.”
Dave is not amused. “I’m a little more concerned about the fact that we’re wearing fucking berets!”
Santana admires the costuming coup de grâce in question. “Might I add that yours is further proof of your epic gayness, because it actually kind of works for you? Must be the jaunty angle and the expression of murderous rage. You’d best not be committin’ no homicides, though, Dave-Slave; that would seriously ruin our new image.”
“It’s not our new image,” Dave says through gritted teeth. “It’s your new image.”
Santana considers her nail polish. Her right thumb needs a touch-up. “We’re in this together, douchewad, like it or not.”
“That’s because you’re blackmailing me, you crazy bitch!”
“Just so you know, I don’t actually hear ‘bitch’ anymore,” Santana says. “I hear ‘Warrior Princess of Ass-Kickage,’ like Xena, except better at making people hate themselves, and with a little less leather. While we’re on the subject of words that I terrify into submission, ‘ho’ pretty much means ‘sex goddess’ to me.”
“Okay,” Dave says, pressing two fingertips to his forehead and looking like it’s taking all of his willpower not to explode, “so the fact that you’re a hundred and fifty percent delusional aside, can you come up with some other fucking psycho-plot to get your stupid fucking plastic tiara? This plan blows.”
“Too damn bad,” Santana says. “If the only way to get Kurt back into New Directions is to give you an attitude transplant, then you’re just lucky it doesn’t require a scalpel.”
Dave shudders visibly. In the throes of her enjoyment, Santana vaguely recalls a word somebody called her once-“sociopath”?
More like sociodamnawesome.
“Whatever,” Dave says. “This is fucking stupid, okay? And pretty soon, someone’s going to figure out the whole stupid thing, and then we’re both going to be screwed. So think of some other way to get Kurt back; you must have eight thousand other evil plans circling around in your head at any given time.”
“Like vultures,” Santana says, “but this is the best one. Analyzed it from every possible angle, thanks very freakin’ much. I don’t do this shit just because I love other people’s pain, you know.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Dave mutters.
“Brittany wearing her ghost sheet with the eyeholes could fool you,” Santana tells him. “You know what’s weird, though? It sounds like you want Kurt to be back.”
His face says it all and then some-the dude is an open book. There’s even a footnote that says Fuck my life.
“Holy freaking shit, Dave,” Santana says. “And I’m not talking about what the Pope puts into the crappers in the Vatican.”
Dave’s shoulders tense, and his glare would be formidable to anyone who knew fear. “Shut the fuck up, Santana.”
“You are in love with Kurt Hummel.”
“Jesus fucking Christ; I am not.” Dave is bristling so furiously that Santana expects spikes to shoot out from under his skin.
…which would be awesome. If Dave turns out to be some kind of porcupine superhero, Santana is totally going to date him for real.
“I’d say ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’” Santana tells him, “but I’m not, so don’t even open your damn mouth. It’s the only explanation for all of this crap. I can’t believe I didn’t figure that out months ago.” This weird feeling fluttering somewhere behind her amazing abs might be… regret? Is that what it’s called? Whatever that shit is that people talk about.
“Just can it,” Dave says. “Christ.”
“You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’ if you keep telling me what to do,” Santana says. She pauses to process this intel a little more. “Really, Dave? He wears freakin’ bow-ties. Who does that?”
“Bow-ties are cool,” Dave mutters.
Santana stares at him. Every now and again, she gets this crazy idea like he’s smart-fortunately, he’s relatively quick about disproving that misconception every time. “Uh, no, they’re not, and neither is cocaine, for your future reference.”
“You’re the one who’s in love with Brittany,” Dave fires back, and Santana has to steel herself not to flinch and then steel herself not to cringe at the flinching. “How does she even get out of bed in the morning without hurting herself? How in the hell has she ever passed one class, let alone enough of them to be halfway through high school?”
“She’s Brittany, bitch,” Santana says.
“That’s a line from a shitty song,” Dave says. “It’s not an explanation of some, like, bizarre extraterrestrial phenomenon.”
“If Brittany’s an alien,” Santana says, and she hasn’t entirely ruled out the possibility; “then our triumphant reconciliation sex will be lesbian and interspecies, and it’ll be even more awesome. Good luck hooking up with Kurt when he’s an avant-garde-ass fashion designer in New York while Blaine’s on Broadway.”
“You dumb Warrior Princess of Ass-Kickage-” …or whatever. “-he told me where to shove it a long time ago, all right? And if fucking miracles existed, one would have gotten me out of this shit in the first place.”
Santana is bored with this conversation now. Plus she’d probably start having suicidal thoughts if she had to listen to Dave Karofsky talk about his spiritual and religious beliefs, and it would be unfair to deprive the world of Santana. The world would cry bitter tears of desolation and stuff. Not that Santana knows anything about those.
“I can’t believe this,” she says, sitting down on top of one of the desks. She’s going to kick the crap out of whoever carved that heart into the corner; nobody mocks her and gets away with their kneecaps intact. “You and me losing out to Cripple McSweater-Vest and the Musical Fruit? This is like some burned-out sitcom writer’s LSD dream.”
“You are literally the meanest person I have ever met,” Dave says, not without some awe. “Including me.”
“You’re so sweet sometimes,” Santana says. “Maybe I should keep you around.”
Dave leans back against the chalkboard, moves to run his hands through his hair, and encounters the beret. “…okay, seriously, we need a new plan. You honestly think wearing a matching jacket and fucking beret is going to make me lose gay points?”
“Well,” Santana says, “it’s this or me shoving you out of the closet and slamming the door after you. Take your pick.”
“Definitely not a coincidence that your name is practically ‘Satan,’” Dave says.
“And yours has ‘diva’ in it backwards,” Santana says. “What now?”
David’s eyes widen, and his mouth falls open a little. Then he shuts his trap again and just shakes his head.
“‘What now’ is not a yes-or-no question,” Santana informs him.
“I got that,” Dave says, standing up again and starting towards the door. “It’s just kind of depressing that this is the part that I’m going to need therapy for.”
Santana tries to think of a way to be helpful, presumably because she’s having a brain aneurysm and/or a flash of amnesia that’s erased her identity. “Well, maybe Kurt will go into psychology, and then-”
“Shut the fuck up, Santana,” Dave says. He puts his hand on the doorknob. “…shit.”
“What now?” Santana says-also not a yes-or-no question. “I swear, you’ve got more problems than all of that trig homework I steal from Tina to copy. She has crazy-good handwriting.”
Dave glares at her again. “We’ve been in here forever. Now people are going to think I have syphilis.”
“A suitably hetero STD,” Santana says. She adjusts her beret and flips her hair over her shoulder. “You don’t even have to tell me, but you should, because you really don’t want me to be pissed at you, boy.”
Dave’s glare takes on a few shades of uncertainty.
Santana slides off of the desk, sashays over to join him at the door, and threads her arm through his. “Hit me with it,” she tells him. “You know what I’m going to hear.”
The lightbulb goes on. Maybe she’ll put up with him for a while yet.
He opens the door. “Ho,” he says.
Santana grins, perhaps a bit viciously. “You know it.”
Fandom: Glee
Characters: Santana Lopez, Dave Karofsky (who ship Santana/Brittany and Karofsky/Kurt, respectively)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,115
Warnings: shoddy editing, language, Santana, major spoilers through 2.18 ("Born This Way")
Summary: An emergency strategical meeting of Beards Anonymous, McKinley Chapter (members: two).
Author's Note: First: writing Santana is pretty much like taking a jet-pack powered by crazy rockets over the Himalayas. Second: let's play a very easy round of the Spot the Doctor Who Reference game! XD Third: tagging this "friendship" is bizarre, but I don't have a "[genre] partners in crime/idek" tag. Lastly: DAMN THIS COCAINE!SHOW TO A FIERY HELL; I WANT MY LIFE BACK.
HOLY FREAKING SHIT, DAVE
Santana never expected this plan-despite its not-inconsiderable brilliance and general, characteristic cunning-to go off without a hitch. This is because Santana is not freakin’ stupid.
“Consider picking on someone your own size,” Dave says, slightly woodenly but with enough menace to make Kyle McLaughlin quake a bit in his torn-up Nikes.
“For the record,” Santana adds, “that was not meant to have any implications that could qualify as sexual harassment.”
Kyle stares at them blankly for a long moment. Either he’s thicker than the wads of cash Coach Sylvester sometimes hands to journalists, or it’s the berets again.
“…what?” Kyle manages.
“She’s not saying you have a small dick,” Dave says, diplomatic as always. “But you probably do, if you have to beat up on… whatever this kid’s name is… to feel cool.”
Isaac Newberry is shaking three times as hard as Kyle, which isn’t too surprising; Brittany said he almost pissed his pants when she made out with him (this was towards the bottom of the list of boys at McKinley). Isaac is five-foot-two and wears glasses that dwarf his face, though they’re usually not quite enough to distract from all of the T-shirts with Albert Einstein quotes. Santana actually mostly left him alone in her heyday-first of all, it’s too freaking easy when the target is such a dweeb he practically makes fun of himself; second, she has a hazy premonition that he might be inventing a laser gun in his garage.
“We’re not going to tolerate bullying at this school anymore,” Santana tells Kyle, who turns his disbelieving gaze on her. “That’s what it says on the jackets, which I know you know already, because you’ve been staring at my boobs. You might want to quit it with that kind of objectifying behavior in the future, by the way, or my boyfriend Dave will beat the shit out of you in a totally non-bullying way.”
“That’s not even poss…” Kyle begins. His mouth keeps moving for a moment without any voice coming out of it. “Never mind,” he rasps then. “I’m out of here.”
True dat, he makes a run for it. Santana watches him go, enjoying the warm satisfaction blooming in the center of her mostly-natural bosom.
There is a long silence.
“I’m so confused,” Isaac Newberry says weakly. “Please don’t kill me. And please don’t kill me for being confused about the fact that you haven’t killed me yet, because maybe you’re planning a more spectacular death for me, and I’m sure it’s a really amazing one, but-”
“Chill out,” Santana says. “We’re just making the halls of McKinley safe for everyone.”
“Even pasty nerds who talk too much,” Dave mutters.
“Um,” Isaac squeaks, “thank… you…?”
“Just doing our civic duty,” Santana tells him. “Now do your civic duty and skedaddle.”
Isaac nods so furiously that his glasses almost fall off of his nose and then bolts before they can change their minds.
“Hey, hot girlfriend,” Dave says. “Can we talk for a second?”
“Of course, Dave,” Santana says. She seizes his hand and drags him to the Latin classroom, which is always empty at lunch because the teacher is usually out buying weed (from that professional creeper Ryerson, natch) in the hopes of dampening his suicidal urges. Unfortunately, given that he’s an Ohioan high school Latin teacher, he’s probably fucked no matter how often he gets baked.
Santana closes the door-labeled ianua, which is probably Latin for “Goodbye, cruel world”-and turns, folding her arms. “Well?”
Dave’s eyes are dark and cold, and a vein in his neck is twitching. Worry for her safety does not cross Santana’s mind, because she could totally take him even if there weren’t two dozen smackdownable chairs within easy reach, but she’s kind of interested to see what he’s cooked up. Dave is way more fun than any of the games on her phone right now.
“This,” Dave says, “is bullshit.”
Yawn.
“Most of the time,” Dave goes on angrily, “when I tell some kid I wish he was dead, I mean it, because the thought of that dumbass clogging up the gene pool makes me wanna puke.”
“Speaking of which,” Santana says, “that’s one of the reasons I was actually really glad to find out you were batting for Team Fabulosity. It makes it so much harder for you to procreate and fill the world with tiny football-playing monsters who always wear one of about three striped polo shirts.”
Dave is not amused. “I’m a little more concerned about the fact that we’re wearing fucking berets!”
Santana admires the costuming coup de grâce in question. “Might I add that yours is further proof of your epic gayness, because it actually kind of works for you? Must be the jaunty angle and the expression of murderous rage. You’d best not be committin’ no homicides, though, Dave-Slave; that would seriously ruin our new image.”
“It’s not our new image,” Dave says through gritted teeth. “It’s your new image.”
Santana considers her nail polish. Her right thumb needs a touch-up. “We’re in this together, douchewad, like it or not.”
“That’s because you’re blackmailing me, you crazy bitch!”
“Just so you know, I don’t actually hear ‘bitch’ anymore,” Santana says. “I hear ‘Warrior Princess of Ass-Kickage,’ like Xena, except better at making people hate themselves, and with a little less leather. While we’re on the subject of words that I terrify into submission, ‘ho’ pretty much means ‘sex goddess’ to me.”
“Okay,” Dave says, pressing two fingertips to his forehead and looking like it’s taking all of his willpower not to explode, “so the fact that you’re a hundred and fifty percent delusional aside, can you come up with some other fucking psycho-plot to get your stupid fucking plastic tiara? This plan blows.”
“Too damn bad,” Santana says. “If the only way to get Kurt back into New Directions is to give you an attitude transplant, then you’re just lucky it doesn’t require a scalpel.”
Dave shudders visibly. In the throes of her enjoyment, Santana vaguely recalls a word somebody called her once-“sociopath”?
More like sociodamnawesome.
“Whatever,” Dave says. “This is fucking stupid, okay? And pretty soon, someone’s going to figure out the whole stupid thing, and then we’re both going to be screwed. So think of some other way to get Kurt back; you must have eight thousand other evil plans circling around in your head at any given time.”
“Like vultures,” Santana says, “but this is the best one. Analyzed it from every possible angle, thanks very freakin’ much. I don’t do this shit just because I love other people’s pain, you know.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Dave mutters.
“Brittany wearing her ghost sheet with the eyeholes could fool you,” Santana tells him. “You know what’s weird, though? It sounds like you want Kurt to be back.”
His face says it all and then some-the dude is an open book. There’s even a footnote that says Fuck my life.
“Holy freaking shit, Dave,” Santana says. “And I’m not talking about what the Pope puts into the crappers in the Vatican.”
Dave’s shoulders tense, and his glare would be formidable to anyone who knew fear. “Shut the fuck up, Santana.”
“You are in love with Kurt Hummel.”
“Jesus fucking Christ; I am not.” Dave is bristling so furiously that Santana expects spikes to shoot out from under his skin.
…which would be awesome. If Dave turns out to be some kind of porcupine superhero, Santana is totally going to date him for real.
“I’d say ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’” Santana tells him, “but I’m not, so don’t even open your damn mouth. It’s the only explanation for all of this crap. I can’t believe I didn’t figure that out months ago.” This weird feeling fluttering somewhere behind her amazing abs might be… regret? Is that what it’s called? Whatever that shit is that people talk about.
“Just can it,” Dave says. “Christ.”
“You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’ if you keep telling me what to do,” Santana says. She pauses to process this intel a little more. “Really, Dave? He wears freakin’ bow-ties. Who does that?”
“Bow-ties are cool,” Dave mutters.
Santana stares at him. Every now and again, she gets this crazy idea like he’s smart-fortunately, he’s relatively quick about disproving that misconception every time. “Uh, no, they’re not, and neither is cocaine, for your future reference.”
“You’re the one who’s in love with Brittany,” Dave fires back, and Santana has to steel herself not to flinch and then steel herself not to cringe at the flinching. “How does she even get out of bed in the morning without hurting herself? How in the hell has she ever passed one class, let alone enough of them to be halfway through high school?”
“She’s Brittany, bitch,” Santana says.
“That’s a line from a shitty song,” Dave says. “It’s not an explanation of some, like, bizarre extraterrestrial phenomenon.”
“If Brittany’s an alien,” Santana says, and she hasn’t entirely ruled out the possibility; “then our triumphant reconciliation sex will be lesbian and interspecies, and it’ll be even more awesome. Good luck hooking up with Kurt when he’s an avant-garde-ass fashion designer in New York while Blaine’s on Broadway.”
“You dumb Warrior Princess of Ass-Kickage-” …or whatever. “-he told me where to shove it a long time ago, all right? And if fucking miracles existed, one would have gotten me out of this shit in the first place.”
Santana is bored with this conversation now. Plus she’d probably start having suicidal thoughts if she had to listen to Dave Karofsky talk about his spiritual and religious beliefs, and it would be unfair to deprive the world of Santana. The world would cry bitter tears of desolation and stuff. Not that Santana knows anything about those.
“I can’t believe this,” she says, sitting down on top of one of the desks. She’s going to kick the crap out of whoever carved that heart into the corner; nobody mocks her and gets away with their kneecaps intact. “You and me losing out to Cripple McSweater-Vest and the Musical Fruit? This is like some burned-out sitcom writer’s LSD dream.”
“You are literally the meanest person I have ever met,” Dave says, not without some awe. “Including me.”
“You’re so sweet sometimes,” Santana says. “Maybe I should keep you around.”
Dave leans back against the chalkboard, moves to run his hands through his hair, and encounters the beret. “…okay, seriously, we need a new plan. You honestly think wearing a matching jacket and fucking beret is going to make me lose gay points?”
“Well,” Santana says, “it’s this or me shoving you out of the closet and slamming the door after you. Take your pick.”
“Definitely not a coincidence that your name is practically ‘Satan,’” Dave says.
“And yours has ‘diva’ in it backwards,” Santana says. “What now?”
David’s eyes widen, and his mouth falls open a little. Then he shuts his trap again and just shakes his head.
“‘What now’ is not a yes-or-no question,” Santana informs him.
“I got that,” Dave says, standing up again and starting towards the door. “It’s just kind of depressing that this is the part that I’m going to need therapy for.”
Santana tries to think of a way to be helpful, presumably because she’s having a brain aneurysm and/or a flash of amnesia that’s erased her identity. “Well, maybe Kurt will go into psychology, and then-”
“Shut the fuck up, Santana,” Dave says. He puts his hand on the doorknob. “…shit.”
“What now?” Santana says-also not a yes-or-no question. “I swear, you’ve got more problems than all of that trig homework I steal from Tina to copy. She has crazy-good handwriting.”
Dave glares at her again. “We’ve been in here forever. Now people are going to think I have syphilis.”
“A suitably hetero STD,” Santana says. She adjusts her beret and flips her hair over her shoulder. “You don’t even have to tell me, but you should, because you really don’t want me to be pissed at you, boy.”
Dave’s glare takes on a few shades of uncertainty.
Santana slides off of the desk, sashays over to join him at the door, and threads her arm through his. “Hit me with it,” she tells him. “You know what I’m going to hear.”
The lightbulb goes on. Maybe she’ll put up with him for a while yet.
He opens the door. “Ho,” he says.
Santana grins, perhaps a bit viciously. “You know it.”