Fic: Satan and the Schoolgirl (Prologue-1/7?)
Title: Satan and the Schoolgirl
Author: Helion
Chapters: Prologue: Questions, Chapter 1: Past and Present
Pairing: Rachel/Santana, illusions to Brittany/Santana (past)
Rating: PG-13-R (This may change)
Summary: After being named the scariest ruling psycho-bitch in three counties, there is really just one thing Santana Lopez would like to know.
Warnings: Language, Minor Slushies ;)
Disclaimer: If they were mine, do you really think I'd be writing fanfiction for them?
A/N: Ok, so I usually prompt and not write, cuz I'm weird about letting people see my work. So I'm completely nervous about this, to the point I was considering not posting it at all. Something keeps nagging at me to post it though, just like something keeps nagging at me to keep writing so here it goes. Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome. My first piece of fanfiction written in a good 5 years, and my first Glee fic. It was supposed to be a one-shot, but it got away from me. I guess I should have known you can't shut Santana up when she wants to say something. *Sighs*
Pro-logue: Questions
There are many things that the student population of McKinley High know about Santana Lopez. She is Sue Sylvester’s newest golden girl, ruthless and soulless. She captains the Cheerios with an iron will, an ice cold shoulder and often a ice cold shower for those who dared to so much as look at her wrong.
They know that Santana Lopez is not to be crossed. When she joined New Directions, she was untouchable. When she claimed Noah Puckerman, self-proclaimed sex god, wasn’t worth her time because of his credit score (like that boy even knew what a credit score was) she was untouchable.
Brittany let it slip that they were more than just friendly behind closed doors?
Nothing.
Deciding that Quinn Fabray would be accepted back into the (slightly less) unholy trinity after baby-gate blew over, sans Cheerio uniform?
Golden.
The virtual halt of slushy facials to the glee kids, including one Rachel Berry?
Piece of cake.
The Latina worked hard at cultivating the image of being completely in control and just unstable enough that no one knew exactly what to expect next. She could slushy you, trip you, spread a life altering rumor or just flat out beat the shit out of you. No level of the hierarchy was safe, for a good chunk of the population had seen the head Cheerio single-handedly put Dave Karofsky in the hospital, and then deny that he had been near the girl in the first place. She had started, survived, and emerged victorious in the biggest slushy war in the history of William McKinley High School. The entire school, as well as several others, was well aware that that Brittany was possibly the only thing keeping her in check. So, after being named the scariest ruling psycho-bitch in three counties, there is really just one thing Santana Lopez would like to know.
Why, in the name of all the Cheer-gods, could she not convince her own girlfriend that coming out of the closet would not be, for them, social suicide?
Past and Present
It began with three words.
I believe you.
That’s how Santana would like to believe it anyway. If you asked Brittany she would say it began when they were all six. There were next to no Hispanic families in Lima in those days, and none in that school district. Santana’s father had just been transferred to the central Ohio office and a freakishly tall boy named Finn had asked her if she was from Mexico, because he had seen girls that looked like her on the news. A short brunette Santana recognized from their class was practicing pirouettes near the sandbox.
When the little diva overheard the tall boy’s comment she straitened her back, pranced over and promptly kicked the oversized little boy in the shins. Then the tiny girl preceded to tell him that was a completely rude thing to say, and listed off an impressive amount of letters the other kids didn’t understand. When Hudson looked confused, she simply told him to go away. She then twirled around, flipped her ponytail over her shoulder, and held out her hand.
“Rachel Berry. I have two gay dads.”
The next few years were a whirl. She and Rachel had become fast friends and for the next three years they and Brittany ruled the lower grades. In fourth grade, Rachel was moved to a private school. By the time that they met up again Santana was a Cheerio and right hand to Head Bitch Quinn, who decreed that annoying diva was the primary target. Rachel, well, Rachel was still a little diva, but instead of following the school hierarchy she followed her heart. That was her first mistake in the halls of McKinley, whose golden rule was follow your heart only if it lead you to the top.
When Santana finally recognized the girl, it was already too late to undo the damage. Besides, the top spot of the Cheerio’s was just within her grasp, and damned if she was going to let anyone, even an friend from so far back they could barely remember, fuck that up for her.
Still, the Latina couldn’t help but be drawn in by the wannabe Broadway star just as she had so many years ago. The girl was just as obstinate as ever, only now she had added short skirts and endless legs to the mix. Santana had admitted to herself by the eighth grade that she’d rather have girls than boys, but damn, why did the one girl that she convinced herself she couldn’t have be the one she wanted more than anything else.
Seriously, why Berry. Why not Brittany (whom she did admit to being a great substitute as well as an amazing friend), or hell, anyone but Berry. She could not have Berry. The girl was obnoxious.
That was what Santana told herself every time the singer received a slushy to the face.
Obnoxious. Power. Obnoxious. Knee-socks are kinda h- No, damnit. Knee-socks are annoying. Just like Berry. Power, Obnoxious, Power. Throw slushy. Obnoxious. Power.
It had become her mantra. How she convinced herself the shorter girl deserved it. The status-quo was as good as religion in the halls of McKinley, and Quinn Fabray was practically the Pope, or the Dali-Lama or some shit. As long as Quinn Fabray was in power, anyone was fair game. Damned if she was going to let herself become a target.
So she slept with Puckerman, and just about every other semi-worthy jackass in the school to offset Fabray’s squeaky-clean image. She felt like scrubbing herself after the first few, till her good hearted blonde friend told her she thought it didn’t matter, if it was only to make her reputation better.
Soon she started having sex with Brittany, because with her sex could be sex. She could forget about the boys, and the anger she felt ant every living thing on the planet. She didn’t feel dirty when she was with Brittany. It wasn’t love; at least not the happily ever after, end all and be all, fly to Boston and have a big happy gay marriage and have lots of little Hispanic blondes kind of love. With Brittany it was just quiet friendship, with an extra element that most friendships didn’t have, but it felt more right to Santana than when she was with the boys. The lovable girl never asked for more than she could give, and Santana never let her think it was anything it wasn’t.
Brittany knew. The girl may have thought the square-root of four was rainbows, and she may have kept hurt birds in her locker because she thought the vet would feed them to the dogs, but she was sharp. Oh, not in the advanced physics kind of way, that was for sure. Anyone who had had a simi-serious conversation with the blonde would tell you there were three subjects you never questioned her on: dancing, ducks and people. No one ever questioned the blonde girl when it came to people, though no one could put their finger on why.
Yes, Brittany knew people, and the person she knew best was Santana, so it surprised no one (well, to be fair, there were only three people in the room, and Santana was definitely blindsided) when she entered a completely unrelated conversation with, in Santana’s opinion, the worst suggestion she had ever made.
“You should ask Rachel out.”
“What?” Santana had been fooling around with a guitar at the foot of Puck’s bed, where Brittany was currently laying, reading a magazine. She sat bolt upright at the comment, guitar falling off of her lap.
“You should ask Rachel out.” The blonde repeated.
“I heard you, why in the name of Sylvester’s rainbow track suits would you say it?”
“You like her.”
“I so do not like Ru-Paul. That’s just disgusting!”
“No it’s not. She’s actually kind of cute. Plus we’re in glee together now.”
Puck had stopped in the doorway with the sheet music they were supposed to be going over, taking in the conversation. Santana directed her glare at the mohawked boy.
“What!”
“Nothing. Just you and Berry together; the thought is actually kinda scary hot!” He ducked the pillow aimed at his head.
“Why does everyone think I have a thing for Man-hands!”
“Cuz your mean to her. Everyone knows when your that mean to someone it means you like them. That’s why Q yelled at her so much.” Santana let out an unintentional growl at the thought of Fabray anywhere near Rachel in the way Brittany suggested. The blonde girl smiled knowingly.
“Oh, and she defiantly doesn’t have man hands.” Puck flopped down in his desk chair, picking up the guitar that Santana had almost thrown, checking it for damages. “Puckasaurus should know.”
“Would you stop referring to yourself in the third person. You are not a dinosaur.” Maybe if she changed the subject.
“No, but I’m awesome!” Puck’s head bob was on par with her or Brittany.
“If by awesome you mean obnoxious.”
“Seems to me you have a thing for obnoxious. First Pucky-Puckster, now Berry. Come on San, try to tell me you wouldn’t want in that wonderfully tiny plaid skirt!”
Santana groaned and fell back against the bed.
Damn
Next Part: Seeing Stars
Author: Helion
Chapters: Prologue: Questions, Chapter 1: Past and Present
Pairing: Rachel/Santana, illusions to Brittany/Santana (past)
Rating: PG-13-R (This may change)
Summary: After being named the scariest ruling psycho-bitch in three counties, there is really just one thing Santana Lopez would like to know.
Warnings: Language, Minor Slushies ;)
Disclaimer: If they were mine, do you really think I'd be writing fanfiction for them?
A/N: Ok, so I usually prompt and not write, cuz I'm weird about letting people see my work. So I'm completely nervous about this, to the point I was considering not posting it at all. Something keeps nagging at me to post it though, just like something keeps nagging at me to keep writing so here it goes. Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome. My first piece of fanfiction written in a good 5 years, and my first Glee fic. It was supposed to be a one-shot, but it got away from me. I guess I should have known you can't shut Santana up when she wants to say something. *Sighs*
Pro-logue: Questions
There are many things that the student population of McKinley High know about Santana Lopez. She is Sue Sylvester’s newest golden girl, ruthless and soulless. She captains the Cheerios with an iron will, an ice cold shoulder and often a ice cold shower for those who dared to so much as look at her wrong.
They know that Santana Lopez is not to be crossed. When she joined New Directions, she was untouchable. When she claimed Noah Puckerman, self-proclaimed sex god, wasn’t worth her time because of his credit score (like that boy even knew what a credit score was) she was untouchable.
Brittany let it slip that they were more than just friendly behind closed doors?
Nothing.
Deciding that Quinn Fabray would be accepted back into the (slightly less) unholy trinity after baby-gate blew over, sans Cheerio uniform?
Golden.
The virtual halt of slushy facials to the glee kids, including one Rachel Berry?
Piece of cake.
The Latina worked hard at cultivating the image of being completely in control and just unstable enough that no one knew exactly what to expect next. She could slushy you, trip you, spread a life altering rumor or just flat out beat the shit out of you. No level of the hierarchy was safe, for a good chunk of the population had seen the head Cheerio single-handedly put Dave Karofsky in the hospital, and then deny that he had been near the girl in the first place. She had started, survived, and emerged victorious in the biggest slushy war in the history of William McKinley High School. The entire school, as well as several others, was well aware that that Brittany was possibly the only thing keeping her in check. So, after being named the scariest ruling psycho-bitch in three counties, there is really just one thing Santana Lopez would like to know.
Why, in the name of all the Cheer-gods, could she not convince her own girlfriend that coming out of the closet would not be, for them, social suicide?
Past and Present
It began with three words.
I believe you.
That’s how Santana would like to believe it anyway. If you asked Brittany she would say it began when they were all six. There were next to no Hispanic families in Lima in those days, and none in that school district. Santana’s father had just been transferred to the central Ohio office and a freakishly tall boy named Finn had asked her if she was from Mexico, because he had seen girls that looked like her on the news. A short brunette Santana recognized from their class was practicing pirouettes near the sandbox.
When the little diva overheard the tall boy’s comment she straitened her back, pranced over and promptly kicked the oversized little boy in the shins. Then the tiny girl preceded to tell him that was a completely rude thing to say, and listed off an impressive amount of letters the other kids didn’t understand. When Hudson looked confused, she simply told him to go away. She then twirled around, flipped her ponytail over her shoulder, and held out her hand.
“Rachel Berry. I have two gay dads.”
The next few years were a whirl. She and Rachel had become fast friends and for the next three years they and Brittany ruled the lower grades. In fourth grade, Rachel was moved to a private school. By the time that they met up again Santana was a Cheerio and right hand to Head Bitch Quinn, who decreed that annoying diva was the primary target. Rachel, well, Rachel was still a little diva, but instead of following the school hierarchy she followed her heart. That was her first mistake in the halls of McKinley, whose golden rule was follow your heart only if it lead you to the top.
When Santana finally recognized the girl, it was already too late to undo the damage. Besides, the top spot of the Cheerio’s was just within her grasp, and damned if she was going to let anyone, even an friend from so far back they could barely remember, fuck that up for her.
Still, the Latina couldn’t help but be drawn in by the wannabe Broadway star just as she had so many years ago. The girl was just as obstinate as ever, only now she had added short skirts and endless legs to the mix. Santana had admitted to herself by the eighth grade that she’d rather have girls than boys, but damn, why did the one girl that she convinced herself she couldn’t have be the one she wanted more than anything else.
Seriously, why Berry. Why not Brittany (whom she did admit to being a great substitute as well as an amazing friend), or hell, anyone but Berry. She could not have Berry. The girl was obnoxious.
That was what Santana told herself every time the singer received a slushy to the face.
Obnoxious. Power. Obnoxious. Knee-socks are kinda h- No, damnit. Knee-socks are annoying. Just like Berry. Power, Obnoxious, Power. Throw slushy. Obnoxious. Power.
It had become her mantra. How she convinced herself the shorter girl deserved it. The status-quo was as good as religion in the halls of McKinley, and Quinn Fabray was practically the Pope, or the Dali-Lama or some shit. As long as Quinn Fabray was in power, anyone was fair game. Damned if she was going to let herself become a target.
So she slept with Puckerman, and just about every other semi-worthy jackass in the school to offset Fabray’s squeaky-clean image. She felt like scrubbing herself after the first few, till her good hearted blonde friend told her she thought it didn’t matter, if it was only to make her reputation better.
Soon she started having sex with Brittany, because with her sex could be sex. She could forget about the boys, and the anger she felt ant every living thing on the planet. She didn’t feel dirty when she was with Brittany. It wasn’t love; at least not the happily ever after, end all and be all, fly to Boston and have a big happy gay marriage and have lots of little Hispanic blondes kind of love. With Brittany it was just quiet friendship, with an extra element that most friendships didn’t have, but it felt more right to Santana than when she was with the boys. The lovable girl never asked for more than she could give, and Santana never let her think it was anything it wasn’t.
Brittany knew. The girl may have thought the square-root of four was rainbows, and she may have kept hurt birds in her locker because she thought the vet would feed them to the dogs, but she was sharp. Oh, not in the advanced physics kind of way, that was for sure. Anyone who had had a simi-serious conversation with the blonde would tell you there were three subjects you never questioned her on: dancing, ducks and people. No one ever questioned the blonde girl when it came to people, though no one could put their finger on why.
Yes, Brittany knew people, and the person she knew best was Santana, so it surprised no one (well, to be fair, there were only three people in the room, and Santana was definitely blindsided) when she entered a completely unrelated conversation with, in Santana’s opinion, the worst suggestion she had ever made.
“You should ask Rachel out.”
“What?” Santana had been fooling around with a guitar at the foot of Puck’s bed, where Brittany was currently laying, reading a magazine. She sat bolt upright at the comment, guitar falling off of her lap.
“You should ask Rachel out.” The blonde repeated.
“I heard you, why in the name of Sylvester’s rainbow track suits would you say it?”
“You like her.”
“I so do not like Ru-Paul. That’s just disgusting!”
“No it’s not. She’s actually kind of cute. Plus we’re in glee together now.”
Puck had stopped in the doorway with the sheet music they were supposed to be going over, taking in the conversation. Santana directed her glare at the mohawked boy.
“What!”
“Nothing. Just you and Berry together; the thought is actually kinda scary hot!” He ducked the pillow aimed at his head.
“Why does everyone think I have a thing for Man-hands!”
“Cuz your mean to her. Everyone knows when your that mean to someone it means you like them. That’s why Q yelled at her so much.” Santana let out an unintentional growl at the thought of Fabray anywhere near Rachel in the way Brittany suggested. The blonde girl smiled knowingly.
“Oh, and she defiantly doesn’t have man hands.” Puck flopped down in his desk chair, picking up the guitar that Santana had almost thrown, checking it for damages. “Puckasaurus should know.”
“Would you stop referring to yourself in the third person. You are not a dinosaur.” Maybe if she changed the subject.
“No, but I’m awesome!” Puck’s head bob was on par with her or Brittany.
“If by awesome you mean obnoxious.”
“Seems to me you have a thing for obnoxious. First Pucky-Puckster, now Berry. Come on San, try to tell me you wouldn’t want in that wonderfully tiny plaid skirt!”
Santana groaned and fell back against the bed.
Damn
Next Part: Seeing Stars