(Glee, Sheila/Santana) Red Light
Title: Red Light
Author: littledust
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Sheila/Santana
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1034
Summary: On summer break, Santana runs into a girl at the pool.
Author's Notes: Written for sotto_voice! The fic gets its title from "50ft Queenie" by PJ Harvey, which is the song Sheila sings.
It's weird as hell to be lounging by the pool without the knowledge that Sue Sylvester is going to be shouting at her within 24 hours. Coach didn't and doesn't really believe in things like vacations or compassion or mercy. Santana's pretty short on the last two, but God invented summer vacation so that she could look hot in a bikini.
Except some idiot is singing about how she's a force ten hurricane, whatever the fuck that means.
Santana sits up, lowering her shades so she can give this chick the full benefit of her death stare, but the death staring morphs into just plain staring, because hello. One of the best things about coming out of the closet (inside her head, anyway) has been letting herself appreciate how much sexier girls are than guys. This girl jamming like it ain't no thing? Messy dyed black pixie cut, miles long legs in tiny denim shorts (okay, so she has a type), black bikini top, and some nice arms covered in equally nice tattoos that form neon pink and green patterns on her skin. She can't quite make out what the actual picture's supposed to be.
"Did you wanna see them up close?" the girl calls out, grinning.
Panic rises in Santana's chest, but you don't get to the top of the social pyramid without learning to hide your feelings. "Yeah, I wanna see whether you lost a fight with some Sharpies or if you have a new form of leprosy," Santana sneers. "I guess a disease would explain the singing."
"Never mind." Tattoo Girl rolls her eyes, but she crosses her arms. Santana's eyes narrow, zeroing in on the weak point. She's proud of her weirdo get-up, but she's defensive about it, so it should be easy enough to just--and then Santana realizes that she's just pissed off the only girl who's even hinted she might want to make out, and slaps a mental hand to her forehead. Christ, is she really this stupid? She'd say celibacy is bad for the IQ, but Quinn and Brittany make a notable counterargument. Anyway, it's not like anyone she knows is at the pool at this hour of the day, so there's nothing to stop her from gettin' her mack on.
Santana rises to her feet, making a point of stretching her arms and then licking her lips before she speaks. "Maybe I'll look at them somewhere else."
Tattoo Girl is smirking. It's a good look. "Meet me in the girls' room."
Seven minutes pass, according to her cell phone, before Santana strolls over to the bathrooms, anticipation making her palms sweat. She can't remember the last time she actually had to try for a girl's attention (other than Brit's steady refusals all fucking summer), and while she's made out in plenty of bathrooms in her day, this is all... new. She's maybe a little nervous.
"I'm Sheila," Tattoo Girl says. Up close, her tattoos look like colored fire across her skin.
"Whatever," Santana says, and sticks her tongue down her throat.
It's been too fucking long, because this kiss is really fucking tame by Santana's standards, but she's actually moaning and it's not just for show. Sheila takes that as an encouraging sign and slides her tongue over Santana's, tentative. Santana growls and fists a hand in her short hair, pushing her against the wall. Holy shit, has she missed the way girls feel and taste and smell and fuck, she's such a dyke.
"Um," Sheila says against her mouth. Santana bites her lip in retaliation. When she's quieted down enough to risk moving her mouth elsewhere, Santana nips a line of kisses down Sheila's throat. This is like the worst possible place to have sexy lesbo times, 'cause public, but Santana has missed boobs so much, okay, and she cups one of Sheila's in her hand, feeling her nipple harden under the thin fabric. Hell yes, she's still got it.
Then Sheila pushes her away.
"What the fuck?" Santana asks, outraged. Sheila is disheveled and her lips are kiss-swollen and half of one boob is hanging out of her bikini top, which is fucking distracting.
"I don't," Sheila starts to say, then shakes her head. "I'm not..."
"Not gay?" Santana jabs a finger in the direction of Sheila's neck, where she's got some bite marks. "I don't care about your sexuality crisis, Ellen, I just wants to get all up on. Resign yourself to a life of flannel and get over here."
"I'm not the kind of person who makes out with closet cases," Sheila says coolly, readjusting her bathing suit. "You're hot and you're a great kisser, but you don't even want to remember my name, do you?"
"It's called a joke. And what the hell did you think we were going to do in here, have tea? Fucking talk about how we just really love tractors?" Santana snaps through the old panic returning. People see right through you.
Sheila blinks, mouthing the word "tractors" before she recovers. "Fine, I wanted to make out. I thought you'd at least introduce yourself before, though."
"Santana Lopez," she retorts, hands on her hips. "Does knowing my name make me sexier? Does it make you feel better about your naughty little thoughts? Are you going to write my name in hearts all over your notebooks?"
"Yeah, right after I leave," Sheila says, and she strides out of the bathrooms, slapping her bare feet against the concrete like that will make Santana feel guilty for being a user. Which, whatever, she's always been a user, except now it's with girls. People need to stop expecting her to be this warm and fuzzy person and learn to love the bitch. Or not. Whatever. It figures that the only other two girls who like girls in Lima can't accept her for who she is.
"I can't believe I just got rejected by the Joan Jett reject," Santana mutters, then turns to the nearest mirror. She looks like she's just been necking, nothing she can do about that, but she wipes off the smudged lip gloss and then runs a hand through her hair. She's got her game face on. She's fine.
Author: littledust
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Sheila/Santana
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1034
Summary: On summer break, Santana runs into a girl at the pool.
Author's Notes: Written for sotto_voice! The fic gets its title from "50ft Queenie" by PJ Harvey, which is the song Sheila sings.
It's weird as hell to be lounging by the pool without the knowledge that Sue Sylvester is going to be shouting at her within 24 hours. Coach didn't and doesn't really believe in things like vacations or compassion or mercy. Santana's pretty short on the last two, but God invented summer vacation so that she could look hot in a bikini.
Except some idiot is singing about how she's a force ten hurricane, whatever the fuck that means.
Santana sits up, lowering her shades so she can give this chick the full benefit of her death stare, but the death staring morphs into just plain staring, because hello. One of the best things about coming out of the closet (inside her head, anyway) has been letting herself appreciate how much sexier girls are than guys. This girl jamming like it ain't no thing? Messy dyed black pixie cut, miles long legs in tiny denim shorts (okay, so she has a type), black bikini top, and some nice arms covered in equally nice tattoos that form neon pink and green patterns on her skin. She can't quite make out what the actual picture's supposed to be.
"Did you wanna see them up close?" the girl calls out, grinning.
Panic rises in Santana's chest, but you don't get to the top of the social pyramid without learning to hide your feelings. "Yeah, I wanna see whether you lost a fight with some Sharpies or if you have a new form of leprosy," Santana sneers. "I guess a disease would explain the singing."
"Never mind." Tattoo Girl rolls her eyes, but she crosses her arms. Santana's eyes narrow, zeroing in on the weak point. She's proud of her weirdo get-up, but she's defensive about it, so it should be easy enough to just--and then Santana realizes that she's just pissed off the only girl who's even hinted she might want to make out, and slaps a mental hand to her forehead. Christ, is she really this stupid? She'd say celibacy is bad for the IQ, but Quinn and Brittany make a notable counterargument. Anyway, it's not like anyone she knows is at the pool at this hour of the day, so there's nothing to stop her from gettin' her mack on.
Santana rises to her feet, making a point of stretching her arms and then licking her lips before she speaks. "Maybe I'll look at them somewhere else."
Tattoo Girl is smirking. It's a good look. "Meet me in the girls' room."
Seven minutes pass, according to her cell phone, before Santana strolls over to the bathrooms, anticipation making her palms sweat. She can't remember the last time she actually had to try for a girl's attention (other than Brit's steady refusals all fucking summer), and while she's made out in plenty of bathrooms in her day, this is all... new. She's maybe a little nervous.
"I'm Sheila," Tattoo Girl says. Up close, her tattoos look like colored fire across her skin.
"Whatever," Santana says, and sticks her tongue down her throat.
It's been too fucking long, because this kiss is really fucking tame by Santana's standards, but she's actually moaning and it's not just for show. Sheila takes that as an encouraging sign and slides her tongue over Santana's, tentative. Santana growls and fists a hand in her short hair, pushing her against the wall. Holy shit, has she missed the way girls feel and taste and smell and fuck, she's such a dyke.
"Um," Sheila says against her mouth. Santana bites her lip in retaliation. When she's quieted down enough to risk moving her mouth elsewhere, Santana nips a line of kisses down Sheila's throat. This is like the worst possible place to have sexy lesbo times, 'cause public, but Santana has missed boobs so much, okay, and she cups one of Sheila's in her hand, feeling her nipple harden under the thin fabric. Hell yes, she's still got it.
Then Sheila pushes her away.
"What the fuck?" Santana asks, outraged. Sheila is disheveled and her lips are kiss-swollen and half of one boob is hanging out of her bikini top, which is fucking distracting.
"I don't," Sheila starts to say, then shakes her head. "I'm not..."
"Not gay?" Santana jabs a finger in the direction of Sheila's neck, where she's got some bite marks. "I don't care about your sexuality crisis, Ellen, I just wants to get all up on. Resign yourself to a life of flannel and get over here."
"I'm not the kind of person who makes out with closet cases," Sheila says coolly, readjusting her bathing suit. "You're hot and you're a great kisser, but you don't even want to remember my name, do you?"
"It's called a joke. And what the hell did you think we were going to do in here, have tea? Fucking talk about how we just really love tractors?" Santana snaps through the old panic returning. People see right through you.
Sheila blinks, mouthing the word "tractors" before she recovers. "Fine, I wanted to make out. I thought you'd at least introduce yourself before, though."
"Santana Lopez," she retorts, hands on her hips. "Does knowing my name make me sexier? Does it make you feel better about your naughty little thoughts? Are you going to write my name in hearts all over your notebooks?"
"Yeah, right after I leave," Sheila says, and she strides out of the bathrooms, slapping her bare feet against the concrete like that will make Santana feel guilty for being a user. Which, whatever, she's always been a user, except now it's with girls. People need to stop expecting her to be this warm and fuzzy person and learn to love the bitch. Or not. Whatever. It figures that the only other two girls who like girls in Lima can't accept her for who she is.
"I can't believe I just got rejected by the Joan Jett reject," Santana mutters, then turns to the nearest mirror. She looks like she's just been necking, nothing she can do about that, but she wipes off the smudged lip gloss and then runs a hand through her hair. She's got her game face on. She's fine.