Whatever Happened To Saturday Night
Title: Whatever Happened To Saturday Night
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: [Brittana Week: Day 7-Superpowered/Superheroes] "They'll manage. They're motherfuckin' superheroes."
There’s something to be said about a rowdy bar on a Saturday night, no matter who you are. For Santana Lopez, an evening of calloused hands, loudly-settled arguments over the pool table, and just a little too much booze is…
Well, she doesn’t want to say ideal, but it gets pretty damn close, in this miserable hick town.
There isn’t much here that makes Santana genuinely, tried-and-true happy; a town like this only has so much to offer, with its low pay and grungy Midwestern residents. For a normal girl, a town like this would feel every inch like the mouse trap it is.
For Santana, it can be nothing short of hell. Places like this don’t cop too well to change, or falling outside the norm, and Santana manages to check that damn All of The Above bubble: Latina, woman, gay as the day is long…
And she’s got that little habit of setting off fireballs with her hands when she gets too pissy.
Y’know. Casual, everyday, lynch-mob shit.
Six nights out of the week, it’s about keeping her head down, dancing the dance, pretending like she can’t do the things she does. Pretending like community college days and grocery store cashier nights are enough to pass the time. Pretending that unpleasant hand on her ass doesn’t make her want to blast a new hole in the produce wall.
Six nights out of the week, it fucking sucks living here in small-town Ohio, but on Saturdays, she gets a break. The freaks come out to play on a Saturday night-in any town, she’d imagine, but especially a shithole like Lima-and those freaks don’t give a damn who you are, as long as you can swear and play a decent round of darts.
Hard to imagine, after all those high school years of fitting in, that she’d settle so well with freaks. She guesses it just goes to show…or some such mindless shithouse philosophy she couldn’t care less about.
Philosophy has never been her strong suit.
Tonight, she’s settled at her favorite table, wedged in as far from the shitty jukebox as she can get, dealing cards like lightning. On her left, Quinn Fabray: mommy-at-sixteen, equal parts sarcastic and pissy, with a startling capacity for weather manipulation. On her right, Tina Cohen-Chang: shy, serene, super-wicked fast when she gets a-Road Runner-in’. Across the way, Noah Puckerman: an asshole with a shitty haircut and an inhuman propensity for twisting probability to his preference.
Noah Puckerman could be a motherfucking millionaire by now, if he wasn’t such a little shithead.
This is her crew, and she can’t say she loves ‘em-Tina’s weird, Quinn bitchy, Puck downright pathetic half the time-but they’re all she’s got. These weirdos can do what she can-on one level or another-and therefore are the only ones in the world she can trust not to blow her cover.
And, she has to admit, they’re pretty fucking solid at cards.
“That one,” Quinn says, barely glancing at her hand. Her eyes are fixed on a mousy little brunette near the bar. “She’s family.”
“Fuck no, she is not,” Santana sneers. “Look at her. Leaning into that dipshit barman like she can’t even tell he’s gay. Christ Almighty, what straight dude has eyebrows like that?”
“Whatever.” Quinn flaps her cards left and right carelessly. “Look at her eyes. The way they jump around. She’s paranoid as hell. She’s totally scoping out the place.”
“She’s drunk,” Puck corrects, lip curled. “Drunk and hot. What do you say, Fabray? Threesome?”
“I will fry your junk, you ever bring those balls my way again,” Quinn drawls. Santana snorts.
“That one,” she tries, pointing at the kid shuffling near the jukebox. He’s got that look, like he desperately wants to dance, but is petrified of the attention. “Dragon Express over there, he’s looking likely.”
“Nah,” Tina murmurs. “That’s Mike. His parents live across the street from my grandma. Never heard anything strange from that house in 21 years.”
“Doesn’t mean a thing,” Santana snipes. “You think your neighbors know you can snap Mach 5 in half on a lazy day?”
Tina doesn’t retaliate-not a surprise, she almost never does-choosing instead to lean back in her seat. Intelligent eyes skim across the tables, fingers tapping against the wood grain.
“There,” she says at last, barely inclining her head. “Her.”
Santana swivels, bracing a hand against the back of her chair, and spots her immediately. Leggy. She approves.
“Family or not,” she announces, taking a swig of bad whiskey and grinning, “I think I’m making a new friend tonight.”
“Hey, I saw her before you,” Puck whines. Gaze half-fixed on those legs, Santana catches hold of his shirt, yanking him across the table.
“Try to bend any fucking odds your way tonight, and I will slow-roast your precious nutsack ‘til it bursts.”
“What the fuck is it with you crazy bitches and frying Puckerone tonight?” he complains, jerking back in his seat. “Christ.”
“Fair warning.” Santana flicks her fingers, surreptitiously producing flames the size of a ping-pong ball. He flails both hands, head shaking.
“Whatever, go get your damn pussy and leave me out of it.”
It’s the first bit of sound advice he’s given in weeks, and Santana’s more than happy to comply. The girl doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere fast-her head is down, her thumbs flicking across her phone like there’s no tomorrow-but just in case…no time to lose. Not when Santana hasn’t gotten any in over a goddamn month.
Not for the first time, she wonders why the cruel Power God up there didn’t see fit to give her crazy-awesome pheromones or some shit.
The girl looks up a second before Santana can decide between a coy hello and a slightly-intrusive-but-maybe-still-sexy hand on the back, and hot damn, those eyes are blue. And amused. Amused usually doesn’t bode terribly well for getting laid.
What the hell. Worth a try anyway.
“Hi,” the girl says, glancing back down at her phone. Santana struggles to keep from batting it out of her hand, fully aware that her urge to be the center of this woman’s attention is anything but attractive. Not like she can help it. The chick is fucking hot.
“Hey,” she settles for replying, and okay, maybe the husky thing was laying it on a bit too thick, but whatever. Those lips are twitching in a soft smile. Smiles are a good sign.
Usually.
I love you, come home with me seems pretty forward, so Santana opts for the next best choice. “Buy you a drink?”
The girl shrugs, slipping the phone into her pocket at last. “If you want.”
God, this is the opposite of a good start.
“Or,” the girl continues, sliding off her bar stool and catching a handful of Santana’s shirt, “we could skip the game and just head out to my car.”
Oh.
Sputtering is deeply unattractive, and yet Santana can’t seem to find her tongue. The girl tilts her head quizzically, all golden hair and enchanting smirk.
“I mean, that is what you’re thinking. Isn’t it?”
Fuck yeah, it’s what she’s thinking; Santana can’t imagine anybody not boarding that particular train with this woman around. Still, there’s something…odd about the way her mouth fits around those words. Santana squints.
“Hang on.”
The girl waits, fingertip crooked in the collar of Santana’s shirt. “For?”
It’s a chance, and one she’s not usually willing to take with strangers, but- “What’ve you got?”
It’s amazing, the sheer cheek she sees reflected in those eyes. She hasn’t seen confidence like that since the last time she strolled on by a mirror.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” the girl teases, a second finger pressing lightly beneath her collar. Santana swallows.
“Not here,” she manages. The girl nods, a step ahead of her.
“I’m parked right out front.”
She’s so focused on the firm ass in tight jeans that she forgets to glance back and gloat in Puckerman’s direction. Even better, when they pass back onto the street and the girl clicks a button on her key, Santana realizes her car is nice. Not grocery-store-clerk nice, but really nice. Daddy’s-got-the-bank-in-his-pocket nice.
She’s not usually a car girl, but with wheels like those, she can make an exception.
The girl leans against the hood, heedless of the paint job, and folds her arms across her chest. “So?”
Furtive, making certain there’s no one around to zero in on them, Santana swiftly makes a fist with her left hand, then jolts it back open again. The flames swell to the size of a tennis ball and stop, spinning lazily above her palm. The girl whistles.
“You’re a walking campfire.”
It’s not the sexiest analogy in the world, but Santana has to admit there’s something adorable about it. She shrugs and quashes her flames with the other hand.
“Your turn.”
The girl taps the side of her head, grinning. “Let’s just say I know what you want as soon as you do.”
“Telepathy?” Santana lowers her voice, leaning into the girl. “For serious? I’ve never seen shit that hardcore.”
“It comes and goes.” Brittany shrugs. “And it isn’t really thoughts so much as…feelings. Mostly. Like how I can feel how much you want in my pants right now.”
There really isn’t much point in feigning sheepishness with this girl. Santana reclines against the hood and grins.
“Guilty.”
“And your friends?” the girl goes on, gesturing toward the bar. “They’re all-”
“Family, yeah. Freak flag flying on each and every one of us.” She hopes she doesn’t sound aggressively bitter. Bitter doesn’t get you laid. Usually.
The girl smiles, almost sadly. “I don’t think you’re a freak.”
Santana taps each fingertip against her thumb in turn, releasing tiny embers into the air. “At least I’m a hot freak,” she jokes. The girl shakes her head.
“Not a freak,” she repeats, too serious for Santana’s liking. Her hand skims across Santana’s knee and higher, strangely intimate. “Special.”
She’s never really thought of it that way before, truth be told. In a town like this, a town where that Kurt Hummel kid was straightforwardly run out for his precognition, special is the furthest cry from her identifier of choice.
But this girl is looking at her-really looking, head turned so she can stare uncomfortably deep into Santana’s eyes-like she believes what she’s saying. Like she thinks a girl who brings the barbecue to you isn’t dangerous, or a monster.
The girl is looking at her, wearing this calm little smile that puts Tina to shame, and she’s leaning forward, her palm hot on Santana’s thigh. Her forehead brushes Santana’s, her nose bumping against her top lip, and when they meet for the kiss-a kiss Santana can’t help but crazily think as the first of many-she loses all memory of breath. Maybe it’s because this girl can feel what she’s feeling ahead of schedule, or maybe it’s just the fact that it is this girl, but all at once, Santana burns. Every inch, every note, flaming as fast and hot as the literal fireball she so often calls up.
The girl kisses like she smiles, bold and charming, mouth opening languidly over Santana’s. She tongues into Santana’s mouth with sheer confidence, stroking with a velvet heat until Santana is sure she can’t take it anymore. Too much of this, and she swears to God, she’ll burst into flames right here and now.
And it would be such a shame to torch this car.
She breaks first, pulling away just enough to gasp air, and the girl laughs. Not at her, but with her, like she gets where Santana’s coming from. Like she isn’t frightened in the least of Santana’s capacity for exploding and taking her down with her. Like it doesn’t even cross her mind to be frightened at all.
“What’s your name?” she asks hoarsely, turning her head against the girl’s slim shoulder and closing her eyes until the world stops spinning. She feels a warm head lean against hers, that hand skimming up to grasp her by the hip.
“Brittany.”
“Santana,” she returns, dimly aware that she’s smiling for absolutely no reason. Smiling and burning, in plain view of the whole fucking town. Only on a Saturday night.
“Hot name,” Brittany remarks, and they both dissolve into giggles like Santana hasn’t entertained since middle school. She lifts her head, grinning an idiot’s grin.
“Still up for getting out of here? I’m not sure I can keep my secret identity up if I Human Torch right here on Main Street.”
Long legs obediently slide from the car, a strong hand pulling her to her feet. She can’t help but wonder if Brittany was thinking it first. She’s not sure even Brittany would know.
“Your friends won’t mind?” Brittany asks, prying open the passenger door and giving a ridiculous little bow. Santana snorts, leaning into the window.
“They can manage. They’re motherfuckin’ superheroes.”
If Brittany keeps kissing her like that, they’ll never make it to safety before she goes supernova. Which is terrifying in a way Santana’s never thought of before.
On the other hand, it’s really, really hard to feel like a freak just so long as those lips are on hers and that hand is creeping along her ass.
What the hell. On a Saturday night, the risk is totally worth it.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: [Brittana Week: Day 7-Superpowered/Superheroes] "They'll manage. They're motherfuckin' superheroes."
There’s something to be said about a rowdy bar on a Saturday night, no matter who you are. For Santana Lopez, an evening of calloused hands, loudly-settled arguments over the pool table, and just a little too much booze is…
Well, she doesn’t want to say ideal, but it gets pretty damn close, in this miserable hick town.
There isn’t much here that makes Santana genuinely, tried-and-true happy; a town like this only has so much to offer, with its low pay and grungy Midwestern residents. For a normal girl, a town like this would feel every inch like the mouse trap it is.
For Santana, it can be nothing short of hell. Places like this don’t cop too well to change, or falling outside the norm, and Santana manages to check that damn All of The Above bubble: Latina, woman, gay as the day is long…
And she’s got that little habit of setting off fireballs with her hands when she gets too pissy.
Y’know. Casual, everyday, lynch-mob shit.
Six nights out of the week, it’s about keeping her head down, dancing the dance, pretending like she can’t do the things she does. Pretending like community college days and grocery store cashier nights are enough to pass the time. Pretending that unpleasant hand on her ass doesn’t make her want to blast a new hole in the produce wall.
Six nights out of the week, it fucking sucks living here in small-town Ohio, but on Saturdays, she gets a break. The freaks come out to play on a Saturday night-in any town, she’d imagine, but especially a shithole like Lima-and those freaks don’t give a damn who you are, as long as you can swear and play a decent round of darts.
Hard to imagine, after all those high school years of fitting in, that she’d settle so well with freaks. She guesses it just goes to show…or some such mindless shithouse philosophy she couldn’t care less about.
Philosophy has never been her strong suit.
Tonight, she’s settled at her favorite table, wedged in as far from the shitty jukebox as she can get, dealing cards like lightning. On her left, Quinn Fabray: mommy-at-sixteen, equal parts sarcastic and pissy, with a startling capacity for weather manipulation. On her right, Tina Cohen-Chang: shy, serene, super-wicked fast when she gets a-Road Runner-in’. Across the way, Noah Puckerman: an asshole with a shitty haircut and an inhuman propensity for twisting probability to his preference.
Noah Puckerman could be a motherfucking millionaire by now, if he wasn’t such a little shithead.
This is her crew, and she can’t say she loves ‘em-Tina’s weird, Quinn bitchy, Puck downright pathetic half the time-but they’re all she’s got. These weirdos can do what she can-on one level or another-and therefore are the only ones in the world she can trust not to blow her cover.
And, she has to admit, they’re pretty fucking solid at cards.
“That one,” Quinn says, barely glancing at her hand. Her eyes are fixed on a mousy little brunette near the bar. “She’s family.”
“Fuck no, she is not,” Santana sneers. “Look at her. Leaning into that dipshit barman like she can’t even tell he’s gay. Christ Almighty, what straight dude has eyebrows like that?”
“Whatever.” Quinn flaps her cards left and right carelessly. “Look at her eyes. The way they jump around. She’s paranoid as hell. She’s totally scoping out the place.”
“She’s drunk,” Puck corrects, lip curled. “Drunk and hot. What do you say, Fabray? Threesome?”
“I will fry your junk, you ever bring those balls my way again,” Quinn drawls. Santana snorts.
“That one,” she tries, pointing at the kid shuffling near the jukebox. He’s got that look, like he desperately wants to dance, but is petrified of the attention. “Dragon Express over there, he’s looking likely.”
“Nah,” Tina murmurs. “That’s Mike. His parents live across the street from my grandma. Never heard anything strange from that house in 21 years.”
“Doesn’t mean a thing,” Santana snipes. “You think your neighbors know you can snap Mach 5 in half on a lazy day?”
Tina doesn’t retaliate-not a surprise, she almost never does-choosing instead to lean back in her seat. Intelligent eyes skim across the tables, fingers tapping against the wood grain.
“There,” she says at last, barely inclining her head. “Her.”
Santana swivels, bracing a hand against the back of her chair, and spots her immediately. Leggy. She approves.
“Family or not,” she announces, taking a swig of bad whiskey and grinning, “I think I’m making a new friend tonight.”
“Hey, I saw her before you,” Puck whines. Gaze half-fixed on those legs, Santana catches hold of his shirt, yanking him across the table.
“Try to bend any fucking odds your way tonight, and I will slow-roast your precious nutsack ‘til it bursts.”
“What the fuck is it with you crazy bitches and frying Puckerone tonight?” he complains, jerking back in his seat. “Christ.”
“Fair warning.” Santana flicks her fingers, surreptitiously producing flames the size of a ping-pong ball. He flails both hands, head shaking.
“Whatever, go get your damn pussy and leave me out of it.”
It’s the first bit of sound advice he’s given in weeks, and Santana’s more than happy to comply. The girl doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere fast-her head is down, her thumbs flicking across her phone like there’s no tomorrow-but just in case…no time to lose. Not when Santana hasn’t gotten any in over a goddamn month.
Not for the first time, she wonders why the cruel Power God up there didn’t see fit to give her crazy-awesome pheromones or some shit.
The girl looks up a second before Santana can decide between a coy hello and a slightly-intrusive-but-maybe-still-sexy hand on the back, and hot damn, those eyes are blue. And amused. Amused usually doesn’t bode terribly well for getting laid.
What the hell. Worth a try anyway.
“Hi,” the girl says, glancing back down at her phone. Santana struggles to keep from batting it out of her hand, fully aware that her urge to be the center of this woman’s attention is anything but attractive. Not like she can help it. The chick is fucking hot.
“Hey,” she settles for replying, and okay, maybe the husky thing was laying it on a bit too thick, but whatever. Those lips are twitching in a soft smile. Smiles are a good sign.
Usually.
I love you, come home with me seems pretty forward, so Santana opts for the next best choice. “Buy you a drink?”
The girl shrugs, slipping the phone into her pocket at last. “If you want.”
God, this is the opposite of a good start.
“Or,” the girl continues, sliding off her bar stool and catching a handful of Santana’s shirt, “we could skip the game and just head out to my car.”
Oh.
Sputtering is deeply unattractive, and yet Santana can’t seem to find her tongue. The girl tilts her head quizzically, all golden hair and enchanting smirk.
“I mean, that is what you’re thinking. Isn’t it?”
Fuck yeah, it’s what she’s thinking; Santana can’t imagine anybody not boarding that particular train with this woman around. Still, there’s something…odd about the way her mouth fits around those words. Santana squints.
“Hang on.”
The girl waits, fingertip crooked in the collar of Santana’s shirt. “For?”
It’s a chance, and one she’s not usually willing to take with strangers, but- “What’ve you got?”
It’s amazing, the sheer cheek she sees reflected in those eyes. She hasn’t seen confidence like that since the last time she strolled on by a mirror.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” the girl teases, a second finger pressing lightly beneath her collar. Santana swallows.
“Not here,” she manages. The girl nods, a step ahead of her.
“I’m parked right out front.”
She’s so focused on the firm ass in tight jeans that she forgets to glance back and gloat in Puckerman’s direction. Even better, when they pass back onto the street and the girl clicks a button on her key, Santana realizes her car is nice. Not grocery-store-clerk nice, but really nice. Daddy’s-got-the-bank-in-his-pocket nice.
She’s not usually a car girl, but with wheels like those, she can make an exception.
The girl leans against the hood, heedless of the paint job, and folds her arms across her chest. “So?”
Furtive, making certain there’s no one around to zero in on them, Santana swiftly makes a fist with her left hand, then jolts it back open again. The flames swell to the size of a tennis ball and stop, spinning lazily above her palm. The girl whistles.
“You’re a walking campfire.”
It’s not the sexiest analogy in the world, but Santana has to admit there’s something adorable about it. She shrugs and quashes her flames with the other hand.
“Your turn.”
The girl taps the side of her head, grinning. “Let’s just say I know what you want as soon as you do.”
“Telepathy?” Santana lowers her voice, leaning into the girl. “For serious? I’ve never seen shit that hardcore.”
“It comes and goes.” Brittany shrugs. “And it isn’t really thoughts so much as…feelings. Mostly. Like how I can feel how much you want in my pants right now.”
There really isn’t much point in feigning sheepishness with this girl. Santana reclines against the hood and grins.
“Guilty.”
“And your friends?” the girl goes on, gesturing toward the bar. “They’re all-”
“Family, yeah. Freak flag flying on each and every one of us.” She hopes she doesn’t sound aggressively bitter. Bitter doesn’t get you laid. Usually.
The girl smiles, almost sadly. “I don’t think you’re a freak.”
Santana taps each fingertip against her thumb in turn, releasing tiny embers into the air. “At least I’m a hot freak,” she jokes. The girl shakes her head.
“Not a freak,” she repeats, too serious for Santana’s liking. Her hand skims across Santana’s knee and higher, strangely intimate. “Special.”
She’s never really thought of it that way before, truth be told. In a town like this, a town where that Kurt Hummel kid was straightforwardly run out for his precognition, special is the furthest cry from her identifier of choice.
But this girl is looking at her-really looking, head turned so she can stare uncomfortably deep into Santana’s eyes-like she believes what she’s saying. Like she thinks a girl who brings the barbecue to you isn’t dangerous, or a monster.
The girl is looking at her, wearing this calm little smile that puts Tina to shame, and she’s leaning forward, her palm hot on Santana’s thigh. Her forehead brushes Santana’s, her nose bumping against her top lip, and when they meet for the kiss-a kiss Santana can’t help but crazily think as the first of many-she loses all memory of breath. Maybe it’s because this girl can feel what she’s feeling ahead of schedule, or maybe it’s just the fact that it is this girl, but all at once, Santana burns. Every inch, every note, flaming as fast and hot as the literal fireball she so often calls up.
The girl kisses like she smiles, bold and charming, mouth opening languidly over Santana’s. She tongues into Santana’s mouth with sheer confidence, stroking with a velvet heat until Santana is sure she can’t take it anymore. Too much of this, and she swears to God, she’ll burst into flames right here and now.
And it would be such a shame to torch this car.
She breaks first, pulling away just enough to gasp air, and the girl laughs. Not at her, but with her, like she gets where Santana’s coming from. Like she isn’t frightened in the least of Santana’s capacity for exploding and taking her down with her. Like it doesn’t even cross her mind to be frightened at all.
“What’s your name?” she asks hoarsely, turning her head against the girl’s slim shoulder and closing her eyes until the world stops spinning. She feels a warm head lean against hers, that hand skimming up to grasp her by the hip.
“Brittany.”
“Santana,” she returns, dimly aware that she’s smiling for absolutely no reason. Smiling and burning, in plain view of the whole fucking town. Only on a Saturday night.
“Hot name,” Brittany remarks, and they both dissolve into giggles like Santana hasn’t entertained since middle school. She lifts her head, grinning an idiot’s grin.
“Still up for getting out of here? I’m not sure I can keep my secret identity up if I Human Torch right here on Main Street.”
Long legs obediently slide from the car, a strong hand pulling her to her feet. She can’t help but wonder if Brittany was thinking it first. She’s not sure even Brittany would know.
“Your friends won’t mind?” Brittany asks, prying open the passenger door and giving a ridiculous little bow. Santana snorts, leaning into the window.
“They can manage. They’re motherfuckin’ superheroes.”
If Brittany keeps kissing her like that, they’ll never make it to safety before she goes supernova. Which is terrifying in a way Santana’s never thought of before.
On the other hand, it’s really, really hard to feel like a freak just so long as those lips are on hers and that hand is creeping along her ass.
What the hell. On a Saturday night, the risk is totally worth it.