fic: The Edge You'll Savor
Title: The Edge You'll Savor
Pairing: Santana Lopez / Brittany Pierce with a side of Quinn.
Words: 3200.
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: I don't owns the Glee.
Summary: @ratherembarrassing prompted: “Santana, first time away for cheerleading competitions, discovering how much she and Brittany can get away with as members of the Cheerios.” Enter Santana and Brittany (with that Quinn girl) in New Orleans for their first cheer competition. Add in beads, hand grenades, stairwells and that Quinn girl and you get this. Title from A Tribe Called Quest’s “Youthful Expression.”
Santana’s really fucking excited for this trip. It’s her first cheer competition and it’s all the way in New Orleans. She sort of almost doesn’t hate her older brother Julian since he’s the only reason she ever became fascinated with or interested in the Cheerios in the first place.
He dated Ashley Spence, former head cheerleader, off-and-on for two years and she’s seriously the coolest person Santana’s ever met.
(She’s told her as much to which she’d replied, “Don’t compliment anyone when you get to McKinley.”)
So. That’s where the desire came from.
Ashley was always dressed nice when she wasn’t in her Cheerios uniform. She kept her ponytail tight and her skirt short when she was - she pulled it up more often than down. And she did whatever she wanted, when she wanted to do it.
She taught Santana to paint her nails without needing to take acetone to her skin afterward and she helped Santana perfect the use of a flatiron. Most importantly she taught her the secret to the maintaining the perfect ice glare, complimented by artisan-arched eyebrows.
The only thing she didn’t have to help Santana with was her insults. She’d been practicing those since kindergarten and she could shatter a bundle of feelings with three words or thirty.
Ashley and Julian both graduated a year ago, promptly broke up and headed to two different coasts.
(Julian to USC and Ashley to NYU.)
So, yeah, this has been nearly three years in the making and she can’t wait to hop on a plane, land in New Orleans and “fuck shit up.” Sure, Coach Sylvester is sort of crazy, but she still gets away with an insane amount of things on campus -like being caught waking and baking with Puck instead of going to first period- so she’s sure she’ll have a blast.
*
The best part in all of this is that Brittany will be there too. Brittany’s been a constant in her life for what seems like forever now and though Santana rarely says anything she’s super glad her family made the move from Columbus to Lima (however fucking sucky it is) in the first grade.
She’s taught Brittany most of the things Ashley taught her, which is really freaking hard, but patience (with Britt and Britt only) is something she’s learned. She’s got the nail painting thing down and she’s sort of wicked with a flatiron (she always ends up with these super awesome flowy curls) and she dresses cute, too.
The only problem is the ice glare, which usually comes off as a blank gaze because Britt gets distracted easy. It doesn’t matter though because Britt’s the best dancer in the world and super willing to do most anything so she was a shoo-in the for the Cheerios.
There friendship has taken an odd turn that Santana doesn’t really want to consider odd because that would mean she actually has to think about it.
They’ve been kissing since they were twelve (for, you know, practice) and making out since thirteen (that’s for practice, too.) But they’ve also been doing it since Santana’s fourteenth birthday, which is an entirely different can of worms and an entirely different story.
(But, Brittany’s boobs grew in and the rest of her went from lanky to lithe; curiosity got the best of Santana, so, yeah, they do it. Not that often because Santana’s not gay.)
Besides, she fills in the spaces of not doing it with Britt by “learning” shit with Puck. He has this thing about googling and “The Bucket List” inspired him in odd ways.
She likes to find out how flexible she is and sex is as much a sport to her as cheerleading. She also likes being good -at everything.
There’s also the fact that even though she’s just started having orgasms, they’re already among her favorite things and, most of the time, Puck’s good for them.
(Britt’s always good for multiples and that’s just with those freaky long fingers of hers because Santana won’t let her use her tongue like she wants. That’s just too gay for her to process right now.)
*
“So like … where is this place again?” Brittany asks. One hand is softly pressed palm to palm with Santana’s cradling her fingers as she paints them bright red with the other. It’s some OPI shade that Santana’s addicted to. She remembers the names of all her polishes, but Britt doesn’t bother trying. It’s too much unnecessary information to process.
“In Louisiana,” Santana says looking away from the television to glance at Brittany. Brittany just stares, “The state that’s shaped like a boot.”
“Oh that place,” Brittany nods then shakes her head before going back to her task. Santana just lets it go and focuses on the way Brittany floods her thumbnail with color that doesn’t skirt into her cuticles. Santana’s good at doing it herself, but Brittany is definitely better.
*
Santana stuffs her pajamas and her toothbrush into the red Cheerios duffle perched at the end of her bed and yanks up the zipper. She waited to the last minute to pack, because procrastination is one of her favorite pastimes. Brittany’s curled up at the top of her bed, her head resting in her palm; elbow digging into a pillow.
“Who do you think we’ll room with?” Brittany asks curiously, her eyebrows furrowing like they do when she’s been thinking on something hard.
“I don’t know,” Santana says, dropping her bag to the floor, “I just hope it’s not Fabray.”
She was the only thing she hadn’t planned to deal with. Everything seemed clear-cut when Ashley had explained things to her. She knew she was cut out to be top dog, but she hadn’t factored in the possibility that someone might actually be able to compete with her. Not until she met Quinn.
Quinn had an icy glare that sometimes even made Santana uncomfortable and there was unnecessary venom in all her words; where, Santana only used hers to fit the situation. She didn’t mind fighting for the spot, but she didn’t want to and she really wished she didn’t have to.
“Yeah, she’s kind of scary,” Brittany says as Santana eases up the bed and settles her head on her chest. There’s immediately a soothing hand stroking her scalp and she stops worrying about duking it out with Quinn Fabray and starts plotting all the fun shit they can get into.
“So,” she starts, “They do this thing with beads...”
“Beads?” Santana nods, “What thing?”
“We could practice.”
*
"I dare any of you to try me. I once dabbled in cannibalism during a special mission in Indonesia. I liked it. I'll try it again in New Orleans if necessary. Cajun Teenager sounds appetizing,” Coach Sylvester says. There’s no smirk to accompany her statement so the girls can only assume she means it, which, what the fuck? Scary.
Brittany’s eyes go all wide and Santana wraps two fingers around her wrist to calm her down. Brittany sighs and drops her head onto Santana’s shoulder, but her eyebrows stay knitted in the space between fear and confusion that Coach Sylvester usually drops them in.
Their flight was smooth and painless; Santana spent most of it sleeping and Brittany, who can’t sleep on planes, just listened to music and stroked the hairs at the base of Santana’s neck while Quinn looked on from across the isle. She looked nervous or curious, Brittany really couldn’t tell and she didn’t exactly care because she thought Quinn was scary.
“We have mandatory practice at four PM. Don’t be late. You don’t want to find out what happens if you’re late. Now, go get settled into your rooms.”
*
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Santana says frowning at the rooming list. She’s roomed with Brittany, but Quinn Fabray is listed under Room Four too. It’s basically the worst possible outcome.
“It’ll be fine,” Brittany says, her thumb working slow circles into Santana’s palm, which should calm her down, but instead, makes her think about that thumb elsewhere and, fuck, that’s practically impossible for this trip now.
“Whatever,” she huffs, snatching up both her and Brittany’s duffles and heading for the elevator. “I don’t plan to spend that much time in the stupid room anyway.”
“Yeah, we have to get those, um, bengays ...?”
“Beignets, Britt.”
“Yeah. Those. And I want beads.”
“We’ll get beads,” Santana says, stepping into the elevator and dropping their bags with a thud. She holds her arm in front of the door to keep it open for Brittany. Quinn slides in after her.
“That wasn’t for you,” she says warningly. Brittany tugs on her wrist and drags her all the way inside.
*
Basically, Sue Sylvester is a cross between Hitler and Glen Coco. She’s fucking evil, but she keeps winning and somehow she manages to get people to do exactly what she wants.
Santana thinks about quitting nearly every day: before morning practices, after them, before afternoon practices, and after those too. There’s pretty much not a time when she doesn’t want to throw in the towel and like join glee or something.
(But if Sue Sylvester is scary, Sandy Ryerson is terrifying. He’s gay, but he still screams predator, so, just no.)
She’s also very grounded in her plans to stay powerful at McKinley. There’s a lot to live up to in her home and she can’t do bottom of the barrel - not with a lawyer for a mom and a doctor for a dad. Let’s not forget her fucking talented siblings. Yeah, she can’t quit. She’s practically the black sheep already.
Besides, she gets away with everything. Literally everything and she likes it that away.
Noah Puckerman is wrapped around her finger because she’s the hottest piece of freshman action and it’s mostly because he has a thing for her Cheerios skirt; teachers don’t question the location of missing homework when she doesn’t do it (which isn’t actually all too often, because yeah, there’s a lot to live up to in the Lopez household).
She likes doing what she wants to do, when she wants to do it and Cheerios makes that happen for her.
So, even though she wants to either die or set Sue Sylvester on fire after the mandatory practice, she just sucks it up, takes a long shower and pulls on a pair of skinny jeans and a too-short tank top.
“Britt, c’mon,” she says crossing her legs and grabbing her nail file out of the crevices of the hotel comforter.
She’s ready to sneak out and get into something.
She has a mental checklist of shit she has to experience that Google, Julian’s spring break trip to NOLA last year and her mother’s overheard college stories provided.
She wants one of those Hand Grenades and she’s going to fucking show tits for beads. She’s also starving and a Po’Boy sounds good (fuck Sue’s diet for this trip.)
“I’m coming,” Brittany says peaking her head out of the bathroom. There’s a flat iron wrapped around silky blond hair. She disappears back into the bathroom and returns moments later with a head full of loose curls.
“Let’s get out of here. I’m hungry and I want to get wasted.” Brittany just nods and slips her wallet into her pocket.
“Where are you two going?” Quinn asks over her book.
“None of your fucking business?” Santana says raising an eyebrow. Quinn raises one back and for a second Santana thinks hers might actually be more threatening, but fuck that. “Why are you worried about it?”
“Because Coach said we’re not supposed to leave.”
“Does this look like the face of a person who gives a fuck?” Quinn grumbles and snaps her book shut.
“I’m coming.”
“No fucking way.”
“Do you know how to communicate without sounding filthy?”
“Fuck you, Fabray.”
“I’m sure you’d like to.”
That shuts her up - for a moment.
“Sorry, I don’t do cows.”
Brittany’s hand wraps around Santana’s instinctively and she presses a kiss to her cheek, “San, calm down.”
“I’m calm. She’s fucking bothering me. I’m sorry no one wants to hang out with her. It’s not my problem,” she says like Quinn’s not a few feet away from her.
“Let’s go.” She tugs Brittany’s hand with more tension than necessary and yanks open the door.
“Seriously,” she says once they’re in the elevator. “What’s her fucking problem?”
“Maybe she’s lonely,” Brittany offers.
“I don’t fucking care.” She rolls her eyes and her neck twists in exasperation, “And what was that fucking crack about wanting to fuck her? I’m not gay.”
“I know,” Brittany says barely above a whisper.
“Fucking bitch,” she hisses.
“Shh,” Brittany coos still clutching her hand.
“I don’t wan-” Brittany hushes her in the best way she knows how.
*
So, Bourbon Street is only half of what she expected. It’s sort of dirty, well, really dirty, but it’s full of life and music- and really icky drunk people. Santana’s been groped far too many times already and Brittany just looks overwhelmed.
“Let’s get something to drink,” Santana says.
“We’re fifteen.”
“Duh.”
“How are we supposed to get drinks then?”
“Have you seen me?”
“I think so. I mean, most days I do. There was that time when you got the flu and you didn’t come to school and your mom wouldn’t let me come over because...”
Santana just sighs.
“Not what I meant Britt.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, we can use this to get drinks,” she says her hands traveling from her chest down to her thighs.
“Oh.”
“C’mon.”
*
Getting drinks is a lot easier than she expected. There are pervs and marks everywhere and a well-placed lip bite and a few giggles afford her and Brittany several hand grenades from a group of college boys.
They’re pretty cute and not too handsy. One of the guys seems to be trying to actually talk to her and, eww, no. Another is practically hanging onto Brittany like his life depends on it. She doesn’t like that and she’s about to say something about it when people start shouting excitedly.
When she finally finds the source of excitement she’s thankful that she’s drunk, because the bead thing seemed like a good idea in theory, but if she weren’t a little wobbly from the drinks it would be terrifying.
There’s a balcony in the bar and a group of guys and a few girls are standing at the top clutching strings of multicolored beads, some with large charms and others just shiny variations of the same necklace. She watches Brittany’s eyes light up- shiny things excite her.
She doesn’t really care about the cheap plastic but Brittany likes collecting things and keepsakes since her memory isn’t the best, so, it’s sort of her way of being a good friend or something. At least that’s what she tells herself when she pulls her shirt up and a smattering of beads come down.
She ends up blushing hard, but a round of tequila shots with the college guys finds a new origin for the rouge in her cheeks. Brittany is smiling and toying with the dozen necklaces she’s wearing and it becomes worth it.
Besides, she’s pretty sure sneaking into a bar on Bourbon Street, getting wasted for free and getting beads because of her rack is sort of awesome. She’ll definitely have to brag about it to Puck. She can almost hear him asking for a reenactment.
*
Her pinkie is twisted around Brittany’s when they stumble back into the hotel. They’re sloppy drunk and she’s having trouble keeping her hands to herself. Brittany doesn’t seem to mind because she pushes open a door to the stairwell and presses Santana into a wall after her hand grazes the small of her back.
She really wishes they didn’t have a third in their room, because kissing Britt feels really good but she’d rather be doing other things and she’s not exactly opposed to doing things in public (um, Puck) but Sue could be anywhere and she really doesn’t need to be caught with a girl.
“Britt,” she husks, pulling back. “We should probably get to the room. Competition tomorrow.”
Brittany doesn’t hear or she pretends not to, because instead of stopping she just drops her kisses lower and works her lips against Santana’s neck.
“Britt. Seriously,” Santana manages but there’s not much fight in her voice. A moan slips out when teeth take hold of the place where her neck and shoulder meet and she’s totally fucked.
Yeah, totally.
*
“Coach Sylvester stopped by,” Quinn says when they finally step into the room. Santana’s hand moves to straighten her hair, but it’s really no use. There’s also a really dopey grin plastered on her face.
“Yeah, and?” Santana asks defensively. Brittany just looks lost between satisfied and scared which is one of her more interesting expressions. Santana would put more thought into it, but she’s only just realized what Quinn’s said.
“Wait. Coach was here?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck.” Her grin is replaced with what’s as close to fear as she can get which isn’t close at all because she won’t give Quinn the satisfaction. “What did she say?
“She just asked where you two were,” Quinn shrugs and glances at their bed. The covers are all messed up and her bag, which was at the foot of the bed, is toppled over on the floor. “She did a number on your bed and looked for you under the bed - even though the frame touches the floor.”
Santana just stares, because she’d really like Quinn to get to the point.
“I told her you two were getting ice.”
Santana’s eyebrows nit in confusion, “She believed that?”
“Well, no.” Brittany makes a noise that sounds like “Shit,” and Santana’s hand moves to rub her temples. She’d really not like to be blackened Cheerio and she can’t shake the vision of Sue Sylvester trying to shake hot sauce on her.
“I mean, she didn’t at first,” Quinn says finally, “She went to check. It’s out-of-order on our floor. I explained that you two had to go upstairs to get it.”
Santana nods slowly. “She bought that?”
Quinn’s quiet for a tortuously long minute and Santana can’t decide if hitting her would be a good idea so she stays put.
“Yeah. She’ll probably be back in a few minutes. I’d get in the shower if I were you. You smell like my mom at noon.”
Brittany’s face asks the question for both of them.
“Scotch. You smell like Scotch.”
“Oh.”
There’s an awkward silence before Santana grunts out a thanks that Ashley would probably elbow her for. She shrugs and pretends not to hear Quinn’s “You’re welcome.”
Pairing: Santana Lopez / Brittany Pierce with a side of Quinn.
Words: 3200.
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: I don't owns the Glee.
Summary: @ratherembarrassing prompted: “Santana, first time away for cheerleading competitions, discovering how much she and Brittany can get away with as members of the Cheerios.” Enter Santana and Brittany (with that Quinn girl) in New Orleans for their first cheer competition. Add in beads, hand grenades, stairwells and that Quinn girl and you get this. Title from A Tribe Called Quest’s “Youthful Expression.”
Santana’s really fucking excited for this trip. It’s her first cheer competition and it’s all the way in New Orleans. She sort of almost doesn’t hate her older brother Julian since he’s the only reason she ever became fascinated with or interested in the Cheerios in the first place.
He dated Ashley Spence, former head cheerleader, off-and-on for two years and she’s seriously the coolest person Santana’s ever met.
(She’s told her as much to which she’d replied, “Don’t compliment anyone when you get to McKinley.”)
So. That’s where the desire came from.
Ashley was always dressed nice when she wasn’t in her Cheerios uniform. She kept her ponytail tight and her skirt short when she was - she pulled it up more often than down. And she did whatever she wanted, when she wanted to do it.
She taught Santana to paint her nails without needing to take acetone to her skin afterward and she helped Santana perfect the use of a flatiron. Most importantly she taught her the secret to the maintaining the perfect ice glare, complimented by artisan-arched eyebrows.
The only thing she didn’t have to help Santana with was her insults. She’d been practicing those since kindergarten and she could shatter a bundle of feelings with three words or thirty.
Ashley and Julian both graduated a year ago, promptly broke up and headed to two different coasts.
(Julian to USC and Ashley to NYU.)
So, yeah, this has been nearly three years in the making and she can’t wait to hop on a plane, land in New Orleans and “fuck shit up.” Sure, Coach Sylvester is sort of crazy, but she still gets away with an insane amount of things on campus -like being caught waking and baking with Puck instead of going to first period- so she’s sure she’ll have a blast.
*
The best part in all of this is that Brittany will be there too. Brittany’s been a constant in her life for what seems like forever now and though Santana rarely says anything she’s super glad her family made the move from Columbus to Lima (however fucking sucky it is) in the first grade.
She’s taught Brittany most of the things Ashley taught her, which is really freaking hard, but patience (with Britt and Britt only) is something she’s learned. She’s got the nail painting thing down and she’s sort of wicked with a flatiron (she always ends up with these super awesome flowy curls) and she dresses cute, too.
The only problem is the ice glare, which usually comes off as a blank gaze because Britt gets distracted easy. It doesn’t matter though because Britt’s the best dancer in the world and super willing to do most anything so she was a shoo-in the for the Cheerios.
There friendship has taken an odd turn that Santana doesn’t really want to consider odd because that would mean she actually has to think about it.
They’ve been kissing since they were twelve (for, you know, practice) and making out since thirteen (that’s for practice, too.) But they’ve also been doing it since Santana’s fourteenth birthday, which is an entirely different can of worms and an entirely different story.
(But, Brittany’s boobs grew in and the rest of her went from lanky to lithe; curiosity got the best of Santana, so, yeah, they do it. Not that often because Santana’s not gay.)
Besides, she fills in the spaces of not doing it with Britt by “learning” shit with Puck. He has this thing about googling and “The Bucket List” inspired him in odd ways.
She likes to find out how flexible she is and sex is as much a sport to her as cheerleading. She also likes being good -at everything.
There’s also the fact that even though she’s just started having orgasms, they’re already among her favorite things and, most of the time, Puck’s good for them.
(Britt’s always good for multiples and that’s just with those freaky long fingers of hers because Santana won’t let her use her tongue like she wants. That’s just too gay for her to process right now.)
*
“So like … where is this place again?” Brittany asks. One hand is softly pressed palm to palm with Santana’s cradling her fingers as she paints them bright red with the other. It’s some OPI shade that Santana’s addicted to. She remembers the names of all her polishes, but Britt doesn’t bother trying. It’s too much unnecessary information to process.
“In Louisiana,” Santana says looking away from the television to glance at Brittany. Brittany just stares, “The state that’s shaped like a boot.”
“Oh that place,” Brittany nods then shakes her head before going back to her task. Santana just lets it go and focuses on the way Brittany floods her thumbnail with color that doesn’t skirt into her cuticles. Santana’s good at doing it herself, but Brittany is definitely better.
*
Santana stuffs her pajamas and her toothbrush into the red Cheerios duffle perched at the end of her bed and yanks up the zipper. She waited to the last minute to pack, because procrastination is one of her favorite pastimes. Brittany’s curled up at the top of her bed, her head resting in her palm; elbow digging into a pillow.
“Who do you think we’ll room with?” Brittany asks curiously, her eyebrows furrowing like they do when she’s been thinking on something hard.
“I don’t know,” Santana says, dropping her bag to the floor, “I just hope it’s not Fabray.”
She was the only thing she hadn’t planned to deal with. Everything seemed clear-cut when Ashley had explained things to her. She knew she was cut out to be top dog, but she hadn’t factored in the possibility that someone might actually be able to compete with her. Not until she met Quinn.
Quinn had an icy glare that sometimes even made Santana uncomfortable and there was unnecessary venom in all her words; where, Santana only used hers to fit the situation. She didn’t mind fighting for the spot, but she didn’t want to and she really wished she didn’t have to.
“Yeah, she’s kind of scary,” Brittany says as Santana eases up the bed and settles her head on her chest. There’s immediately a soothing hand stroking her scalp and she stops worrying about duking it out with Quinn Fabray and starts plotting all the fun shit they can get into.
“So,” she starts, “They do this thing with beads...”
“Beads?” Santana nods, “What thing?”
“We could practice.”
*
"I dare any of you to try me. I once dabbled in cannibalism during a special mission in Indonesia. I liked it. I'll try it again in New Orleans if necessary. Cajun Teenager sounds appetizing,” Coach Sylvester says. There’s no smirk to accompany her statement so the girls can only assume she means it, which, what the fuck? Scary.
Brittany’s eyes go all wide and Santana wraps two fingers around her wrist to calm her down. Brittany sighs and drops her head onto Santana’s shoulder, but her eyebrows stay knitted in the space between fear and confusion that Coach Sylvester usually drops them in.
Their flight was smooth and painless; Santana spent most of it sleeping and Brittany, who can’t sleep on planes, just listened to music and stroked the hairs at the base of Santana’s neck while Quinn looked on from across the isle. She looked nervous or curious, Brittany really couldn’t tell and she didn’t exactly care because she thought Quinn was scary.
“We have mandatory practice at four PM. Don’t be late. You don’t want to find out what happens if you’re late. Now, go get settled into your rooms.”
*
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Santana says frowning at the rooming list. She’s roomed with Brittany, but Quinn Fabray is listed under Room Four too. It’s basically the worst possible outcome.
“It’ll be fine,” Brittany says, her thumb working slow circles into Santana’s palm, which should calm her down, but instead, makes her think about that thumb elsewhere and, fuck, that’s practically impossible for this trip now.
“Whatever,” she huffs, snatching up both her and Brittany’s duffles and heading for the elevator. “I don’t plan to spend that much time in the stupid room anyway.”
“Yeah, we have to get those, um, bengays ...?”
“Beignets, Britt.”
“Yeah. Those. And I want beads.”
“We’ll get beads,” Santana says, stepping into the elevator and dropping their bags with a thud. She holds her arm in front of the door to keep it open for Brittany. Quinn slides in after her.
“That wasn’t for you,” she says warningly. Brittany tugs on her wrist and drags her all the way inside.
*
Basically, Sue Sylvester is a cross between Hitler and Glen Coco. She’s fucking evil, but she keeps winning and somehow she manages to get people to do exactly what she wants.
Santana thinks about quitting nearly every day: before morning practices, after them, before afternoon practices, and after those too. There’s pretty much not a time when she doesn’t want to throw in the towel and like join glee or something.
(But if Sue Sylvester is scary, Sandy Ryerson is terrifying. He’s gay, but he still screams predator, so, just no.)
She’s also very grounded in her plans to stay powerful at McKinley. There’s a lot to live up to in her home and she can’t do bottom of the barrel - not with a lawyer for a mom and a doctor for a dad. Let’s not forget her fucking talented siblings. Yeah, she can’t quit. She’s practically the black sheep already.
Besides, she gets away with everything. Literally everything and she likes it that away.
Noah Puckerman is wrapped around her finger because she’s the hottest piece of freshman action and it’s mostly because he has a thing for her Cheerios skirt; teachers don’t question the location of missing homework when she doesn’t do it (which isn’t actually all too often, because yeah, there’s a lot to live up to in the Lopez household).
She likes doing what she wants to do, when she wants to do it and Cheerios makes that happen for her.
So, even though she wants to either die or set Sue Sylvester on fire after the mandatory practice, she just sucks it up, takes a long shower and pulls on a pair of skinny jeans and a too-short tank top.
“Britt, c’mon,” she says crossing her legs and grabbing her nail file out of the crevices of the hotel comforter.
She’s ready to sneak out and get into something.
She has a mental checklist of shit she has to experience that Google, Julian’s spring break trip to NOLA last year and her mother’s overheard college stories provided.
She wants one of those Hand Grenades and she’s going to fucking show tits for beads. She’s also starving and a Po’Boy sounds good (fuck Sue’s diet for this trip.)
“I’m coming,” Brittany says peaking her head out of the bathroom. There’s a flat iron wrapped around silky blond hair. She disappears back into the bathroom and returns moments later with a head full of loose curls.
“Let’s get out of here. I’m hungry and I want to get wasted.” Brittany just nods and slips her wallet into her pocket.
“Where are you two going?” Quinn asks over her book.
“None of your fucking business?” Santana says raising an eyebrow. Quinn raises one back and for a second Santana thinks hers might actually be more threatening, but fuck that. “Why are you worried about it?”
“Because Coach said we’re not supposed to leave.”
“Does this look like the face of a person who gives a fuck?” Quinn grumbles and snaps her book shut.
“I’m coming.”
“No fucking way.”
“Do you know how to communicate without sounding filthy?”
“Fuck you, Fabray.”
“I’m sure you’d like to.”
That shuts her up - for a moment.
“Sorry, I don’t do cows.”
Brittany’s hand wraps around Santana’s instinctively and she presses a kiss to her cheek, “San, calm down.”
“I’m calm. She’s fucking bothering me. I’m sorry no one wants to hang out with her. It’s not my problem,” she says like Quinn’s not a few feet away from her.
“Let’s go.” She tugs Brittany’s hand with more tension than necessary and yanks open the door.
“Seriously,” she says once they’re in the elevator. “What’s her fucking problem?”
“Maybe she’s lonely,” Brittany offers.
“I don’t fucking care.” She rolls her eyes and her neck twists in exasperation, “And what was that fucking crack about wanting to fuck her? I’m not gay.”
“I know,” Brittany says barely above a whisper.
“Fucking bitch,” she hisses.
“Shh,” Brittany coos still clutching her hand.
“I don’t wan-” Brittany hushes her in the best way she knows how.
*
So, Bourbon Street is only half of what she expected. It’s sort of dirty, well, really dirty, but it’s full of life and music- and really icky drunk people. Santana’s been groped far too many times already and Brittany just looks overwhelmed.
“Let’s get something to drink,” Santana says.
“We’re fifteen.”
“Duh.”
“How are we supposed to get drinks then?”
“Have you seen me?”
“I think so. I mean, most days I do. There was that time when you got the flu and you didn’t come to school and your mom wouldn’t let me come over because...”
Santana just sighs.
“Not what I meant Britt.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, we can use this to get drinks,” she says her hands traveling from her chest down to her thighs.
“Oh.”
“C’mon.”
*
Getting drinks is a lot easier than she expected. There are pervs and marks everywhere and a well-placed lip bite and a few giggles afford her and Brittany several hand grenades from a group of college boys.
They’re pretty cute and not too handsy. One of the guys seems to be trying to actually talk to her and, eww, no. Another is practically hanging onto Brittany like his life depends on it. She doesn’t like that and she’s about to say something about it when people start shouting excitedly.
When she finally finds the source of excitement she’s thankful that she’s drunk, because the bead thing seemed like a good idea in theory, but if she weren’t a little wobbly from the drinks it would be terrifying.
There’s a balcony in the bar and a group of guys and a few girls are standing at the top clutching strings of multicolored beads, some with large charms and others just shiny variations of the same necklace. She watches Brittany’s eyes light up- shiny things excite her.
She doesn’t really care about the cheap plastic but Brittany likes collecting things and keepsakes since her memory isn’t the best, so, it’s sort of her way of being a good friend or something. At least that’s what she tells herself when she pulls her shirt up and a smattering of beads come down.
She ends up blushing hard, but a round of tequila shots with the college guys finds a new origin for the rouge in her cheeks. Brittany is smiling and toying with the dozen necklaces she’s wearing and it becomes worth it.
Besides, she’s pretty sure sneaking into a bar on Bourbon Street, getting wasted for free and getting beads because of her rack is sort of awesome. She’ll definitely have to brag about it to Puck. She can almost hear him asking for a reenactment.
*
Her pinkie is twisted around Brittany’s when they stumble back into the hotel. They’re sloppy drunk and she’s having trouble keeping her hands to herself. Brittany doesn’t seem to mind because she pushes open a door to the stairwell and presses Santana into a wall after her hand grazes the small of her back.
She really wishes they didn’t have a third in their room, because kissing Britt feels really good but she’d rather be doing other things and she’s not exactly opposed to doing things in public (um, Puck) but Sue could be anywhere and she really doesn’t need to be caught with a girl.
“Britt,” she husks, pulling back. “We should probably get to the room. Competition tomorrow.”
Brittany doesn’t hear or she pretends not to, because instead of stopping she just drops her kisses lower and works her lips against Santana’s neck.
“Britt. Seriously,” Santana manages but there’s not much fight in her voice. A moan slips out when teeth take hold of the place where her neck and shoulder meet and she’s totally fucked.
Yeah, totally.
*
“Coach Sylvester stopped by,” Quinn says when they finally step into the room. Santana’s hand moves to straighten her hair, but it’s really no use. There’s also a really dopey grin plastered on her face.
“Yeah, and?” Santana asks defensively. Brittany just looks lost between satisfied and scared which is one of her more interesting expressions. Santana would put more thought into it, but she’s only just realized what Quinn’s said.
“Wait. Coach was here?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck.” Her grin is replaced with what’s as close to fear as she can get which isn’t close at all because she won’t give Quinn the satisfaction. “What did she say?
“She just asked where you two were,” Quinn shrugs and glances at their bed. The covers are all messed up and her bag, which was at the foot of the bed, is toppled over on the floor. “She did a number on your bed and looked for you under the bed - even though the frame touches the floor.”
Santana just stares, because she’d really like Quinn to get to the point.
“I told her you two were getting ice.”
Santana’s eyebrows nit in confusion, “She believed that?”
“Well, no.” Brittany makes a noise that sounds like “Shit,” and Santana’s hand moves to rub her temples. She’d really not like to be blackened Cheerio and she can’t shake the vision of Sue Sylvester trying to shake hot sauce on her.
“I mean, she didn’t at first,” Quinn says finally, “She went to check. It’s out-of-order on our floor. I explained that you two had to go upstairs to get it.”
Santana nods slowly. “She bought that?”
Quinn’s quiet for a tortuously long minute and Santana can’t decide if hitting her would be a good idea so she stays put.
“Yeah. She’ll probably be back in a few minutes. I’d get in the shower if I were you. You smell like my mom at noon.”
Brittany’s face asks the question for both of them.
“Scotch. You smell like Scotch.”
“Oh.”
There’s an awkward silence before Santana grunts out a thanks that Ashley would probably elbow her for. She shrugs and pretends not to hear Quinn’s “You’re welcome.”