Glee fic: "If You Seek Amy"
Written for nightswhisper , for the Five Acts Meme, for the prompts: Brittany/Santana, flirting.
Title: If You Seek Amy
Pairing: Brittany/Santana
Rating: R
Word count: 796
Summary: Brittany tempts Santana - not that Santana really needed any persuading in the first place.
Brittany loves to flirt. Ever since discovering the effect she can have on people - sometimes even on girls who consider themselves totally straight - Brittany has never let an opportunity for innuendo go to waste. Watching her drink a Slushie or eat a lollipop can be torture, of course, but it’s not just that. Brittany likes to cast sidelong glances and lick her lips and it’s pretty much guaranteed that once she’s set her sights on someone, she will have them.
She does all the obvious things: she doesn’t tug on her skirt when it rides up, and she walks with an extra spring in her step so her glossy ponytail swings and her breasts bounce and her hips sway. She smiles at everyone, and she’s perfected the look Santana taught her when they were twelve - glancing up from under her lashes, coy and in control. She holds the tip of her tongue between her teeth when she’s thinking, and sucks on her pencil like she’s in schoolgirl in a porno.
Santana’s not complaining. She likes nothing better than watching every boy (and some of the girls) watching her with a look of desperate wanting - drooling, in some cases, over the stretch of pale thigh when she crosses her legs and the arch of her back. Because they can’t have her, not really - Brittany will make out with anybody, and have sex with at least half of them, but nobody gets her like Santana. Nobody can lick into her and make her scream, make her buck and writhe like Santana can.
For Brittany, sex practically a public service: she loves to give pleasure, but she doesn’t always receive it. Most of the clumsy boys in this town with their sweat-damp hands don’t know how to touch a woman, but Brittany doesn’t seem to mind much. She’s like Santana - she likes to be adored, loves the way a boy looks at her when she’s just totally blown his mind. She likes to teach them how to do it right, because she will always be the girl they compare their future lovers to. You can’t forget the girl who deep-throated you against the blackboard in your tenth-grade math class and swallowed without even flinching.
Still, when Brittany’s impatient, when she’s squirming in her seat to try and soothe the ache of desire, she always goes to Santana. Santana knows right away when Brittany wants her - like now, sitting by Brittany’s pool stretched out on lawn chairs in their Cheerio bikinis. Brittany’s slowly working at a popsicle - it doesn’t take much work to make that sexy, but she puts in the effort anyway. She’s curling her tongue, which is slowly turning blue from the dye, around the length of the popsicle.
Santana watches, not bothering to pretend that Brittany doesn’t have her full attention. Brittany’s sprawled carelessly, as if she’s all alone and just desperate to give head. She closes her lips around the tip and slides it all the way to the back of her throat - Santana’s worried it’ll break off and choke her, but of course, Brittany knows exactly what she’s doing. She pulls it out slowly, carefully, with a wet slurp and a quiet little mm of appreciation. Santana’s hands tighten on the arms of her chair.
The popsicle is fast melting - drops slide down the stick and over Brittany’s fingers, and Brittany raises her hand to lick them away. But they keep coming, and Santana has to bite the inside of her cheek when a droplet lands on Brittany’s collarbone and starts to trickle down to her breasts. Brittany meets her gaze then, wide-eyed and innocent, and Santana decides, to hell with the show, because as hot as Brittany is, she’s even hotter moaning Santana’s name.
“Britt,” Santana says, her voice husky, “what time did you say your parents would be back again?”
Brittany smiles. “Seven thirty.”
Santana stands and slinks over to Brittany’s chair; Brittany moves over to make room, and Santana lies on her side next to her, loving the smooth wamrth of Brittany's legs sliding against hers. Santana's hand fits into the curve of Brittany's waist like it was made to be there.
“Want to share the popsicle?” Brittany offers brightly, like she has no idea what she’s been doing.
Santana takes it from her and tosses it onto the grass. “No,” she says. She leans down and licks the trail of melted popsicle from Brittany’s cleavage up to her throat. Brittany lets her head fall back and moans, a dreamy smile on her face. Santana knows what she’s about to say is stupidly saccharine, and she’d never be caught dead saying it to Puck or any boy, but this is Brittany. Rules have never applied to Brittany. “You’ll taste much sweeter.”
Title: If You Seek Amy
Pairing: Brittany/Santana
Rating: R
Word count: 796
Summary: Brittany tempts Santana - not that Santana really needed any persuading in the first place.
Brittany loves to flirt. Ever since discovering the effect she can have on people - sometimes even on girls who consider themselves totally straight - Brittany has never let an opportunity for innuendo go to waste. Watching her drink a Slushie or eat a lollipop can be torture, of course, but it’s not just that. Brittany likes to cast sidelong glances and lick her lips and it’s pretty much guaranteed that once she’s set her sights on someone, she will have them.
She does all the obvious things: she doesn’t tug on her skirt when it rides up, and she walks with an extra spring in her step so her glossy ponytail swings and her breasts bounce and her hips sway. She smiles at everyone, and she’s perfected the look Santana taught her when they were twelve - glancing up from under her lashes, coy and in control. She holds the tip of her tongue between her teeth when she’s thinking, and sucks on her pencil like she’s in schoolgirl in a porno.
Santana’s not complaining. She likes nothing better than watching every boy (and some of the girls) watching her with a look of desperate wanting - drooling, in some cases, over the stretch of pale thigh when she crosses her legs and the arch of her back. Because they can’t have her, not really - Brittany will make out with anybody, and have sex with at least half of them, but nobody gets her like Santana. Nobody can lick into her and make her scream, make her buck and writhe like Santana can.
For Brittany, sex practically a public service: she loves to give pleasure, but she doesn’t always receive it. Most of the clumsy boys in this town with their sweat-damp hands don’t know how to touch a woman, but Brittany doesn’t seem to mind much. She’s like Santana - she likes to be adored, loves the way a boy looks at her when she’s just totally blown his mind. She likes to teach them how to do it right, because she will always be the girl they compare their future lovers to. You can’t forget the girl who deep-throated you against the blackboard in your tenth-grade math class and swallowed without even flinching.
Still, when Brittany’s impatient, when she’s squirming in her seat to try and soothe the ache of desire, she always goes to Santana. Santana knows right away when Brittany wants her - like now, sitting by Brittany’s pool stretched out on lawn chairs in their Cheerio bikinis. Brittany’s slowly working at a popsicle - it doesn’t take much work to make that sexy, but she puts in the effort anyway. She’s curling her tongue, which is slowly turning blue from the dye, around the length of the popsicle.
Santana watches, not bothering to pretend that Brittany doesn’t have her full attention. Brittany’s sprawled carelessly, as if she’s all alone and just desperate to give head. She closes her lips around the tip and slides it all the way to the back of her throat - Santana’s worried it’ll break off and choke her, but of course, Brittany knows exactly what she’s doing. She pulls it out slowly, carefully, with a wet slurp and a quiet little mm of appreciation. Santana’s hands tighten on the arms of her chair.
The popsicle is fast melting - drops slide down the stick and over Brittany’s fingers, and Brittany raises her hand to lick them away. But they keep coming, and Santana has to bite the inside of her cheek when a droplet lands on Brittany’s collarbone and starts to trickle down to her breasts. Brittany meets her gaze then, wide-eyed and innocent, and Santana decides, to hell with the show, because as hot as Brittany is, she’s even hotter moaning Santana’s name.
“Britt,” Santana says, her voice husky, “what time did you say your parents would be back again?”
Brittany smiles. “Seven thirty.”
Santana stands and slinks over to Brittany’s chair; Brittany moves over to make room, and Santana lies on her side next to her, loving the smooth wamrth of Brittany's legs sliding against hers. Santana's hand fits into the curve of Brittany's waist like it was made to be there.
“Want to share the popsicle?” Brittany offers brightly, like she has no idea what she’s been doing.
Santana takes it from her and tosses it onto the grass. “No,” she says. She leans down and licks the trail of melted popsicle from Brittany’s cleavage up to her throat. Brittany lets her head fall back and moans, a dreamy smile on her face. Santana knows what she’s about to say is stupidly saccharine, and she’d never be caught dead saying it to Puck or any boy, but this is Brittany. Rules have never applied to Brittany. “You’ll taste much sweeter.”