Fanfiction: Glee - Friday Afternoon
My first Glee fanfic - I'm in love with Brittana. I hope you enjoy it!
Title:Friday Afternoon
Rating: M
Pairings: Santana/Puck, Santana/Brittany
Word Count: 2,107
Genre: Character study, angst, romance
Warnings: Spoilers for season 1
It’s Friday afternoon and Santana thinks she hates Brittany.
A bead of sweat trickles down her back under her Cheerio uniform. Mr Shuester is talking and talking, and Santana doesn’t even bother trying to pay attention. She speaks fluent Spanish anyway - this is just an easy credit. She stares out the window at the heat shimmering off the cars in the carpark, and wishes she was in the back of one right now, getting sweaty in a good way. It’s far too hot for September.
Brittany is drawing a kitty. Intense concentration forces her tongue out of her mouth, glistening small and pink between her white teeth. She’s pressing down on the paper hard, the lead of her pencil nearly tearing through it. Santana grunts and shoves her, watching in satisfaction as a deep black furrow skids across the kitty’s face.
Brittany looks sad and rubs her arm. “Ow,” she says softly. Santana sucks her teeth in frustration.
“Pay attention, you’re not copying off of me anymore,” she hisses imperiously. She doesn’t know why she’s suddenly mad at Brittany, nor does she care.
“But I don’t get it,” Brittany whispers back. Santana grits her teeth.
“What don’t you get?” she asks, against her better judgement.
“Any of it,” Brittany answers forlornly, just as Mr Shuester yells for them to shut up.
That night she watches a Beyonce video marathon on TV while Brittany copies her Spanish homework, round, childish letters forming slowly on lined paper.
****
Santana looks enviously at Brittany’s flat white-girl ass in her Spanx. She’d never admit it to anyone, but sometimes being bootylicious isn’t that great. She’d really like to be able to buy jeans that fit her ass and her waist at the same time, but in Lima that’s not really a possibility. Besides, Brittany’s so tall and slim, her figure is perfect…
Brittany pulls up her Cheerio uniform skirt and catches Santana looking at her. She smiles so sweetly that Santana has to look away.
“You’re getting fat,” Santana remarks bitchily, flipping open her phone to sext Puck.
“I am?” Brittany asks, stroking a hand up her skirt, skimming over her right buttock. Her surprised blue eyes are totally innocent, and Santana relents.
“You know you’re not, geez.” Santana snaps her phone shut and loops her arm casually through Brittany’s so they can walk out of the locker room together. Puck can wait.
****
Puck downloads a porno and they watch it on his computer, Santana in his lap in the old, saggy armchair in his room. It doesn’t do much for her, other than making her wet, but that could also be down to Puck’s wandering hands or the hard-on she’s sitting on. It’s pretty standard stuff - white boy fucks hot Latina in her living room while her husband’s away. When her blonde neighbour shows up, though, things start to get a bit more interesting, and Puck clearly feels the same because he starts grunting unmentionable things in her ear, sucking on her earlobe in a way that he knows drives her batshit crazy.
She relents and hitches up her skirt for him, letting him shove her panties to one side and plunge straight into her. She purrs at his roughness.
“Would you like that?” she murmurs, eyes fixed on the screen. “Would you like it if I brought Brittany here and ate her out on your bed?” Heat pools in her lower belly and she grinds into him faster. He kneads her breasts, her bra haphazardly pushed up out of the way, the underwire digging into her sensitive skin in a way that isn’t at all unpleasant.
“Fuck yes, babe, God, fuck…” Santana doesn’t know whether he’s agreeing to the idea or just responding to her movements, but either way she loves to hear him curse in her ear as he comes in her. She massages her clit to bring herself off, then pulls herself free of him and gathers up her stuff.
“You leavin’?” he asks, eyelids already drooping shut in a post-coital haze.
She doesn’t bother to answer.
****
Brittany’s forever collecting strays. Anything that needs love wins her heart easily and instantly. Santana could put up with the bird in her locker, but when she turns up to lunch holding hands with some Down Syndrome kid, Santana flips.
“What the fuck, Britt?” she yells, slamming down her mineral water so hard that it splashes all over the sandwich she isn’t eating.
“I’ll see you later, Becky,” Britttany says gently, and the kid wanders off happily.
Santana has the fleeting suspicion she’s being managed, but this is Brittany she’s dealing with, so there’s no way. The very idea still makes her mad.
“You’re retarded enough without cuddling up to that freak,” Santana spits venomously. “What if it rubs off on you? She could be contagious.” Brittany simply sits down opposite her and pulls out her brown-bag lunch.
“I don’t think so,” she says quietly, pulling out an apple and taking a contemplative bite. Santana subsides with a huffed sigh. There is no point arguing with Brittany - she’s going to do whatever she’s going to do. Either she’ll choose to follow Santana’s edict or she won’t, and nothing Santana says will affect her decision either way.
People think Brittany’s under Santana’s thumb, but that’s only because Santana learned quickly that she loses face if she makes a fuss when Brittany doesn’t do things her way.
****
Puck won’t shut up about having a threesome now, and it’s kind of boring when he talks about it, but when Santana’s alone in her room, eyes squeezed shut and hands down her panties, the idea is pretty hot.
She thinks about Brittany’s long legs wrapped around her, their naked bodies entwined, fingers exploring wherever they can reach. Puck is always there behind her, but he’s indistinct, out-of-focus.
She comes imagining Brittany’s pretty mouth relaxing into an ‘o’ shape.
****
Santana gapes for a full thirty seconds when Brittany agrees to the threesome. The lump in her throat that had made it hard to ask in the first place seems to have dropped into her stomach.
“What did you say?” she asks, blinking. Brittany smiles and takes her hand.
“I’m happy. You finally asked,” Brittany says, or rather doesn’t say, because Santana must have misheard her. There’s no way Brittany knows what she’s been thinking about.
“Um…” Santana is lost for words, for once in her life. Brittany leans in slowly to kiss her, but it’s too soon, too gay, and Santana shakes her hand free and practically power-walks away from the bleachers. “Meet us at the end of school,” she tosses back over her shoulder, an order she feels proud she manages to issue in her usual, casual tone. It helps to calm her down as she flips open her phone to tell Puck.
****
They go to Puck’s house because his mother is never home and his sister is at the babysitter’s house.
Brittany has been her normal self the whole ride there, singing along to the radio, chattering about whatever has caught her eye out the window. Santana carefully maintains a look of bored indifference, trying not to think about Brittany’s thigh pressing against hers on the bench seat of the truck. Puck speeds and swears at other drivers, visibly excited. She doesn’t think he ever really believed this would happen. She’s glad he’s there, but something inside her also wishes he wasn’t.
She doesn’t like the thought of his hands on Brittany, and whether that’s because she has feelings for him, or feelings for Brittany, either way it’s an uncomfortable conclusion, so she forces herself to ignore it.
When they get to Puck’s house, he immediately launches himself upstairs to clean his room at Santana’s command. She can hear him crashing about desperately as she leads the way into the Puckermans’ tiny kitchen and pulls juice out of the refrigerator. She doesn’t bother to ask Brittany if she wants any, just hands her a sweating glass. It’s still far too hot for October.
“Santana?” Brittany asks, setting the tumbler down on the counter after her first sip.
“Yeah?” Santana’s mouth is dry and she gulps her juice quickly, then panics that she’s going to need the bathroom in the middle of everything and sets her glass down half-finished.
“I’m a bit worried…” Brittany pauses and looks down, and although she’s shown no signs of concern before now, Santana feels strangely relieved that she’s being given the chance to take charge.
“Don’t be dumb, it’ll be fine,” she says roughly.
“Do you think we could... before Puck gets back…” Brittany looks up and catches her eye, and they’re standing closer together than Santana realised. She watches, fascinated, as Brittany licks her lips and takes a step forward, eyelashes fluttering as she blinks rapidly. Santana reaches up to her and strokes the curve of her cheekbone with her thumb, her fingers finding tiny, soft strands of hair that have escaped from Brittany’s ponytail and drifted down to hang, invisible in their blondeness, by her cheek.
She’s so soft.
Hesitantly, Santana rises up on her tiptoes, sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor, to brush a kiss across Brittany’s lips. Brittany closes her eyes and leans down, catching Santana’s lips again before she can follow her terrified instinct to back off and pass everything off as a joke.
She wasn’t expecting it to feel like that, like electricity running from her lips to her toes. At some point Brittany’s hands have settled on her waist, and the warmth seeping through her uniform is making it hard to think.
Their mouths are moving softly together, and Brittany’s lips taste of oranges and the sweetness of her lipgloss. Santana links her fingers behind Brittany’s neck, tipping her head to access more of the strange sensation of the almost imperceptible fuzz around Brittany’s face, an upper lip that has never known or needed the touch of a razor to wipe away the morning’s stubble.
Santana is breathless, and it’s not because of lack of air or anything dumb like that - she’s got a nose, hasn’t she? - but because something inside her is unfurling and she doesn’t know what it is. When she breaks away from the kiss, Brittany smiles gently and leans her forehead against Santana’s, not pulling away.
“That… was SO HOT!” Santana hears from the doorway, and jumps back with a half-surprised, half-guilty yelp to see Puck standing there, eyes wide.
Brittany is watching her, blue gaze steady, and Santana knows what she has to do.
“Puck, I’m sorry.” It’s the first time she can remember apologising and meaning it. “Britt and I are leaving.” She grabs Brittany’s hand and pulls her toward the front door.
“What the… you can’t get me all worked up and walk out!” Although he’s shouting at them, he doesn’t try to grab them as they brush past him. Puck’s a good guy, underneath all the bullshit, which is why she can’t ruin the memories she has of him by hating him. And she would hate him, there’s no doubt, if she allows him to turn this … thing … with Brittany into just another sleazy encounter, something he’d brag about endlessly and she’d come to regret. “You fucking bitch,” he yells at them as they reach the front door.
“Get over it baby, it’s never gonna happen,” she shoots back over her shoulder. She can feel Brittany’s hand, warm and soft in hers, and as the door slams on his stream of four-letter words she doesn’t care that they’re going to have to walk at least a mile to reach either of their houses.
****
Santana tells Puck it’s over soon afterwards. He won’t stop begging her for a threesome, and it’s getting really old, so she makes it easy for him to hate her by telling him his credit rating sucks and walking away. If she cries a little bit afterwards, what the hey. It’s not like she’s made of stone.
Brittany sits beside Santana in the locker room, puts her arms around her in a sideways hug and rests her head on Santana’s shoulder. Santana kind of wants to push her away, because last night she lost count of the number of times they made each other come and she doesn’t do next-day affection, but instead she leans her own head against Brittany’s and relaxes, tears clouding her vision. Somehow with this girl she gets to be a different person for a while, and that’s nice.
It’s Friday afternoon and Santana thinks she loves Brittany.
*
Title:Friday Afternoon
Rating: M
Pairings: Santana/Puck, Santana/Brittany
Word Count: 2,107
Genre: Character study, angst, romance
Warnings: Spoilers for season 1
It’s Friday afternoon and Santana thinks she hates Brittany.
A bead of sweat trickles down her back under her Cheerio uniform. Mr Shuester is talking and talking, and Santana doesn’t even bother trying to pay attention. She speaks fluent Spanish anyway - this is just an easy credit. She stares out the window at the heat shimmering off the cars in the carpark, and wishes she was in the back of one right now, getting sweaty in a good way. It’s far too hot for September.
Brittany is drawing a kitty. Intense concentration forces her tongue out of her mouth, glistening small and pink between her white teeth. She’s pressing down on the paper hard, the lead of her pencil nearly tearing through it. Santana grunts and shoves her, watching in satisfaction as a deep black furrow skids across the kitty’s face.
Brittany looks sad and rubs her arm. “Ow,” she says softly. Santana sucks her teeth in frustration.
“Pay attention, you’re not copying off of me anymore,” she hisses imperiously. She doesn’t know why she’s suddenly mad at Brittany, nor does she care.
“But I don’t get it,” Brittany whispers back. Santana grits her teeth.
“What don’t you get?” she asks, against her better judgement.
“Any of it,” Brittany answers forlornly, just as Mr Shuester yells for them to shut up.
That night she watches a Beyonce video marathon on TV while Brittany copies her Spanish homework, round, childish letters forming slowly on lined paper.
****
Santana looks enviously at Brittany’s flat white-girl ass in her Spanx. She’d never admit it to anyone, but sometimes being bootylicious isn’t that great. She’d really like to be able to buy jeans that fit her ass and her waist at the same time, but in Lima that’s not really a possibility. Besides, Brittany’s so tall and slim, her figure is perfect…
Brittany pulls up her Cheerio uniform skirt and catches Santana looking at her. She smiles so sweetly that Santana has to look away.
“You’re getting fat,” Santana remarks bitchily, flipping open her phone to sext Puck.
“I am?” Brittany asks, stroking a hand up her skirt, skimming over her right buttock. Her surprised blue eyes are totally innocent, and Santana relents.
“You know you’re not, geez.” Santana snaps her phone shut and loops her arm casually through Brittany’s so they can walk out of the locker room together. Puck can wait.
****
Puck downloads a porno and they watch it on his computer, Santana in his lap in the old, saggy armchair in his room. It doesn’t do much for her, other than making her wet, but that could also be down to Puck’s wandering hands or the hard-on she’s sitting on. It’s pretty standard stuff - white boy fucks hot Latina in her living room while her husband’s away. When her blonde neighbour shows up, though, things start to get a bit more interesting, and Puck clearly feels the same because he starts grunting unmentionable things in her ear, sucking on her earlobe in a way that he knows drives her batshit crazy.
She relents and hitches up her skirt for him, letting him shove her panties to one side and plunge straight into her. She purrs at his roughness.
“Would you like that?” she murmurs, eyes fixed on the screen. “Would you like it if I brought Brittany here and ate her out on your bed?” Heat pools in her lower belly and she grinds into him faster. He kneads her breasts, her bra haphazardly pushed up out of the way, the underwire digging into her sensitive skin in a way that isn’t at all unpleasant.
“Fuck yes, babe, God, fuck…” Santana doesn’t know whether he’s agreeing to the idea or just responding to her movements, but either way she loves to hear him curse in her ear as he comes in her. She massages her clit to bring herself off, then pulls herself free of him and gathers up her stuff.
“You leavin’?” he asks, eyelids already drooping shut in a post-coital haze.
She doesn’t bother to answer.
****
Brittany’s forever collecting strays. Anything that needs love wins her heart easily and instantly. Santana could put up with the bird in her locker, but when she turns up to lunch holding hands with some Down Syndrome kid, Santana flips.
“What the fuck, Britt?” she yells, slamming down her mineral water so hard that it splashes all over the sandwich she isn’t eating.
“I’ll see you later, Becky,” Britttany says gently, and the kid wanders off happily.
Santana has the fleeting suspicion she’s being managed, but this is Brittany she’s dealing with, so there’s no way. The very idea still makes her mad.
“You’re retarded enough without cuddling up to that freak,” Santana spits venomously. “What if it rubs off on you? She could be contagious.” Brittany simply sits down opposite her and pulls out her brown-bag lunch.
“I don’t think so,” she says quietly, pulling out an apple and taking a contemplative bite. Santana subsides with a huffed sigh. There is no point arguing with Brittany - she’s going to do whatever she’s going to do. Either she’ll choose to follow Santana’s edict or she won’t, and nothing Santana says will affect her decision either way.
People think Brittany’s under Santana’s thumb, but that’s only because Santana learned quickly that she loses face if she makes a fuss when Brittany doesn’t do things her way.
****
Puck won’t shut up about having a threesome now, and it’s kind of boring when he talks about it, but when Santana’s alone in her room, eyes squeezed shut and hands down her panties, the idea is pretty hot.
She thinks about Brittany’s long legs wrapped around her, their naked bodies entwined, fingers exploring wherever they can reach. Puck is always there behind her, but he’s indistinct, out-of-focus.
She comes imagining Brittany’s pretty mouth relaxing into an ‘o’ shape.
****
Santana gapes for a full thirty seconds when Brittany agrees to the threesome. The lump in her throat that had made it hard to ask in the first place seems to have dropped into her stomach.
“What did you say?” she asks, blinking. Brittany smiles and takes her hand.
“I’m happy. You finally asked,” Brittany says, or rather doesn’t say, because Santana must have misheard her. There’s no way Brittany knows what she’s been thinking about.
“Um…” Santana is lost for words, for once in her life. Brittany leans in slowly to kiss her, but it’s too soon, too gay, and Santana shakes her hand free and practically power-walks away from the bleachers. “Meet us at the end of school,” she tosses back over her shoulder, an order she feels proud she manages to issue in her usual, casual tone. It helps to calm her down as she flips open her phone to tell Puck.
****
They go to Puck’s house because his mother is never home and his sister is at the babysitter’s house.
Brittany has been her normal self the whole ride there, singing along to the radio, chattering about whatever has caught her eye out the window. Santana carefully maintains a look of bored indifference, trying not to think about Brittany’s thigh pressing against hers on the bench seat of the truck. Puck speeds and swears at other drivers, visibly excited. She doesn’t think he ever really believed this would happen. She’s glad he’s there, but something inside her also wishes he wasn’t.
She doesn’t like the thought of his hands on Brittany, and whether that’s because she has feelings for him, or feelings for Brittany, either way it’s an uncomfortable conclusion, so she forces herself to ignore it.
When they get to Puck’s house, he immediately launches himself upstairs to clean his room at Santana’s command. She can hear him crashing about desperately as she leads the way into the Puckermans’ tiny kitchen and pulls juice out of the refrigerator. She doesn’t bother to ask Brittany if she wants any, just hands her a sweating glass. It’s still far too hot for October.
“Santana?” Brittany asks, setting the tumbler down on the counter after her first sip.
“Yeah?” Santana’s mouth is dry and she gulps her juice quickly, then panics that she’s going to need the bathroom in the middle of everything and sets her glass down half-finished.
“I’m a bit worried…” Brittany pauses and looks down, and although she’s shown no signs of concern before now, Santana feels strangely relieved that she’s being given the chance to take charge.
“Don’t be dumb, it’ll be fine,” she says roughly.
“Do you think we could... before Puck gets back…” Brittany looks up and catches her eye, and they’re standing closer together than Santana realised. She watches, fascinated, as Brittany licks her lips and takes a step forward, eyelashes fluttering as she blinks rapidly. Santana reaches up to her and strokes the curve of her cheekbone with her thumb, her fingers finding tiny, soft strands of hair that have escaped from Brittany’s ponytail and drifted down to hang, invisible in their blondeness, by her cheek.
She’s so soft.
Hesitantly, Santana rises up on her tiptoes, sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor, to brush a kiss across Brittany’s lips. Brittany closes her eyes and leans down, catching Santana’s lips again before she can follow her terrified instinct to back off and pass everything off as a joke.
She wasn’t expecting it to feel like that, like electricity running from her lips to her toes. At some point Brittany’s hands have settled on her waist, and the warmth seeping through her uniform is making it hard to think.
Their mouths are moving softly together, and Brittany’s lips taste of oranges and the sweetness of her lipgloss. Santana links her fingers behind Brittany’s neck, tipping her head to access more of the strange sensation of the almost imperceptible fuzz around Brittany’s face, an upper lip that has never known or needed the touch of a razor to wipe away the morning’s stubble.
Santana is breathless, and it’s not because of lack of air or anything dumb like that - she’s got a nose, hasn’t she? - but because something inside her is unfurling and she doesn’t know what it is. When she breaks away from the kiss, Brittany smiles gently and leans her forehead against Santana’s, not pulling away.
“That… was SO HOT!” Santana hears from the doorway, and jumps back with a half-surprised, half-guilty yelp to see Puck standing there, eyes wide.
Brittany is watching her, blue gaze steady, and Santana knows what she has to do.
“Puck, I’m sorry.” It’s the first time she can remember apologising and meaning it. “Britt and I are leaving.” She grabs Brittany’s hand and pulls her toward the front door.
“What the… you can’t get me all worked up and walk out!” Although he’s shouting at them, he doesn’t try to grab them as they brush past him. Puck’s a good guy, underneath all the bullshit, which is why she can’t ruin the memories she has of him by hating him. And she would hate him, there’s no doubt, if she allows him to turn this … thing … with Brittany into just another sleazy encounter, something he’d brag about endlessly and she’d come to regret. “You fucking bitch,” he yells at them as they reach the front door.
“Get over it baby, it’s never gonna happen,” she shoots back over her shoulder. She can feel Brittany’s hand, warm and soft in hers, and as the door slams on his stream of four-letter words she doesn’t care that they’re going to have to walk at least a mile to reach either of their houses.
****
Santana tells Puck it’s over soon afterwards. He won’t stop begging her for a threesome, and it’s getting really old, so she makes it easy for him to hate her by telling him his credit rating sucks and walking away. If she cries a little bit afterwards, what the hey. It’s not like she’s made of stone.
Brittany sits beside Santana in the locker room, puts her arms around her in a sideways hug and rests her head on Santana’s shoulder. Santana kind of wants to push her away, because last night she lost count of the number of times they made each other come and she doesn’t do next-day affection, but instead she leans her own head against Brittany’s and relaxes, tears clouding her vision. Somehow with this girl she gets to be a different person for a while, and that’s nice.
It’s Friday afternoon and Santana thinks she loves Brittany.
*