girl's night in
Title: Girl's Night In
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Brittany/Santana, some Rachel/Quinn
Spoilers: Sectionals
Summary: Today, Rachel doesn’t look half-bad.
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Lady Gaga is not something that Brittany can fall asleep to. In fact, she’s pretty sure it’s impossible for anyone to fall asleep to that kind of music, unless by ‘fall sleep’ they meant ‘have sex.’ But given the choice of song that could possible make her the least bit sleepy, she’d choose Paparazzi, which is playing in the background at Kurt’s insistence once Rachel’s iPod had been yanked out of the dock after a solid hour of some original Broadway cast recording of a play only Rachel had heard of.
Or maybe it’s not the song so much as it’s the fact that the couch is so plush and she’s leaning heavily against Santana with her head resting on the other girl’s shoulder, watching Kurt, Quinn, and Rachel settle on the floor around the coffee table in Rachel’s living room, lining up vials of nail polish on the glass countertop and arguing over what shade best compliments the girl’s skin tone. And it probably doesn’t help that Santana has an arm around her shoulders and is running her fingers absentmindedly through her hair or that she’s so warm her body heat is making Brittany more and more drowsy.
They wouldn’t even be in this position if Santana hadn’t taken the best seat on the couch, so it’s totally not Brittany’s fault that Santana’s trapped between her and the arm of the couch now. Not that Santana seems to mind.
Brittany shifts and slides her arms around Santana’s waist, hooking her fingers through the belt loops of the other girl’s black jeans and tugging suggestively as she tilts her chin up a little to nuzzle at Santana’s neck. She hears the other girl’s breath hitch momentarily, because as much of a badass Santana is, she’s a total sucker for cuddling.
Rachel’s victory make-over (they had taken Regionals last week) had been something previously intended for a single afternoon. Then Quinn and Kurt had had a catty argument over whether they should put Rachel in a pair of form-fitting skinny jeans or showcase her gorgeous legs in thigh-high miniskirts, and now they were a whole two hours behind schedule. But it didn’t seem to matter much because the make-over session had turned into an impromptu movie night-cum-sleepover, complete with an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter and a stack of movies by the television for later that night.
Now, with Quinn almost ready to pop and Regionals behind them and the whole accidental-outing fiasco under their belts, Santana isn’t afraid to touch her back. Brittany’s worried that she’s caught a tiger by the tail or however that old saying goes, because when Santana does something, she goes all the way, meaning that their intense PDAs outclass anything she ever did with Puck. Brittany can only hope that Santana doesn’t harbor a secret penchant for public sex or she’s going to be in major trouble.
But in the company of their fellow gleeks, Santana keeps it tame, and the fingers that were running through her hair end up curling around Brittany’s waist, reveling in the sheer fabric of her shirt. The Cheerios uniform is hot by McKinley’s male population’s standards, but after wearing it every single school day, it’s starting to lose its luster. Seeing one another in jeans is becoming a ridiculously intense turn-on.
Hence the position they’re in.
Santana picks up the remote, turning on the television and flipping through channels to drown out Kurt’s music, and Brittany settles down again, gaze turning to Rachel to see how much Quinn and Kurt have progressed.
The lone male is now sitting with his back up against the couch, flicking through the second-most recent issue of Vogue, which is dog-eared but in otherwise pristine condition. Brittany can’t tell if the bookmarked pages are outfits intended for Kurt or Rachel. Probably for either of them, considering he’s wearing a pair of Rachel’s extra sweatpants (and somehow making them look sexy) and a tiny white tank top.
Quinn’s sitting with her back toward the couch too, crossed-legged on the floor and leaning forward as much as the baby bump (they’re being extremely gracious by still calling it a bump) and the coffee table will allow, a hand holding Rachel’s own flat against the table as she applies cherry-red nail polish in even strokes. She, too, has called it a day and changed to more comfortable pajamas.
And the diva in question is on the opposite side of the table, sitting with her back to the television. Earlier that afternoon, Brittany had caught the brunette staring at her and Santana. The blonde had smiled benignly, but Rachel had flushed and looked down, pointedly ignoring their obvious cuddling the rest of the afternoon. For someone with gay dads, it had seemed out of place. And so the wheels in Brittany’s head, rusty though some thought them, had begun to turn.
Today, Rachel doesn’t look half-bad. They had dressed her up for Regionals, but the real make-over had been extremely belated, given the tension between everyone. They were all gleeks, but they had only really all begun to be friends recently. So it’s not surprising that Rachel cringes as Kurt slaps the magazine down loudly out of the blue and shoves it across the tabletop. She turns it right-side up, studies the photograph, and then blushes furiously, pushing it back toward Kurt.
“Your loss,” he gloats as Quinn finishes with the nails on Rachel’s hand. She reaches out, tapping Rachel’s other hand, and the brunette obliges, shoving it forward as she speaks.
“That’s scraps of fabric draped over a body, not an outfit.”
“That’s fashion.”
Brittany stifles a yawn and glances at Santana out of the corner of her eye. Santana’s glued to the television, so she lets her hand rest teasingly on the other girl’s thigh as she speaks. “S?”
Santana doesn’t even look away from a rerun of America’s Next Top Model. Brittany’s insulted. “Yeah, B?”
“Ten bucks says she is.”
At this, Santana gives Brittany her full attention. She lowers her voice as her dark eyes flicker toward Kurt, who’s now busied himself braiding strands of Quinn’s hair.
“Britt, we all know Kurt’s gay already. And I don’t think he appreciates that pronoun.”
“Twenty,” Brittany beams, upping her bet. “And I’m not talking about Kurt.”
Brittany has an eerily accurate gaydar, so Santana shakes her head as she places her hand over Brittany’s, lacing their fingers together. “Last time I bet against you, I lost fifty dollars.”
“You can rest assured that they were well spent,” Brittany says, placing a swift kiss to her cheek.
“If blowing all my hard-earned money on miscellaneous crap is considered ‘well spent’,” Santana laments with a frown.
“Would you be willing to bet if I said she was gay for Fabray?”
“When you get that accurate, you always end up being right,” Santana concedes grudgingly as Rachel, tired of Tyra’s grating voice, gets up to put a movie on. “But we’ll see.”
---
As the only couple present (“for now,” Brittany insists), they’re given the couch since Quinn has an irrational fear of rolling in her sleep, falling off, and squashing the baby. They push the coffee table to the side, drag sleeping bags to the center of the living room, fluff pillows, and pop four separate bowls of popcorn before settling down to watch movies, with Brittany and Santana lying on the couch.
They’re on the second movie of the night, My Fair Lady playing softly in the darkened room, when Brittany feels Santana shift behind her. They’ve been lying together for an unusually long time without touching, so Brittany isn’t surprised when she feels an arm drape over her waist and Santana kisses the back of her neck, dragging her closer. Santana takes advantage of the blonde’s shirt riding up to let her fingertips grazes low against Brittany’s stomach, and Brittany practically purrs, back arching in pleasure.
But to Santana’s surprise and stifling a smile that the other girl can’t see, Brittany takes Santana’s hand and holds it still. There’s a pause before Santana speaks, and the blonde can practically hear the pout in her voice.
“You’re no fun.”
“Just watch the movie,” Brittany teases. “Horndog.”
Santana just snorts in laughter, and they actually end up watching the movie instead of trying to fool around.
---
Rachel is obviously an early riser, if not by nature then by habit. Quinn, however, is harder to peg. But apparently, she gets up early too, because when the sound of pots and pans being moved around gets too loud and Brittany finally opens her eyes, neither is in the living room.
Propping herself up groggily on an elbow, Brittany blinks a couple of times before she gets her bearings. She carefully extricates herself from Santana’s now-slack embrace, placing a soft kiss on her forehead before she heads towards the kitchen, tiptoeing around the lumpy purple sleeping bag that is Kurt.
Padding down the hall, Brittany finds Rachel in the kitchen in front of the stove, flipping pancakes on a griddle, and Quinn with a hand cradled against her stomach and the other wielding a spatula dripping with batter. Loitering in the doorway, the blonde can’t hear what they’re saying because the girls are whispering to keep from waking their friends, but the two are obviously giggling about something.
And then Quinn pokes Rachel in the cheek with the tip of the spatula, earning an outraged look from the brunette that’s quickly replaced by a pleased look as Quinn leans forward and kisses the batter off of her.
Brittany ducks back into the living room, allowing the two girls their privacy, and promptly straddles Santana, grinning wildly.
“Well, that’s a nice way to wake up,” Santana mutters sleepily as she’s forced into wakefulness, yawning halfway through her sentence.
“I wish you had really bet,” Brittany says, nodding in the direction of Rachel’s kitchen. “I’d be twenty dollars richer right now.”
Santana arches an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Do I have to pay in currency?”
“Depends on the value of what it is you’re offering.”
Santana pulls her down for a heated kiss with a haughty smirk, and this time there’s no Audrey Hepburn to save her. Not that she would really want any kind of saving, Brittany decides.
“Let me show you.”
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Brittany/Santana, some Rachel/Quinn
Spoilers: Sectionals
Summary: Today, Rachel doesn’t look half-bad.
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Lady Gaga is not something that Brittany can fall asleep to. In fact, she’s pretty sure it’s impossible for anyone to fall asleep to that kind of music, unless by ‘fall sleep’ they meant ‘have sex.’ But given the choice of song that could possible make her the least bit sleepy, she’d choose Paparazzi, which is playing in the background at Kurt’s insistence once Rachel’s iPod had been yanked out of the dock after a solid hour of some original Broadway cast recording of a play only Rachel had heard of.
Or maybe it’s not the song so much as it’s the fact that the couch is so plush and she’s leaning heavily against Santana with her head resting on the other girl’s shoulder, watching Kurt, Quinn, and Rachel settle on the floor around the coffee table in Rachel’s living room, lining up vials of nail polish on the glass countertop and arguing over what shade best compliments the girl’s skin tone. And it probably doesn’t help that Santana has an arm around her shoulders and is running her fingers absentmindedly through her hair or that she’s so warm her body heat is making Brittany more and more drowsy.
They wouldn’t even be in this position if Santana hadn’t taken the best seat on the couch, so it’s totally not Brittany’s fault that Santana’s trapped between her and the arm of the couch now. Not that Santana seems to mind.
Brittany shifts and slides her arms around Santana’s waist, hooking her fingers through the belt loops of the other girl’s black jeans and tugging suggestively as she tilts her chin up a little to nuzzle at Santana’s neck. She hears the other girl’s breath hitch momentarily, because as much of a badass Santana is, she’s a total sucker for cuddling.
Rachel’s victory make-over (they had taken Regionals last week) had been something previously intended for a single afternoon. Then Quinn and Kurt had had a catty argument over whether they should put Rachel in a pair of form-fitting skinny jeans or showcase her gorgeous legs in thigh-high miniskirts, and now they were a whole two hours behind schedule. But it didn’t seem to matter much because the make-over session had turned into an impromptu movie night-cum-sleepover, complete with an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter and a stack of movies by the television for later that night.
Now, with Quinn almost ready to pop and Regionals behind them and the whole accidental-outing fiasco under their belts, Santana isn’t afraid to touch her back. Brittany’s worried that she’s caught a tiger by the tail or however that old saying goes, because when Santana does something, she goes all the way, meaning that their intense PDAs outclass anything she ever did with Puck. Brittany can only hope that Santana doesn’t harbor a secret penchant for public sex or she’s going to be in major trouble.
But in the company of their fellow gleeks, Santana keeps it tame, and the fingers that were running through her hair end up curling around Brittany’s waist, reveling in the sheer fabric of her shirt. The Cheerios uniform is hot by McKinley’s male population’s standards, but after wearing it every single school day, it’s starting to lose its luster. Seeing one another in jeans is becoming a ridiculously intense turn-on.
Hence the position they’re in.
Santana picks up the remote, turning on the television and flipping through channels to drown out Kurt’s music, and Brittany settles down again, gaze turning to Rachel to see how much Quinn and Kurt have progressed.
The lone male is now sitting with his back up against the couch, flicking through the second-most recent issue of Vogue, which is dog-eared but in otherwise pristine condition. Brittany can’t tell if the bookmarked pages are outfits intended for Kurt or Rachel. Probably for either of them, considering he’s wearing a pair of Rachel’s extra sweatpants (and somehow making them look sexy) and a tiny white tank top.
Quinn’s sitting with her back toward the couch too, crossed-legged on the floor and leaning forward as much as the baby bump (they’re being extremely gracious by still calling it a bump) and the coffee table will allow, a hand holding Rachel’s own flat against the table as she applies cherry-red nail polish in even strokes. She, too, has called it a day and changed to more comfortable pajamas.
And the diva in question is on the opposite side of the table, sitting with her back to the television. Earlier that afternoon, Brittany had caught the brunette staring at her and Santana. The blonde had smiled benignly, but Rachel had flushed and looked down, pointedly ignoring their obvious cuddling the rest of the afternoon. For someone with gay dads, it had seemed out of place. And so the wheels in Brittany’s head, rusty though some thought them, had begun to turn.
Today, Rachel doesn’t look half-bad. They had dressed her up for Regionals, but the real make-over had been extremely belated, given the tension between everyone. They were all gleeks, but they had only really all begun to be friends recently. So it’s not surprising that Rachel cringes as Kurt slaps the magazine down loudly out of the blue and shoves it across the tabletop. She turns it right-side up, studies the photograph, and then blushes furiously, pushing it back toward Kurt.
“Your loss,” he gloats as Quinn finishes with the nails on Rachel’s hand. She reaches out, tapping Rachel’s other hand, and the brunette obliges, shoving it forward as she speaks.
“That’s scraps of fabric draped over a body, not an outfit.”
“That’s fashion.”
Brittany stifles a yawn and glances at Santana out of the corner of her eye. Santana’s glued to the television, so she lets her hand rest teasingly on the other girl’s thigh as she speaks. “S?”
Santana doesn’t even look away from a rerun of America’s Next Top Model. Brittany’s insulted. “Yeah, B?”
“Ten bucks says she is.”
At this, Santana gives Brittany her full attention. She lowers her voice as her dark eyes flicker toward Kurt, who’s now busied himself braiding strands of Quinn’s hair.
“Britt, we all know Kurt’s gay already. And I don’t think he appreciates that pronoun.”
“Twenty,” Brittany beams, upping her bet. “And I’m not talking about Kurt.”
Brittany has an eerily accurate gaydar, so Santana shakes her head as she places her hand over Brittany’s, lacing their fingers together. “Last time I bet against you, I lost fifty dollars.”
“You can rest assured that they were well spent,” Brittany says, placing a swift kiss to her cheek.
“If blowing all my hard-earned money on miscellaneous crap is considered ‘well spent’,” Santana laments with a frown.
“Would you be willing to bet if I said she was gay for Fabray?”
“When you get that accurate, you always end up being right,” Santana concedes grudgingly as Rachel, tired of Tyra’s grating voice, gets up to put a movie on. “But we’ll see.”
---
As the only couple present (“for now,” Brittany insists), they’re given the couch since Quinn has an irrational fear of rolling in her sleep, falling off, and squashing the baby. They push the coffee table to the side, drag sleeping bags to the center of the living room, fluff pillows, and pop four separate bowls of popcorn before settling down to watch movies, with Brittany and Santana lying on the couch.
They’re on the second movie of the night, My Fair Lady playing softly in the darkened room, when Brittany feels Santana shift behind her. They’ve been lying together for an unusually long time without touching, so Brittany isn’t surprised when she feels an arm drape over her waist and Santana kisses the back of her neck, dragging her closer. Santana takes advantage of the blonde’s shirt riding up to let her fingertips grazes low against Brittany’s stomach, and Brittany practically purrs, back arching in pleasure.
But to Santana’s surprise and stifling a smile that the other girl can’t see, Brittany takes Santana’s hand and holds it still. There’s a pause before Santana speaks, and the blonde can practically hear the pout in her voice.
“You’re no fun.”
“Just watch the movie,” Brittany teases. “Horndog.”
Santana just snorts in laughter, and they actually end up watching the movie instead of trying to fool around.
---
Rachel is obviously an early riser, if not by nature then by habit. Quinn, however, is harder to peg. But apparently, she gets up early too, because when the sound of pots and pans being moved around gets too loud and Brittany finally opens her eyes, neither is in the living room.
Propping herself up groggily on an elbow, Brittany blinks a couple of times before she gets her bearings. She carefully extricates herself from Santana’s now-slack embrace, placing a soft kiss on her forehead before she heads towards the kitchen, tiptoeing around the lumpy purple sleeping bag that is Kurt.
Padding down the hall, Brittany finds Rachel in the kitchen in front of the stove, flipping pancakes on a griddle, and Quinn with a hand cradled against her stomach and the other wielding a spatula dripping with batter. Loitering in the doorway, the blonde can’t hear what they’re saying because the girls are whispering to keep from waking their friends, but the two are obviously giggling about something.
And then Quinn pokes Rachel in the cheek with the tip of the spatula, earning an outraged look from the brunette that’s quickly replaced by a pleased look as Quinn leans forward and kisses the batter off of her.
Brittany ducks back into the living room, allowing the two girls their privacy, and promptly straddles Santana, grinning wildly.
“Well, that’s a nice way to wake up,” Santana mutters sleepily as she’s forced into wakefulness, yawning halfway through her sentence.
“I wish you had really bet,” Brittany says, nodding in the direction of Rachel’s kitchen. “I’d be twenty dollars richer right now.”
Santana arches an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Do I have to pay in currency?”
“Depends on the value of what it is you’re offering.”
Santana pulls her down for a heated kiss with a haughty smirk, and this time there’s no Audrey Hepburn to save her. Not that she would really want any kind of saving, Brittany decides.
“Let me show you.”