Baby I'm Nothing But Bad News
Title: Baby I'm Nothing But Bad News
Author: musicbendr
Pairing:Brittany/Santana with mentioned Quinn/Rachel
Spoilers: I don't think any.
Summary: Santana accidentally-on-purpose seduces Brittany at a glee club sleepover, and things just go downhill from there.
Rating: R for short, non-explicit sex and language
Notes: 85% of this has been on my computer for like a month and a half. I finally got around to finishing it.
Santana Lopez knows without a doubt that she is not the kind of girl that boys want to bring home to their parents. In fact, she's aware that people often refer to her as “slutty” or “whorish”, though she doesn't let it bother her because she accepts that it's the truth. After all, that's why she and Puck never worked out: they both need to constantly sleep around and since they knew the signs of a cheater, the lies in their relationship rose quickly to the surface. Santana realizes that the Puck debacle should have opened her eyes up to the error of her ways or some other bull, but she's content with lying and fucking and cheating for now. High school is supposed to be about immature idiots and brash actions, so she figures she's in good company and she'll have an emotional growth spurt by the time college rolls around.
But then there's this party, and it changes everything. The party really shouldn't count as a legit party, though, because it's a glee club party. Santana is completely mortified to be in attendance, refusing to attempt to have fun. Everyone kind of ignores it by now, Santana's lack of participation, because they all know she secretly enjoys it. Even Santana herself has to admit this because there would be no other good reason to stick it out in a club of social deviants. Well, there's Brittany, but Santana doesn't exactly want to admit that that's the reason either.
The bubbly blonde currently sits directly in front of her, concentrating hard on Kurt as he shows them how to pick out the perfect lipstick based on their complexion and the occasion. Brittany probably won't absorb any of his speech, though, so that's why he's using her as the test dummy and providing her with the perfect make-up once the session is over. Kurt has always held a soft spot for her ever since freshman year when she asked the gym teacher why he had to do wrestling with the other boys when the girls weren't forced. Because she'd phrased it such a “Brittany” way, the coach sort of spluttered for a moment and then allowed him and any other boy to do yoga with the girls, and any girl to do wrestling with the boys. Brittany had saved him so much embarrassment without even trying, so he always tried to return the favor.
Santana watches as he paints her face, tickling her nose so that she has to swat his hands away. There's something about the ease with which they interact that she wishes she could duplicate in her own friendships and relationships, an adorable little facade that gave off the impression of something deeper.
“And you, Ms. Lopez?” Kurt's voice startles her into a blush; she hadn't realized how hard she'd been staring. He's sitting criss-cross applesauce now, away from Brittany, and she looks beautiful with Kurt's extra touches. Not that she doesn't usually.
“Huh?”
“The question,” Rachel says happily. She doesn't look up from her toenails, which Mercedes is painting purple. Santana has never wished to be in the presence of testosterone more than she does at this moment, barring all of the times when she was really horny, of course.
Sinking back into her chair so as to appear casual, Santana says simply, “What question?”
“Are you a virgin or not? And if you aren't, who was your first?” Kurt's grin is devious as his Bambi brown eyes fixate directly on her.
Santana feels suddenly like a complete slut in front of all these (most likely) virginal kids, and she thinks she might deflower them just by recounting the sheer number of boys she's bagged. The embarrassment gets to her, red flushing her cheeks, and she can't believe a bunch of losers on the bottom of the totem pole exposed her destructive ways. “What has everyone else said?”
“We're all virgins, with the exception of me, obviously,” Quinn tells her, and Rachel uncharacteristically places her hand on top of the pregnant girl's in reassurance.
“I thought it had to do with Jesus,” Brittany pipes up. “You know, like the Virgin Mary?”
Santana's not aware how someone can be a junior in high school and not understand what a virgin is, but then again, it is Brittany. Instead of laughing or something horrible like that, she just says, “I didn't know you were a virgin.”
Brittany shrugs. “I didn't either, until a few minutes ago.”
“So are you or are you not?” Mercedes asks. She knows that Santana is pretty much the female version of Puck, and delights in hearing that girl make a fool out of herself.
As nonchalantly as possible, Santana composes a reply. “I'm not a virgin. My first was Dean Samuels at 15. Happy?”
“The b-b-baseball player?” Tina stutters out, and Santana nods. She bites her tongue and resists the urge to reply with an equally choppy response.
Kurt sighs and smiles. “He's dreamy.” This, of course, quickly descends into a fit of giggles followed by a discussion on the dreaminess of Dean Samuels. The girls and Kurt then all move onto the dreaminess of the general population of McKinley High, which then morphs into the factors of dreaminess that should be present in a boy. Santana knows that Brittany can't keep up with Mercedes' use of figurative language or Quinn's veiled references to the dreaminess of girls over boys or Tina's detached sentence structure or Rachel and Kurt's plethora of Broadway references, but the girl just smiles and laughs at the right time, giving everyone the impression that she's enjoying herself. Santana pretty much agrees on whatever the other girls spew out because she really could care less. Brittany is what captivates her attention during this rather juvenile discussion, and she can't help but stare.
It's not until later, when they're all in PJ's and sleeping bags, that Santana finally regains control of her vocal chords and hormones enough to participate in the conversation. Unfortunately for her, no one else has any stamina and they've all fallen asleep. Brittany hasn't, though, because of all the Cheerios sleepovers they were practically forced to attend as freshmen. All of the younger kids were terrified of the seniors pulling pranks on them so they tended to stay up late into the night. Quinn used to have the same stamina, but being with child certainly puts a damper on her energy level. And apparently has made her want to sleep really, really close to Rachel. Santana doesn't know how to interpret that, but decides it doesn't matter when Brittany wriggles closer to her so that they're cuddling. It reminds Santana of those Cheerios sleepovers, when Brittany sometimes went as far as to share her sleeping bag due to fear. Santana always protected her in those days, but then she grew up and got power and everything changed. She sees now how she missed Brittany, with the blonde curled up peacefully against her side.
“What's it like?” Brittany whispers, sleep slurring the ends of her speech.
“What are you talking about?”
“Sex.”
“Oh.” Santana shifts, suddenly too warm against Brittany's body. “It's really nice. That's not quite the right word...fun is better. Yeah. Fun.” She knows that she has to keep it in simple terms so that Brittany can understand.
However, three letters seems to be too much for Brittany because her face scrunches up in confusion at this proclamation. “I thought it was supposed to be sweet or something. Like, in love.”
“I suppose if you find the right person,” Santana mutters. “I just haven't yet.”
Luckily, Brittany doesn't really sense the depth in that statement and plows on. “I want my first time to be with someone I know. I don't want to have to worry about doing it right. But that way I know it will mean something, too, because I care about that person.”
“I could show you.” Santana curses her horniness and sleaziness as she watches Brittany's face light up in the way that little kids' faces were supposed to light up about Santa Claus, not the way that suicidally naïve girls' faces were supposed to when they had just been propositioned.
“Really? That would be great, because you're my best friend!” Brittany happily sighs and smiles at the pressure lifting from her shoulders.
“Britt?”
“Yeah?”
“I kind of meant now. I don't know if I'll ever have the nerve to do this again.” One thing Santana really likes about Brittany (besides her eyes and her legs and the way she moves her hips that puts Shakira to shame, of course) is that she can always be completely honest with no consequences and no follow-up questions. Brittany's emotional and mental capacities don't allow her to process what exactly Santana means by her statements, and more often than not she gets a cushy, squishy hug in return.
This time is no different, though Santana takes the hug very differently than usually does. When Brittany pulls away she just stares at the Latina in front of her and Santana realizes that she's going to have to lead her the whole way through it. “Let's go. We can't do it right here.”
The blonde takes a proffered hand and follows along confusedly. “Why not? The sleeping bags are really comfortable.”
“Sex is loud, Britt,” Santana sighs, keeping her voice to a whisper. She assumed that her less-than-brilliant friend might have some sort of basic idea about the act, but clearly that was just wishful thinking.
Brittany's mouth forms an “oh” and she nods, tip-toeing alongside of her brunette counterpart. “So, we'll be, like, sneaky?” Her lips curl into a smile and she giggles. Santana notices that Brittany looks absolutely adorable in her yellow top and ducky pajama pants, and also starts to feel like a pedophile.
“Sure, sure, whatever.” Santana's distracted and she almost has lost the nerve to do this, but with a pretty blonde girl holding her hand it's hard to resist. They creep up the stairs in Kurt's house, thanking their lucky stars that his dad decided to go hunting all weekend because he couldn't handle the extreme amounts of estrogen this sleepover will produce.
Brittany giggles as the floorboard creaks beneath her feet. “This is so cool. I feel like I'm in the CBI or something.”
“FBI,” Santana corrects automatically. She thinks it's strange that Brittany's more interested in being a spy than sexual intercourse, but it is Brittany she's talking about. “C'mon. We'll use the couch.”
“Why do you need a couch?”
“Sex is traditionally performed in a horizontal position,” Santana explains. They pause by the couch, Brittany awaiting the definition of “horizontal” and the Latina feeling incredibly awkward.
When there's no response provided, Brittany just says, “Why would anyone want to have sex like a horse?”
Santana quirks her eyebrows at her friend. “Horizontal has nothing to do with horses. It's - oh, let me just show you.” With a speed and dexterity that neither of them expected, Santana pretty much flings Brittany onto the couch, pinning yellow ducks beneath baggy red sweatpants. Brittany's breathing increases, which comforts Santana because even if the girl's brain has no clue what's going on, at least her body knows how to respond appropriately. And the way her body's responding is making Santana incredibly hot.
“Am I supposed to be breathing this fast? It's not giving me, like, kidney stones or something?” Brittany's eyes slide over Santana's roaming hands, tracing a thin line down from the blonde's shoulder to her waist.
“No, it's perfectly normal.” The words come out in a husky whisper, and Brittany noticeably gulps. “That's just the way it goes. Don't worry; I'll stop if there's anything weird going on.”
Brittany looks right up at her with a hint of hesitation dotting her normally peppy brown eyes. "I'm kind of scared. What if I don't like it?”
“Trust me. Everyone who does it with me likes it. You're in good hands.” She allows her predatory side to quell the bubbling disappointment and disgust she feels boiling inside of her. Then there comes the reasoning; the fact that Brittany is a hot cheerleader and it's probably best if she has at least an inkling of what to do in case she ever nabs a boyfriend or one night stand. Yes, Santana reasons, this is really a charitable thing that she's doing. Never mind that after she's taken her top off and showed Brittany where to put her hands that the girl magically knows exactly where and how to touch her breasts and kiss her neck and rock her hips.
“Brittany. Brittany, stop,” Santana moans, torso cold from exposure to the drafts in Kurt's house and burning from the touch of Brittany's tiny hands.
“Did I do something, I'm sorry, I didn't - ”
“Shh, shh, nothing like that.” Santana blushes upon the realization that while this is probably the most instruction-based sexual encounter she's ever had, it's also the most tender, and, embarrassingly, the most meaningful. “You want to learn how to do this, right?” Brittany nods and smiles, twitching under Santana and probably trying to suppress the ache between her legs. “Well, then why don't we try something, OK? Like a game?”
“A game!” Brittany squeals, excited. She loves games so much, and especially delights in playing Candy Land with Santana when they're supposed to be studying Spanish. Her favorite part is when she gets to cross the Gumdrop Mountains. This makes her want candy canes and peanut brittle. “Does it involve sweets?”
“Not in the traditional sense,” Santana mutters, but then she remembers that witty banter will probably be lost on Brittany.
“Drat,” the cheerleader mumbles. “I want chocolate.”
Her teammate groans, frustrated by the Cheerio's lack of interest. Seriously. Who wants chocolate when they're topped by a half-naked, very willing Santana Lopez? Then again, Brittany probably thinks that chocolate will be able to fix the wetness spreading around her thighs. She has no clue what's going on. “Brittany, you can have chocolate later. And trust me, this game will be way better.”
Sighing, the blonde gives in. “OK. Fine. What do I have to do? Is this like Monopoly, because I just don't understand that game. There are so many numbers.”
“No, it's not like Monopoly. I'm going to do something to you, and then you do it to me, and that's going to help you understand.” Guilt runs through Santana's body but her shirt is off dammit so they're already halfway there and Brittany doesn't seem to be putting up any resistance. Her sleazy side takes over because Brittany removes her shirt just as she states the rules and she can't help but utter, “You're really...beautiful.” This is such a dorky, awkward bad-romantic-chick-flick first time that Santana almost can't deal. “Why did you take your shirt off?”
“Because you did, and that's the rules of the game,” Brittany says with a shrug. “It's cold, though. But I don't want you to put your shirt back on because it gives me these funny feelings inside, like happy things.”
“That's really good, Britt; you're reacting normally. And besides, this is the type of game that warms you up real quick.” With that, Santana moves her hands against Brittany's breasts (which, admittedly, are pretty chilly), squeezing and pinching and pulling at the pink nipple standing out on a background of pale skin. Brittany moans and clutches Santana's bare back, bringing them closer together so that their stomachs connect. Santana pulls back and sits up, looking at a very flushed and thoroughly wowed Brittany with a hint of dominance creeping into her. Apparently, she likes to be in control. “Now you try.”
Brittany kind of squeaks as though she's incapable of any normal speech and reaches up to touch Santana, eliciting a very throaty reaction from the Latina with a little assistance from tan hands. She's very pleased with herself and smiles, leaning up to kiss Santana fully on the lips. Their mouths crash together and Brittany doesn't need candy anymore because Santana's lip gloss tastes like her grandmother's peach cobbler. Santana's tongue roughly pushes into her mouth, so Brittany does the same with her tongue and pretty soon they're battling and there's moaning but neither of them knows where it's coming from.
Santana moves her left hand back to Brittany's breasts and begins to play with them while her right hand sinks lower to the waistband of the blonde's duck pants. Brittany loses herself in Santana's kiss, her hands, her hips and can't possibly hope to match her movements. She's trying to keep track of what's going on, but it's hard. Especially when Santana's fingers slip under her pants and through her underwear before settling on warm, wet skin.
It's of course a very hot sight to watch Brittany moaning and rocking and groaning below her, but Santana can't help but wonder if this is how Puck felt when he was deflowering Quinn as she pumps into the girl in front of her. Her best friend. This can't be how Puck felt, though, because he's even more of a skeaze than she is and he barely talked to Quinn at the time. She, on the other hand, has feelings and Brittany's her best friend and all, but this is so damn good that she just can't stop.
When Brittany finishes her orgasm and has calmed down sufficiently, she timidly says, “Santana?”
“Yeah?”
“I can't remember what you did, and I don't want to lose the game, so could you maybe help me?” Brittany has lost a bit of her innocent glow, and it's been replaced with another kind of glow altogether; one that's filled with lust.
So Santana shows her, guiding the pale hand along her dark body, helping Brittany to give her release. And when she collapses on top of the girl below her, she really can't get over that she's just finished the most (surprisingly) mind-blowing sex she's ever had.
“That was way better than chocolate,” Brittany says as they both finish putting their shirts back on. Santana avoids sparkling brown eyes as she stands up for fear of overwhelming guilt. “It was even better than Candy Land. And I'm not worried anymore. So whenever it happens for real, I'll be ready.”
Santana's a little bit put off by this, as though her work had not really been appreciated. It hurts a lot more than it should. “You are aware that this counts, Brittany? I mean, you know you're not a virgin anymore?”
Brittany nods. “Of course, silly. I'm not that stupid. I know it was my first time and I really liked it. Thanks, Santana.” The blonde leans over and kisses her friend's cheek, smiling shyly. This worries Santana just a little bit.
But it's not until after, when they're back in their sleeping bags and Brittany wriggles in tight against her, that Santana realizes that she is royally fucked.
Oddly enough, the sex doesn't really change their friendship. Santana sees Brittany every morning by her locker before first period and she almost debates not meeting her there on Monday, but she's glad that she does. Brittany acts as if nothing is different between them and starts prattling on about cheerleading routines as she slides books into and out of her locker because she always forget which ones go with which class, and often what each class even is.
The walk to class filled with amiable chit-chat finds Santana wishing that Brittany would acknowledge their encounter, if only to know that it meant a little something to her. It meant a lot to Santana, and she honestly never wanted to admit that.
~
On Wednesday, it happens again. The clock has just passed three during the girls' weekly Spanish tutoring session when Brittany asks, “What does this sentence mean?”
She slides the book over to Santana, who is in AP Spanish VI while Brittany has been stuck in Spanish III for the past two years. Rolling her eyes, Santana replies, “This is an easy one. Come on, I know you know how to do this. Como. What does that mean?”
“Como...um...como...what?” Brittany smiles widely when Santana gives a quick nod and looks down. She's been avoiding eye contact because being in such close proximity with the blonde by herself is making her horny all over again. Violating Brittany for a second time does not appeal to her because she knows that the two of them would be a match made in Hell. She's a bitch and a slut, a real love 'em and leave 'em type. Brittany's a fairytale princess, waiting to be swept off her feet by handsome prince on a shiny white horse. And Santana knows that if she's anything, she's the woman holding the poisoned apple.
But Brittany's soft lips are on hers and before she can resist the temptation a hand slips under her waistband and she's gone.
A half an hour or so later (Santana lost track of time), she asks the pretty half-naked blonde breathing steadily next to her why she wanted to do it again, so soon and randomly after the first time.
“It's really fun, and I like having fun,” Brittany explains with a genuine smile. Santana's insides twist and turn at this statement, afraid of what she's created.
~
“Friends with benefits” soon becomes the appropriate term for their relationship, and Santana is kind of surprised about how covert and leisurely Brittany's being about the whole thing. They walk to class together and sit at the same lunch table and change in the same locker room before Cheerios practice, but there's no casual hand holding or accidental touches or wandering eyes. The benefits of this arrangement almost cause Santana to forget that she's corrupting her best friend who's as innocent as a baby penguin. Almost. She knows that if she sticks around for too long after they have sex, she'll remember her conscious and be forced to care about someone. So she forgoes cuddling and instead braves the chilly sting of loneliness. But the way they're acting doesn't seem to bother Brittany too much, so she keeps up the charade.
What she doesn't know is that whenever Brittany forgets that Glee practice is after school, not during last period, she goes to sit and wait for nearly an hour in the choir room. During that time she'll check her texts, attempt to do her math homework (but there's no point without Becky), and practice routines from both her extracirriculars, all with tears in her eyes.
~
About three weeks into their between-the-sheets skirmishes, Brittany finds herself crying in the choir room for the second time that week. She can't get past the second problem on her math work, though she did experience a moment of pride when she finished the first one. So she resorts to checking her texts again, but there's nothing new. There's nothing to distract her from what she knows Santana's doing to her, how she's using her. Brittany is acutely aware that she's not exactly brilliant, but it's very clear that Santana only wants sex from her. She thought that maybe having sex with Santana would make things better between them, force the brunette to reciprocate the butterflies she feels in her stomach every time they're near each other. Of course, Brittany knows not to put those butterflies out on display; if there's anything she's learned from being a bit behind everyone else, it's how to act. How to act like she understands, how to act like she thinks the way the Cheerios behave is appropriate, how to act like she doesn't want to be with Santana in a deeper fashion.
The door swings open, interrupting Brittany's pity party. Without even looking up she knows it must be Rachel because Rachel is the only person who would think that vocal practice is more important than last period. She's muttering something under her breath, angry and huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf. Brittany's kind of afraid that she'll huff and puff and blow her right out of her chair, the way she's carrying on.
“How could she do that to me! I was so nice, dammit! And I tried to help her with that parasite growing inside of her! Why, I oughta - ” Rachel stops dead in her tracks, rambling done when she notices Brittany. And right after she realizes that she's not alone, she notices that Brittany is actually crying. Poor Brittany with her pretty blonde ponytail, a couple of strands hanging loose in front of her face, bright stains shining blindingly on her pale cheeks, hazel eyes full of loss and sorrow and concern. Rachel immediately forgets her own problems and rushes to the blonde's side, draping an arm around the girl's shoulders to pull her in closer.
“What's wrong, Brittany?” Rachel asks softly. She feels very comfortable with the slightly ditzy cheerleader, not hesitating to be touchy-feely. There's a certain warmth that Brittany always gives off that makes Rachel think angels must feel when basking in the soft glow of Jesus' heavenly light. To see her cry is akin to hell freezing over, surreal in the most uncomfortable of ways.
The girl just shakes her head and can't talk because she's feeling even less articulate than usual. Rachel rubs her hand up and down across Brittany's arm in attempt to soothe her. It kind of worked, calming the blonde down enough to get some coherent sentences out of her. “Santana's hurting me.”
“How?” Rachel tries to keep her tone even and non-judgmental.
“We have sex a lot.”
Rachel almost falls out of her chair.
“But I think it's just sex for her...I want, you know, a relationship out of it.” Brittany wipes her teary eyes and looks up at the brunette as though she would obviously have the answer.
“I'm not exactly a relationship expert. I'm in the middle of my own troubles right now, actually, so my advice is not going to be of any help,” Rachel says by way of apology. “But if you want me to hug you right now, I could do that.”
Brittany nods and flings herself into Rachel's arms, trying her darnedest to stop crying because Santana says it makes you weak and vulnerable. But then Brittany notices the singer holding her has a few tears slipping from her own eyes. She knows that her best trait is being nice no matter what and she's good at it, and Brittany likes being good at something. “What happened to you Rachel?”
“Quinn happened,” comes the reply.
“Are you guys having sex, too?”
“No, no we're not. We're not doing anything, even though she's living with me now and she says she really likes me,” Rachel begins. “But she says she's too scared to even kiss me.”
Brittany reaches to wipe a few of the tears away. “Well, she is pregnant. And she got kicked out of two houses really fast and she used to hate you. I think she's confused why you're so nice. And doesn't God think that girls having sex is a bad thing?”
“We're not having sex,” Rachel repeats. “But pretty much any non-platonic interactions between two people of the same gender is frowned upon. I guess with the pregnancy wearing on her faith right now, she doesn't need any illicit attractions to shake it to its core.”
“Right.” Brittany has no idea what just happened, but she's alright with that because there's a watery smile amidst Rachel's watery tears, so things are looking up.
~
It's at this point that Santana, fed up with her last period teacher's constant racial slurs directed at her, walks into the choir room. She thought it would be empty, but instead she stumbles in on Rachel holding her Brittany in a very intimate hug and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She barrels right through the door, angrier than she's ever been before. She's absolutely livid and Rachel looks like she wants to crawl into a corner a die just from the hateful vibes she's receiving.
“What the fuck, Berry! What the fuck are you doing!” Santana screams as she storms closer to the two girls who are now both totally terrified of her rampage.
Rachel is a firm believer in Gandhi's theory of nonviolence so even though she wants to clench her tiny hands into fists and pummel Santana's face, she resorts to clenching just her teeth. “I'm giving her exactly what you couldn't provide for her: emotional support. While you may give her all the physical support she needs, you leave poor Brittany out in the cold afterward.” Brown eyes gaze up into Santana's own, a dare to defy her words.
Santana obviously has no defense for that so she settles for flinging a chair across the room in hopes of alleviating her stress. It doesn't help. “Brittany, tell her that's not true! Tell her I'm there for you!”
“I wish I could.”
Santana's heart just about fucking breaks right there, and she feels like she can see all the little red bloody bits scattered over the immaculate white floor of the choir room. Brittany has her face buried in her Rachel's arms like she's a horrible person for saying what she just did even if it's so tragically true. Rachel has this superior look on her face like she's somehow one-upped Santana, even though that's totally not true. Except it is, whispers a tiny, obnoxious little voice in the back of her head that some people would refer to as a conscious. Look who has Brittany in her arms, the voice whispers - not you.
Santana is not proud of what she does next. But there's no other way to make sure that Brittany knows she's serious about this. When she saw that Rachel fucking Berry of all people made Brittany feel more emotionally secure than she has been in the past few weeks, something snapped. She's Brittany's best friend for crying out loud and, sure, she's never been really good at that but she's held Brittany when she fails a test or when she can't understand anything that her parents say since they're both doctors or when she feels like such an outcast in her own home. But as of late she hasn't really been doing that either, the long phone sessions and cuddling, comforting hugs replaced with messy, meaningless sex. Brittany means a lot more to her than that. So she gets on her knees, places her hand on the blonde's legs (ignoring Rachel's death glare), and prepares to beg.
“Britt...Brittany...will you please look at me?” Santana pleads. Brittany does lift her head up, though Santana's not sure if that's from habit or genuine desire. “I'm a horrible person. I shouldn't have started this the way I did. You're too good and you mean too much to me for me to screw it up. I don't want to lose you and I don't want to use you, I just want to be with you. So can we? Be together?”
“Like girlfriends?” Brittany's entirely off Rachel now, pitched forward and staring right at Santana with a bubbly sparkle illuminating her eyes. Rachel looks to be inhabiting a land somewhere between amused, moved, and uncomfortable.
It might take Santana a couple of times to get started and she might choke on that word, but she says it anyway because she's in so deep that if lets go Brittany's lifeline she'll surely drown. “Yeah, Brittany, like girlfriends.”
The blonde giggles and bubbles and jumps at Santana, knocking them both to the ground so that they're sprawled out across the choir room floor with huge, matching smiles. From the background, Rachel awkwardly says, “If you want to make out or something now, I could go. In fact - I should go. Yes, I should go.” She gathers up her things and hurries out of the room, but not before Brittany's sunshine voice reaches her ears.
“Rachel?”
“Yeah?”
“Just give her some time. She'll be better soon.”
Rachel rests her hand tenderly on the door frame and smiles sadly, her glassy eyes fixed at a point in the distance. “Thanks, Brittany. I'll leave you two alone.” She shuts the door behind her as she goes.
Santana quirks an eyebrow. “What was that about?”
“Quinn is being difficult,” Brittany replies, but gives no other explanation. Santana doesn't really care because she's Brittany's girlfriend now and nothing else seems to matter. She reaches up to cup her hand against a pale face, a smile showing.
“C'mon. I want to do something,” Santana says and forces the two of them up. Brittany looks really confused when Santana opens the door.
“Santana, what are you doing? We can't make out in the hallway.”
“Well,” the Latina replies, admittedly the tiniest bit sheepish. “Now that we're girlfriends, I'm pretty sure that we can.”
Author: musicbendr
Pairing:Brittany/Santana with mentioned Quinn/Rachel
Spoilers: I don't think any.
Summary: Santana accidentally-on-purpose seduces Brittany at a glee club sleepover, and things just go downhill from there.
Rating: R for short, non-explicit sex and language
Notes: 85% of this has been on my computer for like a month and a half. I finally got around to finishing it.
Santana Lopez knows without a doubt that she is not the kind of girl that boys want to bring home to their parents. In fact, she's aware that people often refer to her as “slutty” or “whorish”, though she doesn't let it bother her because she accepts that it's the truth. After all, that's why she and Puck never worked out: they both need to constantly sleep around and since they knew the signs of a cheater, the lies in their relationship rose quickly to the surface. Santana realizes that the Puck debacle should have opened her eyes up to the error of her ways or some other bull, but she's content with lying and fucking and cheating for now. High school is supposed to be about immature idiots and brash actions, so she figures she's in good company and she'll have an emotional growth spurt by the time college rolls around.
But then there's this party, and it changes everything. The party really shouldn't count as a legit party, though, because it's a glee club party. Santana is completely mortified to be in attendance, refusing to attempt to have fun. Everyone kind of ignores it by now, Santana's lack of participation, because they all know she secretly enjoys it. Even Santana herself has to admit this because there would be no other good reason to stick it out in a club of social deviants. Well, there's Brittany, but Santana doesn't exactly want to admit that that's the reason either.
The bubbly blonde currently sits directly in front of her, concentrating hard on Kurt as he shows them how to pick out the perfect lipstick based on their complexion and the occasion. Brittany probably won't absorb any of his speech, though, so that's why he's using her as the test dummy and providing her with the perfect make-up once the session is over. Kurt has always held a soft spot for her ever since freshman year when she asked the gym teacher why he had to do wrestling with the other boys when the girls weren't forced. Because she'd phrased it such a “Brittany” way, the coach sort of spluttered for a moment and then allowed him and any other boy to do yoga with the girls, and any girl to do wrestling with the boys. Brittany had saved him so much embarrassment without even trying, so he always tried to return the favor.
Santana watches as he paints her face, tickling her nose so that she has to swat his hands away. There's something about the ease with which they interact that she wishes she could duplicate in her own friendships and relationships, an adorable little facade that gave off the impression of something deeper.
“And you, Ms. Lopez?” Kurt's voice startles her into a blush; she hadn't realized how hard she'd been staring. He's sitting criss-cross applesauce now, away from Brittany, and she looks beautiful with Kurt's extra touches. Not that she doesn't usually.
“Huh?”
“The question,” Rachel says happily. She doesn't look up from her toenails, which Mercedes is painting purple. Santana has never wished to be in the presence of testosterone more than she does at this moment, barring all of the times when she was really horny, of course.
Sinking back into her chair so as to appear casual, Santana says simply, “What question?”
“Are you a virgin or not? And if you aren't, who was your first?” Kurt's grin is devious as his Bambi brown eyes fixate directly on her.
Santana feels suddenly like a complete slut in front of all these (most likely) virginal kids, and she thinks she might deflower them just by recounting the sheer number of boys she's bagged. The embarrassment gets to her, red flushing her cheeks, and she can't believe a bunch of losers on the bottom of the totem pole exposed her destructive ways. “What has everyone else said?”
“We're all virgins, with the exception of me, obviously,” Quinn tells her, and Rachel uncharacteristically places her hand on top of the pregnant girl's in reassurance.
“I thought it had to do with Jesus,” Brittany pipes up. “You know, like the Virgin Mary?”
Santana's not aware how someone can be a junior in high school and not understand what a virgin is, but then again, it is Brittany. Instead of laughing or something horrible like that, she just says, “I didn't know you were a virgin.”
Brittany shrugs. “I didn't either, until a few minutes ago.”
“So are you or are you not?” Mercedes asks. She knows that Santana is pretty much the female version of Puck, and delights in hearing that girl make a fool out of herself.
As nonchalantly as possible, Santana composes a reply. “I'm not a virgin. My first was Dean Samuels at 15. Happy?”
“The b-b-baseball player?” Tina stutters out, and Santana nods. She bites her tongue and resists the urge to reply with an equally choppy response.
Kurt sighs and smiles. “He's dreamy.” This, of course, quickly descends into a fit of giggles followed by a discussion on the dreaminess of Dean Samuels. The girls and Kurt then all move onto the dreaminess of the general population of McKinley High, which then morphs into the factors of dreaminess that should be present in a boy. Santana knows that Brittany can't keep up with Mercedes' use of figurative language or Quinn's veiled references to the dreaminess of girls over boys or Tina's detached sentence structure or Rachel and Kurt's plethora of Broadway references, but the girl just smiles and laughs at the right time, giving everyone the impression that she's enjoying herself. Santana pretty much agrees on whatever the other girls spew out because she really could care less. Brittany is what captivates her attention during this rather juvenile discussion, and she can't help but stare.
It's not until later, when they're all in PJ's and sleeping bags, that Santana finally regains control of her vocal chords and hormones enough to participate in the conversation. Unfortunately for her, no one else has any stamina and they've all fallen asleep. Brittany hasn't, though, because of all the Cheerios sleepovers they were practically forced to attend as freshmen. All of the younger kids were terrified of the seniors pulling pranks on them so they tended to stay up late into the night. Quinn used to have the same stamina, but being with child certainly puts a damper on her energy level. And apparently has made her want to sleep really, really close to Rachel. Santana doesn't know how to interpret that, but decides it doesn't matter when Brittany wriggles closer to her so that they're cuddling. It reminds Santana of those Cheerios sleepovers, when Brittany sometimes went as far as to share her sleeping bag due to fear. Santana always protected her in those days, but then she grew up and got power and everything changed. She sees now how she missed Brittany, with the blonde curled up peacefully against her side.
“What's it like?” Brittany whispers, sleep slurring the ends of her speech.
“What are you talking about?”
“Sex.”
“Oh.” Santana shifts, suddenly too warm against Brittany's body. “It's really nice. That's not quite the right word...fun is better. Yeah. Fun.” She knows that she has to keep it in simple terms so that Brittany can understand.
However, three letters seems to be too much for Brittany because her face scrunches up in confusion at this proclamation. “I thought it was supposed to be sweet or something. Like, in love.”
“I suppose if you find the right person,” Santana mutters. “I just haven't yet.”
Luckily, Brittany doesn't really sense the depth in that statement and plows on. “I want my first time to be with someone I know. I don't want to have to worry about doing it right. But that way I know it will mean something, too, because I care about that person.”
“I could show you.” Santana curses her horniness and sleaziness as she watches Brittany's face light up in the way that little kids' faces were supposed to light up about Santa Claus, not the way that suicidally naïve girls' faces were supposed to when they had just been propositioned.
“Really? That would be great, because you're my best friend!” Brittany happily sighs and smiles at the pressure lifting from her shoulders.
“Britt?”
“Yeah?”
“I kind of meant now. I don't know if I'll ever have the nerve to do this again.” One thing Santana really likes about Brittany (besides her eyes and her legs and the way she moves her hips that puts Shakira to shame, of course) is that she can always be completely honest with no consequences and no follow-up questions. Brittany's emotional and mental capacities don't allow her to process what exactly Santana means by her statements, and more often than not she gets a cushy, squishy hug in return.
This time is no different, though Santana takes the hug very differently than usually does. When Brittany pulls away she just stares at the Latina in front of her and Santana realizes that she's going to have to lead her the whole way through it. “Let's go. We can't do it right here.”
The blonde takes a proffered hand and follows along confusedly. “Why not? The sleeping bags are really comfortable.”
“Sex is loud, Britt,” Santana sighs, keeping her voice to a whisper. She assumed that her less-than-brilliant friend might have some sort of basic idea about the act, but clearly that was just wishful thinking.
Brittany's mouth forms an “oh” and she nods, tip-toeing alongside of her brunette counterpart. “So, we'll be, like, sneaky?” Her lips curl into a smile and she giggles. Santana notices that Brittany looks absolutely adorable in her yellow top and ducky pajama pants, and also starts to feel like a pedophile.
“Sure, sure, whatever.” Santana's distracted and she almost has lost the nerve to do this, but with a pretty blonde girl holding her hand it's hard to resist. They creep up the stairs in Kurt's house, thanking their lucky stars that his dad decided to go hunting all weekend because he couldn't handle the extreme amounts of estrogen this sleepover will produce.
Brittany giggles as the floorboard creaks beneath her feet. “This is so cool. I feel like I'm in the CBI or something.”
“FBI,” Santana corrects automatically. She thinks it's strange that Brittany's more interested in being a spy than sexual intercourse, but it is Brittany she's talking about. “C'mon. We'll use the couch.”
“Why do you need a couch?”
“Sex is traditionally performed in a horizontal position,” Santana explains. They pause by the couch, Brittany awaiting the definition of “horizontal” and the Latina feeling incredibly awkward.
When there's no response provided, Brittany just says, “Why would anyone want to have sex like a horse?”
Santana quirks her eyebrows at her friend. “Horizontal has nothing to do with horses. It's - oh, let me just show you.” With a speed and dexterity that neither of them expected, Santana pretty much flings Brittany onto the couch, pinning yellow ducks beneath baggy red sweatpants. Brittany's breathing increases, which comforts Santana because even if the girl's brain has no clue what's going on, at least her body knows how to respond appropriately. And the way her body's responding is making Santana incredibly hot.
“Am I supposed to be breathing this fast? It's not giving me, like, kidney stones or something?” Brittany's eyes slide over Santana's roaming hands, tracing a thin line down from the blonde's shoulder to her waist.
“No, it's perfectly normal.” The words come out in a husky whisper, and Brittany noticeably gulps. “That's just the way it goes. Don't worry; I'll stop if there's anything weird going on.”
Brittany looks right up at her with a hint of hesitation dotting her normally peppy brown eyes. "I'm kind of scared. What if I don't like it?”
“Trust me. Everyone who does it with me likes it. You're in good hands.” She allows her predatory side to quell the bubbling disappointment and disgust she feels boiling inside of her. Then there comes the reasoning; the fact that Brittany is a hot cheerleader and it's probably best if she has at least an inkling of what to do in case she ever nabs a boyfriend or one night stand. Yes, Santana reasons, this is really a charitable thing that she's doing. Never mind that after she's taken her top off and showed Brittany where to put her hands that the girl magically knows exactly where and how to touch her breasts and kiss her neck and rock her hips.
“Brittany. Brittany, stop,” Santana moans, torso cold from exposure to the drafts in Kurt's house and burning from the touch of Brittany's tiny hands.
“Did I do something, I'm sorry, I didn't - ”
“Shh, shh, nothing like that.” Santana blushes upon the realization that while this is probably the most instruction-based sexual encounter she's ever had, it's also the most tender, and, embarrassingly, the most meaningful. “You want to learn how to do this, right?” Brittany nods and smiles, twitching under Santana and probably trying to suppress the ache between her legs. “Well, then why don't we try something, OK? Like a game?”
“A game!” Brittany squeals, excited. She loves games so much, and especially delights in playing Candy Land with Santana when they're supposed to be studying Spanish. Her favorite part is when she gets to cross the Gumdrop Mountains. This makes her want candy canes and peanut brittle. “Does it involve sweets?”
“Not in the traditional sense,” Santana mutters, but then she remembers that witty banter will probably be lost on Brittany.
“Drat,” the cheerleader mumbles. “I want chocolate.”
Her teammate groans, frustrated by the Cheerio's lack of interest. Seriously. Who wants chocolate when they're topped by a half-naked, very willing Santana Lopez? Then again, Brittany probably thinks that chocolate will be able to fix the wetness spreading around her thighs. She has no clue what's going on. “Brittany, you can have chocolate later. And trust me, this game will be way better.”
Sighing, the blonde gives in. “OK. Fine. What do I have to do? Is this like Monopoly, because I just don't understand that game. There are so many numbers.”
“No, it's not like Monopoly. I'm going to do something to you, and then you do it to me, and that's going to help you understand.” Guilt runs through Santana's body but her shirt is off dammit so they're already halfway there and Brittany doesn't seem to be putting up any resistance. Her sleazy side takes over because Brittany removes her shirt just as she states the rules and she can't help but utter, “You're really...beautiful.” This is such a dorky, awkward bad-romantic-chick-flick first time that Santana almost can't deal. “Why did you take your shirt off?”
“Because you did, and that's the rules of the game,” Brittany says with a shrug. “It's cold, though. But I don't want you to put your shirt back on because it gives me these funny feelings inside, like happy things.”
“That's really good, Britt; you're reacting normally. And besides, this is the type of game that warms you up real quick.” With that, Santana moves her hands against Brittany's breasts (which, admittedly, are pretty chilly), squeezing and pinching and pulling at the pink nipple standing out on a background of pale skin. Brittany moans and clutches Santana's bare back, bringing them closer together so that their stomachs connect. Santana pulls back and sits up, looking at a very flushed and thoroughly wowed Brittany with a hint of dominance creeping into her. Apparently, she likes to be in control. “Now you try.”
Brittany kind of squeaks as though she's incapable of any normal speech and reaches up to touch Santana, eliciting a very throaty reaction from the Latina with a little assistance from tan hands. She's very pleased with herself and smiles, leaning up to kiss Santana fully on the lips. Their mouths crash together and Brittany doesn't need candy anymore because Santana's lip gloss tastes like her grandmother's peach cobbler. Santana's tongue roughly pushes into her mouth, so Brittany does the same with her tongue and pretty soon they're battling and there's moaning but neither of them knows where it's coming from.
Santana moves her left hand back to Brittany's breasts and begins to play with them while her right hand sinks lower to the waistband of the blonde's duck pants. Brittany loses herself in Santana's kiss, her hands, her hips and can't possibly hope to match her movements. She's trying to keep track of what's going on, but it's hard. Especially when Santana's fingers slip under her pants and through her underwear before settling on warm, wet skin.
It's of course a very hot sight to watch Brittany moaning and rocking and groaning below her, but Santana can't help but wonder if this is how Puck felt when he was deflowering Quinn as she pumps into the girl in front of her. Her best friend. This can't be how Puck felt, though, because he's even more of a skeaze than she is and he barely talked to Quinn at the time. She, on the other hand, has feelings and Brittany's her best friend and all, but this is so damn good that she just can't stop.
When Brittany finishes her orgasm and has calmed down sufficiently, she timidly says, “Santana?”
“Yeah?”
“I can't remember what you did, and I don't want to lose the game, so could you maybe help me?” Brittany has lost a bit of her innocent glow, and it's been replaced with another kind of glow altogether; one that's filled with lust.
So Santana shows her, guiding the pale hand along her dark body, helping Brittany to give her release. And when she collapses on top of the girl below her, she really can't get over that she's just finished the most (surprisingly) mind-blowing sex she's ever had.
“That was way better than chocolate,” Brittany says as they both finish putting their shirts back on. Santana avoids sparkling brown eyes as she stands up for fear of overwhelming guilt. “It was even better than Candy Land. And I'm not worried anymore. So whenever it happens for real, I'll be ready.”
Santana's a little bit put off by this, as though her work had not really been appreciated. It hurts a lot more than it should. “You are aware that this counts, Brittany? I mean, you know you're not a virgin anymore?”
Brittany nods. “Of course, silly. I'm not that stupid. I know it was my first time and I really liked it. Thanks, Santana.” The blonde leans over and kisses her friend's cheek, smiling shyly. This worries Santana just a little bit.
But it's not until after, when they're back in their sleeping bags and Brittany wriggles in tight against her, that Santana realizes that she is royally fucked.
Oddly enough, the sex doesn't really change their friendship. Santana sees Brittany every morning by her locker before first period and she almost debates not meeting her there on Monday, but she's glad that she does. Brittany acts as if nothing is different between them and starts prattling on about cheerleading routines as she slides books into and out of her locker because she always forget which ones go with which class, and often what each class even is.
The walk to class filled with amiable chit-chat finds Santana wishing that Brittany would acknowledge their encounter, if only to know that it meant a little something to her. It meant a lot to Santana, and she honestly never wanted to admit that.
~
On Wednesday, it happens again. The clock has just passed three during the girls' weekly Spanish tutoring session when Brittany asks, “What does this sentence mean?”
She slides the book over to Santana, who is in AP Spanish VI while Brittany has been stuck in Spanish III for the past two years. Rolling her eyes, Santana replies, “This is an easy one. Come on, I know you know how to do this. Como. What does that mean?”
“Como...um...como...what?” Brittany smiles widely when Santana gives a quick nod and looks down. She's been avoiding eye contact because being in such close proximity with the blonde by herself is making her horny all over again. Violating Brittany for a second time does not appeal to her because she knows that the two of them would be a match made in Hell. She's a bitch and a slut, a real love 'em and leave 'em type. Brittany's a fairytale princess, waiting to be swept off her feet by handsome prince on a shiny white horse. And Santana knows that if she's anything, she's the woman holding the poisoned apple.
But Brittany's soft lips are on hers and before she can resist the temptation a hand slips under her waistband and she's gone.
A half an hour or so later (Santana lost track of time), she asks the pretty half-naked blonde breathing steadily next to her why she wanted to do it again, so soon and randomly after the first time.
“It's really fun, and I like having fun,” Brittany explains with a genuine smile. Santana's insides twist and turn at this statement, afraid of what she's created.
~
“Friends with benefits” soon becomes the appropriate term for their relationship, and Santana is kind of surprised about how covert and leisurely Brittany's being about the whole thing. They walk to class together and sit at the same lunch table and change in the same locker room before Cheerios practice, but there's no casual hand holding or accidental touches or wandering eyes. The benefits of this arrangement almost cause Santana to forget that she's corrupting her best friend who's as innocent as a baby penguin. Almost. She knows that if she sticks around for too long after they have sex, she'll remember her conscious and be forced to care about someone. So she forgoes cuddling and instead braves the chilly sting of loneliness. But the way they're acting doesn't seem to bother Brittany too much, so she keeps up the charade.
What she doesn't know is that whenever Brittany forgets that Glee practice is after school, not during last period, she goes to sit and wait for nearly an hour in the choir room. During that time she'll check her texts, attempt to do her math homework (but there's no point without Becky), and practice routines from both her extracirriculars, all with tears in her eyes.
~
About three weeks into their between-the-sheets skirmishes, Brittany finds herself crying in the choir room for the second time that week. She can't get past the second problem on her math work, though she did experience a moment of pride when she finished the first one. So she resorts to checking her texts again, but there's nothing new. There's nothing to distract her from what she knows Santana's doing to her, how she's using her. Brittany is acutely aware that she's not exactly brilliant, but it's very clear that Santana only wants sex from her. She thought that maybe having sex with Santana would make things better between them, force the brunette to reciprocate the butterflies she feels in her stomach every time they're near each other. Of course, Brittany knows not to put those butterflies out on display; if there's anything she's learned from being a bit behind everyone else, it's how to act. How to act like she understands, how to act like she thinks the way the Cheerios behave is appropriate, how to act like she doesn't want to be with Santana in a deeper fashion.
The door swings open, interrupting Brittany's pity party. Without even looking up she knows it must be Rachel because Rachel is the only person who would think that vocal practice is more important than last period. She's muttering something under her breath, angry and huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf. Brittany's kind of afraid that she'll huff and puff and blow her right out of her chair, the way she's carrying on.
“How could she do that to me! I was so nice, dammit! And I tried to help her with that parasite growing inside of her! Why, I oughta - ” Rachel stops dead in her tracks, rambling done when she notices Brittany. And right after she realizes that she's not alone, she notices that Brittany is actually crying. Poor Brittany with her pretty blonde ponytail, a couple of strands hanging loose in front of her face, bright stains shining blindingly on her pale cheeks, hazel eyes full of loss and sorrow and concern. Rachel immediately forgets her own problems and rushes to the blonde's side, draping an arm around the girl's shoulders to pull her in closer.
“What's wrong, Brittany?” Rachel asks softly. She feels very comfortable with the slightly ditzy cheerleader, not hesitating to be touchy-feely. There's a certain warmth that Brittany always gives off that makes Rachel think angels must feel when basking in the soft glow of Jesus' heavenly light. To see her cry is akin to hell freezing over, surreal in the most uncomfortable of ways.
The girl just shakes her head and can't talk because she's feeling even less articulate than usual. Rachel rubs her hand up and down across Brittany's arm in attempt to soothe her. It kind of worked, calming the blonde down enough to get some coherent sentences out of her. “Santana's hurting me.”
“How?” Rachel tries to keep her tone even and non-judgmental.
“We have sex a lot.”
Rachel almost falls out of her chair.
“But I think it's just sex for her...I want, you know, a relationship out of it.” Brittany wipes her teary eyes and looks up at the brunette as though she would obviously have the answer.
“I'm not exactly a relationship expert. I'm in the middle of my own troubles right now, actually, so my advice is not going to be of any help,” Rachel says by way of apology. “But if you want me to hug you right now, I could do that.”
Brittany nods and flings herself into Rachel's arms, trying her darnedest to stop crying because Santana says it makes you weak and vulnerable. But then Brittany notices the singer holding her has a few tears slipping from her own eyes. She knows that her best trait is being nice no matter what and she's good at it, and Brittany likes being good at something. “What happened to you Rachel?”
“Quinn happened,” comes the reply.
“Are you guys having sex, too?”
“No, no we're not. We're not doing anything, even though she's living with me now and she says she really likes me,” Rachel begins. “But she says she's too scared to even kiss me.”
Brittany reaches to wipe a few of the tears away. “Well, she is pregnant. And she got kicked out of two houses really fast and she used to hate you. I think she's confused why you're so nice. And doesn't God think that girls having sex is a bad thing?”
“We're not having sex,” Rachel repeats. “But pretty much any non-platonic interactions between two people of the same gender is frowned upon. I guess with the pregnancy wearing on her faith right now, she doesn't need any illicit attractions to shake it to its core.”
“Right.” Brittany has no idea what just happened, but she's alright with that because there's a watery smile amidst Rachel's watery tears, so things are looking up.
~
It's at this point that Santana, fed up with her last period teacher's constant racial slurs directed at her, walks into the choir room. She thought it would be empty, but instead she stumbles in on Rachel holding her Brittany in a very intimate hug and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She barrels right through the door, angrier than she's ever been before. She's absolutely livid and Rachel looks like she wants to crawl into a corner a die just from the hateful vibes she's receiving.
“What the fuck, Berry! What the fuck are you doing!” Santana screams as she storms closer to the two girls who are now both totally terrified of her rampage.
Rachel is a firm believer in Gandhi's theory of nonviolence so even though she wants to clench her tiny hands into fists and pummel Santana's face, she resorts to clenching just her teeth. “I'm giving her exactly what you couldn't provide for her: emotional support. While you may give her all the physical support she needs, you leave poor Brittany out in the cold afterward.” Brown eyes gaze up into Santana's own, a dare to defy her words.
Santana obviously has no defense for that so she settles for flinging a chair across the room in hopes of alleviating her stress. It doesn't help. “Brittany, tell her that's not true! Tell her I'm there for you!”
“I wish I could.”
Santana's heart just about fucking breaks right there, and she feels like she can see all the little red bloody bits scattered over the immaculate white floor of the choir room. Brittany has her face buried in her Rachel's arms like she's a horrible person for saying what she just did even if it's so tragically true. Rachel has this superior look on her face like she's somehow one-upped Santana, even though that's totally not true. Except it is, whispers a tiny, obnoxious little voice in the back of her head that some people would refer to as a conscious. Look who has Brittany in her arms, the voice whispers - not you.
Santana is not proud of what she does next. But there's no other way to make sure that Brittany knows she's serious about this. When she saw that Rachel fucking Berry of all people made Brittany feel more emotionally secure than she has been in the past few weeks, something snapped. She's Brittany's best friend for crying out loud and, sure, she's never been really good at that but she's held Brittany when she fails a test or when she can't understand anything that her parents say since they're both doctors or when she feels like such an outcast in her own home. But as of late she hasn't really been doing that either, the long phone sessions and cuddling, comforting hugs replaced with messy, meaningless sex. Brittany means a lot more to her than that. So she gets on her knees, places her hand on the blonde's legs (ignoring Rachel's death glare), and prepares to beg.
“Britt...Brittany...will you please look at me?” Santana pleads. Brittany does lift her head up, though Santana's not sure if that's from habit or genuine desire. “I'm a horrible person. I shouldn't have started this the way I did. You're too good and you mean too much to me for me to screw it up. I don't want to lose you and I don't want to use you, I just want to be with you. So can we? Be together?”
“Like girlfriends?” Brittany's entirely off Rachel now, pitched forward and staring right at Santana with a bubbly sparkle illuminating her eyes. Rachel looks to be inhabiting a land somewhere between amused, moved, and uncomfortable.
It might take Santana a couple of times to get started and she might choke on that word, but she says it anyway because she's in so deep that if lets go Brittany's lifeline she'll surely drown. “Yeah, Brittany, like girlfriends.”
The blonde giggles and bubbles and jumps at Santana, knocking them both to the ground so that they're sprawled out across the choir room floor with huge, matching smiles. From the background, Rachel awkwardly says, “If you want to make out or something now, I could go. In fact - I should go. Yes, I should go.” She gathers up her things and hurries out of the room, but not before Brittany's sunshine voice reaches her ears.
“Rachel?”
“Yeah?”
“Just give her some time. She'll be better soon.”
Rachel rests her hand tenderly on the door frame and smiles sadly, her glassy eyes fixed at a point in the distance. “Thanks, Brittany. I'll leave you two alone.” She shuts the door behind her as she goes.
Santana quirks an eyebrow. “What was that about?”
“Quinn is being difficult,” Brittany replies, but gives no other explanation. Santana doesn't really care because she's Brittany's girlfriend now and nothing else seems to matter. She reaches up to cup her hand against a pale face, a smile showing.
“C'mon. I want to do something,” Santana says and forces the two of them up. Brittany looks really confused when Santana opens the door.
“Santana, what are you doing? We can't make out in the hallway.”
“Well,” the Latina replies, admittedly the tiniest bit sheepish. “Now that we're girlfriends, I'm pretty sure that we can.”