HSN Exchange Fic: The Merrier The More, for frickative
SURPRISE! One more delicious exchange fic for you guys before we say goodbye to Hot Summer Nights for good. This one was skipped initially as the result of an epic mod blunder. Deepest apologies to the writer, the recipient, and the comm.
Title: Merrier The More
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Puck/Santana/Brittany
Warnings: Strong sexual content.
Word count: 4,012
Disclaimer: This Glee fanfiction is based upon the television show of the same name. All characters and situations other than my own are sole property of Ryan Murphy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.
Summary:
A/N: Huge thanks to my lovely betas abluegirl and swearoholic for all of their wonderful help. You girls are amazing.
He’s thirteen the first time he sees Wild Things. It is movie night at Brittany’s and they each bring one of their favorites. Santana, who has developed a thing for Neve Campbell over the summer, makes everyone watch her movie first despite huge protests from Finn and himself.
The movie turns out to be soft core porn and it conjures up a familiar stirring at the base of his dick. A bulge forms forcing him to shift away from Santana and cover himself with one of Brittany’s mom’s ugly-ass crocheted couch pillows. For the next six weeks he wakes up in a sticky uncomfortable mess with images of two hot girls making out lingering in his mind.
When he starts dating Santana in ninth grade the faces of his dream girls morph from Neve Campbell and Denise Richards to Santana and Brittany. He drops hints every chance he gets, but neither girl seems very interested so he tucks the fantasies away in his spank bank. He revisits these scenarios when he’s really hard up for some action, like when Quinn was pregnant and living in the spare room or when Santana would go on one of her über-bitch, sex ban kicks.
-
The aftermath of graduation fucking sucks. Thanks to his grades he’s forced to stay in Lima and attend community college while his friends scatter across the globe: Finn to North Carolina, Mike to Seattle, Matt and Rachel to New York, Quinn to Paris, Brittany to Los Angeles, and Artie to Chicago. Luckily, Santana gets accepted to OSU, and on weekends, when he’s not working at Hummel’s garage, he’s able to drive the two hours to Columbus and crash in her dorm room.
She threatens to cry intruder and disavow him if he gets caught sneaking in after hours, but he takes his chances because the frat parties are fucking worth it and the chicks are all going through experimental phases that puts some of his more experienced cougars to shame (although none of them are willing to fulfill his life long dream of a threesome). He kind of likes spending time with Santana, too, but he’d never like, fucking admit to that or anything.
Some Saturdays, when they’re too hung over from the night before to even think about partying, they order pizza, and sit around talking about old times. On those nights they usually end up fooling around on her bed. It’s fucking comfortable the way it’s all worn in, but it’s a twin so it’s a pretty tight squeeze, forcing Santana to curl against him. Her tight little body is a perfect fit to the contours of his chest and her skin is warm against his leaving him with a strong sense of contentment. Fucking cuddling! He kind of digs it.
The days between his visits are un-fucking-bearable though. School sucks. Work sucks. His mom hounds his ass twenty-four-seven. Then there is Sarah, who is always getting into his stuff and playing her shitty music. If he has to listen to that god awful boy band CD one more time he’s going to kill himself or maybe even her. He’s pretty sure her body would fit nicely behind the azalea bushes.
His only relief from the boredom comes in the form of Santana’s texts and phone calls. He’d forgotten how creative she can be when she needs to get off and there are no prospects around. He locks his door, because Sarah is a nosy little shit, and falls onto the bed with his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.
-
Puck’s mom still holds out hope that he’ll someday find a nice Jewish girl to settle down with, so she’s not too happy when he tells her that he’s invited Santana to stay with them for the holidays. Santana had told him her dad and the evil step-monster are spending Christmas in Spain this yea, and he just couldn’t let her spend the holiday alone.
Puck’s mom is even less thrilled when he later tells her that Santana turned down his offer.
He’s not eavesdropping (yeah, okay, maybe he is) when his mom calls Santana and gives her an hour long lecture on the proper etiquette for accepting a fine, young, Jewish man’s offer to spend Hanukkah with his family. He can practically hear Santana seething on the other end of the line and it takes every ounce of strength he has not to laugh when she finally gives in and agrees to the new invitation with a loudly huffed fine.
Two days later she’s standing on his front steps, her lips pursed and her narrowed eyes throwing daggers in his direction. “You’re going to pay for this, Puckerman,” she promises as she shoves her bag at him. “I don’t even celebrate Hanukkah.”
He likes the way her eyes light up as they watch Sarah light the hannukiya and the soft purr she makes when she takes her first bite of his mom’s delicious as fuck Sufganiyot. When she spins the dreidel and it lands on Shin she grumbles incoherently and tosses down her last Hershey Kiss before crossing her arms over her chest and exclaiming, “This game fucking sucks.” He kind of likes that too.
He thinks that Latkes must be an aphrodisiac, because something sure as fuck turned Santana on. Maybe her mood had something to do with the table-top Christmas tree he surprised her with, or the mistletoe he attached to the headboard. Either way, he decides that he fucking loves Chrismukkah (don’t ask him, Santana and Brittany came up with the stupid name in the fifth grade) when Santana sneaks into his room late one night in a goddamn sexy Santa costume.
“You showed me yours,” she says removing his iPod out of its docking station and replacing it with hers. She scrolls through the library until she finds the song she wants and then clicks the play button. “Now I’m going to show you mine.”
He recognizes the song as one that’s played entirely too often at the mall during the holidays, but the music doesn’t really matter. His attention is glued to Santana as she dances around removing articles of clothing until she’s standing in front of him completely naked. Fuck yeah, he’s been a good boy this year.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes they’re not being very quiet but he kind of doesn’t care because she’s riding him hard, breasts bouncing with each churn of her hips. He’s not too surprised when his mom walks in demanding to know what on earth is going on up here. Of course his mom stops what she’s saying mid-sentence because the answer to that question is pretty fucking obvious.
“Not again,” she mutters, turning on her heels and pulling the door closed behind her.
They take it in stride. It’s not the first time his mom’s walked in on them in a compromising position and he’s pretty sure it won’t be the last.
-
He transfers to OSU junior year and they get an off-campus apartment together. Their living arrangements work out nicely until Santana starts dating some douchey art major. The walls of their apartment are paper-thin so he ends up lying awake at night listening to the sounds of Santana’s orgasms, cock in hand and images of her thighs dancing against the back of his eyelids. He hasn’t slept with her in months and it fucking sucks because he kind of digs the way it feels to be buried deep inside of her. They haven’t gone this long without hooking up since swiping their v-cards at each other’s ATM’s in the eighth grade. It’s not like he’s not getting any ass - he’s getting plenty - it’s just not the ass he wants.
When he stumbles into the wrong room at a party (he could have sworn it was the bathroom, okay) and finds the d-bag dogging it with a cute little blonde who is definitely not Santana, his fists of fury land him in the drunk tank for the night. When Santana picks him up the next morning she’s pissed at him for being an idiot, at the douche for being an asshole, and at herself for dating another worthless cheater.
He knows he belongs in that last category with the douche, but there’s not a whole lot he can do about it. He can’t take back what he’s done in the past. Besides, he’s gotten mature or whatever, and if he wanted to be a one woman kind of guy he totally could…try.
Angry Santana is fucking hot, though. She storms around the apartment slamming doors and cursing underneath her breath in Spanish. He tries not to laugh, because it’s fucking funny, and when he accidentally (totally on purpose) steps into her warpath her hands grab the collar of his shirt. She pushes him up against the refrigerator in their tiny kitchen, demanding to know why he has to be such a jackass all the time. What he hears is kiss me, so he does.
He bends her over the counter pushing her legs apart with his knee before dipping inside of her. He fucks her hard and dirty because that’s the way she likes it when she’s pissed. He bottoms out inside of her and it’s even better than he remembers. She clenches around him, milking his cock and he nearly forgets to pull out.
-
The first time he proposes, he does it when they are both totally baked. They should be studying for exams but their brains are fried and reading is just not fucking possible because the words keep bleeding together.
Santana is sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, eating cheeseburger flavored Doritos and giggling that they are the best invention ever in-between each bite. It’s kind of adorable and he gets this warm feeling in the pit of his stomach like he could maybe stay in this moment forever and be completely happy. When he opens his mouth to ask for a chip the words just kind of tumble out as will you marry me instead.
Her giggling stops abruptly and the chip hanging from the corner of her mouth falls to her lap. A couple seconds pass and then she’s laughing hysterically, doubled over and gasping for breath.
“Just forget it,” he mumbles, pushing himself up and stomping to the kitchen like a child that’s just been scolded.
“Oh, come on!” she calls after him. “It’s not like you were serious. Married? You and me? We’d fucking kill each other.”
The problem is he thinks maybe he was serious. “Whatever,” he replies, grabbing a soda from the fridge and heading towards his room. “Don’t choke on your chips.”
A little while later there’s a knock on his door but Santana doesn’t given him the chance to answer before she opens it. “You don’t want to marry me,” she says, trying to meet his eyes.
He refuses to acknowledge the knot in his stomach or the way her reaction has stirred up long dormant feelings of inadequacy. He’s hurt, angry, and insecure but he’s not about to let her know that.
“Why not?” he asks when he finds the courage to look up at her.
She sighs, stepping further into the room before taking a seat on the edge of his bed. “Because,” she begins, “I’m not the marrying type. I’m more like the other woman, the mistress, the friend with excellent benefits.”
It’s meant to be a joke, but he doesn’t laugh.
“Brittany, Quinn, the red head at the end of the hall, they’re the marrying type,” she adds in explanation. “They have those Suzy-Homemaker instincts. I don’t.”
He wants to argue with her because she’s the only fucking reason they’re not starving to death or living in a pig sty. Instead he slides a hand up her thigh and smirks at her devilishly, “Excellent benefits, huh?”
“Oh, yeah,” she replies, leaning in to kiss him.
“One day you’re going to say yes,” he mumbles against her lips.
She laughs lightly and shakes her head. “Keep dreaming, Puckerman.”
-
Brittany sends them airplane tickets to California as a graduation present and they’re both fucking excited about getting away. He spends the night before their flight thinking of different ways he can get them both into the mile high club. He’s not sure Santana will let him go through with any of his ideas but a guy’s gotta try, right?
It turns out that airplane bathrooms are not as roomy as they look in the movies, and a soft knock on the door is followed by a strict request that they take their seats and not attempt to fornicate in the rest room again for the duration of the flight.
Santana doesn’t find it as amusing as he does and he has a nasty bruise on his upper bicep to prove it.
Brittany meets them at baggage claim. He sees her first; she’s bouncing from foot to foot, her eyes frantically surveying the crowd. When she finally spots him her lips part in a huge, toothy grin and she takes off at a run towards him, jumping into his arms.
He catches her, breathing in the scent of sunshine and rain as he swings her around. Fuck, he’s missed her. When he sets her back down on the ground she turns quickly to Santana, wrapping her arms around her friend. Their hug is a lot less hurried - Santana’s hands linger a little too long on Brittany’s hips, and Brittany’s lips brush sensually against Santana’s cheek. He feels a twinge of jealousy and pushes it away quickly. He tells himself that it is totally because they never let him in on their sexing, not because he might be falling in love with Santana.
Brittany spends the next forty-five minutes prattling on and on about her dance troupe and their performance. He learns that she has an audition in two weeks for a lead dancer position on the tour of a hot new artist, and her agent thinks she’s a shoe-in.
They spend their first three days in California lounging on the beach. He pretends to check out the scantily clad girls playing volleyball a few feet away while Britt and Santana catch up. He’s not really sure who comes up with the idea, but by day four they’re packing up Brittany’s car and driving the four hours to Las Vegas. Somewhere on I-210 they stop for gas and to grab a bite to eat at a tiny diner that’s permanently stuck in the fifties.
“I asked Santana to marry me,” Puck blurts out between bites of his Triple Decker Bacon Burger.
Santana kicks him viciously under the table, but he’s not backing down. Once Brittany recovers from nearly choking to death on her soda, he nods in acknowledgement, then shrugs and adds, “But she turned me down.”
“He was high. We were both high,” Santana says defensively.
“Doesn’t mean the offer wasn’t sincere,” Puck returns.
They’re too busy staring one another down to notice the deep furrow of concentration on Brittany’s brow. After several seconds, Brittany nods assuredly and states, “I think the two of you should get married. In Vegas.”
Both Santana and Puck turn to her, jaws slack in surprise. “Genius,” Puck mumbles to himself. “I should have fucking thought of that.”
“You’ve lost your minds, both of you,” Santana says, shaking her head. “I’m not getting married in Vegas.
-
They’ve been drinking, a lot. His head is spinning and his back is fucking killing him from carrying Brittany piggyback style the last half a mile. When he spots a nearby bench he sets Brittany back on her feet before collapsing onto it. Santana slumps down next to him, kicking her leg over top his as she inspects her perfect nails in boredom. Brittany doesn’t seem the least bit fazed. She does a cartwheel in front of them, oblivious to the way her skirt rides up her legs to give the passers-by a glimpse of her cotton candy colored bikini-cut underwear. When she comes back to her feet, her eyes are sparkling and she’s staring intently across the street.
“You guys!” she squeals, pointing to a tiny wedding chapel tucked between two large, brightly lit casinos. “It’s like…fate.”
Santana shifts beside him and he can’t bring himself to look at her. While he really fucking wants to walk across the street and through the front door of that chapel he’s afraid that she wants to run in the opposite direction. And yeah maybe the urges are alcohol induced but if he thought for a second she’d go along with it he wouldn’t still be sitting on some stupid-ass bench.
“You can’t just walk into a church and say I do, Britt. There’s like licenses and blood tests and shit,” Santana tries to explain.
He shakes his head, letting it fall against the back of the bench. “Not in Vegas,” he interjects. “They don’t require blood tests here and they have a twenty-four-seven justice center where you can get a marriage license for fifty-five dollars.”
Both girls turn and look at him questioningly. He shrugs. “You took fucking long enough getting ready. It was either the Vegas info book or the bible.”
The confused look slips from Brittany’s face and a slow spreading smile curves her lips. “Come on, San, it’ll be fun,” she begs. “And it’s not like it’ll be real or anything. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, remember?”
Santana rolls her eyes but doesn’t bother correcting Brittany. She sighs because she knows arguing is futile and frankly she’s entirely too drunk to come up with any kind of intelligent rationale for why this is a bad idea.
“I don’t have a dress,” she finally deadpans.
Brittany claps enthusiastically before reaching out and grabbing one of each of their hands. She hauls them both off the bench as she instructs, “You two handle the license thingy. I’ll take care of the dress.” She cocks her head to the side and bites down on the corner of her lip in concentration as she studies Santana. Santana squirms under the scrutiny but Brittany just nods in affirmation before turning on her heel and skipping off down the Vegas strip.
“I’d forgotten what she’s like when she’s drunk,” he laughs uneasily, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Uh, you sure you wanna do this?”
Santana nods her head yes, but the word that passes through her lips is an uneasy no.
“We could bail,” he offers half-heartedly. “Head back to the hotel or something?”
“She’d find us eventually,” she says, shrugging. “Just so you know, you’re telling your mother.”
-
After the short ceremony they head back to the hotel with a bottle of champagne and Brittany in tow. He’s pretty sure the nights is about to get a little bit awkward because there’s no fucking way he’s not screwing his new wife. Brittany can stick around if she wants because he kind of digs the idea of someone watching, but no matter what, he’s totally getting laid.
When they get back to the room, the girls disappear into the bathroom for a long fucking time and he lets his imagination run wild with pornographic ideas of what they might be doing behind that closed door. There are images of slowly revealed skin, of manicured fingers sliding through long curls, of parted lips and heaving breast, all of which make the front of his pants snug against his growing arousal. It’s really the only reasonable explanation for why girls spend so much goddamn time in the bathroom together, or rather the best explanation.
When they finally reappear they are wearing matching lingerie outfits, and his mind goes blank because the two of them standing next to one another in white corsets and boy-cut panties is the sexiest fucking thing he’s ever seen. Their outfits hug their curves in all the right places and do an amazing job of enhancing their tits.
Santana steps forward and Brittany leans in letting her chin rest on Santana’s shoulder, her mouth inches from her ear.
“Surprise,” Santana says, with a devious gleam in her eyes.
“I-I don’t understand,” he replies, taking an unconscious step closer.
Santana turns to look at Brittany, their lips practically touching, and when the girls link pinkies he knows he’s in trouble - the really, really good kind of trouble.
“It’s what you’ve always wanted isn’t it?” Santana asks, biting her bottom lip seductively and running the fingers of her free hand along Brittany’s arm. “The two of us together, at the same time for a threesome?”
Fuck yeah, it is!
The girls circle him, one pressing against his chest, the other pressing against his back. Their hands move underneath his shirt, caressing his skin and leaving goose bumps in their wake. His cock jerks at the sensation, the softness of their skin, the sharp drag of their nails. When they share a kiss over his shoulder it is unbelievably hot. Santana’s arms circle his waist pulling both him and Brittany closer. His erection presses into her thigh and he can feel the heat radiating from between her legs. He’s seen them kiss before but never this close. He’s never felt the heat of their bodies enveloping him or smelled the sweet, seductive mixture of their perfumes.
Their kiss is soft and gentle; it hypnotizes him and draws him in. His lips mix with theirs as someone’s hands drop to the fly of his pants, easily popping the button and pulling the zipper down. A second set of hands pushes the material over his hips, freeing his erection and then both sets of hands are on him, pulling and twisting in a blissfully erotic way that causes him to harden further.
“Fuck,” he groans against Santana’s neck as he leans into her, forcing her down onto the mattress in front of him. He settles between her thighs and shudders when Brittany’s hands guide his cock to the wet heat of Santana’s pussy. He slides in easily, thrusting deep as Brittany moves to lie beside them.
When Brittany’s lips latch onto his wife’s breast, it is fucking surreal. He can’t believe this is finally happening after all those years of jacking off to fantasies of this very scenario. It is a thousand times better than he thought it would be and he wants to savor every mind-blowing moment of it.
He slows his rhythm, shifting his balance so that he can caress Brittany’s thigh. The tips of his fingers skim across the dampening fabric of her panties causing her breath to catch. It is a sexy little sound and the air she expels hardens Santana’s dark nipple. He leans in letting his tongue mingle with Brittany’s as they lap at the hardened nub.
His fingers dip between silky fabric and skin, lingering in the heat of Brittany’s own arousal as they kiss around Santana’s breast. He circles her clit with the tip of his fingers until she’s moaning and then he pushes inside of her, letting his fingers match the tempo his hips have already set against Santana.
When the girls come simultaneously, hands clasped together and their bodies quaking against one another, it’s more than he can fucking handle. His balls constrict and he groans deep in the back of his throat as he pulls free of Santana’s thighs and jerks himself off against the flat of her stomach.
-
“Your mother’s going to fucking kill us,” Santana says later when they are lying naked in a tangle of rumpled sheets and sweaty limbs.
“Seriously, you’re thinking about my mom right now?”
Brittany giggles against his neck, her breath warm on his overheated skin. Fuck, he so doesn’t have the strength to go again - he can barely fucking move as it is - but there is an unmistakable twitch against the inside of his leg that makes him think his cock may have a different opinion on the matter.
He’s blissfully happy, happier than he ever thought he could be so he really doesn’t care what his mom or any one else thinks. He just married his best friend and had one of his longest standing fantasies come to life in the sexiest fucking way possible. Life is good. While this may have been a first for all three of them, the way that Brittany and Santana snuggle against him tells him that it may not have been the last.
-
Character(s) or pairing(s): See prompts :)
Do you prefer R or NC-17 smut?: Marginally NC-17, but I'm easy and I'll happily take R instead if that's what the recipient feels suits the fic.
Prompts:
1. Puck/Mercedes - Mercedes' first time. Puck's a total stud so wouldn't admit to wanting to make it special, but memorable hell yeah he can do.
2. Will/Terri - hate!sex that starts out rough and ready, but then turns surprisingly romantic and tender.
3. Kurt/Brittany - Brittany somehow manages to convince Kurt he should try hetero sex at least once. Can be as cracky as you like.
4. Santana/Puck - their wedding night. Santana knows Puck's lifelong dream is to have a threesome, so she invites Brittany to join them as a wedding gift to her new husband.
5. Mercedes/Quinn - set in college or even further into the future. Both of them have secretly wanted each other for so long that when they finally admit their feelings, they really want to make their first time last. Long drawn out foreplay and orgasm denial galore.
Things you DON’T want in your story (kinks or sex acts that gross you out, characters you despise, etc.): I'm fine with most kinks except dub-con and non-con, but please no character bashing ^_^
Title: Merrier The More
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Puck/Santana/Brittany
Warnings: Strong sexual content.
Word count: 4,012
Disclaimer: This Glee fanfiction is based upon the television show of the same name. All characters and situations other than my own are sole property of Ryan Murphy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.
Summary:
A/N: Huge thanks to my lovely betas abluegirl and swearoholic for all of their wonderful help. You girls are amazing.
He’s thirteen the first time he sees Wild Things. It is movie night at Brittany’s and they each bring one of their favorites. Santana, who has developed a thing for Neve Campbell over the summer, makes everyone watch her movie first despite huge protests from Finn and himself.
The movie turns out to be soft core porn and it conjures up a familiar stirring at the base of his dick. A bulge forms forcing him to shift away from Santana and cover himself with one of Brittany’s mom’s ugly-ass crocheted couch pillows. For the next six weeks he wakes up in a sticky uncomfortable mess with images of two hot girls making out lingering in his mind.
When he starts dating Santana in ninth grade the faces of his dream girls morph from Neve Campbell and Denise Richards to Santana and Brittany. He drops hints every chance he gets, but neither girl seems very interested so he tucks the fantasies away in his spank bank. He revisits these scenarios when he’s really hard up for some action, like when Quinn was pregnant and living in the spare room or when Santana would go on one of her über-bitch, sex ban kicks.
-
The aftermath of graduation fucking sucks. Thanks to his grades he’s forced to stay in Lima and attend community college while his friends scatter across the globe: Finn to North Carolina, Mike to Seattle, Matt and Rachel to New York, Quinn to Paris, Brittany to Los Angeles, and Artie to Chicago. Luckily, Santana gets accepted to OSU, and on weekends, when he’s not working at Hummel’s garage, he’s able to drive the two hours to Columbus and crash in her dorm room.
She threatens to cry intruder and disavow him if he gets caught sneaking in after hours, but he takes his chances because the frat parties are fucking worth it and the chicks are all going through experimental phases that puts some of his more experienced cougars to shame (although none of them are willing to fulfill his life long dream of a threesome). He kind of likes spending time with Santana, too, but he’d never like, fucking admit to that or anything.
Some Saturdays, when they’re too hung over from the night before to even think about partying, they order pizza, and sit around talking about old times. On those nights they usually end up fooling around on her bed. It’s fucking comfortable the way it’s all worn in, but it’s a twin so it’s a pretty tight squeeze, forcing Santana to curl against him. Her tight little body is a perfect fit to the contours of his chest and her skin is warm against his leaving him with a strong sense of contentment. Fucking cuddling! He kind of digs it.
The days between his visits are un-fucking-bearable though. School sucks. Work sucks. His mom hounds his ass twenty-four-seven. Then there is Sarah, who is always getting into his stuff and playing her shitty music. If he has to listen to that god awful boy band CD one more time he’s going to kill himself or maybe even her. He’s pretty sure her body would fit nicely behind the azalea bushes.
His only relief from the boredom comes in the form of Santana’s texts and phone calls. He’d forgotten how creative she can be when she needs to get off and there are no prospects around. He locks his door, because Sarah is a nosy little shit, and falls onto the bed with his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.
-
Puck’s mom still holds out hope that he’ll someday find a nice Jewish girl to settle down with, so she’s not too happy when he tells her that he’s invited Santana to stay with them for the holidays. Santana had told him her dad and the evil step-monster are spending Christmas in Spain this yea, and he just couldn’t let her spend the holiday alone.
Puck’s mom is even less thrilled when he later tells her that Santana turned down his offer.
He’s not eavesdropping (yeah, okay, maybe he is) when his mom calls Santana and gives her an hour long lecture on the proper etiquette for accepting a fine, young, Jewish man’s offer to spend Hanukkah with his family. He can practically hear Santana seething on the other end of the line and it takes every ounce of strength he has not to laugh when she finally gives in and agrees to the new invitation with a loudly huffed fine.
Two days later she’s standing on his front steps, her lips pursed and her narrowed eyes throwing daggers in his direction. “You’re going to pay for this, Puckerman,” she promises as she shoves her bag at him. “I don’t even celebrate Hanukkah.”
He likes the way her eyes light up as they watch Sarah light the hannukiya and the soft purr she makes when she takes her first bite of his mom’s delicious as fuck Sufganiyot. When she spins the dreidel and it lands on Shin she grumbles incoherently and tosses down her last Hershey Kiss before crossing her arms over her chest and exclaiming, “This game fucking sucks.” He kind of likes that too.
He thinks that Latkes must be an aphrodisiac, because something sure as fuck turned Santana on. Maybe her mood had something to do with the table-top Christmas tree he surprised her with, or the mistletoe he attached to the headboard. Either way, he decides that he fucking loves Chrismukkah (don’t ask him, Santana and Brittany came up with the stupid name in the fifth grade) when Santana sneaks into his room late one night in a goddamn sexy Santa costume.
“You showed me yours,” she says removing his iPod out of its docking station and replacing it with hers. She scrolls through the library until she finds the song she wants and then clicks the play button. “Now I’m going to show you mine.”
He recognizes the song as one that’s played entirely too often at the mall during the holidays, but the music doesn’t really matter. His attention is glued to Santana as she dances around removing articles of clothing until she’s standing in front of him completely naked. Fuck yeah, he’s been a good boy this year.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes they’re not being very quiet but he kind of doesn’t care because she’s riding him hard, breasts bouncing with each churn of her hips. He’s not too surprised when his mom walks in demanding to know what on earth is going on up here. Of course his mom stops what she’s saying mid-sentence because the answer to that question is pretty fucking obvious.
“Not again,” she mutters, turning on her heels and pulling the door closed behind her.
They take it in stride. It’s not the first time his mom’s walked in on them in a compromising position and he’s pretty sure it won’t be the last.
-
He transfers to OSU junior year and they get an off-campus apartment together. Their living arrangements work out nicely until Santana starts dating some douchey art major. The walls of their apartment are paper-thin so he ends up lying awake at night listening to the sounds of Santana’s orgasms, cock in hand and images of her thighs dancing against the back of his eyelids. He hasn’t slept with her in months and it fucking sucks because he kind of digs the way it feels to be buried deep inside of her. They haven’t gone this long without hooking up since swiping their v-cards at each other’s ATM’s in the eighth grade. It’s not like he’s not getting any ass - he’s getting plenty - it’s just not the ass he wants.
When he stumbles into the wrong room at a party (he could have sworn it was the bathroom, okay) and finds the d-bag dogging it with a cute little blonde who is definitely not Santana, his fists of fury land him in the drunk tank for the night. When Santana picks him up the next morning she’s pissed at him for being an idiot, at the douche for being an asshole, and at herself for dating another worthless cheater.
He knows he belongs in that last category with the douche, but there’s not a whole lot he can do about it. He can’t take back what he’s done in the past. Besides, he’s gotten mature or whatever, and if he wanted to be a one woman kind of guy he totally could…try.
Angry Santana is fucking hot, though. She storms around the apartment slamming doors and cursing underneath her breath in Spanish. He tries not to laugh, because it’s fucking funny, and when he accidentally (totally on purpose) steps into her warpath her hands grab the collar of his shirt. She pushes him up against the refrigerator in their tiny kitchen, demanding to know why he has to be such a jackass all the time. What he hears is kiss me, so he does.
He bends her over the counter pushing her legs apart with his knee before dipping inside of her. He fucks her hard and dirty because that’s the way she likes it when she’s pissed. He bottoms out inside of her and it’s even better than he remembers. She clenches around him, milking his cock and he nearly forgets to pull out.
-
The first time he proposes, he does it when they are both totally baked. They should be studying for exams but their brains are fried and reading is just not fucking possible because the words keep bleeding together.
Santana is sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, eating cheeseburger flavored Doritos and giggling that they are the best invention ever in-between each bite. It’s kind of adorable and he gets this warm feeling in the pit of his stomach like he could maybe stay in this moment forever and be completely happy. When he opens his mouth to ask for a chip the words just kind of tumble out as will you marry me instead.
Her giggling stops abruptly and the chip hanging from the corner of her mouth falls to her lap. A couple seconds pass and then she’s laughing hysterically, doubled over and gasping for breath.
“Just forget it,” he mumbles, pushing himself up and stomping to the kitchen like a child that’s just been scolded.
“Oh, come on!” she calls after him. “It’s not like you were serious. Married? You and me? We’d fucking kill each other.”
The problem is he thinks maybe he was serious. “Whatever,” he replies, grabbing a soda from the fridge and heading towards his room. “Don’t choke on your chips.”
A little while later there’s a knock on his door but Santana doesn’t given him the chance to answer before she opens it. “You don’t want to marry me,” she says, trying to meet his eyes.
He refuses to acknowledge the knot in his stomach or the way her reaction has stirred up long dormant feelings of inadequacy. He’s hurt, angry, and insecure but he’s not about to let her know that.
“Why not?” he asks when he finds the courage to look up at her.
She sighs, stepping further into the room before taking a seat on the edge of his bed. “Because,” she begins, “I’m not the marrying type. I’m more like the other woman, the mistress, the friend with excellent benefits.”
It’s meant to be a joke, but he doesn’t laugh.
“Brittany, Quinn, the red head at the end of the hall, they’re the marrying type,” she adds in explanation. “They have those Suzy-Homemaker instincts. I don’t.”
He wants to argue with her because she’s the only fucking reason they’re not starving to death or living in a pig sty. Instead he slides a hand up her thigh and smirks at her devilishly, “Excellent benefits, huh?”
“Oh, yeah,” she replies, leaning in to kiss him.
“One day you’re going to say yes,” he mumbles against her lips.
She laughs lightly and shakes her head. “Keep dreaming, Puckerman.”
-
Brittany sends them airplane tickets to California as a graduation present and they’re both fucking excited about getting away. He spends the night before their flight thinking of different ways he can get them both into the mile high club. He’s not sure Santana will let him go through with any of his ideas but a guy’s gotta try, right?
It turns out that airplane bathrooms are not as roomy as they look in the movies, and a soft knock on the door is followed by a strict request that they take their seats and not attempt to fornicate in the rest room again for the duration of the flight.
Santana doesn’t find it as amusing as he does and he has a nasty bruise on his upper bicep to prove it.
Brittany meets them at baggage claim. He sees her first; she’s bouncing from foot to foot, her eyes frantically surveying the crowd. When she finally spots him her lips part in a huge, toothy grin and she takes off at a run towards him, jumping into his arms.
He catches her, breathing in the scent of sunshine and rain as he swings her around. Fuck, he’s missed her. When he sets her back down on the ground she turns quickly to Santana, wrapping her arms around her friend. Their hug is a lot less hurried - Santana’s hands linger a little too long on Brittany’s hips, and Brittany’s lips brush sensually against Santana’s cheek. He feels a twinge of jealousy and pushes it away quickly. He tells himself that it is totally because they never let him in on their sexing, not because he might be falling in love with Santana.
Brittany spends the next forty-five minutes prattling on and on about her dance troupe and their performance. He learns that she has an audition in two weeks for a lead dancer position on the tour of a hot new artist, and her agent thinks she’s a shoe-in.
They spend their first three days in California lounging on the beach. He pretends to check out the scantily clad girls playing volleyball a few feet away while Britt and Santana catch up. He’s not really sure who comes up with the idea, but by day four they’re packing up Brittany’s car and driving the four hours to Las Vegas. Somewhere on I-210 they stop for gas and to grab a bite to eat at a tiny diner that’s permanently stuck in the fifties.
“I asked Santana to marry me,” Puck blurts out between bites of his Triple Decker Bacon Burger.
Santana kicks him viciously under the table, but he’s not backing down. Once Brittany recovers from nearly choking to death on her soda, he nods in acknowledgement, then shrugs and adds, “But she turned me down.”
“He was high. We were both high,” Santana says defensively.
“Doesn’t mean the offer wasn’t sincere,” Puck returns.
They’re too busy staring one another down to notice the deep furrow of concentration on Brittany’s brow. After several seconds, Brittany nods assuredly and states, “I think the two of you should get married. In Vegas.”
Both Santana and Puck turn to her, jaws slack in surprise. “Genius,” Puck mumbles to himself. “I should have fucking thought of that.”
“You’ve lost your minds, both of you,” Santana says, shaking her head. “I’m not getting married in Vegas.
-
They’ve been drinking, a lot. His head is spinning and his back is fucking killing him from carrying Brittany piggyback style the last half a mile. When he spots a nearby bench he sets Brittany back on her feet before collapsing onto it. Santana slumps down next to him, kicking her leg over top his as she inspects her perfect nails in boredom. Brittany doesn’t seem the least bit fazed. She does a cartwheel in front of them, oblivious to the way her skirt rides up her legs to give the passers-by a glimpse of her cotton candy colored bikini-cut underwear. When she comes back to her feet, her eyes are sparkling and she’s staring intently across the street.
“You guys!” she squeals, pointing to a tiny wedding chapel tucked between two large, brightly lit casinos. “It’s like…fate.”
Santana shifts beside him and he can’t bring himself to look at her. While he really fucking wants to walk across the street and through the front door of that chapel he’s afraid that she wants to run in the opposite direction. And yeah maybe the urges are alcohol induced but if he thought for a second she’d go along with it he wouldn’t still be sitting on some stupid-ass bench.
“You can’t just walk into a church and say I do, Britt. There’s like licenses and blood tests and shit,” Santana tries to explain.
He shakes his head, letting it fall against the back of the bench. “Not in Vegas,” he interjects. “They don’t require blood tests here and they have a twenty-four-seven justice center where you can get a marriage license for fifty-five dollars.”
Both girls turn and look at him questioningly. He shrugs. “You took fucking long enough getting ready. It was either the Vegas info book or the bible.”
The confused look slips from Brittany’s face and a slow spreading smile curves her lips. “Come on, San, it’ll be fun,” she begs. “And it’s not like it’ll be real or anything. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, remember?”
Santana rolls her eyes but doesn’t bother correcting Brittany. She sighs because she knows arguing is futile and frankly she’s entirely too drunk to come up with any kind of intelligent rationale for why this is a bad idea.
“I don’t have a dress,” she finally deadpans.
Brittany claps enthusiastically before reaching out and grabbing one of each of their hands. She hauls them both off the bench as she instructs, “You two handle the license thingy. I’ll take care of the dress.” She cocks her head to the side and bites down on the corner of her lip in concentration as she studies Santana. Santana squirms under the scrutiny but Brittany just nods in affirmation before turning on her heel and skipping off down the Vegas strip.
“I’d forgotten what she’s like when she’s drunk,” he laughs uneasily, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Uh, you sure you wanna do this?”
Santana nods her head yes, but the word that passes through her lips is an uneasy no.
“We could bail,” he offers half-heartedly. “Head back to the hotel or something?”
“She’d find us eventually,” she says, shrugging. “Just so you know, you’re telling your mother.”
-
After the short ceremony they head back to the hotel with a bottle of champagne and Brittany in tow. He’s pretty sure the nights is about to get a little bit awkward because there’s no fucking way he’s not screwing his new wife. Brittany can stick around if she wants because he kind of digs the idea of someone watching, but no matter what, he’s totally getting laid.
When they get back to the room, the girls disappear into the bathroom for a long fucking time and he lets his imagination run wild with pornographic ideas of what they might be doing behind that closed door. There are images of slowly revealed skin, of manicured fingers sliding through long curls, of parted lips and heaving breast, all of which make the front of his pants snug against his growing arousal. It’s really the only reasonable explanation for why girls spend so much goddamn time in the bathroom together, or rather the best explanation.
When they finally reappear they are wearing matching lingerie outfits, and his mind goes blank because the two of them standing next to one another in white corsets and boy-cut panties is the sexiest fucking thing he’s ever seen. Their outfits hug their curves in all the right places and do an amazing job of enhancing their tits.
Santana steps forward and Brittany leans in letting her chin rest on Santana’s shoulder, her mouth inches from her ear.
“Surprise,” Santana says, with a devious gleam in her eyes.
“I-I don’t understand,” he replies, taking an unconscious step closer.
Santana turns to look at Brittany, their lips practically touching, and when the girls link pinkies he knows he’s in trouble - the really, really good kind of trouble.
“It’s what you’ve always wanted isn’t it?” Santana asks, biting her bottom lip seductively and running the fingers of her free hand along Brittany’s arm. “The two of us together, at the same time for a threesome?”
Fuck yeah, it is!
The girls circle him, one pressing against his chest, the other pressing against his back. Their hands move underneath his shirt, caressing his skin and leaving goose bumps in their wake. His cock jerks at the sensation, the softness of their skin, the sharp drag of their nails. When they share a kiss over his shoulder it is unbelievably hot. Santana’s arms circle his waist pulling both him and Brittany closer. His erection presses into her thigh and he can feel the heat radiating from between her legs. He’s seen them kiss before but never this close. He’s never felt the heat of their bodies enveloping him or smelled the sweet, seductive mixture of their perfumes.
Their kiss is soft and gentle; it hypnotizes him and draws him in. His lips mix with theirs as someone’s hands drop to the fly of his pants, easily popping the button and pulling the zipper down. A second set of hands pushes the material over his hips, freeing his erection and then both sets of hands are on him, pulling and twisting in a blissfully erotic way that causes him to harden further.
“Fuck,” he groans against Santana’s neck as he leans into her, forcing her down onto the mattress in front of him. He settles between her thighs and shudders when Brittany’s hands guide his cock to the wet heat of Santana’s pussy. He slides in easily, thrusting deep as Brittany moves to lie beside them.
When Brittany’s lips latch onto his wife’s breast, it is fucking surreal. He can’t believe this is finally happening after all those years of jacking off to fantasies of this very scenario. It is a thousand times better than he thought it would be and he wants to savor every mind-blowing moment of it.
He slows his rhythm, shifting his balance so that he can caress Brittany’s thigh. The tips of his fingers skim across the dampening fabric of her panties causing her breath to catch. It is a sexy little sound and the air she expels hardens Santana’s dark nipple. He leans in letting his tongue mingle with Brittany’s as they lap at the hardened nub.
His fingers dip between silky fabric and skin, lingering in the heat of Brittany’s own arousal as they kiss around Santana’s breast. He circles her clit with the tip of his fingers until she’s moaning and then he pushes inside of her, letting his fingers match the tempo his hips have already set against Santana.
When the girls come simultaneously, hands clasped together and their bodies quaking against one another, it’s more than he can fucking handle. His balls constrict and he groans deep in the back of his throat as he pulls free of Santana’s thighs and jerks himself off against the flat of her stomach.
-
“Your mother’s going to fucking kill us,” Santana says later when they are lying naked in a tangle of rumpled sheets and sweaty limbs.
“Seriously, you’re thinking about my mom right now?”
Brittany giggles against his neck, her breath warm on his overheated skin. Fuck, he so doesn’t have the strength to go again - he can barely fucking move as it is - but there is an unmistakable twitch against the inside of his leg that makes him think his cock may have a different opinion on the matter.
He’s blissfully happy, happier than he ever thought he could be so he really doesn’t care what his mom or any one else thinks. He just married his best friend and had one of his longest standing fantasies come to life in the sexiest fucking way possible. Life is good. While this may have been a first for all three of them, the way that Brittany and Santana snuggle against him tells him that it may not have been the last.
-
Character(s) or pairing(s): See prompts :)
Do you prefer R or NC-17 smut?: Marginally NC-17, but I'm easy and I'll happily take R instead if that's what the recipient feels suits the fic.
Prompts:
1. Puck/Mercedes - Mercedes' first time. Puck's a total stud so wouldn't admit to wanting to make it special, but memorable hell yeah he can do.
2. Will/Terri - hate!sex that starts out rough and ready, but then turns surprisingly romantic and tender.
3. Kurt/Brittany - Brittany somehow manages to convince Kurt he should try hetero sex at least once. Can be as cracky as you like.
4. Santana/Puck - their wedding night. Santana knows Puck's lifelong dream is to have a threesome, so she invites Brittany to join them as a wedding gift to her new husband.
5. Mercedes/Quinn - set in college or even further into the future. Both of them have secretly wanted each other for so long that when they finally admit their feelings, they really want to make their first time last. Long drawn out foreplay and orgasm denial galore.
Things you DON’T want in your story (kinks or sex acts that gross you out, characters you despise, etc.): I'm fine with most kinks except dub-con and non-con, but please no character bashing ^_^