fic: if my heart was a compass - 1/10 - glee, brittany/santana, nc-17
Premature apologies to those of you on my flist who are not at all interested in Glee or femslash, especially those of you who have me email-alerted. There are 10 parts to this thing, so just ignore the entries when they pop up. ♥
You guys. I was nominated for Best Femslash Romance - Rachel/Quinn over at glee_fic_awards for We Are Led (To Those Who Help Us Most To Grow). I have no idea who did it but holy wow, that was my first foray into Glee fandom and femslash in general, so it was a total honor and a lovely surprise.
I also signed up for gleefsbigbang because I am apparently only capable of writing femslash these days. If any of you guys can do graphics and have the time to make some pretty art for some cute Glee girls, please please go sign up to be an artist. We are sorely lacking.
Anyway, remember when I failed NaNo last year? I'm pretty sure I wrote like 2k words the entire month. The following fic is to make up for it. I needed something to remind myself that I had the ability to write longer pieces, and then Santana Lopez came around and sneaked into my head and wouldn't get out. This was the result.
(PS. I have 2 unfinished Bones fics lying around. It's just, well, the Glee kids took over my soul.)
--
Title: If My Heart Was A Compass (1/10)
Author: zerodetorres
Characters: Brittany/Santana, Quinn, Puck
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5,429 (of ~56k)
Timeline: Season 1
Summary: Santana Lopez has a plan. A three-point plan. A really fucking efficient three-point plan that's going to get her the hell out of Ohio. This is her story.
Notes: 98% of this fic is written, so I'll be able to update in a timely fashion - probably every day or two. A big thank you to bradyyface who let me spam her inbox with random snippets of this thing and never complained.
Santana Lopez has it all figured out.
High school is all about appearances and first impressions. On day one, the entire hierarchy for the next four years is inked in, and there's very little anyone can do to change it. Moving down the pyramid is easy; moving up is nearly impossible. One shot is all anyone gets, and Santana makes damn sure her shot lands her at the top of the food chain.
McKinley High is a means to an end. Four years, and she'll be out of this stupid cow town with a full ride to some prestigious school out of state and rid herself of the stench of Lima once and for all. But one misstep can mean the difference between spending those years parting the hallways with a swagger or having a slushie in the face every morning, and Santana knows exactly which scenario she wants.
To get there, she has a three-point plan.
One: Become a Cheerio. And not one of the ones prancing around on the ground, either. One of the ones being tossed in the air. One of the ones that Coach cannot easily dispose. She knows what the slutty little uniform is worth in high school currency. Grab captaincy if possible; otherwise, befriend the stupid undeserving whore who nabs that role.
Two: Shovel shit for the people above her; dump shit on the people below her. In short, do not disturb the natural order of the high school chain of command. She just has to make sure there are a lot less people above her than below her. Piece of cake, really. She's got harmless manipulation down to an art form, and she's never had a problem stomping on the losers who end up at the bottom of the pile.
Three: Don't be afraid to play a little dirty. Nobody ever gets to the top by being a squeaky-clean goody two-shoes. Morals are for pussies. The word 'propriety' isn't even in Santana's vocabulary.
First week of school, she puts her plan to action.
She earns an invitation to Cheerios by timing a back flip right as Sue Sylvester walks past her locker. Not exactly the most subtle thing she's ever done, but Coach Sylvester insults her sloppy acrobatics, applauds her lack of shame and recruits her.
Halfway through the year, the captain of the Cheerios, a bitchy little senior with a scratchy voice and an affinity for sticking her fingers down her throat, develops a nasty thyroid problem, and her legs morph into giant hams. Coach picks eager-eyed freshman Quinn Fabray to replace her, and Santana sucks it up and spends the rest of the year currying favor from the blonde, even though she makes Santana want to light herself on fire sometimes.
But Santana knows the value of sacrifice, and if keeping peace with a dumb prude like Quinn means that Santana is treated like royalty for the rest of her high school existence, so be it.
Nowhere in her perfect blueprint is there any mention of Glee Club. Or even Brittany.
--
The first time Santana has sex with Brittany, she's fifteen. It's not even really sex, not in any way Santana's ever known, but one of them comes, so that counts, right?
It's the summer after freshman year, and Santana's been quote-unquote dating Puck since Quinn had decided to make her life one big fucking cliché by going after the quarterback of the football team and asking that Santana and Brittany follow her lead, probably so all six of them can move to a convent to serve the Lord. And never ever have sex for the rest of their lives. Bullshit.
Santana doesn't take orders from anyone, unless they've got a rung of the social ladder in their back pocket that Santana hasn't climbed yet.
Puck, though. Puck just kind of happens, and Quinn is ecstatic, which almost makes Santana dump him just to be a spiteful bitch. But Puck puts up with Santana's shit, matches her quip for quip, and says all the wrong things to the right people. Exactly Santana's kind of guy, so she keeps him around. Besides, he isn't exactly an eyesore.
Anyway, summer after freshman year. Puck's mom takes Puck's sister up to Cleveland for the weekend - something about culturing her before it's too late, with a nasty glare in Puck's direction. Santana had just spent ten minutes explaining to Puck that a year-end bonus is not "kinda like" when you end a Super Mario Bros level with the last digit of the timer on a six - idiot - so it's not like Puck's mom is entirely misguided in her passive aggressive accusations.
With his family out of town, Puck throws a house party.
The whole thing is basically a gathering of football players and cheerleaders and a reason for members of the former group to try to get into the pants of members of the latter group, but whatever. Santana knows her place.
She shows up at Puck's with Brittany-late, because Brittany had spent over an hour in Santana's bathroom doing god knows what. Right before they'd left though, Santana had gotten a peek at an elaborate lipstick drawing on her mirror of a duck sitting on a rainbow, so that, most likely. Aside from making Santana wonder what the hell Brittany was doing with green lipstick, the artistic venture had made them late. But Santana had been in no rush, and it's Brittany, so she's not really mad. Besides, showing up to parties early is like wearing a shirt that says, 'Hey, look at me! I'm an eager little turd!' and that's not Santana's style.
And anyway, it's Puck, for god's sake, not the freaking Dalai Lama-not that Santana would care to show up on time to listen to some hippie yak about oppression or some other shit, but the point stands.
Puck sweeps Brittany and Santana inside and immediately separates them, pulling Santana away. She tastes the heavy alcohol vapors in his breath when he kisses her, and his hands are not at all shy about where they want to be.
Santana shoves him away and slaps him upside the head. "You little delinquent, keep your paws to yourself."
But Puck is either too drunk or too horny to be deterred by Santana's fist. He latches his lips to Santana's neck, and Santana actually does get momentarily distracted. Puck is nothing if not experienced at what he does, and it's not like a little bit of aggression isn't a turn-on for her. Santana scans the room for Brittany but doesn't catch any trace of the leggy blonde. Figuring Brittany had gone off in search of her own hookup, Santana lets Puck take her to his bedroom.
Puck's pretty good in the sack, most of the time. But tonight, he performs like an energizer bunny whose batteries had been swapped out for counterfeits: he runs out of juice embarrassingly quickly. Worse, as soon as he gets his, he passes out, leaving Santana frustratingly unsatisfied.
"Shit," Santana curses, shoving Puck's half-dressed body off her. She readjusts her Cheerios uniform. She'd barely even gotten naked. "Fuck you, Puck," she adds for good measure, even though Puck is out cold.
After making sure Puck's still breathing - she's a little apathetic, not a full-blown sociopath - Santana stumbles back downstairs in search of alcohol. Instead, she finds Quinn sucking face with Finn, and ugh, definitely not enough alcohol in her system.
She downs a few drinks and hangs around a little longer, but she still can't find Brittany and that pisses her off. An inebriated Matt is trying to make a pass at her, and she starts to go along with it, but she underestimates how pissed she really is; before Matt even manages to slip his hand under her shirt, she shoves him away and storms off.
She makes one last sweep of Puck's house for Brittany and comes up empty-handed. She leaves, head pounding.
She doesn't live too far from Puck, thankfully, which is definitely something Santana had taken into consideration when she'd started having sex with him. Nobody can accuse her of not being thorough when it comes to things like convenience.
Santana's house is empty when she steps inside. No surprise there. She drags herself to the bathroom and jumps in the shower. The warm stream of water that hits her skin actually does make her feel a little better, but there's an ache between her legs that she can't alleviate. She's going to kill that stupid mohawked son of a bitch.
She shuts off the water and steps out, dripping everywhere. After toweling herself off and dressing in a t-shirt and boyshorts, she brushes her teeth and blow-dries her hair.
Santana moves back to her room and climbs under the covers. She's still pissed, mostly at Puck for being such a douchebag, but also at Brittany for disappearing off somewhere, probably with some guy who's only thinking about getting his rocks off and not appreciating Brittany's long, slender legs enough. But whatever, it's not like Santana gives a shit.
Santana has just enough alcohol in her to feel sleepy, and her eyelids begin to flutter. She's still a little worked up, but nothing she's never dealt with before, and sleep always helps. As she's about to nod off, one side of her bed dips gently, and a warm body presses against her back. Brittany. Santana hadn't even heard the front door.
They do this sometimes. Well, okay, a lot. They do this a lot.
It had started out innocently enough. A few sleepovers here and there; you know, the things that neighbors-slash-best friends are supposed to do. But Brittany… Brittany had gotten attached. She'd gotten attached to Santana's bed, and Santana. And when ten-year-old Brittany wanted something, she took the easiest route to it. In this case, that happened to be Brittany sneaking out of her own home in the dead of night, running three houses down the street to Santana's, and curling under Santana's covers with her.
The first few times, Brittany had gotten scolded for it, and security had been tightened under her roof, but she'd come up with more and more elaborate escape plans, and eventually, her parents decided that the safest way to address the issue was to just let her go, granted that Santana's parents approved, which they did. That was when Santana's parents were still around, and there's a memory Santana doesn't like rehashing.
Either way, sleep was all it was, and Santana never minded curling up next to a warm body, even if Brittany would sometimes hog all the sheets or snore loudly if she was really drained. At least now, it keeps from Santana's house from feeling so empty.
After all these years, Brittany still finds herself in Santana's bed, and Santana still finds herself wanting it.
"Hey, San," Brittany murmurs, snuggling up to Santana. "You smell good," she adds.
The truth is, Brittany doesn't smell so good, and Santana almost tells her exactly that. She smells like sweat - hers and someone else's - and ugh, Santana squeezes her eyes shut at the thought. Brittany doesn't smell like alcohol though, or anything else. She doesn't even smell like she'd had sex. Just sweat.
"Where the hell were you all night?" Santana snaps.
Brittany doesn't flinch, her arms wrapping around Santana's midsection. "Dancing."
Santana makes a face that Brittany cannot see. "What?"
"Dancing." Brittany's shoulders shift up and down rhythmically, and Santana feels it against her back. "You know."
Santana spins around to face her. "What the fuck, by yourself?"
Brittany blinks. "No, with Mike. We snuck into a closed dance studio. It was awesome."
"Chang?" Santana asks, scrunching up her face. "He dances?"
"Yeah, but he told me not to tell anyone." Brittany buries her face into Santana's hair, and her next words are muffled. "I only told you because you're my favorite."
Santana turns back around, settling into Brittany's arms. "Gee, thanks," she mutters.
"You're kinda bitchy tonight, Santana," Brittany says unapologetically. "Puck?"
Santana groans. "He's an asshole. He got me all worked up and then passed out. I'm horny as fuck."
A minute passes, and Brittany begins feeling around under the covers for Santana's hand. Warm fingers wrap firmly around Santana's wrist.
Alarmed, Santana turns her head. "What are you doing?"
"Relax," Brittany breathes, rolling Santana to her back.
Brittany guides Santana's hand down over the plane of her abdomen and under the waistband of her boyshorts. She pushes further, and when Santana's fingertips touch her own clit, she snaps her hand back, shaking away Brittany's grip.
"Britt, what the hell?"
Brittany shrugs. "It'll make you feel better."
"Yeah," Santana says in exasperation, "because I'll be fucking masturbating."
At Santana's tone, Brittany deflates. "I was just trying to help," she says in a tiny voice.
Santana sighs, and her head starts to hurt again. She hates upsetting Brittany, because most of the time, Brittany is just being sweet and Santana is being an ass. It's not like they don't share all the juicy details of their sex lives with each other. So like, short of actually watching Santana having sex, Brittany probably has a good idea of what that looks like anyway. And what the hell, Brittany's seen her in her birthday suit before. No big deal.
Santana's hand nudges Brittany's. "Maybe this'll work. Let's try again, okay? I'm sorry."
Brittany grins real wide and grabs Santana's hand again, guiding it back under her underwear. And Santana… gets kind of nervous? She's never been nervous during sex, not even the first time, so it's a bit unnerving that her palms sweat a little when it's just Brittany, and it's not even really sex.
Brittany guides the tips of Santana's fingers across moist skin, and Santana dampens a moan at the back of her throat. Brittany smiles, gripping Santana's hand tighter to keep her fingers straight. Gently, she pushes two of Santana's fingers in, and Santana grunts, head pressing back against her pillow as her hips rise impulsively. Brittany holds Santana's hand firmly and guides it in and out slowly, almost methodically.
Santana curses under her breath, eyes closed and cheeks hot. The pressure builds up quickly, almost pathetically so, and her entire body is reacting to Brittany's movements.
"San," Brittany says softly, her breath ghosting across Santana's cheek.
Santana keeps her eyes shut, and she feels the press of Brittany's lips against hers. She's pretty sure that's not part of the plan, but Brittany is kissing her and she's kissing back, soft and slow at first, then quicker, more desperate, as Brittany thrusts to a faster beat. Santana groans, the most exhilarating waves of pleasure rushing through her, and she's trying to hang on a little longer, but a thumb - not Santana's - brushes against her clit, and Santana comes undone, her body shuddering violently around her own fingers. They feel like Brittany's.
Instinctively, Santana reaches for Brittany, and the blonde scoots closer to let Santana bury her face into the crook of her neck. Brittany still smells like sweat, but now so does Santana, and they both smell like they'd had sex.
"Holy shit, Brittany," Santana manages to croak, hips bucking as she rides herself down.
Brittany's movements slow to a stop, but she doesn't loosen her grip around Santana's hand. Santana's body slackens, gratifyingly spent. As gently as she'd pushed them in, Brittany pulls Santana's fingers out, and Santana whimpers-she fucking whimpers.
"See?" Brittany murmurs with a small but proud smile. "I told you."
--
Brittany and Santana spend the rest of the summer having not-sex. It's better than any sex Santana's ever had, even when Puck's batteries are working.
She tears Puck a new one for pulling that stunt, by the way. Calls him an asshole and everything. Makes it look good. It manages to guilt-trip Puck into trying harder, which is great and all, but he's still not as good as Brittany's hand guiding hers.
Which is kind of messed up, but whatever. She gets it enough from Brittany to not give a shit how hard Puck tries. It's kind of like eating steak nearly every damn night, and being served meatballs for lunch two or three times a week. Most people would eat the meatballs anyway, and they wouldn't even care if some days, the meatballs are a little stale, or undercooked, or otherwise unsatisfactory, because there'll always be steak later, and let it be understood: it's some damn delicious steak. All in the perspective, really.
What she's doing with Brittany, it's not really sex. It's like… assisted masturbation. There's a difference. If two people are sharing a plate of nachos, that's eating. But if one person is holding another person's hand, helping him move it back and forth between the plate and his mouth, that's assisted eating.
The really weird part is that most of the time, Santana prefers feeding over eating. The nachos are good and everything, but watching someone else eat nachos is even better.
Shit, Santana is hungry, and this analogy is getting way out of hand.
What she means is this: when she has her hand on Brittany's, guiding her, and Brittany is making breathy little sounds and looking at her with smoky blue eyes like she's the only person in the whole damn world who matters, it makes Santana feel good. Like, feel good feel good, even though it's supposed to be about Brittany, so that's kind of confusing.
Brittany… she likes to embellish. She probably doesn't even do it on purpose, but when she's close, she'll grab Santana's shoulder, or play with her hair, or palm one of Santana's boobs just because she can. And Santana is a total sucker for stuff like that, so she reacts to it. She'll plant a trail of kisses along Brittany's neck, or press their foreheads together, or trap one of Brittany's legs between her own. Because she wants it to be good for Brittany, and knowing Brittany's generosity, the feeling is almost certainly mutual.
By the end of summer, the assisted masturbation thing is happening at the same time. So like, Santana assists Brittany, and Brittany assists Santana, except, simultaneously.
It's a messy tangle of limbs the first time, but with practice, they get pretty efficient at it. Initially, saved time is cited as a reason, but it quickly becomes obvious that they both prefer just doing it twice as many times, which, you know, is still a pretty good reason.
Santana doesn't even try to argue that it's mutual assisted masturbation, or some dumb shit like that. She's not in denial or anything.
Santana Lopez is having sex with her best friend.
What they do is far from conventional, but it's not like, anal, so whatever.
They never really talk about what it means. It just becomes another thing the two of them do together, like cheerleading, or the pinky thing.
--
Santana joins Glee during sophomore year because of Quinn. Stupid bitch. If she'd just let Finn touch her boobs under the bra or something, she wouldn't have to worry about him running off with some ankle-biter with a nose the size of a small African country.
But no. Quinn has to go and be the only person in the celibacy club who is actually celibate. Other than Finn, but he's a dumbass too. Santana only joins because Brittany does, and Santana's pretty sure Brittany only joins because she thinks it's a club for famous people.
So because of Quinn's refusal to put out and Coach Sylvester's hatred of curly metrosexual hair, Santana gets roped into the second gayest thing in the entire school. The first is that kid who Puck tosses into the dumpsters every morning. She's pretty sure he's in Glee too, which only proves her point. Glee Club is like, super gay.
At first, the only thing that makes everything worth it is Brittany's dancing. Santana had always thought that all those times Brittany snuck off with Mike was a bigger waste of time than trying to remove one of Quinn's ten chastity belts, but the first time she sees Brittany dance? Santana's heart does a little flip, and what the hell. They'd done a ton of choreography for Cheerios, and yeah, Brittany can move, but Santana's never seen Brittany move quite like that. It's all in the hips, or something.
It just gives Santana more fodder for when they're together, not that she needs it. Brittany does plenty enough to work her up, and Santana comes just fine without the image of Brittany thrusting her hips to the beat and twirling all around the room and making Santana feel like she's caught in a fucking cyclone.
What starts out as a way to stay in Coach Sylvester's good graces quickly becomes an excuse to watch Brittany dance. And the performing thing turns out to be kind of fun. Santana's awesome at it too, not that that's a surprise.
What is a surprise: Quinn gets knocked up.
The irony there is thicker than that crap Mr. Schuester puts in his hair. Quinn, the president of that dumbass celibacy club. Ho-ly shit, best news of Santana's life.
Or it is until one afternoon, a few days after Coach Sylvester finally kicks Quinn off the Cheerios. Santana is at Puck's, and they're messing around some on his couch, but Puck's not really into it. He hasn't been into it for like, two weeks, which is okay because she's got Brittany, but she doesn't want to be losing her touch with the dick or anything.
Santana shoves Puck a little. "What's the matter with you?"
Puck absentmindedly palms Santana's thigh. "Nothing, babe."
She pushes his hand away. "You're tighter than Quinn Fabray's ass right now." Puck raises an eyebrow at that, and Santana makes a face. "Don't be gross."
"It's just-" Puck sighs and leans back a little against the couch. "This conversation doesn't leave this room, got it?"
"You know me."
Puck runs a hand through his mohawk. "This whole baby business-it's totally messing with my head. All Finn ever does is whine like a little bitch, like that's going to help pay the hospital bills. I'm sick of it. He needs to man up and find a way to take care of Quinn and the baby."
Santana rolls her eyes. "Have you met the Fabrays? They're uptight as hell. As soon as they get their heads out of their liquor cabinet long enough to figure out that it's not the drier's fault Quinn can't fit into any of her pants anymore, they're going to hold a shotgun to that doofus Finn's head and force him to get hitched to their precious little snowflake. Then you won't have to lose sleep over this stupid shit."
Puck clutches his head. "The baby's not even Finn's," he exhales.
"What?"
Puck sits up so suddenly that Santana nearly slides off his lap. "I said, I'm the one who knocked Quinn up."
Santana only stares. "Well shit, Puck."
"But Quinn thinks Finn'll be a better dad than me," Puck continues. "It's bullshit!"
"You got Quinn pregnant?" Santana's head actually starts to spin a little. "Are you a fucking idiot?"
"I didn't mean to!"
"I am about to clock you in the face," Santana fumes.
"Look, I'm sorry I messed around on you or whatever, okay? But I kind of have bigger problems here."
"I'm not pissed about that," Santana dismisses, which is actually mostly true. She's pissed that it's Quinn, always getting up in her shit, but at this point, she and Puck share an understanding about the nature of their relationship. That doesn't change. Santana's just not stupid enough to let Matt or whoever knock her up. "I'm pissed," she continues, "because you royally fucked up and now you're going to be tied to Fabray for the rest of your life." She stares at Puck. "Well, what the hell are you going to do?"
"I don't fucking know."
Santana curses, trying to sort everything out in her head. "Maybe you should just let the stupid bitch convince Finn it's his. That way, neither of us has to deal with her shit."
"It's my kid," Puck emphasizes, indignant. To Santana's surprise, Puck actually deflates. "I don't want to be a deadbeat dad."
There's something about Puck. Like yeah, he's always going on about wanting snatch and fooling around with milfs, but Santana's convinced he's actually a pretty decent guy. Not that he should be responsible for a kid's life, but then neither should Finnkenstein, and she's pissed on Puck's behalf that Quinn would lie about that. It's way messed up.
Santana stops having sex with Puck, which has been totally mediocre anyway, and Puck cools his Puckasaurus act for a little while to prove to Quinn that he'd be a good dad. Santana's decent-guy theory? Actually pans out a little. And anyway, there's no way Quinn's going to pick Puck unless Finn jams his toe into his brain trying to dance or something, so Santana doesn't interfere.
She does tell Brittany though, because she tells Brittany everything.
Brittany's reaction is, "I miss Quinn."
Santana rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well, I don't."
"She didn't mean to steal your boyfriend," Brittany offers.
"Why does everyone think that's why I'm pissed? Puck and I aren't even dating."
"Would you be mad," Brittany asks thoughtfully, "if I had sex with Quinn?"
Santana snorts. "Yeah, right. She'd probably whine the whole time about her back being sore or her baby falling out."
"Would you though?" Brittany presses.
"Sleep with Quinn?" Santana asks, her face knitting up in disgust.
Brittany smiles. "No, be mad if I did."
Santana considers it for a moment. Hell yeah, she'd be furious. She doesn't really want to think about Brittany sleeping with anyone, but least of all Quinn. Santana's protective of Brittany, just like she's protective of Puck, but it's a different kind of anger that boils inside her when she thinks about Brittany with someone else. It's a rage born out of a desire to keep Brittany hers, and only hers. Thinking about stuff like that only makes Santana's chest hurt though, so she stops doing it.
"Yeah, I guess I'd probably be mad if you slept with Quinn," Santana finally answers.
Brittany gives her a pointed look. "There you go," she says with a proud smile, like she's just figured out the meaning of life. "You're mad because Quinn slept with Puck while you were also sleeping with Puck."
"It's not like that, Britt. Maybe at the beginning we tried to make it work, but Puck is still Puck, you know? We're in high school. Sex with him is just that: sex. Frankly, I'd rather drag him around and beat up some dweebs with him. He's got a killer left hook."
Brittany blinks. "If you're not mad that Puck slept with Quinn, why would you be mad if I did?"
"It's different with you," Santana explains, feeling a little foolish for the way her pulse picks up. "You're… a girl," she adds lamely.
"So's Quinn," Brittany points out.
"Exactly, so she can't knock you up," Santana hand-waves, her cheeks hot. "Look, I'm mad because Quinn's been lying through her teeth since day one. That's all."
Brittany is quiet for a moment, then, "We've been friends with Quinn for a long time. Since the first day of middle school, remember?"
"No, you've been friends with her since the first day of middle school," Santana amends. "I only started talking to her last year because she made captain of the Cheerios. I hated her guts. You know that."
Brittany tilts her head. "San, she probably really needs a friend right now."
"What she needs is looser pants and a visit to the sterilization clinic," Santana quips, deflecting.
"We can take her shopping for new clothes," Brittany suggests, working around Santana's malice.
Santana sighs. "No, okay, Britt? I wasn't her friend before and I don't want to be her friend now."
Brittany resigns. Actually, it's more like Brittany gets distracted by a bird flying past Santana's window, but she doesn't bring up Quinn again for the rest of the night, so Santana counts it as a victory.
--
Sectionals is approaching, and Mr. Schuester pairs the members of Glee up and makes them sing ballads to each other.
Puck gets Mercedes, not that it makes a difference. Santana's pretty sure Puck would find a way to slack off even if he's paired with Neil Diamond himself.
Artie gets Quinn. Santana cannot wait.
Finn gets Kurt. She doesn't even bother stifling her laughter. Fucking priceless.
Tina gets Mike, and isn't that like, incest? (She learns much later that they're not actually related, but Santana pretty much spends three quarters of her high school life thinking they're half-siblings or cousins or something. All Asians look the same to her.)
Santana pulls Brittany's name out of Mr. Schue's hat, and she's pretty pleased about that. Because Rachel and Mr. Schue are the only other options, and honestly, she'd rip out her own throat before she'd sing a love song to Rachel fucking Berry.
That night, Santana shuffles through her iTunes library with Brittany over her shoulder.
"Can we sing Britney Spears? She has like, a ton of ballads."
Santana's reply is a firm, "No."
Brittany nuzzles into Santana's neck. "Why not?"
"Because all she does is sing about being dumped. It's depressing."
"What about I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman? That's my favorite."
"That one just makes us sound like trannies."
They end up choosing Aerosmith's I Don't Want to Miss a Thing. Or Santana does, and Brittany will pretty much agree to anything that Santana wants. It's kind of comforting.
And here's the thing. Santana's got a decent voice. She's not into belting out show tunes, and she doesn't spend every waking moment of her life vomiting music notes out of her mouth like some people, but she can totally take, say… Quinn in a sing-off, if that weren't like, completely lame.
So when she opens her mouth and the sound carries across the room without eleven other voices layered over it, she actually holds her own. It seems to excite Brittany, but then again, a lot of things excite Brittany. Santana's still pleased.
They practice a bit, make out a little - okay, a lot - and when they finally climb into bed hours later, Brittany is still humming the tune. She starts affectionately playing with Santana's hair.
"You've got a really pretty voice, you know," Brittany says, pressing a kiss to Santana's throat.
Santana tilts her head. "You think so?"
"Yeah," Brittany nods, eyes earnest. "You should ask Mr. Schue to give you a solo."
Santana grimaces. "No way."
"Why not?" Brittany asks quietly.
Santana rolls her eyes. "Because singing lead in a show choir is for queers."
"We sing," Brittany points out.
"Yeah, background," Santana counters. "That's different. I'm not interested in making a fool of myself like Man-Hands."
"She sounds good though." Brittany's shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. "I'm just saying, Santana. You sound really good too."
"I'll think about it, okay?" Santana promises.
"Okay." Brittany smiles. "Will you sing to me?"
And Santana cannot ever say no to Brittany when she's lying there all genuine and sweet and crazy beautiful, so Santana takes a breath and hits the notes as well as she can.
"Don't want to close my eyes; don't want to fall asleep, 'cause I'd miss you, babe, and I don't want to miss a thing…"
Brittany watches her the whole time, looking all thrilled and impressed. Santana thinks she probably wears a similar expression herself when she watches Brittany dance.
They don't actually end up getting to perform their ballad, because Finn and Quinn need their support, which, ugh, Santana kind of seethes at the idea. She doesn't get it. Puck spills to Mercedes, and Mercedes blabs to Kurt and Tina, and Artie finds out too - probably by being attached to Tina's hip - and none of them thinks Finn deserves to know the truth. What the hell? Santana keeps her mouth shut because Puck had asked her to and her loyalties are with him, but she'd always figured as soon as one of the others finds out, the shit'd hit the fan.
But no. They decide to sing, like that'll magically make Quinn's baby not pop out with a giant Jew nose.
Santana only puts on a smile because Brittany asks her to be nice.
Part 2
You guys. I was nominated for Best Femslash Romance - Rachel/Quinn over at glee_fic_awards for We Are Led (To Those Who Help Us Most To Grow). I have no idea who did it but holy wow, that was my first foray into Glee fandom and femslash in general, so it was a total honor and a lovely surprise.
I also signed up for gleefsbigbang because I am apparently only capable of writing femslash these days. If any of you guys can do graphics and have the time to make some pretty art for some cute Glee girls, please please go sign up to be an artist. We are sorely lacking.
Anyway, remember when I failed NaNo last year? I'm pretty sure I wrote like 2k words the entire month. The following fic is to make up for it. I needed something to remind myself that I had the ability to write longer pieces, and then Santana Lopez came around and sneaked into my head and wouldn't get out. This was the result.
(PS. I have 2 unfinished Bones fics lying around. It's just, well, the Glee kids took over my soul.)
--
Title: If My Heart Was A Compass (1/10)
Author: zerodetorres
Characters: Brittany/Santana, Quinn, Puck
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5,429 (of ~56k)
Timeline: Season 1
Summary: Santana Lopez has a plan. A three-point plan. A really fucking efficient three-point plan that's going to get her the hell out of Ohio. This is her story.
Notes: 98% of this fic is written, so I'll be able to update in a timely fashion - probably every day or two. A big thank you to bradyyface who let me spam her inbox with random snippets of this thing and never complained.
Santana Lopez has it all figured out.
High school is all about appearances and first impressions. On day one, the entire hierarchy for the next four years is inked in, and there's very little anyone can do to change it. Moving down the pyramid is easy; moving up is nearly impossible. One shot is all anyone gets, and Santana makes damn sure her shot lands her at the top of the food chain.
McKinley High is a means to an end. Four years, and she'll be out of this stupid cow town with a full ride to some prestigious school out of state and rid herself of the stench of Lima once and for all. But one misstep can mean the difference between spending those years parting the hallways with a swagger or having a slushie in the face every morning, and Santana knows exactly which scenario she wants.
To get there, she has a three-point plan.
One: Become a Cheerio. And not one of the ones prancing around on the ground, either. One of the ones being tossed in the air. One of the ones that Coach cannot easily dispose. She knows what the slutty little uniform is worth in high school currency. Grab captaincy if possible; otherwise, befriend the stupid undeserving whore who nabs that role.
Two: Shovel shit for the people above her; dump shit on the people below her. In short, do not disturb the natural order of the high school chain of command. She just has to make sure there are a lot less people above her than below her. Piece of cake, really. She's got harmless manipulation down to an art form, and she's never had a problem stomping on the losers who end up at the bottom of the pile.
Three: Don't be afraid to play a little dirty. Nobody ever gets to the top by being a squeaky-clean goody two-shoes. Morals are for pussies. The word 'propriety' isn't even in Santana's vocabulary.
First week of school, she puts her plan to action.
She earns an invitation to Cheerios by timing a back flip right as Sue Sylvester walks past her locker. Not exactly the most subtle thing she's ever done, but Coach Sylvester insults her sloppy acrobatics, applauds her lack of shame and recruits her.
Halfway through the year, the captain of the Cheerios, a bitchy little senior with a scratchy voice and an affinity for sticking her fingers down her throat, develops a nasty thyroid problem, and her legs morph into giant hams. Coach picks eager-eyed freshman Quinn Fabray to replace her, and Santana sucks it up and spends the rest of the year currying favor from the blonde, even though she makes Santana want to light herself on fire sometimes.
But Santana knows the value of sacrifice, and if keeping peace with a dumb prude like Quinn means that Santana is treated like royalty for the rest of her high school existence, so be it.
Nowhere in her perfect blueprint is there any mention of Glee Club. Or even Brittany.
--
The first time Santana has sex with Brittany, she's fifteen. It's not even really sex, not in any way Santana's ever known, but one of them comes, so that counts, right?
It's the summer after freshman year, and Santana's been quote-unquote dating Puck since Quinn had decided to make her life one big fucking cliché by going after the quarterback of the football team and asking that Santana and Brittany follow her lead, probably so all six of them can move to a convent to serve the Lord. And never ever have sex for the rest of their lives. Bullshit.
Santana doesn't take orders from anyone, unless they've got a rung of the social ladder in their back pocket that Santana hasn't climbed yet.
Puck, though. Puck just kind of happens, and Quinn is ecstatic, which almost makes Santana dump him just to be a spiteful bitch. But Puck puts up with Santana's shit, matches her quip for quip, and says all the wrong things to the right people. Exactly Santana's kind of guy, so she keeps him around. Besides, he isn't exactly an eyesore.
Anyway, summer after freshman year. Puck's mom takes Puck's sister up to Cleveland for the weekend - something about culturing her before it's too late, with a nasty glare in Puck's direction. Santana had just spent ten minutes explaining to Puck that a year-end bonus is not "kinda like" when you end a Super Mario Bros level with the last digit of the timer on a six - idiot - so it's not like Puck's mom is entirely misguided in her passive aggressive accusations.
With his family out of town, Puck throws a house party.
The whole thing is basically a gathering of football players and cheerleaders and a reason for members of the former group to try to get into the pants of members of the latter group, but whatever. Santana knows her place.
She shows up at Puck's with Brittany-late, because Brittany had spent over an hour in Santana's bathroom doing god knows what. Right before they'd left though, Santana had gotten a peek at an elaborate lipstick drawing on her mirror of a duck sitting on a rainbow, so that, most likely. Aside from making Santana wonder what the hell Brittany was doing with green lipstick, the artistic venture had made them late. But Santana had been in no rush, and it's Brittany, so she's not really mad. Besides, showing up to parties early is like wearing a shirt that says, 'Hey, look at me! I'm an eager little turd!' and that's not Santana's style.
And anyway, it's Puck, for god's sake, not the freaking Dalai Lama-not that Santana would care to show up on time to listen to some hippie yak about oppression or some other shit, but the point stands.
Puck sweeps Brittany and Santana inside and immediately separates them, pulling Santana away. She tastes the heavy alcohol vapors in his breath when he kisses her, and his hands are not at all shy about where they want to be.
Santana shoves him away and slaps him upside the head. "You little delinquent, keep your paws to yourself."
But Puck is either too drunk or too horny to be deterred by Santana's fist. He latches his lips to Santana's neck, and Santana actually does get momentarily distracted. Puck is nothing if not experienced at what he does, and it's not like a little bit of aggression isn't a turn-on for her. Santana scans the room for Brittany but doesn't catch any trace of the leggy blonde. Figuring Brittany had gone off in search of her own hookup, Santana lets Puck take her to his bedroom.
Puck's pretty good in the sack, most of the time. But tonight, he performs like an energizer bunny whose batteries had been swapped out for counterfeits: he runs out of juice embarrassingly quickly. Worse, as soon as he gets his, he passes out, leaving Santana frustratingly unsatisfied.
"Shit," Santana curses, shoving Puck's half-dressed body off her. She readjusts her Cheerios uniform. She'd barely even gotten naked. "Fuck you, Puck," she adds for good measure, even though Puck is out cold.
After making sure Puck's still breathing - she's a little apathetic, not a full-blown sociopath - Santana stumbles back downstairs in search of alcohol. Instead, she finds Quinn sucking face with Finn, and ugh, definitely not enough alcohol in her system.
She downs a few drinks and hangs around a little longer, but she still can't find Brittany and that pisses her off. An inebriated Matt is trying to make a pass at her, and she starts to go along with it, but she underestimates how pissed she really is; before Matt even manages to slip his hand under her shirt, she shoves him away and storms off.
She makes one last sweep of Puck's house for Brittany and comes up empty-handed. She leaves, head pounding.
She doesn't live too far from Puck, thankfully, which is definitely something Santana had taken into consideration when she'd started having sex with him. Nobody can accuse her of not being thorough when it comes to things like convenience.
Santana's house is empty when she steps inside. No surprise there. She drags herself to the bathroom and jumps in the shower. The warm stream of water that hits her skin actually does make her feel a little better, but there's an ache between her legs that she can't alleviate. She's going to kill that stupid mohawked son of a bitch.
She shuts off the water and steps out, dripping everywhere. After toweling herself off and dressing in a t-shirt and boyshorts, she brushes her teeth and blow-dries her hair.
Santana moves back to her room and climbs under the covers. She's still pissed, mostly at Puck for being such a douchebag, but also at Brittany for disappearing off somewhere, probably with some guy who's only thinking about getting his rocks off and not appreciating Brittany's long, slender legs enough. But whatever, it's not like Santana gives a shit.
Santana has just enough alcohol in her to feel sleepy, and her eyelids begin to flutter. She's still a little worked up, but nothing she's never dealt with before, and sleep always helps. As she's about to nod off, one side of her bed dips gently, and a warm body presses against her back. Brittany. Santana hadn't even heard the front door.
They do this sometimes. Well, okay, a lot. They do this a lot.
It had started out innocently enough. A few sleepovers here and there; you know, the things that neighbors-slash-best friends are supposed to do. But Brittany… Brittany had gotten attached. She'd gotten attached to Santana's bed, and Santana. And when ten-year-old Brittany wanted something, she took the easiest route to it. In this case, that happened to be Brittany sneaking out of her own home in the dead of night, running three houses down the street to Santana's, and curling under Santana's covers with her.
The first few times, Brittany had gotten scolded for it, and security had been tightened under her roof, but she'd come up with more and more elaborate escape plans, and eventually, her parents decided that the safest way to address the issue was to just let her go, granted that Santana's parents approved, which they did. That was when Santana's parents were still around, and there's a memory Santana doesn't like rehashing.
Either way, sleep was all it was, and Santana never minded curling up next to a warm body, even if Brittany would sometimes hog all the sheets or snore loudly if she was really drained. At least now, it keeps from Santana's house from feeling so empty.
After all these years, Brittany still finds herself in Santana's bed, and Santana still finds herself wanting it.
"Hey, San," Brittany murmurs, snuggling up to Santana. "You smell good," she adds.
The truth is, Brittany doesn't smell so good, and Santana almost tells her exactly that. She smells like sweat - hers and someone else's - and ugh, Santana squeezes her eyes shut at the thought. Brittany doesn't smell like alcohol though, or anything else. She doesn't even smell like she'd had sex. Just sweat.
"Where the hell were you all night?" Santana snaps.
Brittany doesn't flinch, her arms wrapping around Santana's midsection. "Dancing."
Santana makes a face that Brittany cannot see. "What?"
"Dancing." Brittany's shoulders shift up and down rhythmically, and Santana feels it against her back. "You know."
Santana spins around to face her. "What the fuck, by yourself?"
Brittany blinks. "No, with Mike. We snuck into a closed dance studio. It was awesome."
"Chang?" Santana asks, scrunching up her face. "He dances?"
"Yeah, but he told me not to tell anyone." Brittany buries her face into Santana's hair, and her next words are muffled. "I only told you because you're my favorite."
Santana turns back around, settling into Brittany's arms. "Gee, thanks," she mutters.
"You're kinda bitchy tonight, Santana," Brittany says unapologetically. "Puck?"
Santana groans. "He's an asshole. He got me all worked up and then passed out. I'm horny as fuck."
A minute passes, and Brittany begins feeling around under the covers for Santana's hand. Warm fingers wrap firmly around Santana's wrist.
Alarmed, Santana turns her head. "What are you doing?"
"Relax," Brittany breathes, rolling Santana to her back.
Brittany guides Santana's hand down over the plane of her abdomen and under the waistband of her boyshorts. She pushes further, and when Santana's fingertips touch her own clit, she snaps her hand back, shaking away Brittany's grip.
"Britt, what the hell?"
Brittany shrugs. "It'll make you feel better."
"Yeah," Santana says in exasperation, "because I'll be fucking masturbating."
At Santana's tone, Brittany deflates. "I was just trying to help," she says in a tiny voice.
Santana sighs, and her head starts to hurt again. She hates upsetting Brittany, because most of the time, Brittany is just being sweet and Santana is being an ass. It's not like they don't share all the juicy details of their sex lives with each other. So like, short of actually watching Santana having sex, Brittany probably has a good idea of what that looks like anyway. And what the hell, Brittany's seen her in her birthday suit before. No big deal.
Santana's hand nudges Brittany's. "Maybe this'll work. Let's try again, okay? I'm sorry."
Brittany grins real wide and grabs Santana's hand again, guiding it back under her underwear. And Santana… gets kind of nervous? She's never been nervous during sex, not even the first time, so it's a bit unnerving that her palms sweat a little when it's just Brittany, and it's not even really sex.
Brittany guides the tips of Santana's fingers across moist skin, and Santana dampens a moan at the back of her throat. Brittany smiles, gripping Santana's hand tighter to keep her fingers straight. Gently, she pushes two of Santana's fingers in, and Santana grunts, head pressing back against her pillow as her hips rise impulsively. Brittany holds Santana's hand firmly and guides it in and out slowly, almost methodically.
Santana curses under her breath, eyes closed and cheeks hot. The pressure builds up quickly, almost pathetically so, and her entire body is reacting to Brittany's movements.
"San," Brittany says softly, her breath ghosting across Santana's cheek.
Santana keeps her eyes shut, and she feels the press of Brittany's lips against hers. She's pretty sure that's not part of the plan, but Brittany is kissing her and she's kissing back, soft and slow at first, then quicker, more desperate, as Brittany thrusts to a faster beat. Santana groans, the most exhilarating waves of pleasure rushing through her, and she's trying to hang on a little longer, but a thumb - not Santana's - brushes against her clit, and Santana comes undone, her body shuddering violently around her own fingers. They feel like Brittany's.
Instinctively, Santana reaches for Brittany, and the blonde scoots closer to let Santana bury her face into the crook of her neck. Brittany still smells like sweat, but now so does Santana, and they both smell like they'd had sex.
"Holy shit, Brittany," Santana manages to croak, hips bucking as she rides herself down.
Brittany's movements slow to a stop, but she doesn't loosen her grip around Santana's hand. Santana's body slackens, gratifyingly spent. As gently as she'd pushed them in, Brittany pulls Santana's fingers out, and Santana whimpers-she fucking whimpers.
"See?" Brittany murmurs with a small but proud smile. "I told you."
--
Brittany and Santana spend the rest of the summer having not-sex. It's better than any sex Santana's ever had, even when Puck's batteries are working.
She tears Puck a new one for pulling that stunt, by the way. Calls him an asshole and everything. Makes it look good. It manages to guilt-trip Puck into trying harder, which is great and all, but he's still not as good as Brittany's hand guiding hers.
Which is kind of messed up, but whatever. She gets it enough from Brittany to not give a shit how hard Puck tries. It's kind of like eating steak nearly every damn night, and being served meatballs for lunch two or three times a week. Most people would eat the meatballs anyway, and they wouldn't even care if some days, the meatballs are a little stale, or undercooked, or otherwise unsatisfactory, because there'll always be steak later, and let it be understood: it's some damn delicious steak. All in the perspective, really.
What she's doing with Brittany, it's not really sex. It's like… assisted masturbation. There's a difference. If two people are sharing a plate of nachos, that's eating. But if one person is holding another person's hand, helping him move it back and forth between the plate and his mouth, that's assisted eating.
The really weird part is that most of the time, Santana prefers feeding over eating. The nachos are good and everything, but watching someone else eat nachos is even better.
Shit, Santana is hungry, and this analogy is getting way out of hand.
What she means is this: when she has her hand on Brittany's, guiding her, and Brittany is making breathy little sounds and looking at her with smoky blue eyes like she's the only person in the whole damn world who matters, it makes Santana feel good. Like, feel good feel good, even though it's supposed to be about Brittany, so that's kind of confusing.
Brittany… she likes to embellish. She probably doesn't even do it on purpose, but when she's close, she'll grab Santana's shoulder, or play with her hair, or palm one of Santana's boobs just because she can. And Santana is a total sucker for stuff like that, so she reacts to it. She'll plant a trail of kisses along Brittany's neck, or press their foreheads together, or trap one of Brittany's legs between her own. Because she wants it to be good for Brittany, and knowing Brittany's generosity, the feeling is almost certainly mutual.
By the end of summer, the assisted masturbation thing is happening at the same time. So like, Santana assists Brittany, and Brittany assists Santana, except, simultaneously.
It's a messy tangle of limbs the first time, but with practice, they get pretty efficient at it. Initially, saved time is cited as a reason, but it quickly becomes obvious that they both prefer just doing it twice as many times, which, you know, is still a pretty good reason.
Santana doesn't even try to argue that it's mutual assisted masturbation, or some dumb shit like that. She's not in denial or anything.
Santana Lopez is having sex with her best friend.
What they do is far from conventional, but it's not like, anal, so whatever.
They never really talk about what it means. It just becomes another thing the two of them do together, like cheerleading, or the pinky thing.
--
Santana joins Glee during sophomore year because of Quinn. Stupid bitch. If she'd just let Finn touch her boobs under the bra or something, she wouldn't have to worry about him running off with some ankle-biter with a nose the size of a small African country.
But no. Quinn has to go and be the only person in the celibacy club who is actually celibate. Other than Finn, but he's a dumbass too. Santana only joins because Brittany does, and Santana's pretty sure Brittany only joins because she thinks it's a club for famous people.
So because of Quinn's refusal to put out and Coach Sylvester's hatred of curly metrosexual hair, Santana gets roped into the second gayest thing in the entire school. The first is that kid who Puck tosses into the dumpsters every morning. She's pretty sure he's in Glee too, which only proves her point. Glee Club is like, super gay.
At first, the only thing that makes everything worth it is Brittany's dancing. Santana had always thought that all those times Brittany snuck off with Mike was a bigger waste of time than trying to remove one of Quinn's ten chastity belts, but the first time she sees Brittany dance? Santana's heart does a little flip, and what the hell. They'd done a ton of choreography for Cheerios, and yeah, Brittany can move, but Santana's never seen Brittany move quite like that. It's all in the hips, or something.
It just gives Santana more fodder for when they're together, not that she needs it. Brittany does plenty enough to work her up, and Santana comes just fine without the image of Brittany thrusting her hips to the beat and twirling all around the room and making Santana feel like she's caught in a fucking cyclone.
What starts out as a way to stay in Coach Sylvester's good graces quickly becomes an excuse to watch Brittany dance. And the performing thing turns out to be kind of fun. Santana's awesome at it too, not that that's a surprise.
What is a surprise: Quinn gets knocked up.
The irony there is thicker than that crap Mr. Schuester puts in his hair. Quinn, the president of that dumbass celibacy club. Ho-ly shit, best news of Santana's life.
Or it is until one afternoon, a few days after Coach Sylvester finally kicks Quinn off the Cheerios. Santana is at Puck's, and they're messing around some on his couch, but Puck's not really into it. He hasn't been into it for like, two weeks, which is okay because she's got Brittany, but she doesn't want to be losing her touch with the dick or anything.
Santana shoves Puck a little. "What's the matter with you?"
Puck absentmindedly palms Santana's thigh. "Nothing, babe."
She pushes his hand away. "You're tighter than Quinn Fabray's ass right now." Puck raises an eyebrow at that, and Santana makes a face. "Don't be gross."
"It's just-" Puck sighs and leans back a little against the couch. "This conversation doesn't leave this room, got it?"
"You know me."
Puck runs a hand through his mohawk. "This whole baby business-it's totally messing with my head. All Finn ever does is whine like a little bitch, like that's going to help pay the hospital bills. I'm sick of it. He needs to man up and find a way to take care of Quinn and the baby."
Santana rolls her eyes. "Have you met the Fabrays? They're uptight as hell. As soon as they get their heads out of their liquor cabinet long enough to figure out that it's not the drier's fault Quinn can't fit into any of her pants anymore, they're going to hold a shotgun to that doofus Finn's head and force him to get hitched to their precious little snowflake. Then you won't have to lose sleep over this stupid shit."
Puck clutches his head. "The baby's not even Finn's," he exhales.
"What?"
Puck sits up so suddenly that Santana nearly slides off his lap. "I said, I'm the one who knocked Quinn up."
Santana only stares. "Well shit, Puck."
"But Quinn thinks Finn'll be a better dad than me," Puck continues. "It's bullshit!"
"You got Quinn pregnant?" Santana's head actually starts to spin a little. "Are you a fucking idiot?"
"I didn't mean to!"
"I am about to clock you in the face," Santana fumes.
"Look, I'm sorry I messed around on you or whatever, okay? But I kind of have bigger problems here."
"I'm not pissed about that," Santana dismisses, which is actually mostly true. She's pissed that it's Quinn, always getting up in her shit, but at this point, she and Puck share an understanding about the nature of their relationship. That doesn't change. Santana's just not stupid enough to let Matt or whoever knock her up. "I'm pissed," she continues, "because you royally fucked up and now you're going to be tied to Fabray for the rest of your life." She stares at Puck. "Well, what the hell are you going to do?"
"I don't fucking know."
Santana curses, trying to sort everything out in her head. "Maybe you should just let the stupid bitch convince Finn it's his. That way, neither of us has to deal with her shit."
"It's my kid," Puck emphasizes, indignant. To Santana's surprise, Puck actually deflates. "I don't want to be a deadbeat dad."
There's something about Puck. Like yeah, he's always going on about wanting snatch and fooling around with milfs, but Santana's convinced he's actually a pretty decent guy. Not that he should be responsible for a kid's life, but then neither should Finnkenstein, and she's pissed on Puck's behalf that Quinn would lie about that. It's way messed up.
Santana stops having sex with Puck, which has been totally mediocre anyway, and Puck cools his Puckasaurus act for a little while to prove to Quinn that he'd be a good dad. Santana's decent-guy theory? Actually pans out a little. And anyway, there's no way Quinn's going to pick Puck unless Finn jams his toe into his brain trying to dance or something, so Santana doesn't interfere.
She does tell Brittany though, because she tells Brittany everything.
Brittany's reaction is, "I miss Quinn."
Santana rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well, I don't."
"She didn't mean to steal your boyfriend," Brittany offers.
"Why does everyone think that's why I'm pissed? Puck and I aren't even dating."
"Would you be mad," Brittany asks thoughtfully, "if I had sex with Quinn?"
Santana snorts. "Yeah, right. She'd probably whine the whole time about her back being sore or her baby falling out."
"Would you though?" Brittany presses.
"Sleep with Quinn?" Santana asks, her face knitting up in disgust.
Brittany smiles. "No, be mad if I did."
Santana considers it for a moment. Hell yeah, she'd be furious. She doesn't really want to think about Brittany sleeping with anyone, but least of all Quinn. Santana's protective of Brittany, just like she's protective of Puck, but it's a different kind of anger that boils inside her when she thinks about Brittany with someone else. It's a rage born out of a desire to keep Brittany hers, and only hers. Thinking about stuff like that only makes Santana's chest hurt though, so she stops doing it.
"Yeah, I guess I'd probably be mad if you slept with Quinn," Santana finally answers.
Brittany gives her a pointed look. "There you go," she says with a proud smile, like she's just figured out the meaning of life. "You're mad because Quinn slept with Puck while you were also sleeping with Puck."
"It's not like that, Britt. Maybe at the beginning we tried to make it work, but Puck is still Puck, you know? We're in high school. Sex with him is just that: sex. Frankly, I'd rather drag him around and beat up some dweebs with him. He's got a killer left hook."
Brittany blinks. "If you're not mad that Puck slept with Quinn, why would you be mad if I did?"
"It's different with you," Santana explains, feeling a little foolish for the way her pulse picks up. "You're… a girl," she adds lamely.
"So's Quinn," Brittany points out.
"Exactly, so she can't knock you up," Santana hand-waves, her cheeks hot. "Look, I'm mad because Quinn's been lying through her teeth since day one. That's all."
Brittany is quiet for a moment, then, "We've been friends with Quinn for a long time. Since the first day of middle school, remember?"
"No, you've been friends with her since the first day of middle school," Santana amends. "I only started talking to her last year because she made captain of the Cheerios. I hated her guts. You know that."
Brittany tilts her head. "San, she probably really needs a friend right now."
"What she needs is looser pants and a visit to the sterilization clinic," Santana quips, deflecting.
"We can take her shopping for new clothes," Brittany suggests, working around Santana's malice.
Santana sighs. "No, okay, Britt? I wasn't her friend before and I don't want to be her friend now."
Brittany resigns. Actually, it's more like Brittany gets distracted by a bird flying past Santana's window, but she doesn't bring up Quinn again for the rest of the night, so Santana counts it as a victory.
--
Sectionals is approaching, and Mr. Schuester pairs the members of Glee up and makes them sing ballads to each other.
Puck gets Mercedes, not that it makes a difference. Santana's pretty sure Puck would find a way to slack off even if he's paired with Neil Diamond himself.
Artie gets Quinn. Santana cannot wait.
Finn gets Kurt. She doesn't even bother stifling her laughter. Fucking priceless.
Tina gets Mike, and isn't that like, incest? (She learns much later that they're not actually related, but Santana pretty much spends three quarters of her high school life thinking they're half-siblings or cousins or something. All Asians look the same to her.)
Santana pulls Brittany's name out of Mr. Schue's hat, and she's pretty pleased about that. Because Rachel and Mr. Schue are the only other options, and honestly, she'd rip out her own throat before she'd sing a love song to Rachel fucking Berry.
That night, Santana shuffles through her iTunes library with Brittany over her shoulder.
"Can we sing Britney Spears? She has like, a ton of ballads."
Santana's reply is a firm, "No."
Brittany nuzzles into Santana's neck. "Why not?"
"Because all she does is sing about being dumped. It's depressing."
"What about I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman? That's my favorite."
"That one just makes us sound like trannies."
They end up choosing Aerosmith's I Don't Want to Miss a Thing. Or Santana does, and Brittany will pretty much agree to anything that Santana wants. It's kind of comforting.
And here's the thing. Santana's got a decent voice. She's not into belting out show tunes, and she doesn't spend every waking moment of her life vomiting music notes out of her mouth like some people, but she can totally take, say… Quinn in a sing-off, if that weren't like, completely lame.
So when she opens her mouth and the sound carries across the room without eleven other voices layered over it, she actually holds her own. It seems to excite Brittany, but then again, a lot of things excite Brittany. Santana's still pleased.
They practice a bit, make out a little - okay, a lot - and when they finally climb into bed hours later, Brittany is still humming the tune. She starts affectionately playing with Santana's hair.
"You've got a really pretty voice, you know," Brittany says, pressing a kiss to Santana's throat.
Santana tilts her head. "You think so?"
"Yeah," Brittany nods, eyes earnest. "You should ask Mr. Schue to give you a solo."
Santana grimaces. "No way."
"Why not?" Brittany asks quietly.
Santana rolls her eyes. "Because singing lead in a show choir is for queers."
"We sing," Brittany points out.
"Yeah, background," Santana counters. "That's different. I'm not interested in making a fool of myself like Man-Hands."
"She sounds good though." Brittany's shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. "I'm just saying, Santana. You sound really good too."
"I'll think about it, okay?" Santana promises.
"Okay." Brittany smiles. "Will you sing to me?"
And Santana cannot ever say no to Brittany when she's lying there all genuine and sweet and crazy beautiful, so Santana takes a breath and hits the notes as well as she can.
"Don't want to close my eyes; don't want to fall asleep, 'cause I'd miss you, babe, and I don't want to miss a thing…"
Brittany watches her the whole time, looking all thrilled and impressed. Santana thinks she probably wears a similar expression herself when she watches Brittany dance.
They don't actually end up getting to perform their ballad, because Finn and Quinn need their support, which, ugh, Santana kind of seethes at the idea. She doesn't get it. Puck spills to Mercedes, and Mercedes blabs to Kurt and Tina, and Artie finds out too - probably by being attached to Tina's hip - and none of them thinks Finn deserves to know the truth. What the hell? Santana keeps her mouth shut because Puck had asked her to and her loyalties are with him, but she'd always figured as soon as one of the others finds out, the shit'd hit the fan.
But no. They decide to sing, like that'll magically make Quinn's baby not pop out with a giant Jew nose.
Santana only puts on a smile because Brittany asks her to be nice.
Part 2