Title: Innocent: Diversionary Tactics
Pairing: Brittany Pierce/Santana Lopez (Glee)
Rating: MA for coarse language and sexual situations

Summary:"'Santana,' you murmur teasingly. 'If I'm going to have a Super Bowl snack, it should be while I'm learning about the Super Bowl itself, right'" Companion piece to Innocent. M for coarse language and sexual themes. One-shot.

Disclaimer: Glee and all related characters are owned by Fox Networks. No profit has been made through the publishing of this work of fiction; it was created for entertainment purposes only.

A/N: My HORRIBLY LATE contribution to the brilliant Swinging Cloud's Super Bowl Brittana smutacular. Sorry it took so long to get it up (wanky).

A quick note for the diehard football fans - in honor of Cloud, who requested this fic in exchange for the utterly fantastic Super Bowl one-shot she wrote (Dark Horse - go read it if you haven't . It's awesome and hot as hell), this is an AU in more than just one sense, so don't freak out. I'm well aware that the New York Jets haven't been in the Super Bowl in a long time, but they're Cloud's favorite team, and since the whole Innocent 'verse is entirely her fault, they're Santana's favorite team too. And for the purposes of this fic, not awful. Also, my knowledge of football is rudimentary at best, so if you see any mistakes among the sports related details, feel free to let me know. Just be advised that I generally couldn't care less most of the time.

Enjoy!

"Oh, there it is. Yeah, there it is."

"Santana."

"So close. So fucking close."

"Santana."

"Just a little more baby, come on."

"Santana, honey, you pinching my fingers isn't going to make this easier."

"God, sorry babe-oh, that's it. Fuck, that's it! Yes yes YES Y- NO, GODDAMMIT. SO FUCKING CLOSE!"

You sigh regretfully and pull your hand away, flexing your cramped fingers and wincing when the knuckles pop. You kind of wish you'd known about Santana's habit of clutching whatever's in her hand when she gets excited. It's cute, in its own way, but not when she's all but breaking your hand while she yells at a bunch of giant men smashing into each other on TV all afternoon.

Although, the things she yells have you almost chewing through your bottom lip in an effort not to laugh out loud. She just sounds so dirty sometimes. And she doesn't even notice. It's pretty funny. And a little bit hot, if only because some of the things she says sound familiar. Like, last night at the top of her lungs familiar.

You stare at the TV screen, watching but not really understanding what's going on, a loopy grin on your face. You were kind of shocked when Santana had told you how excited she was for the Superbowl this year. Your dad has always been really into it but hadn't ever tried to get you involved, so you'd just kind of assumed it was more of a guy thing, honestly. But then Santana had started going on about how she was so excited to finally have a reason not to go to her awful coworkers' party (you're still not sure if she meant the coworkers or the party, but from what you've seen the other officers, you're willing to bet it's both), and you had realized that a change of thinking was in order.

Wanting your first Super Bowl together to be as special as possible, you'd decided to go all out and get Santana a jersey for her favorite player on her favorite team. Getting that information out of her without arousing her suspicion had been adorably easy. Excited, rambling Santana is very nearly the most cavity-causing level of sweetness you've witnessed in all 21 years of your existence. And you've seen every odd animal couple Youtube has to offer. Including the tiger with the piglets. Olympic levels of sweet, basically, but she tops 'em.

Great. Now you're thinking about Santana topping things. Topping you. Oh God.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now? How the fuck can it be a safety if NO ONE HAS FUCKING POSSESSION OF THE FUCKING BALL YOU FUCKING SHITDICK."

Okay, so maybe some parts of excited Santana are a little...rougher than you're used to. It's still kind of sweet though, in a loud and shockingly verbally abusive kind of way. You've only been together officially for about five months, so you know you haven't seen all there is of Santana's personality. You guess you just weren't prepared for this particular side.

You watch her fondly as she clutches at her jersey in frustration and growls wordlessly at the TV screen. It had been a little disappointing (and embarrassing) when you had shown up at her apartment this morning holding up a customized forest green jersey with LOPEZ emblazoned on its back, only to find her wearing a No. 31 jersey. She'd very kindly explained that it was the number of her favorite player, Antonio Cromartie, and turned to show the pristine white CROMARTIE stamped across her shoulders.

Pretending a huff, you'd pouted as fiercely as you could and told her you'd just have to wear it yourself so it wouldn't feel underappreciated. You had meant it as a joke to tease her and comer your own embarrassment, but her eyes had darkened in a way that had set your heart racing and all the moisture in your mouth relocating much lower.

You would have changed shirts right there on her doorstep if you hadn't been so busy falling into a bruising kiss.

"Oh my God, are they buttering the fucking ball between downs? Jesus, get a grip you monkeys!"

You're shaken from your daydreaming by a loud clatter, followed immediately by a stream of particularly bad language.

"Oh shit, Britt, I'm so sorry. Fuck, I'm such an idiot. Oh God, your shoes- and your pants too! I-"

"Santana."

She stops and looks up from where she's kneeling on the floor, patting ineffectually at your beer splattered jeans.

"It's fine, honey. I'll just borrow some of your sweats."

She hauls herself up and sags into the couch, smiling ruefully at you. You set the mostly empty beer bottle on her coffee table, kiss her on the cheek, and head into her bedroom to change. As you walk into her room you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, grinning at the partly visible LOPEZ across your shoulders. You have to admit, it kind of turns you on too. Like you're officially hers - in a not-human-slavery kind of way, obviously.

You toe off your socks and shoes and shuck your pants, smirking at your boyshorts in the mirror. You might have bought them for the express reason that they match the green of Santana's (your) jersey perfectly - complete with white trimming to echo the letters and numbers.

A violent shout comes from the living room and you roll your eyes. You really just don't understand what the big deal about football is. And you could ask Santana to explain, but you're pretty sure she wouldn't get more than two sentences in before she got lost in the game again.

The thought that you could probably get away with just about anything right now pops into your head, and suddenly you're grinning hugely at your reflection. This is gonna be good.

Composing yourself, you walk back out into the living room, making sure to walk right in front of the TV as you pass into the kitchen. The sputtering sound that follows you as you walk by is ridiculously satisfying. Grabbing a couple paper towels, you pace slowly back into the living room, adding an extra switch to your hips as you move.

Wordlessly you drop to your knees in front of Santana's spread legs. You keep your eyes on the carpet as you soak up the few remaining droplets of spilled beer from the carpet.

"Um, Britt?"

Don't smile, don't smile, don't smile.

"Mhmm?"

"You uh...you forgetting something?"

Biting your lip against a laugh, you glance up at your girlfriend through your lashes.

"Nope."

She stares down at you and bites her own lip in reaction.

"Oh. 'Kay." Her eyes flicker between you and the screen, finally sticking on the game. Bingo. Time for step two.

"Hey Santana?"

"Yeah babe."

You lean forward so that you're on all fours, still pretending to sop up spilt beer. You glance up just in time to see Santana's eyes flit back to the screen.

She was totally checking out your ass. Awesome.

"Can you explain the game to me? My dad always watches football, but he couldn't ever really break it down so that I could understand."

"Um." Her voice cracks and you worry that you might just bite through your lip at this point, just to keep from laughing. She clears her throat and starts again, and the roughness in her voice tells you that you've got her right where you want her. "Yeah. Yeah sure, Britt. N-no problem."

You crawl forward a couple inches so that your body is directly between her legs, and rock back and forth as you 'clean' so that your ass is rubbing against her shin.

"Um, so there uh, there are four quarters to a game, obviously, and each - fuck, take him down! C'mon!"

You use the short distraction as an opportunity to rock back up onto your knees and face Santana directly, completely unnoticed. You start wiping the couch cushion between her thighs, moving steadily inwards toward her crotch with slow, even strokes. You know you've got her attention again when you hear a gasp and her legs tense on either side of you.

"Britt…?"

"Keep going, I'm still listening."

"Right, football. Uhm, so the offensive team has to get the ball to the defensive team's end zone."

"Where the big tuning fork thing is?"

She laughs and smacks your shoulder affectionately.

"Exactly. So - dammit, get rid of the fucking- THANK YOU!"

"Lift, honey."

She blinks and stares at you blankly. You tap her thigh.

"Lift up a little, you got some beer on the cushion."

She shifts awkwardly in her seat, eyes still burning into you. You don't think she's caught onto your secret motives yet, so you give her an innocent smile and wave the crumpled towels towards her lap.

Bracing her arms on the back of the couch, she slowly raises her butt so that it's hovering a few inches over the couch seat.

There's just enough room for you to fit your fist under her, so you rub the towel across the perfectly dry fabric of the couch, your knuckles brushing lightly against the backsides of her thighs. you're very careful not to touch her center.

"So...yeah, so the offensive team has four chances to move the ball forward 10 yards."

"Those are the downs, right," you ask absently. You remember that much, and you figure you'll get away with more if you play along a little longer.

"Yeah. Each down-"

"Down."

"That's what I said. Each-"

You grin now, amused by her confused exasperation. "No, I mean you can go down for me now."

She snaps her attention back to you, eyes wide. "What?"

This is almost too easy. "You can sit back down now." You tilt your head and pull your best confused look at her.

"Oh." Her face falls a little, and it's so cute you just have to chuckle a little. "Right."

"So, downs?"

"Huh?"

You frown and squeeze gently on her knee. "You don't have to explain it all if I'm interrupting your watching and stuff. I just thought it'd be more fun if we both knew what was going on, y'know?"

"What? I- no, Brittany, that's not-" she cuts herself off with a sigh, and she looks so frustrated and adorable and flustered you almost can't stand it.

There's this weird curling sensation that happens in your chest and tummy every time she gets like this. Like the little crease between her eyebrows and the way her lips squish together like a cartoon kiss are taking all the love and happiness and hot feelings in you and winding them around and around inside until you feel like you might explode.

"What are you grinning at?"

The defensive question breaks your little bubble and you feel your smile falter until you see that Santana is fighting a grin herself.

"Your face."

"What about it?"

"It's my favorite, that's all."

She sighs and her expression softens into one of gentle affection, and it makes the twisty feelings get even tighter. "Brittany…" she breathes.

"Alright, ya big goof. Stop distracting me from my cleaning and keep talking."

She snorts and starts explaining again, once more totally involved in football. Time for step three.

Nodding pleasantly, you start pressing the paper towels against her left thigh, slowly working your way up. You're so focused on your pointless cleaning that you don't realize just how far you've gotten until your concentration is broken by Santana shouting shrilly.

"Brittany!"

Caught completely by surprise, you rock back and stare up at her round-eyed.

"Sorry, I just- what exactly are you doing?"

You look down at your hand and realize that your fingertips are barely millimeters from brushing against her fly. Oops.

You huff in fake irritation and give your best scowl. "You got beer everywhere Santana. I was just trying to wipe it up. Just take your pants off if I'm bothering you that much."

She gapes at you for a minute before rolling her eyes and giving a huff of her own. "Fine," she growls, and yanks her fly open, lifting her hips to shove her pants down her legs. You lean back and pull them off the rest of the way for her, smirking when her legs immediately fall back open on either side of you.

You can't help it, your eyes immediately zero in on her panties, and the gasp you let out at seeing the small damp spot on them is completely genuine. She she shifts uncomfortably again, and you look up at her slyly, tossing her jeans over your shoulder carelessly.

"Um..I uh...Just with the jersey, and my name...and then your shorts…"

God it's so cute when she rambles. "Santana."

"Y-yeah?"

You move the hand still clutching the paper towels towards her center. "Did you spill some beer down your front or something? Your panties are all wet."

"What? No, Brittany I- ooohh…" She moans low in her throat when you make contact, pressing hard against the damp patch. So hot.

"Mmm, Santana, these panties are soaked. We'd better take them off so they don't stain." Without waiting for a response, you toss the paper towels aside and hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear, yanking them down quickly when she lifts her hips. You lean back just long enough to rip them off her legs, and then they're chucked in the same direction as her pants.

Starting at her hips, you slide your hands down her thighs before hooking your fingers behind her knees and tugging them past your shoulders. Santana grunts her hips lurch forward, and her arms fly up to brace along the back of the couch again.

You run your palms back up her thighs again, until they're planted on either side of her glistening cunt. Then you stop.

"Britt?"

You look up at her and swallow hard when you see dark, hooded eyes staring back at you. She tilts her head at you questioningly, and you grin cheekily in response.

"You were telling me about football."

She blinks confusedly for a few seconds, and then her eyes narrow as she catches on to your meaning. "Fuck."

"Santana," you murmur teasingly. "If I'm going to have a Super Bowl snack, it should be while I'm learning about the Super Bowl itself, right?"

"God, Brittany Pierce, you are evil."

"Get your head in the game, Lopez."

She snorts and shifts her ass forward slightly before continuing. "Christ. Alright, so the offensive team ha-ah! Oh God! Um, they have four chances to move the ball ten yards, and if they ma-aaah m-manage that then they get four new downs. Oh God, yes!"

You continue licking slowly at her wetness, humming every once and awhile to show you're still listening. Every time she stutters or moans mid word you reach up suck briefly on her clit, and it doesn't take long at all before her thigh muscles are clenching and quivering under your hands.

"Uhm, if- fuck! If the team with the ball doesn't get the ball at least ten yaaaahh God! Ten yards down the field - oh fuck, left, lick to the left." You follow her direction, letting your tongue strokes go deeper and longer. "God, right there, don't stop."

You grin and nip at her lips. "You don't stop."

"Christ, you evil fucking genius." She glares down at you as you start up with feather light licks that you know aren't doing it for her anymore. You cock an eyebrow at her expectantly.

"Jesus. Alright, um, to score- OH FUCK BRITTANY YES!"

At the word, score you redouble your efforts, and add two fingers, slamming them into her and twisting roughly inside. The game was fun, but you're over it. You want to see you girlfriend come, and you want to see it now. Keeping your eyes fixed on her face, you stop licking completely and instead secure your lips around her clit and suck. Hard.

Santana squeals and reaches down to dig the fingers of both hands into your hair, clenching tightly. You moan a little at the sensation - hair pulling is kind of your weakness - and add a third finger.

"Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God! Yes baby, just like that. Fuck me! Oh fuck!"

You suck roughly at her clit before releasing it with a loud pop. "You like that, honey? You gonna come for me?"

Her eyes roll back in her head as it drops back against the couch. "So close. So fucking close."

You grin at her unconscious echoing of herself and pump harder, ignoring the ache that's starting to grow in your neck from holding yourself in this awkward angle. "You're so hot like this Santana, you have no idea. I'm so wet right now, just watching you."

Her legs have started shaking harder and her fists are almost painful in your hair, but she's so incredibly sexy like this, falling apart in front of you, that you barely even notice it. You can tell she's close, and you know exactly what she needs to lose it all.

"Santana," you pant, and you slow your fingers a little until she rolls her head forward to meet your gaze. "I want you to watch me as I make you come." You reattach your lips to her clit and start sucking furiously again.

She moans and and her eyes flutter, but she manages to keep them open, and the searing heat in them pulls an answering groan from you. When you feel her cunt clench around your fingers, you know it's time. Peeling your lips back, you catch the pulsing bud between your teeth and gently tug, flicking the tip with your tongue.

She comes with a scream, her whole body going taut against you. You keep fucking her through it, slowing gradually until the tight grip around your fingers loosens enough for you to pull your cramped fingers free.

You sit back with a satisfied grin, watching as she trembles with the force of her aftershocks, until finally she collapses bonelessly against the couch. After a few minutes, she slowly opens her eyes and grins at you lazily. "Wh-what?"

Your grin widens as you roll your neck, groaning at the loud pops that come from the action. Careful not to touch her still pulsing center, you climb up to straddle her lap.

"I think that was a pretty solid home run," you whisper teasingly, delighting in the full belly laugh that erupts from her.

As she catches her breath, she reaches up to wrap her right arm around your waist while her left hand scratches gently down your tummy.

"C'mere you," she mumbles. You rest your forehead against her, giggling when she hushes against your lips, "I'm gonna score a touchdown on you now, you minx."

You grin into the kiss. "Score."