NA: So much positive feedback! Thank you to everyone who added this to their alerts or left a review. It means the world! I'll continue writing with this style until the end of this fic, for those who asked. I'm liking to blur the lines between words and action and make everything fast-paced and ininterrupt.
Also, on a side note, I'm curious: is anyone getting the music references I've been making since chapter one?
04
"Oh no you didn't," Quinn looks at her over her mug of coffee, staring at her with mock and disbelief. It's been a week since the party and it's the first time they get to meet and talk about the happenings. Santana sighs. She has this crazy logic, she tries to explain, so it's impossible to disagree. Quinn laughs, stopping only to ask, "So she's that good in bed, huh?" Santana hides her face in her hands in frustration. Bitch.
"And she doesn't take no as an answer," Santana says. "I try to dump her the next morning but she makes me breakfast and kisses me. She takes my phone without asking just to add her number to my agenda. She uses my clothes!" Santana grumbles and throws herself on the bed, defeated. "I don't know what to do with her. Did I tell you what she did the other day? She got out of a dinner party, took the leftovers and showed up at my place, just like that!'
Quinn lifts one eyebrow. "I bet you ate it and had sex afterwards," she says. Santana doesn't answer, because it is the truth. Quinn puts her mug aside and enters the bathroom to brush her teeth, pausing solely to tell Santana she's whipped. "You're her secret love affair, Lopez."
Santana rolls her eyes and waits for her friend to leave the bathroom before continuing. "Talking about secret love affairs, what about yours?" She demands, because Quinn is wearing a baby blue dress she just bought, high heels, and she's going through her makeup like her life depends on it. "By the way," she continues, "you look like a Republican Daddy's Girl." Quinn dismisses her with a wave and finds her blush. "My father is a Republican and I am a Daddy's girl, Santana," she says as she looks at herself in the mirror in the search for an imaginary flaw. "And I go to Law School, what implies that I dress impeccably and conservatively."
Santana agrees on that one, asking herself how come Quinn's parents managed to produce a Fabray like her best friend, who had gotten pregnant at 16 and given up the baby, who had a lesbian best friend, and who had stole liquor from her father's cabinet so many times Santana still wonders whether they had a silent pact she was never told or if her father was just stupid. Quinn tries to balance it out, of course, as she's thirsty for Daddy to accept her since he threw her out and then accepted her back. So she goes to Law School, has impeccable grades, and presents a nice guy from a nice family to her mother every once in a while.
"Stop being so neurotic, you look great," Santana says in all honesty. Quinn applies her mascara as she disagrees, stating that make up is a girl's best friend. Santana rolls her eyes again before answering, "God you're such a lipstick lesbian." Quinn gives her a stare. "I'm not a lesbian," she says, and "I'm not telling you anything because you'll laugh and make fun of everything and be all over Facebook. I don't even know if this is going to last long enough to be worth the effort, okay?" Santana decides to leave her to it.
It's a Saturday night, but she's not in the mood for partying. So, when she leaves Quinn's, she decides to settle for ordering in and painting. Two possible buyers are going to take a look at her work the following week, and the more she had to show, more things they could want to buy, right? She puts on her painting overall, a grey shirt, and takes her things. It's the first time she holds a brush after the party, and the result has a vague resemblance to a woman's body, lying on a bed. Smooth lines of a feminine back and long locks of hair are perceptible to the trained eye among the various tone of red, beige and black. Santana doesn't realize it.
She loses track of time, as usual, until her doorbell disturbs her and almost makes her ruin the canvas with the scared-y jump she takes. She opens the door and it's Brittany, of course, because who else would show up unannounced in her house. Santana is dirty, probably a little sweaty, and still holding her brush. She frowns, because she doesn't want to be seen that way and she isn't ready to show her work to Unstoppable Blonde.
Brittany disarms her once again, kissing the bridge of her nose and asking if she could come in. Santana sighs but opens the door. Brittany throws herself on the couch, and only then Santana notices Bombshell is wearing black pants and a black shirt that insinuates the perfect amount of cleavage. She puts her brush aside and kneels in front of Blonde, hands on her thighs. "Brittany, she says, you can't just show up like this. I need a warning, a phone call, because I might be busy, or just feeling like being by myself, and I need to have the chance of saying no. I'm painting tonight, so I really don't want to go out to do anything. I don't like being watched as I paint."
She's irritated when she says that. She expects an argument, a discussion, a disagreement, but Brittany just nods and looks to the ground, playing with her own fingers. "I'm sorry," she says, "I just thought it is a Saturday night and we hadn't seen each other in days." Annoyance dissipates into thin air when Santana realizes Hurricane Blonde looks like a kicked puppy, and she squeezes Brittany's thighs. "Hey, don't give me that look," she says, looking into her eyes. "You make me sound like Cruella de Vil."
Brittany laughs softly and says she'll leave Santana alone and maybe come back another day, but Santana can't stand the look of shame and disappointment and kisses Brittany. She earns that sigh she's growing used to, and long, pale arms wrapping loosely around her neck. "Not fair," Blonde answers with a smile, you stole that kiss. Santana pulls close, so that their bodies are touching and says, "Oh well, give me one, then."
Blonde does give in, lips parting willingly when Santana demands entrance, tongue sweeping to taste her. Bombshell sighs, legs wrapping around Santana to pull her even closer. Santana groans, hands sneaking under clothing to feel a strong back. She remembers for a second she should go back to painting, but then her lower lip is being bitten and pulled and God this woman is so distracting and how can Santana even breathe?
"You should paint," Hurricane Blonde whispers, lips hovering above Santana's. Santana nods and begins to kiss Brittany's neck. "I should," she agrees, shifting positions so she lies down on top of Blondie. "This is not painting," Endless Legs says but tilts her neck anyway, legs stretching over Santana. "It isn't," Santana agrees, moving her hips against Brittany's and getting scratches in response. "We totally should get naked," Blonde says, pulling Santana in for a kiss so long and intense she feels dizzy afterwards.
They look at each other for a moment. Santana likes the sight of swollen lips, erratic breathing and wild yellow hair. There is something about Brittany, about her unapologetic ways and stunning figure, that she can't quite put into words. "You're a great kisser," Brittany says. "No, you are," Santana answers. She is smiling when she takes Brittany's hand and takes her to the bedroom, where that storm of a woman strips for her. First the blouse, and Santana's eyes go from her shoulder line to her perfect breasts to her sculptural abs, never settling because Brittany is one to be devoured whole. Second, the pants reach the floor and Santana's mouth go dry in admiration of legs that are so long it cannot be real. Stormy Weather Blonde cannot be real, so she stretches a hand to touch that skin and pull her close.
Blonde complies, pushing Santana back on the mattress. That woman is inexplicably as good in turning tables and getting her way as she is in bowing to Santana's requests, and Santana has given up understanding for now. "Baby, won't you please run your fingers through my hair?" Brittany hums as she takes Santana's clothes off. "Can't you see that we're wasting time?" She murmurs contentedly when the both are in underwear. Her gaze over Santana leaves her hot and bothered, hand running through tanned skin just for the sake of admiration and build up. Every girl and boy needs a little joy, Santana answers as she turns Blonde Dancer over. They kiss, unrushed, hips rolling on their own, tiny moans escaping their throats. "Take me," Brittany begs, and this time Santana complies.
Brittany's fast asleep in her post orgasm nap when Santana gets up, puts on a dress shirt and goes back to the canvas, a lot more satisfied than before. The result is equally powerful in its dark, rich green and grey, but is not quite so aggressive as her previous work. She looks at the blonde to find her completely naked, sheets tangled at her legs. Santana surely doesn't mind the view.