A/N: This is my first delve into the smut side of things.
Based off this prompt: Sue Sylvester has finally retired from McKinley, leaving one of her former star cheerleaders as the new head coach, Brittany S. Pierce.
Brittany's just moved back to Lima after several years of starring in music videos and dancing backup for superstars in world tours, and freshman Cheerio Santana couldn't be more eager to get close to the new coach. She's hot, she's sexy, she's successful, and Santana isn't shy about doing anything she can to beat out her classmate, Quinn, for the captainship next year.
Santana flirts with Brittany for several weeks, but doesn't get anywhere. Finally, she invites herself into Brittany's office, kneels in front of her, and asks Britt if she's available for some "extra practice." Britt's majorly turned on, but warns Santana that she's "different" down there.
So basically this will involve ageplay, sizekink as per request of OP, and much G!P. I've never actually written G!P before, so let me know if anything's off. Again, casting around for a Beta if anybody's willing.
Eyes narrowed into almost-slits, it's difficult to fight the onslaught of memories as she watches the mass of redwhite uniforms against the glare of the sun. Each wheezing breath and flex of muscle vibrates in her own body, phantom sweat trickling down her skin as the figures below strain to achieve better than the last practice. The megaphone is foreign in Brittany's hand but she grasps it tightly, pale tongue darting out to relieve her lips from the wet summer heat.
"Well, Pierce. I never thought I'd actually see you back in this cowtown." Coach Sylvester took off her glasses and eyed her former cheerleader with a critical mindset. The five years gone had been good to Brittany - her skin was darker, her hair thicker and her eyes brighter. From under the simple tank top she sported, one could clearly see the defined lines of sleek muscle lining her frame that rippled whenever she shifted her weight. They met gazes and her smile was just as large as she remembered - open, inviting, just a bit mischievous. The large braid slung over her shoulder shone in the bright, expensive lighting and Coach saw the absence of a ring around her finger with little surprise. She'd always been a free spirit, unable to be tied down.
In turn she perched on the edge of a plush arm chair and revelled at how, even years later and free from her oppressive grip, that icy stare still had the capability to make her uncomfortable in the strangest ways. Though her hair was lighter and her face more aged, Sue still carried with her a kind of angry power that rolled off in waves - yet now she knew better than to fight the tide. "What can I say, Coach? It's your winning personality that brought me back."
A flicker of a smile flitted over the older woman's lips before she stood up, clasping her hands behind her back and surveying her well-won trophies. Her life could be measured out in medals, polished metal that left her feeling both empty and fulfilled at once. The great Sue Sylvester had no intention of dying in the next few centuries (and if she was to be honest, whipping a bunch of sorry excuses for human beings into top-grade athletes bloated her with pride) but her repertoire was growing too expansive for her to haul around. Imelda would murder her with her eyes if she brought home another trophy for her already overflowing house.
"Why did you come back?" She was never under the illusion that Brittany would be chained here. Even if her grades were below average and she daily confused the people around her, there was a fire inside punctuated by the smoothest moving body she'd ever seen. Stadiums would get up after seeing Brittany create perfection on stage, face flushed and chest heaving with a smile that could split the stars. She even created exceptions for her (and Sue hated exceptions), like letting her avoid the weights because she'd put on way too much muscle too fast, or funding for a few pairs of expensive spanks to tuck away what hid under those seductive skirts. "Your career was taking off, and you had a good life out in New York."
Brittany shrugged and ran a finger along the crafted oak desk, remembering the polish from countless tirades endured within these walls that always ended becoming stronger than who she was the day before. She liked to think that it was because of Sue that she carried the determination others lacked, focusing through the aching pain of stretched muscles and the stares from people who never thought she'd be good enough. "I've been around the world with amazing names, amazing people. I've been blessed with some of the best five years anybody could ask for. I even got to do what I loved as a way to pay the bills. Who else can say that?"
Her razored tongue lifted but didn't speak, letting the blonde weave words into sentences like she never used to be able to."But the doctor said that if I keep going the way I do, my knee's going to give out," she stated sadly, touching her right leg almost as if it would splinter. "so I need to be careful. Giving it a few years to heal fully would let me go back instead of stopping me forever. And even though everybody just wants to get out of here, I loved being in high school and in the Cheerios." A small smirk, glint of playful blue eyes that Coach knew so well. "It gave me something to whine about."
This time Sue did snort, traced the veins littering Brittany's sun kissed skin like a roadmap. She was so much more than she ever could have hoped and it was that pride that called her at six in the morning on a Saturday, offering up something she thought she'd keep with her until the grave.
"But why me? Why not Tiffany or Karla? They had just as many wins as I did, but a bigger troupe."
Sue turned back to the window, slanting her gaze against the scorching summer sun. She'd come to think of life in terms of seasons, of birth and regrowth and ultimate death that came along with the first whispersoft sigh of a snowfall. Brittany was the breath of renewal that these hallways needed, a spring in her step and wide eyes concealing the relentless worker and unforgiving leader she knew hid underneath that once porcelain skin. "Because you were always my favourite. I knew you'd never fail me - and you never did."
And when Brittany smiled; slow, full to bursting, Sue felt just a little bit warmer herself.
"Sandra, I see you trying to shift the weight over to Quinn. You'll go back into position if you have any hope of staying on the squad." Sue had remained for a month, sculpting her into what the teenagers needed for a national win. Tryouts had already come and gone and under the old Coach's watchful eye the dancer had run them into the ground, able to sound both encouraging and brutal at once. After a final, terrifying speech that even had Brittany shrinking away in bittersweet remembrance, she had embraced her hard, wished her luck and marched out of the school as sharply as she always came. It was symbolic in a way she tried not to think about, so instead she had turned to the gawking cheerleaders and ushered them back into formation.
Brittany passes the back of her hand over her forehead and huffs into the sweltering heat, shifting her hips uncomfortably as the fabric clung to her skin. She'd forgotten how hot the Midwest got in the summer, watching how the sweat rolled off the bodies of the suffering teenagers below. They form a pyramid and her eyes are drawn to the form at the top, all tanned skin and raven hair with a jaw tense from swallowing complaints and fatigue. Instead of breaking them up she pushes away her pity and raises the megaphone, peering down with critical eyes. "Julie, straighten those arms. You're going to drop her when she jumps. Okay, Santana. Go."
Her muscles tremble slightly from the strain of constantly keeping herself upright but for a second their gazes lock and she seems to unfurl, straightening her spine and earning a strange glint that she can't decipher from so far out. Their flier was out with a broken ankle, and Brittany was quick to choose the smallest girl who didn't seem like she'd back down from a challenge. She didn't miss the triumphant smirk in Quinn's direction, however, nor the scowl that bloomed prettily across the blonde's face.
She holds her breath as every part of Santana's body seems to tense, bracing herself against the moving arms of her teammates. A flash of panic in her eyes but all of a sudden she's airborne, flipping back and twisting like she'd been taught. The technique is crude and unpolished but she sees potential for talent, hidden in the stiff locking of her joints as nothing but air brushes against the dark skin. Her arms outstretch and it seems like she eclipses the sun, face drawn into a mask that resides somewhere between exhilarated concentration and pure terror. All of a sudden it's over and she lands forcefully within the embrace of the girls below, air knocked from her lungs as her hands clench into fists to stop their shaking.
Satisfied, Brittany nods to herself and shifts again under the unrelenting sun. "Good! All of you take a break, I expect to have you back in five!"
Santana doesn't think she's ever been more tired in her life.
It's not just an exhaustion that can be pushed back after a few minutes rest. It seeps down to her bones and chews at her muscles until they tremble, squinting her eyes and slicking her skin. Regionals are on the way (according to Coach Sue, that's when they can show they're more than worthless bags of skin like the rest of the general populace) and Coach Pierce is determined to break them. She hears the answering call on each wheeze of her teammates' breaths, how the sweat has stained Quinn's hair a dark gold. Her jaw's dropped to let in air with less difficultly, never enough to appease her starving lungs. She still remembers the thrill of flying, and shudders as her muscles tense up in paralyzed excitement.
All in all, she doesn't think she'll be able to move for a week. But judging from the varying degrees of pain plastered all over these pretty faces that surround her, she isn't alone. From way up top, Pierce runs her hand through her ponytail and grimaces at the sweat that clings to her no-longer-porcelain skin, already turning a darker shade after readjusting to the sweltering Midwestern sun. She tracks the way she moves effortlessly even in her discomfort, each ripple of lean, sinuous muscle an alluring invitation. From the very first moment she stepped foot into McKinley grounds, she's had the school in her palm. The tales she's woven of Beyonce and Lady Gaga were enough to captivate the students, but it's the way she moves that speaks to the cheerleaders. It tells stories of fame and talent and determination, nights spent without sleep for just one more spin, one more jump. Her whole life has things they need in order to beat out the rest and make Coach Sylvester proud.
She's the embodiment of everything Santana wants. Popularity, money, experience. But more than anything, the chance to make it out of this town and do something with herself, never held back by the regrets she's yet to make.
Quinn jogs up to her with a flush to her cheeks; she's gorgeous in the way glass roses are beautiful - seemingly delicate, but still possessing a lethal edge. They've been friends since they've come out of the womb, trading insults and gossip that have gotten more and more acidic as they honed their craft. To the outside world it's impossible they could even exist in the same space, but somehow they make it work.
"Whatever you're thinking of, don't do it." The blonde warns, eyes sharp as she tracks the darker girl's vision. She's grown accustomed to Santana's various plots over the years, each one more scheming than the last. The way her smile pulls in - predatory, cunning - and her eyes glitter never mean anything good for anybody (but her).
Santana's fingers flex by her sides but the curl to her lips is now positively filthy, all calculating stares and a flash of bright teeth that Quinn knows all too well. "You know, Q," she drawls, voice purring over the letters. "I'm sure my high school resume would look really great if I was captain next year."
The shorter blonde frowns, glancing back up to the coach for a moment before coming back down. It's been a silent battle between them - who can push the hardest, go the farthest so that Coach Pierce would take attention to them. A captaincy at sophomore year would add a massive boost in getting out of this dead end town filled with burnt-out rockstars and babies born too early. But why bring things out in the open so they can be twisted and warped and hopelessly mangled?
"Mine too." she states warily, trying in vain to shake out the kinks in her muscles. "What are you getting at, Satan?"
The shift to look at her is coy, dark; she sees how Santana's eyes have deepened to near-black when helplessly lost in the cacophony of her own thoughts. Everything about her is loud - from her angry words to the way a simple glance speaks of the chaos bounding around in her skull. If you'd try to define her she'd be a hurricane more than a flood: the whirlwind of her actions equated only by the devastation left in her wake. "Oh, nothing. I've just done my homework."
Quinn nearly sputters on her water-bottle when Santana purposely trails her fingernails across the swath of Pierce's hip with a sly smirk that speaks of countless ideals best left for the haven of privacy. "Hey Coach," her syllables come out raspy and deep, scraping up her vocal chords to escape plump lips intent on caressing every word. "tough practice today. You enjoy seeing us sweat?"
Two sets of blonde eyebrows travel upwards for different reasons, cerulean blue studying her face with a slight uptilt of lips before shaking her head and continuing onwards. "I enjoy winning. Winning makes you sweat. And besides, the lazy duck's never caught the worm." Santana blinks slightly, seduction falling from her face to be overtaken by momentary confusion. Brittany smiles at Quinn and nods, helplessly letting the mischief splay all over her lips when she catches another glimpse at Santana's expression. They watch her go, whistling to herself until her sharp steps round the corner. As soon as she's out of earshot, Quinn rounds on her with a voice like thunder and eyes just as loud.
"What the hell was that?" she snarls, arms flailing wordlessly even as her body swells with indignation. She'd never been the one versed in the ways of allure, content to trail boys along and drop them when things started getting serious. It was Santana with the magic hands, crawling down inside shorts and tweaking their pride with an expert flick of her wrist.
"What do you think it was?" Santana hums, looking off into the distance. Her intent had been clear but the response was lacking - nothing more than an amused quirk of mouth and a deflection.
"B-but... she's a girl." Maybe it's wrong she's thinking in terms of gender opposed to age, but the cross around her neck almost sears her skin at the thought.
However, Santana turns on her then; lips bared into a mocking sneer, eyes narrowed and cold. It's these times when they could tear the world apart if they wanted, words flying so sharp it could cut through the very center of the earth. "And? It's the twenty first century, Fabray. Things like this happen." A quiet smirk, eyes holding secrets. "More often than you'd think."
It times perfectly and Quinn's scandalized gasp is one she'll hold in memory for a very long time. "You haven't!"
"Hey, the guys like it. And we can be damn good kissers, you know. So soft but violent."
The colour flooding her cheeks is not anticipated - flashes of dark nails raking across taut skin, black and blonde mixing together as Santana reaches in to devour somebody that looks suspiciously familiar. Those blue eyes seem to smoulder, looking back at Quinn questioningly as if trying to test her faith. With herucelean effort she yanks herself back, away from the moans and sensations vibrating so loud inside her own head. Santana looks at her with an arched eyebrow and crossed arms, almost knowing. Quinn would never go to the lengths she's prepared to dwell, not for the sake of popularity.
(Deep inside, the darker girl wants to understand the pull of soft skin under her tongue, the heavy weight of heaving breasts in her hands as she makes music from a living instrument. It's so primal and raw that it terrifies her, and she shoves it so very far down it can't see the light of day.)
"I believe you," Quinn mumbles, body buzzing with tension. "I really do."
Night had fallen upon Lima when Brittany finally walked back into her apartment. The moon casts shadows upon one half of her face but she relishes the darkness, craves the feeling of anonymity it gives. Her feet make no noise when she tosses her keys down and huffs out a long-suffering breath, still feeling the sweat against her skin in a nostalgic re-enactment of her teenaged years. She glances outside at how the streets were silent save for the whispers of the trees murmuring secrets to one another, brushing leaves against leaves in the most tender of lover's touches. Somewhere inside the house her cat announces his presence, loud against the silence.
The feeling comes strangely for the dancer, always used to sleeping in packed hotels with many other fleshy bodies to steal the warmth from - the rhythm of their breathing lulling her into a deep sleep after a night of moving until their limbs gave out, blinded by the stage lights and their own excitement. She tugs her hair from the ponytail she'd pulled it into, running her fingers through the tangled locks and grimacing at the tug. Bidding hello to Lord Tubbington the Second (he had the soul of a fat, what could she say?) Brittany walked herself into the bathroom, nudging the door closed with her hip.
As her fingers seek the hem of her shirt, she studies herself in the mirror. Even after a day stuck in the burning heat of Ohio, her eyes still sparkle out through the shadows playing tag along the strong curve of her jaw. She grins experimentally, widening into a real smile once her teeth flash out from the gloom. All the muscles of her arms ripple in unison as the top goes up over her head, exposing small breasts with a toned midsection and layered shoulders to make up for their lack.
She's never been shy about her appearance. She's paid to make art with her body and that's what she does, moving until she becomes her dance, her music. Everything about her is a sculpture, a photo - how her back arches when she removes her pants, the serpentine coil of her spine slithering from the base of her neck down to her rear. Her shoulderblades that look like wings, stark against the muscled expanse of her side. When her ribs appear from under the skin as she takes in a long breath, relieved as her thumbs drag down the compression shorts hidden away under tight jeans and years of practice.
The blonde looks in the mirror again and traces herself down from her feline eyes, tracing the intimate constellations of her skin until she reaches the juncture between her legs. One hand goes out, piano fingers crawling over to gently cup the cock and the testicles that reside within her abdomen.
(Shortly after donning her the title of captain, Brittany had stumbled into her office with an awkward gait and bright red cheeks. She wasn't wearing her Cheerios uniform and the easy grace she possessed was gone, betrayed by the twitching of her fingers and how she left teeth marks on her lower lip. Coach had raised her eyes above her glasses and promptly demanded why she was looking like "a hobo with a fetish problem", confused further when her best cheerleader seemed to turn crimson from the curl of her ears to the strong spread of her collarbone.
"I, um, I can't do practice today." She'd mumbled, confidence lurking away somewhere where this wasn't all quite so awkward.
"And why's that?"
A beat of silence. Sue scowled. "Out with it, Doris Day."
"It won't go away!" If possible, her whole body flushed and she curled in on herself, eyes glinting wetly in the light. Sue's eyebrows hit her hairline and she settled her pen down to her trusty journal, leaning back to take in the baggy sweatpants and simple top. "What won't?"
Brittany's hands flapped awkwardly in the air, ponytail whipping about her face. "T-the.. the..." At a loss for words she simply scrunched up her face and tugged her pants taut against her thighs. It took the coach a few seconds, but after a momentary confusion she could spy a large bulge protruding out from the fabric of her clothes. Her mouth opened a few times but nothing chose to come out, only spurring herself back into action as the creased clothing once again hid what looked like a painful erection from view.
"Pierce, is that...?" The younger blonde nodded hesitantly and felt her face flame even brighter, hunching her shoulders and sticking her hands into her pockets. There was a second's urge to sneak further and grasp the throbbing shaft, but the mortification from this situation kept her from trying a solution she already knew didn't work. "I don't follow this new development. The twins on your ribcage look pretty real to me."
One hand raised to wipe away the budding tears, scratching at the back of her neck and shifting uncomfortably on the spot. "I-I'm outer- um, intersexual. I choose to identify as female because that's who I feel like I am - I like doing girly things even though motocross is basically the best thing ever - but I only have a guy set down there," she gestured helplessly to her hips and shrugged "and it works." Sue grimaced and raised her hand to rub the bridge of her nose, already wheeling through questions in her head with a terrifying speed. Why didn't she know? How did she keep it under wraps so well? Is that why her muscles are so much more defined than all the other girl's? If she thinks back, she's never seen her in the showers at the same time as the rest of the team.
"Let me tell you how it's going to be," she starts, scaring Brittany who had been staring nervously at the floor for what seemed like a small eternity. "you're going to go to the team and tell Theresa that she's in charge today because you don't feel well. After that, you're going to go home where you will stay until you are fit enough to be captain and fill out your responsibilities. When you come to school tomorrow, there will be a few special pairs of spankies in your locker that will help contain your... issue."
"Coach, those are-"
"Expensive, I know. I'll take care of it. Now, Brittany?" The other blonde looked up, cheeks still pink but a grateful smile along her lips. "Get the hell out of my office.")
Her hands stroke the angry red lines around her waist, twisting her hips in an effort to rid herself of the lingering discomfort. With the relentless water from the shower comes a soothing balm, pounding away on the knotted muscles and dented skin. They were top-notch, even able to push away her unconventional pieces to whatever crazy costumes she had to wear, but always so tight it felt like she was being carved out from the abdomen.
She had many of those experiences over her high school years, amazed at how many things she could do without worrying whether or not she was showing. She toiled away alongside her other Cheerios, skin slick and glistening as they worked for a dictator who would never be satisfied.
Hey Coach, tough practice today. You enjoy seeing us sweat?
Brittany's eyes snap open and she guiltily flinches away from the shower, stopping the flow and stepping out of the stall. Not bothering to put on any clothes, she dries herself and trots back to her bedroom, muscles already singing of an exhaustion born from few hours of sleep and lack of protection underneath the burning sun.
Yet as she winds herself in the cool blankets, her mind keeps going back to that one phrase. With it comes a glimpse of chocolate eyes and a voice as smooth as silk, but rough around the edges in a way that pleases more than it hurts. She had been watching Santana today, the bunching of well-made muscles under her skin and how she drew a firm bottom lip between her teeth. The memory of her nails burn every so slightly, along with a sultry stare a girl her age shouldn't know how to make.
But that's all it is, right? A memory? It's what Brittany placates herself with as her right hand snakes down to trace patterns over her inner thighs, left already stroking with firm swipes over a hardening nipple. It's been too long since she's touched herself, evident at how her cock twitches eagerly and begins to stiffen at the smallest inclination. She feels the familiar coiling in her belly, a slow burn that tingles down to the tips of her toes. Her fingers skirt around her addition, sucking in a sharp breath as she tweaks the pink nipple and feels the pleasure shockwave down to her core, where it manifests as an erection slowly raising proudly into the air.
Not wanting to deny herself any longer, so firmly grasps the shaft and bucks into herself. Her hand strokes languorously at first, a long swipe of her tongue helping her palm glide along her length. Though the pressure is delicious and tempting, her mind unconsciously strays once again to the young Cheerio - it almost startles the dancer at how thick she becomes at the thought of Santana sitting there with hungry eyes and wet lips. She lets the thought of tanned skin and seeking hands guide her, pumping vigorously with an energy she didn't have several moments ago. Her thumb circles the tip and coats her cock with the precum that dribbles out, fist slick and effortless. This was enough. She couldn't lead the girl on with the notion she'd fall so easily to her charms. No, Brittany Pierce was the one that made the others beg.
She groans as her pace increases, twisting once her clenched hand hits her pelvis before making the return trip. Her dick is burning, swelling with the release that's beginning to hover around the horizon. Two fingers mercilessly pinch an abused nipple, scraping her nails down her own skin just to feel the sting as her fist loosens to stroke the sensitive underside of her cock, more precum leaking out of the head to coat her inner thighs.
Brittany's seen her looking. Of that, there's no doubt. Eyes connected in the hallway and smiles that never went beyond light and flirting. There's a lot to look at - her own gaze takes in the abs clenching in an attempt to hold off her orgasm even as her shaft twitches in her hand. Santana didn't seem the type to try and sway the female population, but there's so much you can hide under a flawless facade and years of pretending.
"Oh, f-fuck..." hisses the dancer, lust replacing blood in her veins. Her cheeks flush as she closes her eyes, hand spasming as her hips begin to pump into her closed fist in an effort to get more friction. Her muscles tense and she digs her heels into the sheets, hair sticking to her neck as the steady thwap of skin hitting skin becomes a crescendo alongside her muffled gasps and moans. Everything's on auto-pilot now; the rapid jerk of her arm, the drop of her jaw, the arch of her back as she squeezes roughly against her own breast. Pictures sear through her mind but then it's gone, replaced by a white-hot rush that has her crying out into the dark.
Brittany feels her come splatter against her heaving chest as the arousal explodes from the pit of her stomach, coursing outwards in a messy display of perfection. Her hips jump into her white-knuckled grip, the stench of sex and sweat beginning to mix into the once pristine air. Her eyes clench shut as she empties herself, not caring that the sticky liquid has rolled onto the bedspread and is making patterns on her skin. She rides the waves for as long as possible, firmly stroking her cock until the tremors cease and she falls back into the pillows, exhausted. One hand lazily crawls up her chest to smear the milky liquid into her skin, a contented smile curling along her lips even as she sucks two fingers into her mouth.
Looking up, she makes a resolution to not be the one to force anything. They're treading on a thin line here -whatever game Santana's playing, she'll have to work for it. She snickers to herself, looking down at her sticky cock and dirty body.
"I think I need another shower."