Title: Innocent: Incident Response Protocol
Pairing: Brittany Pierce/Santana Lopez (Glee)
Word Count: 4,600
Rating: MA for coarse language and sexual situations
Summary: "It'd be funny to you how quickly Santana launches herself from the couch and nearly trips over her own feet as she positively sprints for the bathroom if you weren't so distracted by how unbelievably turned on you are." Companion piece to Innocent.
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.
Author's Note: It's not necessary that you read Innocent before reading this piece, but I'd really recommend that you do, if only so you can read it in the proper context for which it was intended. Also, because I'm a shameless self-promoter. But, you know. Whatever.
In honor of Swinging Cloud's SUMMER OF SMUT (always all caps), in which she has planned a series of Wanky Wednesday posts (she's so damned clever with the alliteration and shit), for your reading pleasure.
You're tired. Not like, oh I had a lot to do this morning and I think I could use a nap kind of tired. It's more than just sleepy. You're the kind of tired that you can never explain, the kind that is usually only made better by a beer, some Kraft macaroni 'n' cheese, and maybe a good movie. You think maybe you'll bust out the big guns and watch a Pixar one tonight. Finding Nemo, maybe - you feel a certain kinship to Dory and her unending positivity. It seems like that kind of a night.
You trudge your way up the stairs to your apartment, the grocery bag slung around your right wrist making you feel off balance and awkward. You wish you'd indulged in that cake mix you were eyeing after all, if only so you'd have a bag to even out your left side. Also because cake is awesome. You really should have gotten the cake. Bummer.
When you reach your door, you fumble for a minute with your keys, trying vainly to yank them free of your right hip pocket with your free left hand and failing utterly. You let out a long, groaning sigh that might be not entirely necessary, considering that all you have to do is switch the bag to your left and tug the keys out with your right. It's not exactly rocket science, even for you, you think to yourself wryly. But on a day like today, everything just feels like an extra hardship.
You wish briefly as you wrestle the key into the deadbolt that you'd taken Santana up on her earlier texted offer to take you out tonight, because dancing - especially with Santana - never fails to make you feel better, no matter the mood you started out with. But then your back twinges again and you remember why you sent back a polite and regretful no. She had been very sympathetic, and agreed that your plan sounded like a good remedy for the day. Still, you can't help but wish she was here. A good long make-out session would work just as well to relax you. Well, okay, the super hot sexy times that would inevitably follow such a make-out session would relax you.
Great. Now you're totally turned on, too. Awesome.
You shove open the door with a grunt, and remind yourself again that you really need to have your super look at the darn thing - it's been sticking for a while now. You toss your keys on the table just inside your door...and freeze.
The most delicious smell fills your senses as you stand in the doorway, and the sight of Santana sitting on your couch, crouched over your coffee table greets your eyes.
There's a ragged looking towel draped over half of the table, and what looks like the disassembled parts of some kind of gun spread out in tidy array on top of it, as well as a whole one set off to the side. Santana looks up from the part in her hand, and gives you a shy smile that gets your tummy fluttering and sends a twinge of heat through your south of the border bits. You're too stunned to do anything but stare back.
"Uhm...I just...It sounded like you'd had a really shitty day, so I figured maybe I could come over and keep you company while you detoxed, you know? I made some mac'n'cheese, too. I mean, it's not from the blue box or anything." Her nose scrunches in distaste as she eyes the bag still hanging loosely from your wrist, and it makes your insides flip a little again. The twinge gets a little stronger and seriously, you shouldn't be this hot just from looking at the woman. "But my abue- uh, my grandmother always made it for me when I was a kid and I had a bad day, so I figured...you know. Keep the tradition or whatever." She looks up at you with a hopeful expression, but it quickly fades to concern when you don't say anything back.
You want to respond. In fact, you want to drop your bag, fling yourself at her, and cuddle in her arms for the rest of forever, and maybe give that make-out idea a try. You don't, though. Instead, you stand there like a dork and just stare, wondering what in the world you did to deserve a girlfriend so impossibly perfect as Santana Lopez. You're brought out of your little haze of wonder by the sound of Santana's voice stuttering into the silence.
"Britt? Is this okay? I didn't think...I mean you gave me that key so I just...Uhm...shit. I'm really sorry B, I just thought-"
"Santana!" You clap a hand over your mouth, a little shocked by the loudness of your own blurt-out. In a much quieter voice, you try again. "Sorry. You just caught me by surprise, that's all. This is amazing, Santana. You're the best. Like, ever."
She snorts and offers you a skeptical grin, but you can see the worry still lurking behind her eyes. You decide you really have to do something about that. Immediately. Without another word, you drop your groceries by your feet and cross the room in five long strides. You step right up to where she's sitting, and you must move kind of fast because she startles and scoots back on the couch, like she expects you to lunge at her or something. Except, you kind of plan to, so. Bracing your hands on her shoulders, you quickly settle yourself over her lap, your knees pressing into her hips, and butt resting on her knees.
You cut off whatever she was about to say by filling her mouth with your tongue, claiming it for yourself with a heated kiss that sends electric vibrations shooting straight to the core of you. You try to put every thought and emotion her sweetness created within you into the kiss, hoping she'll get the message that way. You don't pull away until you're both panting heavily, and you don't even bother fighting the smug grin that fills your cheeks when you take in her dazed expression.
"Whoa...So...Good idea, then?"
"Great idea. You're amazing."
"It's not that big a deal, B. Really. I was bored and had the ingredients and your kitchen is better than mine anyways."
You peck her nose and nip at her bottom lip before sliding of her lap to retrieve your forgotten beer and mac, because as awesome as that was, your stomach is growling like there's a tiny, hungry, little dinosaur living inside it and if you're going to have hot, hot sex with your hot, hot girlfriend all night, you fully intend to carbo-load like nobody's business. You're a dancer, you know how to prepare for marathon-levels of physical activity. You're a little sad that you won't be able to have the Kraft stuff tonight, but whatever Santana made smells amazing, so you're not too sad. You shove the boxes in your pantry and the beer in your fridge - only to find a six pack of the same brand already there.
You stand up to look at your girlfriend over the top of the fridge door, completely blown away by how thoroughly wonderful she can be when she puts her mind to it. The making out thing needs to happen soon. With a shake of your head, you rearrange both packs so that yours is in the back, and then pull out two bottles from the other, popping their caps off against your counter.
After finally locating what must be the last two clean dishes in your kitchen - a TMNT cereal bowl and a My Little Pony dinner plate - you pull open your oven door to find a casserole dish nearly overflowing with what must be Heaven's own recipe for mac'n'cheese. Seriously. You just stare at it for a moment, letting the waves of heat and deliciousness blast your face. You set it carefully on the stovetop before dishing out a generous serving for both Santana and yourself onto the plate and bowl. The way the slightly golden brown top layer of cheese crackles and shifts to reveal melty goodness underneath is like some kind of food porn.
Yeah, screw Kraft.
Best. Girlfriend. Ever.
As you finish spooning noodles onto your plate, you grin as you remember how excited Santana had been when she'd first discovered your mismatched collection of 90s dinnerware. You had expected thinly veiled amusement at best, but she surprised you with a squeal and a 20 minute rant about how cartoons in the 90s were so much better than any of the crap they put on now. With the possible exception of Adventure Time, you agreed - you feel a great deal of fondness for LSP, even though she's kind of mean and you're not sure why. She reminds you of someone, probably. Clouds are pretty freakin' awesome in general though, so maybe that's it.
Balancing the beers in the crook of your elbow, you bring the meal into the living room so you can both enjoy it while Santana finishes whatever she's doing on your coffee table. Not wanting to disturb her intense concentration, you carefully set her beer and bowl within arms reach, but well away from the various bottles and cans of chemicals littering one end of the table.
She grunts and kisses your arm as you reach across her, but her eyes never leave the pieces in her hands.
You settle happily in the armchair directly across from your couch, content to watch her while you eat. She only looks up at you once to flash you a proud grin when you moan in ecstasy at the tastes flooding your mouth after your first bite of her mac.
"Oh my God, Santana. I'm kidnapping you and you're making this for me every day for the rest of your life. It's sooo good!"
She chuckles lightly and rolls one shoulder awkwardly, ducking her head even lower when you moan into your second bite. "Sooo freakin' good."
You manage to compose yourself and finish your meal in relative silence, only speaking to remind Santana to take an occasional bite of her own. Once you've both finished your meals - you had two helpings in the space it took Santana to finish one, but she doesn't seem too worried about it. She does accept a second beer when you yell out an offer to bring her one from the kitchen as you dump the dirty dishes in the sink, though.
You set hers within arms reach again and take yours with you as you settle back into your chair, legs curled up under your butt and back wedged comfortably in the corner between the arm and the back cushion.
Santana has just finished reassembling her personal weapon, a silvery-shiny antique looking gun that reminds you a little of those gangster movies she likes so much, and is just reaching for her work gun when she stops mid motion to glance guiltily up at you.
"Oh...Sorry, Britt. I can stop if you wanna do something or watch some TV or whatever. I just brought 'em over 'cause I finished my shift at three and I didn't know how long you'd be." She starts to put the gun - a 'Glock', you think she called it once - back on the table when you wave her off with a small smile.
"It's fine, honey. Before I knew you were here I was just planning on vegging out tonight, but I'd just as soon watch you as the TV." Really, you kind of want her to stop so you can take her into the bedroom and have your way with her a couple dozen times, but she looks so disappointed at the thought of having to stop that you decide you can wait. Impatiently, maybe, but you'll wait.
She scrunches her nose at you again, her face filling with confusion and disbelief. You swallow a big gulp of peer to help calm the flip in your belly again. You really love when she makes that face. It's just so...cute.
"Seriously? Britt, I'm cleaning a gun. I can think of probably hundreds of more interesting things to watch than that."
"Maybe that's just because you've never had the chance to watch you do it," you reply cheekily.
She rolls her eyes, but you don't miss the fond smile that follows it, even though she ducks her head again. "Have it your way then, weirdo."
"Thank you, I will," you say primly, hiding your smile behind the mouth of your beer bottle when she glares at you playfully for a moment.
She pulls the case that holds the bullets out first - "it's called a magazine, or a clip, Britt," she mumbles quietly when you ask - and catches the lone bullet that pops out of the top part of the gun with ease, and sets both the casing and the bullet apart from the rest. The top part - "it's called the slide, Britt," - she breaks down even further into three parts, prying each piece out with gentle force. Her eyebrows are pulled together with intense focus and her lips, which are plenty pouty on their own, thank you very much, get even poutier as she purses them together. You kind of really want to kiss them right now, but you don't want to break her concentration, so you keep your seat.
You especially like watching her hands as she works. They're quick, but sure in their motions. Not much different from the way she works you, you think with a slight flush. You down the last of your beer and press the still-cold glass against the side of your face, rolling it to try and cool your suddenly heated cheeks. Just Santana on her own is generally enough to get you going most days, but the careful-yet-confident way she handles such a powerful and dangerous weapon just...does something to you. You jump up and jog over to the kitchen to grab a third bottle. Hopefully that will cool you off.
When you get back to your seat, she's just finished wrapping a thin, white rag around her fore- and middle finger. Before you can ask what it's for, she begins wiping down the inside of the biggest part of the slide with confident strokes, lingering over the widest section of it to rub gently against the sides - "those are the rails, babe" - with a familiar repetitive motion that has you clenching your crossed legs a little tighter. You take a long drink and a deep breath.
She wipes down the other two smaller pieces with the same attention to detail - "that's the recoil spring there and this is the barrel" - using what looks like a bigger, fluffier version of the pipe cleaners you used as a kid to make crafts with to reach the parts of the barrel her dainty little pinky finger can't reach.
After placing each newly cleaned part back on the towel, she grabs the handle and begins scrubbing at the inside chamber where the magazine is stored with the quick back-and-forth strokes of a toothbrush. Which wouldn't be a big deal if it weren't for the fact that the way her fist is wrapped around the handle of the brush looks suspiciously like the same grip she uses when plunging your favorite toy so deep into you that it makes the whole bed rock against the wall behind your headboard. She's even using the same steady, relentless pace that drives you completely mad in the best way.
You shouldn't be getting wet. It's a toothbrush, for crying out loud. There is almost nothing sexy about a toothbrush. And yet, here you are, shifting uncomfortably in your seat, trying to ignore how your panties are clinging to the sticky heat between your legs. It doesn't help that each time she gets a particularly hard to reach spot, she lets out a little grunt of satisfaction. It's pretty similar to the noise she makes right as her fingers curl against that one spot deep inside you that always, always makes you come. Instantly. And hard.
You just barely manage to bite back a helpless whimper. This is getting just a little ridiculous.
Next, she grabs a small tube that you could swear has the word 'lubricant' stamped across the top. Right, because lubricant is so necessary right now. Well, maybe for the gun, at least.
She starts with the largest piece, the frame, dabbing just a drop inside somewhere over the handle. Next she reaches for the barrel. You feel your eyes widen and your thighs clench even tighter, praying that she doesn't have to do anything to the inside of the tube, but she only adds a couple drops to the outside, smearing the stuff all around the outside. You do not immediately picture the way she lubes up her favorite strap-on right before taking you from behind while you're pressed over your bathroom counter. You absolutely do not.
You take another long pull of beer and are shocked to find you've drained the bottle. You debate getting up to get a third...or is it fourth, now? You decide that at this point, more alcohol really isn't going to help your situation.
The slide is last, apparently, but judging from the slow and cautious motion of her fingers, it is by no means the least. She dabs a bit of the oily looking substance on her fingertip and runs it slowly back and forth along the tracks of the slide, deftly torquing her wrist to angle her finger just right. Your clit throbs heavily, remembering on its own the way she uses that same motion to tease you, driving you to the edge before forcing you over with the forceful explosion of her tongue against you. You've never been more envious of an inanimate object in your whole life.
You drop your eyes to your lap and clutch the empty beer bottle in your hands, shredding the label to tiny ribbons in time with the clicks and snaps of the pieces of her gun being set back into place. You only dare to look up again when you hear the muffled clack of the gun being set back down on the towel-covered glass surface of your coffee table.
Before she can get it in her head to do anything else, you speak up. Your voice is rough and strained, and it catches her attention immediately.
She looks at you curiously, as if she can figure out the reason for the change in your voice just by staring at your face.
"Go wash your hands."
She glances down at her hands in confusion. The excess lubrication is gone from her fingertips, probably wiped off on the used rag crumpled on the table. "Uhm, Britt-"
You cut her off. "Santana."
She looks a little nervous now, but a little excited too. You think maybe she's cottoned on to what that tone of voice means. Good.
"Go. Wash. Your. Hands." Your own hands are shaking now with the force of your grip around the beer bottle.
You sigh and take a deep breath to try and calm yourself a little. "You need to go wash your hands so that when you're done you can fuck me because I'm about three seconds from exploding right now, and I'd really rather it be around your fingers than mine."
It'd be funny to you how quickly Santana launches herself from the couch and nearly trips over her own feet as she positively sprints for the bathroom, if you weren't so distracted by how unbelievably turned on you are.
You get up and follow at a much more sedate pace, hoping that by the time you reach the bathroom she'll be done washing up. You strip as you walk, tossing your clothes on the floor in your bedroom as you pass by, so that when you step into the bathroom behind Santana, you're completely nude.
She catches sight of you in the mirror's reflection and her eyes go round at the sight of you. "Whoa, you weren't kidding, huh?"
You growl low in your chest, but don't say anything back. She whips around to face you and immediately shoves you up against the wall, her wet hands slipping along the skin of your hips. She kisses you fiercely and it's so good but...
"Santana," you mumble around her frantic lips, "Santana." She pulls back and stares at you, eyes dark and fiery with want. You take a second to enjoy it, loving that you get her just as absurdly worked up as she gets you.
"Yeah, B?" She's a little breathless, and her lips are already just the tiniest bit splotchy and swollen.
"As much as I love your sweet lady kisses, I need you now. Please, honey." She grins wolfishly and winks before dropping to her knees before you. You almost come at the sight.
"Don't need to tell me twice. You might wanna hold on to something, babe."
Before you can even think of a response, she's got your left leg braced over her shoulder and her face buried between your thighs. You moan in gratitude as her tongue immediately gets to work licking the length of you with rough, sweeping strokes. She's careful to stop just short of your pounding clit, and you almost feel like crying at the awful torture of it.
"Please, baby, I need...I need-"
She hums against you and you squeak in surprise when her teeth graze lightly along the pulsing bundle at the top of your folds. She flicks it gently with her tongue a few times before taking it fully into her mouth and suckling at it with a will.
Your hands scrabble along the wall behind you, searching desperately for something to help support your weight as your vision starts to white out. Your right hand finds purchase on a towel rack just as her teeth clamp gently around your clit and tug, and you come with a scream.
You're still lost, riding out the aftershocks when suddenly her naked form is pressed against you and those wonderful, wicked fingers are filling you. Her legs bracket your left, one on the outside and one in between your thighs, rising up to press her hand even deeper into you. Her thumb finds your still-jumping clit while her lips catch against the skin of your neck.
She pumps into you, immediately settling into that inexorable pace you love so well, her body rocking against you in time with her hand. You have just enough presence of mind to realize that her rocking is with purpose, that she's painting your leg with her own arousal even as she answers yours. You deliberately clench the muscles of your thigh and force it forward a little, offering her as much friction as you can. She grunts and sucks even harder at your pulse, fingers still whittling away at your sanity with their unrelenting rhythm.
She drops her thumb and you whine pathetically at the loss of pressure against your clit, but the sound gets cut off mid-stream when her palm pushes up to grind mercilessly against you. You climax again, this time with a quivering, drawn-out moan that she matches as she gushes over your leg, and you both sink to the floor in a heap of tangled, trembling limbs.
You both sit for moment, panting and clinging to each other weakly, when you notice her shaking has developed a certain pattern to it. You peel your cheek back from where it fell to stick against her shoulder and you look at her, only to find her head thrown back and her throat bobbing with silent laughter. You giggle a little at the sight of her, and wait for her to calm down long enough to tell you just what was so funny.
"Honey?" You question quietly, a little confused by her sudden fit of amusement.
"Sorry, Britt. Sorry, I..." She takes a few shaky breaths to steady herself, meets your gaze, and chuckles again. "God, sorry, I just..."
"What?" You try to keep the irritation from creeping into your voice because you're not irritated, not really. Just very, very confused.
"I just had this thought, and I don't know, it must be the beer going to my head or something, but it just struck me as particularly amusing." She grins at you, and the gleam in her eyes makes you flush and drop your gaze for some reason.
"Well what was the thought?"
"Oh nothing, just that...well...I'm never gonna be able to clean my gun with a straight face ever again."
Your head snaps back up as you stare at her for a moment. You feel a slow grin start to spread across your face, and keeps growing and growing until finally you think it might just take your ears in at this point, but you don't even mind.
"Well, I must admit Officer, I was rather impressed by your quick response to my emergency."
Santana's eyes are positively sparkling now, and her grin matches yours for size as she stands and offers you a hand to pull you up on wobbly legs.
"All part of the service, Ma'am. All part of the service."
As she leads you stumbling to the bed, you make a mental note to tell her later that she can clean her guns at your place any time. Any time at all.