Title: She's Got A Mind Of Her Own (And She Uses It Well)
Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None in particular
Summary: Carwash Queerio smut.
A/N: Title from Eric Hutchinson's "Outside Villanova"
It’s probably the most clichéd, classic fundraiser in the whole damn world, and Santana wants to hate every second of it, but there’s something about having an excuse to traipse around in nearly nothing that appeals to her basest instincts. Sure, they have to keep their skirts on—It rallies the crowd, Coach clarified when one girl complained—but that’s no big deal. Those skirts barely qualify as clothing in the first place.
And she looks damn good in a bikini top.
Besides, it’s considerably less painful to loiter around cars all afternoon, slaving away under suds and sun-rays, than to indulge in Coach’s other brilliant money-making schemes. Those sometimes involve illegalities, and while Santana’s not expressly against a little petty theft here and there, she knows other people don’t always appreciate it.
Other people being Quinn and Brittany, one of whom has freakishly high moral character for being a complete and total bitch. The other is just too kind for her own good sometimes; the last time Coach requested they perform faux-seduction shakedowns of all vulnerable males, Brittany wound up giving more than she got. As in, she pulled three nickles and a button for two hours of bedding.
Santana had been displeased. Coach had been enraged. The hockey player in question transferred the next day.
The point is, she might be getting a little toastier than she’d generally prefer—tanning should be a carefully-controlled activity, not placed in the hands of ruthless overlords like Sue Sylvester—but she’s looking damn good doing it. And she can keep an eye on Brittany. Which is…
Well, it isn’t without its own perks.
Several of them.
Which she may be staring at right now.
“Back to work, Lopez,” Quinn snaps as she saunters past, hips swishing. Just to be obnoxious, Santana purposely tosses her weight against the truck they’re supposed to be cleaning and stares determinedly at her captain’s ass. The tinge of pink that floods Quinn’s cheeks is enough to prove she’s doing the job well, even if Quinn will never admit it out loud.
Brittany, oblivious to the situation, hitches herself up against the hood and reaches to run her sponge across the windshield. Out of the corner of her eye, Santana sees Quinn’s head jerk uneasily in the opposite direction.
“Little trouble there, B?” Santana asks conversationally, pleased when blue eyes dart up just in time to catch her watching pale cleavage. Brittany, not even pretending to be embarrassed, flashes a coy grin and stretches further.
“Need help?” This is definitely another cliché—she’s pretty sure she owns this porno, actually, ever since she lifted the more impressive portion of Puck’s collection—but she finds she can’t stop herself. She’s around to Brittany’s side of the car before Quinn can open her mouth again, hands sliding up familiar hips. Brittany’s skin is hot, even through that skirt; licking her lips, Santana hoists her up that last bit, until the sponge slaps wetly against the furthest stretch of glass.
“You could’ve just walked to the other side,” Santana murmurs against Brittany’s ear, catching the lobe briefly between her teeth and winking at Quinn across the way. Sighing and leaning back in her arms, Brittany smiles.
“You were staring at my boobs. I liked it.”
“Could’ve been staring at your ass just as easily,” Santana replies, fingers trailing up across abs that—in her not-so-humble opinion—are too mind-blowing for a mortal body. The light sheen of sweat only makes Brittany that much hotter, so much so that it takes every ounce of energy to keep from pushing her all the way onto the hood and ripping that skirt right off.
But then the fun would be very quickly over, and if there’s one thing she likes better than sex, it’s fun.
The kind of fun that results from the way Quinn is so determinedly trying not to glance over as she sloshes more water across the body of the truck. The kind of fun that comes when everyone else is on the other side of the parking lot, too far away to notice a thing (although, truthfully, she doubts they’d say a word; she’s got this entire squad wrapped around her finger, just the way she likes it).
It’s a pretty sure bet that this afternoon is going to be a lot of fun.
“How’s it comin’, Q?” she calls cheerfully, spreading the fingers of one hand over Brittany’s belly button until the taller girl melts back against her. Quinn fires her a death ray of a glance, sponging the passenger side window more vigorously than she really needs to.
“Do some work, Lopez.”
“I’m working,” Santana retorts innocently, scratching her nails slowly up Brittany’s stomach. “Doesn’t it look like I’m working?”
Brittany giggles, reclining comfortably and turning her head until her lips brush skin. Quinn’s eyes narrow.
“Totally working,” Santana continues, dragging her fingers up and over Brittany’s arm, trailing down until they’re sharing the sponge. Quinn’s lips purse as they move in tandem, soaking the black hood with soap.
“Whatever,” Quinn mutters. “Just keep…keep, uh…”
She trails off as Santana bends, dropping slow kisses along Brittany’s spine as she dunks their joined hands in the nearest bucket. Straightening back up again, Santana smiles as innocently as anyone can while dragging a sudsy sponge across another woman’s breasts.
Brittany, bless her consistent sex drive, arches her back and gives a low whimper, allowing Santana to steer both of their hands across her top. Quinn’s mouth opens slightly.
“Sure it is,” Santana replies cheerfully, nuzzling against Brittany’s neck as she slides the sponge back and forth. “I’m cleaning, aren’t I?”
Brittany moans, lips curling even as her ass rocks backwards. Santana anchors her free hand just above the girl’s waistband, eyebrows arched.
“That’s not the right job,” Quinn manages to say weakly, her own sponge hanging limply at her side. Santana releases Brittany’s hand, pleased when the girl continues the motions all on her own, and cups one breast gently.
“Maybe you’re not doing the right job,” she teases, nipping at pale skin. Quinn’s eyes widen.
She does, though; any idiot could see the want reflected in big hazel eyes. As Brittany continues soaping herself liberally, as Santana kneads one perfect breast through skimpy red fabric, as tan hips rock in a steady rhythm against the dancer’s ass, Quinn can only gape.
Santana lets her body take over where her brain has been holding the wheel, pinching Brittany’s nipple as she pushes her forward, pinning her against the truck. Her hips follow, pressing until one skirt bleeds into the next, her free hand winding up to bury deep in blonde hair. Brittany’s head bends forward obediently, both hands—sponge included—coming to land against the hood.
“Santana,” Quinn rasps warningly. “Don’t.”
Santana ignores her, just as she has always done in situations like this, sliding Brittany’s ponytail aside with one hand and her top aside with the other. The groan she receives for her trouble as she palms soft wet skin is magnificent; the light, desperate pant Quinn gives is even better. Sex and power. Fun. Afternoons like this are her favorite.
“C’mere, Quinn,” Brittany beckons, bending forward even further so her ass is pressed directly into Santana’s groin. The urge to grasp her by the hips and thrust until she comes from friction alone is overwhelming, barely distracted by the taste of salt under Santana’s tongue as she slides wet kisses down the back of Brittany’s neck. Quinn makes that noise again, moderately strangled and still too self-aware.
Not yet, Santana thinks confidently, meeting hazel eyes over Brittany’s shoulder. Almost.
“San,” Brittany groans, fingers flexing against smooth black steel. “Please.”
Quinn’s teeth sink deep into her bottom lip. Santana grins, tongue tracing her name into Brittany’s silky shoulder. Hiking that red skirt up, she rubs her fingers along the panties underneath, growling softly when Brittany cries out at the contact.
“C’mon, Q,” she taunts, rubbing lightly between Brittany’s spread legs. “Come help, Captain.”
The look in Quinn’s eyes is equal parts terror and lust, with the latter gaining ground with every passing second. Though she can’t see her, Santana knows why it’s Brittany’s face Quinn seems glued to; Brittany is gorgeous during sex, an absolute goddess made up of velvet lips and fluttering eyelashes. With every stroke of Santana’s hand, she knows Brittany’s brow is tightening, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Quinn wants her.
Quinn wants them both.
The first step is tenuous, highly uncertain. Santana meets her eyes just as she slides the material between herself and Brittany aside and brushes lightly against swollen flesh. The low moan sends a visible shock through Quinn’s system, and before she seems to realize what she’s doing, she has joined them on their side of the truck. Her back hits the window when Santana reaches for her, right hand clutching the back of her head and jerking her into a bruising kiss even as the fingers of her left remain in motion. Brittany, with some admirable effort, shifts her body between them, grasping Quinn’s waist for support.
And there it is, Santana thinks with satisfaction as her tongue meets Quinn’s and swirls, the perfect trifecta. Quinn’s got one hand in her hair, the other instinctively running along Brittany’s bared skin, and it is everything Santana needs right now. She jerks Brittany’s underwear down to her ankles and slides two fingers inside from behind, relishing the hiss that mars the marks Brittany is busily leaving against Quinn’s neck.
Everything is hot—the sun beating down, Quinn’s desperate kisses, the wet-wet tension between Brittany’s legs—and so fucking wonderful that Santana can’t imagine anything better. She’s pressed solidly against Brittany, every inch of her touching something, and with every thrust, her hand jerks back against her own body. Brittany, straddling Quinn’s thigh, is rapidly losing control, bucking and keening when Santana hits there and there and there. Quinn looks like she’s ready to lose it already, gasping against Santana’s lips, all broad licks and mad whimpers. When Santana sucks on her tongue, her head jerks back against the glass again with a thud, nails digging into Brittany’s hips.
Her fingers curl inside hot-wet perfection, and Brittany stifles her orgasm by sinking blunt teeth into Quinn’s shoulder hard enough to make the other girl cry out. Santana removes her hand with brutal speed and covers Quinn’s grasping hands with her own, rocking herself forward into Brittany’s ass as hard as she can. The friction builds blissfully high and explodes as she buries her face between pale shoulder blades and shudders.
“Fuck,” she hears Quinn whisper, as if struck by the realization that her two best friends have just orgasmed nearly on top of her
. Before she can think too deeply about it, Brittany is reaching back and yanking Santana forward, both of their bodies pushing Quinn’s back again.
“Your turn,” Brittany breathes, sinking to her knees and sliding her head smoothly under Quinn’s pristine skirt. Santana grins when Quinn’s expression goes from dubious to dumbfounded in two seconds flat; her breath catches in her throat, her mouth falling open, hands scrambling for Santana’s shoulders.
“Ohh, wow,” she whimpers. “Oh my—oh…”
“She’s good, isn’t she?” Santana whispers huskily, lips brushing Quinn’s ear. Quinn nods frantically, fingers clenching. “She’s fucking fantastic. Give it a minute and you’ll see how fucking wet she can get you.”
“Oh God,” Quinn gasps, one hand dropping to clutch the top of Brittany’s head through her skirt. “Oh my God.”
“You like it when she fucks you? She’s so fucking good on her knees.” Dirty talk being a Fabray kink shouldn’t shock her; the girl’s so tightly wound, there was bound to be a raging sex kitten underneath. Still, Santana is somewhat unprepared for the force of the next kiss, open-mouthed and wild. Quinn’s nails dig into her scalp, her hips rocking uncontrollably against what Santana knows is Brittany’s tongue doing what it does best.
She grins against Quinn’s mouth, swallowing her frantic cries and curses with a series of short kisses. Brittany’s head continues to bob under the skirt; Santana can picture her smiling wickedly, tongue trailing circles into sensitive, sticky skin.
“Damn, that was hot,” Santana husks, laying one last kiss on Quinn’s quivering lips before pulling away and straightening her top. “B?”
“Smokin’ hot,” Brittany agrees, climbing to her feet and sliding her hand happily into Santana’s. Quinn stares at them both with lidded eyes, chest heaving.
“Still think that wasn’t work?” Santana teases, giving a friendlier-than-usual bop to her captain’s forehead. Quinn slowly shakes her head back and forth, damp ponytail sticking against the glass.
“Nothing we’d get paid for,” she says slowly, eyes locked onto Brittany’s disheveled bikini top. Santana reaches over and adjusts the material recklessly, running the back of her hand against pert nipples as she goes. Brittany gives a happy sigh.
“Give it to the right audience…” Winking, Santana turns to retrieve her sponge, dragging Brittany along with her. “Come on, slowass. We’ve been at this truck for like a half hour. It’s like you want Coach pissed at us or something.”
Quinn’s eyes widen again, this time with blind irritation. “Santana Lopez, I swear—“
“Fabray!” Sue Sylvester screams suddenly. “Quit loitering around! You think this is hard, try building the trucks yourself!”
Quinn jumps hilariously, stumbling on rubbery legs into the nearest bucket and splashing water everywhere. Santana smirks.
“Yeah, Fabray. Get to work.”
If looks could kill, she would be little more than a sexy pile of rubble. It is the perfect cap to the afternoon’s activities.
She drops a kiss against the side of Brittany’s head, laughing. “Carwashes are too fuckin’ fun.”
There’s a time and place for everything
and I believe it’s called ‘fan-fiction’.
- She's Got A Mind Of Her Own (And She Uses It Well)