Chapter Text
It's one of the first rules of show biz: don't get involved with a fan.
Be appreciative and gracious, even – no, especially – when they're crazy. Santana has trouble with that last one, but for the most part, she manages. She's learned that her successes ride as much on her image as they do her talent, and if putting up with a few psychopaths is all it takes to keep doing the one thing she loves in life, so be it. There's nothing quite like belting it out in front of a live audience, their applause fuelling her soul.
But because of that, because of her sultry voice, because of fame, she's seen it all: the hysterical crying, the ear-shattering screaming, the awestruck looks that inevitably lead to impromptu marriage proposals. There'd been one girl who'd been so nervous she'd straight-up passed out and had to be carried out of one of her meet and greets in a stretcher.
At one particular signing, she meets Brittany.
There's nothing especially different about her, except that Santana notices immediately that she is strikingly beautiful. But still, she is just a fan among a long line of fans waiting for an autograph, a handshake, a smile and a hello.
It starts with sparkling blue eyes, a bright smile and, "Hey, I'm Brittany."
It starts with Santana's eyes fluttering shamelessly over Brittany's body and, "Hi, Brittany. Nice to meet you."
--
It's one of the first rules of show biz, but Santana has always been a bit of a rule breaker.
All things considered, she usually does pretty well. The press, she can handle, even though she's pretty sure they're all competing to win the title of dumbest question ever asked. The paparazzi, she's used to by now. Fame comes with a price of admission, and she wouldn't do what she did if she weren't prepared to pay it.
And she loves her fans, really. She knows she owes them a lot for her being where she is and getting to do what she does. The crazy ones are a little less charming, but she has fun picking them apart with her manager at the end of the day.
It's all part of the game: act available, because everyone likes thinking that they've got a shot even when they don't. Santana's not stuck up about it or anything, but it's just a risk she's been warned not to take. And the thing is that she honestly has no trouble picking up chicks that dabble in her industry, so she doesn't need to tangle herself in any messy trysts with overemotional fans just looking for a story to tell their friends.
So Santana keeps it in her pants, even though some of her fans are totally hot.
Brittany though, Brittany just sort of happens.
--
There's an after party.
There's an after party, and there's alcohol, and Santana has a really poor perception of what is an acceptable amount of like, anything once she's knocked back a couple drinks. She's gotten over the hysterical crying, but there are really unfortunate photos of herself floating around the internet.
Anyway, she's downed enough alcohol to not really remember who the party is for, but not nearly enough for her to stop trying to articulate the answer. Basically, she thinks she's invincible, and it's pretty much the best part about being drunk.
She scans the room for familiar faces but comes up empty. She's not even sure why she's here. Some up-and-comer signed to her label, and suddenly Kurt is shoving dresses in her face, and Quinn's reminding her to be civil like she hasn't been in the music industry for years.
Santana figures she'll go find the little firecracker, pat her on the back for the deal, and sneak out. She doesn't get much time off these days, so she'd really rather spend it actually relaxing instead of being surrounded by all these fake ass people. And besides, the alcohol is giving her a seriously nice buzz, and she plans on not letting anyone kill it.
She stands up from the couch, but she's overestimated her body's tolerance to alcohol and wobbles slightly in place, hands instinctively reaching out in search of balance. A long, pale arm snaps out to steady her.
Santana follows the arm up to the face of a blonde watching her in amusement. The woman immediately looks familiar, but Santana can't exactly place her, and her state of inebriation isn't helping her memory or her vision.
"It's Brittany," the girl supplies with a laugh. "I was at the signing yesterday, but I know there were a lot of people, so you probably don't—"
"Brittany, no, I remember you." Santana squeezes her eyes shut for a moment in an effort to refocus them. She refuses to miss any chance to ogle a cute girl, and this girl is seriously cute. "What are you doing here, Brittany?"
"Radio contest." Brittany offers a crooked, almost apologetic smile. "Fifth caller, and all that. I was actually trying to call my cat, but I dialed the wrong number, and they told me I won a four-day trip up to LA to see you in concert and all this cool backstage stuff."
"So you're not really a fan." Santana's eyes skim shamelessly over Brittany's curves, accentuated by her skin-tight dark blue dress. "That's actually better, because—"
"No, I totally am!" Brittany cuts in. "Your music's so awesome. My friends and I love to dance to your tracks." She pauses thoughtfully, as though she's just caught up. "Wait, why would that be better?"
The alcohol in Santana's bloodstream makes it easier to smirk and say, lowly, "'Cause then I could take you home."
Blue eyes light up for a moment before they darken, and Brittany's leaning in and whispering, "I could pretend to hate your music instead."
Santana only hesitates for one second before she's threading her fingers through Brittany's and guiding her out the back.
--
Santana takes Brittany home, like to her actual house in Beverly Hills, which seems to surprise Brittany, but the truth is, Santana doesn't trust hotels, doesn't even really trust Brittany at this point, and her home is the only place where she's sure she'll be safe from the paps. She doesn't exactly want to have to explain what she's doing in a hotel she's not staying in if she's caught leaving it. There are enough trashy gossip blogs trying to paint her as the stereotypically bitchy, oversexed Latina that she isn't. Well, except the bitchy part. And yeah, she likes orgasms, so…
"You live here?" Brittany asks her, staring up at the looming building, awe striking her features. "By yourself?"
Santana laughs as she leads Brittany up the front steps. "Yeah, most of the time."
Santana kicks off her stilettos at the entrance, and Brittany does the same, then follows Santana further into the house, deliberately taking slow steps as though to give herself a chance to absorb her surroundings.
"You want something to drink?" Santana offers.
Brittany shakes her head. "No thanks."
Santana rolls on the balls of her feet, suddenly nervous. Because she's got the girl here, but the alcohol is starting to wear off, and she's second-guessing her decision to invite her in. For all she knows, Brittany's going to fuck her and then take the story to the press. Not that there's any scandal there. Most of her fans are well aware that she's into women. She's just never straight-up said the words, and she'd really rather not be dragged out of the closet she was never really in, all because of one poor decision made by her vagina instead of her brain.
All she wants to do is fucking sing, not make herself some lesbian symbol.
Brittany is eyeing her curiously. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah." Santana clears her throat. "I'm going to go get into something a little more comfortable."
"But why?" Brittany scrunches up her nose adorably. "Aren't you going to just let me take it off after?"
Brittany's eyes are so sincere that Santana almost laughs. "That was the plan."
Brittany watches her expectantly. "But…?"
Santana swallows hard, pushing away her reservations. It's been a while, and there probably won't be another opportunity like this anytime soon considering her work load. "But nothing," she murmurs, stepping closer until their bodies are almost touching.
Brittany smiles brightly at her before leaning down and capturing her lips in a sweet kiss, hands roaming up Santana's sides. Santana's hands reach up around Brittany's neck, and she has to tilt her head up a little, but Brittany's lips are soft and warm as they move against hers. Brittany's gentler than Santana had expected her to be, but before she has a chance to finish that thought, Brittany's hands grip Santana's thighs, lifting her off her feet in one smooth motion. Santana lets out a groan as her legs part automatically, and suddenly she finds herself wrapped around Brittany's hips. The hem of her short dress rides up her thighs, and her arms tighten around Brittany's neck instinctively.
Brittany breaks away. "Picking you up seemed like a good idea," she says, trying to catch her breath, "but I don't know where your bedroom is." She looks genuinely concerned and eyes the couch.
Santana laughs, leaning her forehead against Brittany's. "It's upstairs. Let me down for a sec."
Brittany loosens her grip enough for Santana to slide down and back onto her feet. Santana takes Brittany's hand and leads her upstairs to her bedroom. As soon as they're inside, Brittany picks Santana up again and walks to her bed before gently dropping her down and climbing on top of her like she's been here a thousand times before. It puts Santana at ease.
Brittany fingers the material of Santana's dress for a moment, drawing haphazard shapes to the red fabric. She doesn't seem to be in any rush.
"You're so pretty up close," Brittany whispers, eyes tracing over Santana's face. "Like, super pretty." She leans in and presses a soft kiss to Santana's lips, her palm sliding up her neck.
Santana shuts her eyes against the sensation, her own hands moving to Brittany's back and finding the zipper along her spine. Slowly, she pulls it down, and she feels Brittany arch into her, and then Brittany's kissing her again, licking into her, and Santana lets out a moan.
Brittany slides her dress down the rest of the way and leaves it crumpled at the end of the bed. Santana takes in the sight of the exposed skin and can't help but lean forward and kiss a path down the column of Brittany's neck, over her collarbone and between her bra-covered breasts. Brittany's abs are toned and solid to the touch, and her legs seem endless.
Santana barely registers herself asking, "Where are you from?"
Brittany tenses, as though surprised by the question. "Arizona. Born and raised just outside Phoenix."
Santana nips at Brittany's chest, hand reaching around to unhook Brittany's bra. "What do you do, Brittany from Phoenix, Arizona?"
"I dance, mostly. I teach classes, sometimes."
Brittany's breasts fall free as Santana manages to rid her of her bra. Santana licks her lips before lowering them to Brittany's skin, kissing over the curve of her breast until her tongue teases a nipple. Brittany makes a soft noise of encouragement.
Santana slides across to lavish attention to the other breast, which gives Brittany the opportunity to find and open the zipper on Santana's dress. Santana lifts herself to peel it from her skin, leaving it near Brittany's at the foot of the bed. She pops her bra and tosses that aside, too, and then Brittany is reaching forward to cup her breasts.
Brittany stares at Santana's body reverently as she sits up and pulls her closer until their chests touch. Santana shivers.
"You're so tense," Brittany murmurs, pressing a kiss to her jaw.
Santana takes a deep breath. "Lie down and lean back."
Santana slips her fingers under the fabric of Brittany's underwear and pulls it down her legs, exposing her. Gently, she spreads Brittany's legs and settles between them. She dips her head down and closes her mouth around Brittany's entrance, tongue darting out to swipe at the wetness collected there. Brittany moans, canting her hips against Santana's lips.
Santana moves faster then, lips and tongue slanting across and in. The feel of Brittany's skin, the way her muscles tense and relax around her as she pleasure her – Santana can't get enough. She slides her lips up to Brittany's clit and sucks gently on the hardening nub.
Brittany gasps. "Finger me," she pleads.
Santana complies, bringing a hand up to Brittany's entrance and coating her fingers with the moisture she finds there. She dips one finger in, withdraws, then pushes back with two, and Brittany groans, head thrashing to the side. Santana finger fucks her slowly as her lips stay on Brittany's clit, until Brittany's practically curling around the point of pleasure, her chest rising and falling attractively.
Brittany tumbles over the edge with a whimper, hands sliding into Santana's hair to keep her mouth in place. Her body quivers, thighs clenching around Santana's head. Santana strokes in slow and steady until Brittany nudges her away with a moan. Santana licks her lips, wipes her chin, and climbs back up the length of Brittany's body to rest her head against Brittany's heaving chest.
As soon as Brittany catches her breath, she flips Santana over and straddles her hips, eyes bright with promises of what's to come. Brittany leans down to kiss Santana, tongue darting in to taste the remnants of herself. Santana bucks her hips; she's impatient. Brittany slants her lips down to pepper kisses along Santana's pulse point, and Santana feels her smile against her skin.
"Brittany…"
Brittany slides a knee up between Santana's inner thighs until it presses lightly at the apex.
"Tell me what you want," Brittany breathes out against her ear.
Santana moans. "I want—your tongue. Inside me."
Brittany grins, pressing a kiss to Santana's lips and letting her tongue slide along her upper lip. Brittany lifts herself to her elbows and stares down at Santana, almost as though searching for something. Santana, for all her confidence, squirms self-consciously under Brittany's gaze.
Brittany laughs. "You're just like everyone else," she whispers, dipping her head to peck Santana's lips. She sounds like she's awed by this discovery.
Santana, to her embarrassment, blushes. "What'd you expect?"
Brittany's hand reaches down between Santana's legs to play with her clit. Santana groans at the stimulation, at the look on Brittany's face like she still can't believe where she is.
"I was nervous," Brittany explains quietly, "'cause I thought you took girls home all the time."
Santana smiles faintly. "You're pretty much the first." She doesn't know why she admits that.
Brittany's cheeks flush, and she ducks her head to hide it. With slow, deliberate movements, she slithers down the length of Santana's torso, peppering kisses along a curved path down Santana's chest. She takes a nipple into her mouth, sucking gently. Santana squeezes her thighs together in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure, but she ends up grinding against Brittany's knee instead.
Brittany presses haphazard open-mouthed kisses against Santana's abdomen before trailing down to press her lips against Santana's center, her nose nuzzling Santana's clit. Brittany goes to work then, giving Santana what she wants, where she wants it. Her tongue swirls and dips, thrusting in before slanting up to roll over Santana's nerves, then back down again. Her lips slide shamelessly around Santana, warm and wet and willing. Brittany moans like she's the one being touched, like she's the one with a practiced mouth between her legs, being eaten out.
Santana comes suddenly, almost unprepared, when Brittany curls her tongue and uses two fingers to slide wetly against Santana's clit. Santana's hips thrash wildly as she rides out her orgasm, and Brittany keeps herself moving, grabbing Santana's thighs over her shoulder to hold them still.
When Santana's body finally slackens, Brittany lifts herself to place one wet kiss over each of Santana's hipbones before climbing up the rest of the way and curling against Santana's side, her body half resting over Santana's.
Santana brings her hand up to stroke Brittany's cheek. "Hey."
Brittany stirs. "Hm?"
Santana knows that thank you isn't the proper etiquette here, so she just pulls Brittany closer and navigates their bodies until she has her covers draped over them. Brittany's hand rolls over Santana's breast, and she keeps it there when her eyes flutter shut. Her breathing evens out, and she dozes off.
Santana watches Brittany sleep for a while, then slowly drifts off herself, one arm draped over Brittany's hip.
--
It's the best night of sleep Santana has in ages, and when she wakes to sunbeams pouring through her curtains and a pretty blonde snoring lightly at her side, it's probably the happiest she's been in a while, too.
Brittany wakes with a tiny whimper as she pulls Santana closer, burying her face against Santana's neck.
Santana laughs. "Morning."
Brittany's eyes flutter open, and her entire body tenses for one moment before she relaxes again. "Santana."
Santana presses a kiss to Brittany's nose and runs her fingertips down Brittany's arm. "When's your trip end?"
"I fly home tomorrow morning." She smiles sadly. "I should probably go soon, though. I'm meeting up with a friend from high school who's gonna show me around. We'll both be at your concert tonight."
Santana tries not to let her disappointment show. "Yeah, sure, okay."
Untangling herself from Brittany, Santana keeps the covers pulled to her chest as she sits up. It's completely idiotic to be upset that Brittany is leaving, but she is. She doesn't know anything about the girl other than the fact that she knows her way around a woman's body and isn't shy about it, and yet…
Brittany is generous with her affection, but not in a predatory way where she expects something in return. It's attractive to Santana, who works day in and day out with people whose smiles are as fake as their assets, and god, it doesn't help that Brittany's fucking gorgeous, too.
Brittany seems to sense the sudden discomfort, because she pushes herself up onto her elbow and frowns. "Santana?"
Santana turns to look at Brittany over her shoulder.
"Everything okay?" Brittany asks, reaching out to stroke Santana's bare back.
"Yeah, I just—" Santana shakes her head. "I'll call you a cab?"
Brittany's eyes are conflicted when she bites her lip and nods. "Okay. Thanks, Santana."
When the cab arrives twenty minutes later, they're both dressed and washed up, and Brittany's halfway through a bagel and a cup of coffee, hunched over the morning paper. Santana doesn't know what to do except watch her from the other side of the table as she sips at her own coffee. At the sound of the cab, Brittany walks around the table and leans down to press a kiss to Santana's lips before she slips out the front door without another word.
Brittany's gone a good five minutes before Santana notices the phone number scribbled on her napkin.
--
Quinn drops by in the early afternoon with a few cartons of takeout and a six-pack of beer. She's getting plates out of the cupboards when Santana enters the kitchen, humming to herself. Quinn does a double-take, and when realization dawns on her, she rolls her eyes.
"You got laid."
Santana smirks. "Yup, sure did. She was hot, too."
"Who was it? Is she out professionally? Should I be on the phone with her manager right now?"
Santana rolls her eyes as she grabs one of the takeout cartons and peers inside. "Relax, she's not famous. She's a dancer from Arizona and she likes jamming to my music. She was at the signing on Thursday, and I saw her again at the after party last night. We hit it off."
"You slept with a groupie?"
"It wasn't like that," Santana insists. "Jesus, Quinn, you act like I wandered into a leper colony and grabbed the first thing with legs."
Quinn glares at her. "Do you even know her name?"
"Yeah. Brittany."
"Full name," Quinn clarifies.
Santana shrugs her shoulders. "Didn't ask."
Quinn pulls out her phone and starts punching buttons. "Do you have any idea how many Brittanys there are in Arizona?"
Santana munches on an eggroll. "Well shit, if I'd known that I would be playing Trivial Pursuit at lunch, I would've brushed up on my pointless facts last night instead of eating out this hot chick."
Quinn grimaces. "You're disgusting. This could be a PR nightmare."
"She's not going to rat me out, Q." Santana believes that, even if she's been given no real reason to, especially with what she's seen in her line of work.
Quinn looks skeptical. "You can't possibly know that."
"It wasn't like that," Santana maintains. "She didn't—treat me like I was different." Santana flushes. "Look, it's not a big deal. I'll call her, and—"
"You have her number?"
Santana motions at the napkin that's still sitting on her kitchen table, untouched. "Weren't you just flipping your tits about not being able to locate her? I saved you like ten minutes of googling. I'm gonna call her and tell her that it was a one-time thing. Happy?" Santana's starting to get irritated, and though she knows, rationally, that her anger is misguided, she takes it out on Quinn anyway. "Everyone knows that I like pussy, all right? And nobody cares."
Quinn shakes her head and laughs humorlessly. "You are so naïve. Who do you think your sponsors are?"
"Dicks, apparently," Santana grumbles, "if they'd pull sponsorships over me being lady-loving."
"You know what? Those dicks control a huge portion of your income and your success in this industry, so if you want to keep living the lifestyle you're living, you need to smarten up."
Santana shuts her eyes. She doesn't want to fight about this anymore. "She's not going to tell," she says quietly. "You weren't with her, okay? Trust me."
Quinn sighs. "Call her. Make sure she understands the severity." She shoves a carton of takeout at Santana, but she's laughing a little when she says, "You're a damn headache."
Santana leans over and kisses Quinn's cheek. "Love you."
Santana forks down a few mouthfuls of chow mien before she takes out her phone and dials Brittany's number from the napkin. She can't explain her nerves – her hands are sweaty and her heart is pounding in her chest – because she doesn't even get like this before live shows, and talking to some hookup should be way easier than that.
"Hey! You've reached Brittany S. Pierce. I'm probably out looking for Lord Tubbington again. Leave me a message!"
Santana glances at Quinn. The line beeps before Santana has a chance to hang up. She swallows thickly and hopes that whatever comes out of her mouth next isn't too embarrassing.
"Hey, Brittany, it's Santana. I, uh, I need to talk to you. Call me back."
Santana only realizes she hasn't given her number after she's hung up, so she has to redial and leave a second message, and she's pretty sure she's beet red by the end of it. It's embarrassing that she's so embarrassed. She's supposed to be used to talking to cute girls, but there's something about the way Brittany had looked in the early morning glow that made Santana nervous.
Quinn gives her a look when Santana hangs up the second time.
"Shut up," Santana tells her preemptively.
Quinn shakes her head and returns to her lunch.
Brittany doesn't call her back, but the internet also doesn't explode with stories about Santana fondling tits, so. She's pretty sure that's all behind her, and Brittany hadn't seemed like the type to exploit her for cash. She'll probably never see Brittany ever again in her entire life.
Santana doesn't expect to be as sad as she is about that.
--
Right before the show that night, Santana's phone buzzes with a text message from Brittany that says: sorry, out with sam all day. can't call now, already inside and it's super loud. sup?
Santana wants to ask who Sam is, and is that short for Samuel or Samantha or something else entirely, but instead, Santana taps back: do you want a backstage pass? what's your seat number?
Brittany texts back her seat number, and Santana finds Quinn to ask her to get someone to deliver two VIP passes to Brittany. Quinn arches an eyebrow at her.
"Santana," she admonishes.
Santana shakes her head. "I just want to talk to her about what happened. Her friend's with her. I won't do anything stupid."
Quinn appears skeptical, but she agrees to make sure Brittany gets her hands on the passes.
--
"How's it going, Los Angeles?!"
The crowd roars to life as the first beats of the first song pump through the speakers. There's nothing like the feeling of performing, and adrenaline carries Santana through her songs. She loves this, loves sharing her music and being the center of attention.
Halfway through her set, she finds Brittany on the floor, watching her perform with the biggest grin on her face, and Santana smiles back.
--
Backstage after the show, Brittany's waiting for her, VIP pass hanging around her neck. A blond-haired man is standing next to her with his hands in his pockets, the second pass hanging off his belt.
Brittany's eyes light up when she sees Santana entering. "Hey!"
"Hi," Santana replies, then turns and acknowledges Brittany's friend with a short nod. She'd really only invited him out of courtesy, but she can't exactly tell Brittany that, so she clears her throat and tries to think of a way to make that known without sounding like a total bitch. She's not even sure why she suddenly cares what Brittany's friend thinks of her.
"Is the band around?" Brittany asks suddenly. She points a thumb at her friend. "Sam kinda has a crush on your pianist and was hoping to meet her."
Sam ducks his head and nudges Brittany.
Santana laughs, eager to grab any excuse to be alone with Brittany. "Tina? Yeah, of course. She should be a couple doors down. Check the nameplates on the doors, and don't be afraid to knock if it's closed. She's friendly about meeting fans."
Sam thanks her and quickly excuses himself. As soon as he's out the door, Santana moves to shut it, then turns back to Brittany.
"You don't have to worry about me stabbing you in the back," Brittany says with a tiny shrug. "I respect you way too much to do that, both as a musician and as a person."
Santana shakes her head, feeling her cheeks flush. "That's not what—"
"Yeah, it is," Brittany cuts in, "and that's okay." She doesn't look upset, just disappointed.
"For what it's worth," Santana offers, feeling a twinge in her chest, "I didn't think you would. It's just, my manager handles most of my PR, and—"
Brittany stops her. "I get it. You don't have to explain, Santana."
Santana doesn't know how to tell Brittany that she makes her feel human in a business that is far from it. Makes her feel vulnerable, like Brittany could peer into her soul and see all of her secrets, her fears, her hopes and dreams, even the ones she doesn't – can't, won't – admit to herself. And all that after one night rolling around in the sheets. It terrifies her.
Brittany tilts her head. "Santana, you have to know, I didn't sleep with you because you're famous. I don't want anything from you, and what we did, you shouldn't be afraid of it."
"I'm not," Santana replies automatically, even though she had been, just a little.
"I had a lot of fun," Brittany continues, "and you're so gorgeous when you let go." She offers a crooked smile. "I'm glad I got to see that side of you."
"Brittany…"
Santana takes the few steps between them until she's standing close enough to count Brittany's eyelashes. She wants to feel that again, being open and unafraid. She forgets what she'd wanted to say, forgets all the words to express exactly how Brittany had made her feel, so instead, she rises slightly on her toes to brush her lips against Brittany's. Brittany's arms close around the back of her neck, pulling her closer.
Santana pushes Brittany against the couch and sinks down after her, hands roaming shamelessly over Brittany's curves. Brittany responds in kind, fingertips dipper under the hem of Santana's dress to run up her thigh. Santana's leg slips between Brittany's, pressing down until Brittany throws her head back, biting back a moan.
Brittany's VIP pass digs into Santana's chest, a harsh reminder of who Brittany is supposed to be.
There's a knock at the door, and Santana freezes. She sighs against Brittany's neck before detaching herself and rising from the couch, hastily readjusting her dress. She waits for Brittany to sit up before walking over and answering the door.
It's Quinn, who takes one look at Brittany and throws Santana a dirty look.
"We have to pack up and clear out soon," Quinn tells her. "Just a heads up."
"I'll go get Sam," Brittany pipes up. She approaches Santana and gives her a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. "It was really nice meeting you, Santana."
Brittany lets herself out. Quinn enters the room and shuts the door behind her.
"How'd it go?" Quinn asks cautiously.
Santana is quiet when she answers, "Nobody's ever made me feel the way she does."