I was a taller girl too, once. (regala_electra) wrote,
I was a taller girl too, once.

Fic: Freak in the Evening (Glee, Kurt/Blaine, Santana, NC-17)

Freak in the Evening
Author: Regala Electra
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Kurt/Blaine (reference to Santana/Brittany, Santana/Others, Brittany/Other, Rachel/Other)
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: AU after S2, New York
Warnings: Sexual Content, Language
Word Count: 3,553
Summary: She has to get out of here if only to protect herself from hearing really awkward, mushy sex. Santana stumbles into the wrong hotel room and overhears things. Sexy, spanking things. Perhaps she makes an audio recording but in her defense, she did need a new ringtone for Blaine’s calls.
Author's Notes: Hey, whatever happens in Vegas, right? A fic from my NYC 'verse, dubbed Fabulous and the City over at Archive of Our Own. Prompt: Santana walking in on Kurt/Blaine sex but doesn't interrupt the boys (I have no idea how, so have fun!) and eventually has a little chat with Blaine afterwards. Title from Freak Like Me (Sugababes). Other titles could have been "Salute Kurt's Cock" or "Blaine's Sunny Disposition on the Wonders of Cock." Thanks to ccmskatechick for reading and many thanks to fourfreedoms for the thorough beta and for making me cry with laughter thanks to her commentary.


Somebody’s brilliant decision for a semi-glee club reunion in Vegas when they were all over 21 is one of the dumbest ideas ever. Scandalous behavior is on the low and if it weren’t for Santana’s personal awesomeness, she’d bored out of her mind. She’s the only one comfortable with smoking, drinking, and gambling on the regular so hell yeah she’s having a blast. Still, watching anyone try to settle in front of the slots to try their luck leads to her openly mocking the shocking goody-goody goodiness of her former teammates.

(She’s not going to call them friends even if it catching up with everyone is crazy easy and oddly comfortable.)

The only person who really keeps up with her is Puck and he’s way too invested in showing he’s down with her rainbow flying ways and trying to hook her up with painfully straight cocktail waitresses. They’d cleaned up nicely at Blackjack, though, and she’d congratulated him on getting the number of a semi-cute redhead up for the stays in Vegas motto. She’d also ducked away before he tried to invite her into a threesome for old time’s sake.

Rachel’s still a lightweight and somehow they wound up rooming together, so that’s extra obnoxious. Berry tried waking her up before noon in Vegas, something so unheard of that it took a few hands at poker before Santana felt like a real person again.

Brittany came and aside from a quick hookup, they’ve stuck to the good friends script. It’s not weird at all, what with Brittany sort of dating someone else. That’s as far as they discussed about their dating lives; Santana didn’t even want to know if a boy-shaped blob made Brittany cast her eyes aside in guilt when they’d first leaned towards each other after years apart. Santana figures if there’s anywhere to give in to all her vices (and her foolish heart), it’s Vegas. It doesn’t hurt at all except how she’s working on downing as much rum as possible and rum’s the quickest way to get herself totally stupid.

Which is why it takes for fucking ever for her damn hotel room key to work. Finally she uses a bit of know-how to break into the room that she picked up from an ex. Oh, god, that had ended badly. That was the very first attempt to have an actual girlfriend experiment she conducted during her second year living out in California.

For two months, it was sort of okay until she realized Sarah was a lot in love with her just-a-friend-and-we’ve-been-through-a-lot-together best friend and how she’d been dating a distorted mirror’s edge of herself. Oh fuck, she’s totally at the maudlin drunk part of intoxication. She’s gonna have to break into the mini-bar and force all these feelings to go away.

Her eyeliner may be waterproof but there’s no reason to turn into a runny fucking mess. “Shut up, Lopez,” she says to the empty corridor as she finally gets into the hotel room.

She makes it through the door and takes an immediate detour to the bathroom, knees hitting the tiled floor hard. When she’s standing over the sink washing out her mouth, she notices that all her toiletries are missing. Actually, it looks like an army of alien toiletries has come to replace her own collection and have also doubled in amount.

“Oh shit,” she breathes out. “Wrong ladies’ room.”

She’s in Kurt and Blaine’s room and there’s no way she can correct the fuck up. She hears the hotel door opening again (with the right key this time) and the noisy, smacking sounds of a very messy makeout and oh god, is Blaine trying to talk while Hummel’s sticking his tongue down his throat?

She has to get out of here if only to protect herself from hearing really awkward, mushy sex. While she’s overheard (and Blaine’s overshared) a few details before, she doesn’t really need the nitty gritty so—

“I really need it tonight,” Blaine says but it’s all reedy and thin, the kind of desperation that’s better served mid-fuck in the rush to draw out the kind of orgasm that makes everything sparkle bright and shatter into well-earned satisfaction.

Wow, is she ever glad she shut the bathroom door on her way to praying the porcelain god because the loud thump and Blaine’s answering moan is enough to prove that Kurt totally just slammed Blaine against the bathroom door.

“You sure?” There’s something like a laugh but it’s drowned out with even messier kissing.

Didn’t think Hummel had it in him. Despite Blaine’s odes to his sexual prowess (his actual words—she would’ve hit him for it but she’d been in San Francisco at the time), she’d also witnessed Kurt having an aneurism when he’d found out she tried to spice up their sex life by taking Blaine to a sex shop. She’d had to watch Kurt return so many fun toys she figured that their boring vanilla asses were locked firmly in the soft light, soft sheets, tender bullshit best left to boring softcore porn.

Softcore porn is the worst. Yes, she is a fan of tits, but what’s the point without some good shots of the downstair goods?

“Please, Kurt.”

Jesus, Santana would’ve gagged him by now. Well, she knows what she’s getting Blaine for his birthday. She hopes he opens up her present in front of a lot of people.

“Prove it to me.”

“I will. Promise. Kurt, please. I want it so bad.”

Okay, totally heard a zipper there. God, she really hopes they make it to the bed so she can peace the fuck out without them noticing she’s creeping in their bathroom. She’s got a very short to-do list: seek the comfort of her bed where two dudes are not going at it. It’s a good list and she looks forward to crossing that little item off.

“No,” and Blaine’s voice is muffled a lot, probably taking off his shirt. “I wanna suck you after. After you—”

“After I make you come?”

“After you fuck me.”

Wow. Santana’s not sure if she said it out loud or not. Even if she did, it sounds like Kurt and Blaine didn’t notice a damn thing. One of the many, many things she does not miss about hetero-sex is the taste of dick after it’s been in a condom. Fuck, that’s love.

Unless Blaine’s a freak that likes latex-flavored cock and hell, he would. She hates him less than most people in the world, but his sunny disposition on the wonders of cock is intensely weird despite it being frequently hilarious.

“Okay, I can do that. But first—”

“Yes, Kurt. Please.”

“We do this begging thing all wrong. I think I’m supposed to tease you or you’re supposed to stop being so demanding and we should—”

“Do we?” That’s all Blaine says ‘cause the talking’s over and okay she’s slightly impressed. Whenever someone’s going down on one of her numerous (and very awesome) strap-ons with gusto, well, it’s a familiar noise and fuck if Blaine isn’t greedy for it.

When she’s sober and if she remembers this night, she has to text Kurt congrats on getting himself a guy super dedicated to giving head right. She’s gotten lazy oral before and it’s like, against queer code as far as she’s fucking concerned. Her most popular blog articles are all about oral and she’s thinking about making a special section at her site called Lady Head Doctor or something.

While she’s mentally reorganizing her website, Blaine’s still sucking Kurt’s dick.

“Blaine, you have to stop or—”

“Sorry, couldn’t help it,” and oh hey, rasp in the voice, someone’s an eager little deep throater. She grins and scoots closer to the door because if she’s going to eavesdrop, may as well go full hog and shit.

“I forgive you,” Kurt says and eww, she can hear his smile in his voice. Less mushy, more making Blaine suck him off or whatever else Blaine needs. She hopes it leads to some nice vocals, maybe she can set up her ringtone for Blaine as whatever the fuck he shouts out when he starts coming. Having a personalized ringtone is always a good idea and she’s getting a little tired of Sir Mix-A-Lot singing at her whenever Blaine calls.

“So what’s the count?”

“Every time you were mistaken for an Elvis impersonator out of uniform.”

“Since we got here? That’s like twenty people, Kurt.”

“I figured I’d go easy on you. On the bed now.”

“Hands and knees? That’s how you want me, right?”

“Excellent suggestion. Strip.”

More shuffling noises and there’s also a few low laughs—Blaine—has to be him, he sounds almost giddy. “Ready and waiting.”

“Mmm, you say wait and yet, you’re already impatient.” There’s a long pause and she hears Blaine’s breathing, steady and even, like he’s bracing for something. “I can’t believe you’re already getting a tan. Except here, of course.”

The crack shouldn’t be so loud. She’s got a wall (albeit a bathroom wall and they’re not exactly soundproofed) as a divider and she’s spanked her fair share of asses but Kurt apparently has an affinity for it that she can’t even fucking believe. Blaine groans into it, she can almost picture him pushing back into Kurt’s hand and a nice mental picture forms and it’s both weird and kind of perfect how much the image doesn’t skeeve out her.

There’s a couple more neat, precise smacks, not as loud as the initial one but damn if Blaine isn’t responsive as fuck.

There’s no talking, just the noise of Kurt owning Blaine’s ass and Blaine not bothering to restrain himself, sometimes breaking into high cries that are definitely the good kind of pain noises. She doesn’t miss the deep groans like he’s trying oh-so-hard not to come either.

Santana’s lost count but leave it to Kurt to say, a little unsteadily, ragged like he’s on the edge of being wrecked himself, “Nineteen. Maybe I’ll save the last one for the end. What do you think?”

Fuck yes.”

She doesn’t hear them opening up a bottle of lube but she does hear Blaine almost humming in relief and okay, Kurt’s got a finger in his ass. Huh.

It’s official: Kurt and Blaine are obnoxious as hell when prepping for anal. So many whispery little comments and breathy chuckles; the we’ve been doing this so long kind of thing she really has no goddamn care for, and sometimes there’s some random comment about loving how it feels, well of fucking course, it’s sex, if it doesn’t feel all that nice, it’s a lost cause.

She’s pretty sure Blaine puts the condom on Kurt’s dick using only his mouth and she can’t help but clutch a hand between her awesome rack, right over her heart. It’s a proud mama moment. She totally taught Blaine that fun trick.

Apparently Kurt’s the dive-in-fast type (or maybe it’s just this time) because he is in already and giving it his all. She can hear the bed creaking as they move, fast and furious, and god, balls are God’s joke on dudes. She really does not miss them slap-slapping against her body; even the noise is still hilarious to her.

Blaine is blathering nonsense about how good Kurt feels and how he can ‘feel everything’ and how his ass belongs to Kurt. Santana regrets missing out on recording that bit of audio.

Speaking of recording devices, she should totally convince them to give up a little bit of personalized porn one day. They could make a nice profit, especially with how Kurt’s suddenly lost that prissy bitch tone of his and his voice is all thick and clouded with want. Yeah, she knows that too: the pure hunger of taking someone apart and knowing you’re so fucking close to accomplishing it.

It’s a few noisy, sex-slick thrusts before Blaine’s crying out in relief, probably shooting all over the hotel sheets, like they haven’t gotten enough come stains on them. Yes, this will be a perfect ringtone for Blaine, she thinks, turning the recorder off. A bit muffled and not the clean, crisp audio of her dreams, but it’s not like she can ask for a second take.

She’s cracked the bathroom door open a touch, about to slither out undetected like the badass she is when she glances over to the bed.

Blaine’s pressed into the mattress, limbs akimbo, body moving with the force of the deep breathes he’s taking as Kurt leans back on his haunches, rolling the condom off. He’s pretty fucking obviously still hard. Not that she has to even strain her vision, that’s a dick of some impressive fucking stature and she salutes it, because why the fuck not, it’s not like they notice her nearly half-leaning out of the bathroom.

“Can you turn over?”

“Oh,” Blaine says in that post-orgasm the world is full of sparkly happy joy stupor. “Yes, do it, Kurt.”

“And what’s that?”

Seeing makes a metric fuckton of difference. The cloying sweetness that makes her fillings ache when overheard is gone when she can see the way they move against each other with such perfect ease. Blaine turns onto his back, wincing a little as his nicely abused ass rubs against the mattress, Kurt leaning up to the headboard to grab a pillow, sliding it under Blaine with gentle familiarity ‘cause they’ve done this before. A whole fucking lot.

Kurt’s not done though. He’s quick and pretty limber for a dude who just thoroughly fucked his boyfriend, settling over Blaine, his legs spread wide as he keeps most of his weight off of Blaine, hands gripping the headboard as he almost pushes his cock against Blaine’s lips. “You ready?”

Blaine has no need for talking and goes back to what that mouth is clearly most adept at.

It would be awesome to stick around for the stirring finale but she’d rather not deal with any annoying how dare you! bitchery if they realize she’s been here the whole time. Santana crawls out of the room, the sound of Kurt’s ragged breathing the last thing she hears.

Miss Berry seems to be spending the night elsewhere so once she’s got her mouth minty-fresh care of her actual toiletries in her actual bathroom, she strips down to her panties and crashes in the bed that she’s pretty sure is hers and drifts off easy as anything.

It’s not until she wakes up to the sound of Rachel walk-of-shaming her way into the room that she remembers anything beyond the fuzzy haze of drinking way too much.

“Oh, Santana, hello. Please don’t flash me.”

“Whatever, like you haven’t seen plenty of naked people while working…like a wannabe Broadway baby.” Insults come slowly to her when she first wakes up and it genuinely pisses her off. That was bush league. Kicking the sheet off of her (she tosses and turns when sleeping off booze, she almost fashioned herself a toga, it’s that wrapped up), she strides past Rachel who is attempting to politely avoid getting a full shot of Santana’s still kickin’ bod. Sucks for her. “How many saggy balls have you seen in the past year? Because I’m happily at zero.”

“I’m still a little inebriated.”

“Aww,” Santana says, clapping her hands and regretting it because her head is filled with scratchy sawdust that really hates noise apparently. “I’m so proud you’re taking Vegas’s mission statement to heart.”

Rachel doesn’t answer at first, checking her phone. “Ugh, I completely forgot! I promised Kurt I’d join him and Blaine for brunch in an hour.”

Santana gives her the once over: damn, but that was a severe walk of shame. Sex hair matted in the back and fluffed out a little at the sides (calling card of a grabber when getting head), lips still a little puffy (and Santana is groggy enough to acknowledge Rachel’s mouth is nice, mostly when she’s not speaking), and there’s a hickey low on her throat.

Smirking, Santana says, “I get first dibs on the shower in the morning. We agreed.”

“Please give me a little time to make myself less. Less,” Rachel says pathetically, hand gesturing down her body.

“Relax, Polly Pocket. Unlike you, I wasn’t out misbehaving. I’m gonna clean up real nice.”

Instead of getting her lady orgasms on, she was trapped inside a bathroom listening to some shocking behavior from the Wonder Gays. She’s shampooing her hair when she realizes she hadn’t gotten to hear spank number twenty and she’s kind of disappointed.

Well then. She’s totally going to add one more to grow on the next time she sees Blaine. They’re friends and what’s a little butt-slapping between bros?

Fortunately she doesn’t have to wait long seeing as she decides to tag along with Rachel on her brunch meet up. Greasy food is always a terrible idea except after getting trashed. The main breakfast place in the hotel is a ridonk buffet spreading far and wide, exposing the vast, vast underbody of American society. God bless.

The coffee’s shitty but the caffeine does its job. She can say mean things without having to think too hard.

Blaine, she notices, is sitting awfully careful in the booth, occasionally shifting when the booth dips with Santana’s possibly pointless movements. Whatever, it’s funny how Blaine thinks he’s being discreet.

Rachel and Kurt are arguing some Broadway finer point of nonsense which doesn’t end, but they do take their argument back to the buffet line, Kurt offering to get seconds for Blaine.

The perfect opportunity always arrives for Santana, because she is patient and really goddamn lucky. She smiles like the coffee in her hand is the finest brew because oh, did she ever get the best TMI ever and she’s about to tease Blaine sans mercy.

“I saw about twenty one Elvis impersonators yesterday.”

“Well, the city is full of them,” Blaine says, brows raised in confusion.

She waits for him to get a nice swallow of coffee before she speaks. “Yeah, but out of costume, they do remind me of you…”

There, Blaine’s doing all he can to keep from spitting coffee all over himself and he almost loses the battle. “What?"

“All I’m saying is Kurt owes you one.”

“I have no idea what you mean!?”

“Framing your denial like a question and adding the little squeak at the end really makes me buy your shit, Anderson. I’ll make it easy. Call me.”

“Call you what?”

“On the phone, dumbass.”

Blaine blinks, but she knows him all too well and he’s already calling her number. She guesses that curious streak of his is gonna get him into real trouble one day, good thing she’s here to look after him. Oh, she’s sure Kurt and Rachel help too when they’re not being Kurt and Rachel with their own brands of weird.

It’s a good thing she doesn’t have her phone set at full volume because her recording of last night’s events is pretty fantastic.

Blaine’s face gets so splotchy when he’s mortified. “Oh, god. Santana. How the hell did you get that?

“An honest mistake reaps awesome rewards. Got a little wasted and broke into your hotel room. It happens, you know?”

“Actually I don’t. You were in the room? Oh god.”

“Yep. Kinda heard you begging like whoa last night. Sorry I’m not sorry.” She pats Blaine on his hand, clutched in a white-knuckled fist on top of the table. “Relax. I’m just messing with you.”

“So you’re going to delete that?”

“Hell no. I’d make that my voicemail message if I could. Or get one of those Christmas cards that you can record audio for, send it out all “Season’s Greetings, here’s Blaine shooting his wad, have a happy new year and a happy ending.”

Blaine opens and closes his mouth several times but makes no attempt to speak.

“Dude. It was hot even though I don’t swing that way. You guys had a good time and I wasn’t embarrassed by you two putting on Enya or some lite FM music and cry-gasming in each others’ arms or something. Chill out.”

“I am never having sex with Kurt again,” Blaine finally manages.

“Such a lie. I bet you woke up and gave him a handjob that morning. In fact, I bet you…” she trails off to make him squirm before going in for the kill, “twenty.”

Blaine scowls, but he also slips her the well-earned Andrew Jackson and she beams at him. “God, I love Vegas.”

“Well I for one am shocked the dark and seedy underbelly calls to you,” Kurt says as he joins the table.

Blaine gets up from the booth, stealing a strawberry from Kurt’s plate. “I’ll be right back.”

Santana never misses an opportunity and it’s right there within arm’s length. The smack isn’t anything close to her best but it’s still enough to get Blaine blushing.

“Consider it one to grow on.”

Blaine scowls but she’s ignoring that in favor of Kurt’s dawning look of horror spreading across his face. It’s beautiful and she finds in this kind of situation an evil chuckle or two is required. Turns out this little Vegas vacay is everything she didn’t know she needed.

Tags: fic, glee fic, kurt/blaine, santana/brittany, santana/other
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