Define "Counseling" (2/2)
Title: Define "Counseling" (2/2)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: For safety's sake, through S2.
Summary: Marriage counseling wasn't her first choice...
***
Sometimes, she really doesn’t know how these people end up in such absurd situations. It’s funny-but largely ridiculous, and often infuriating. When it comes to weeks and couples like this one, Santana has one hell of a time controlling herself.
It’s like high school, except she’s being paid to be a bitch, and this time they call it “advice.”
The pair on the couch don’t look like they’ve known the meaning of “happy couple” in years; the man, dressed for dumpster-diving in a Kurt Cobain-quality flannel shirt and torn cargo pants, has been refusing to look at his partner-a woman wearing an expression so tense, Santana half-expects her to start popping pills in the next heartbeat-since they walked through the door ten minutes ago.
It has been ten very long minutes.
“So,” Santana says slowly, tapping her glasses down her nose and eyeing them with as little disdain as she can. “Who wants to start?”
The man, James, determinedly sets his eyes upon the ceiling fan. The woman, Cherise, is staring with enough vigor at a potted plant to set it aflame. It’s far too early to be so ready to kill them both.
“Maybe you’d like to tell me why you’re here?” she advises, doing everything in her power to keep her tone level. “You did sign up for this session of your free will.”
Cherise meets her eye for the first time, a muscle jumping in her jaw. “He wanted it.”
James doesn’t move, even to validate this with a nod or a smirk. Santana hopes to God he isn’t stoned or something; it wouldn’t be the first time a patient came in under the influence, prepared to drive her completely apeshit with uncooperative behavior.
“And why is that?” she presses, crossing one leg over the other and drumming her fingertips against the clipboard in her lap. Cherise bites her lip, glancing back at the fern in the corner.
“Ask him.”
Yes, well, Santana snips silently, that’s what I’m trying to do, thanks. James spares her a quick-nervous, she surmises-glance and rubs his neck.
“James?” she presses. “Something to share?”
His response comes out mumbled and incoherent. She raises an eyebrow.
“Again, please. I didn’t catch that.”
“I said,” he repeats with a little more confidence, “she doesn’t trust me.”
Oh, goody, another of these. She really was hoping for something more original than the usual blame-game crap today. Instead, she’s looking at carbon copies of her parents circa 1998. “Why do you say that?”
“Yes, James,” Cherise adds icily. “Why would you say that?”
His head shakes twice, his face tilting back towards the ceiling. Santana wonders if the trajectory from throwing her pen straight up into the fan would be enough to do significant damage to his brain on impact.
It’s probably not the sanest response to a paying client, but truthfully, it’s been a damn long week. She’s seen more twitchy, jittery, angry pairs than she really knows what to do with, and she hasn’t felt like she’s helped a single one. Most weeks aren’t like this-they’re messy and complicated, of course, but they usually don’t leave her feeling this frustrated.
Weeks like this make her wonder why she does this job to begin with.
The rest of the session passes with agonizing slowness; James refuses to open up with more than a sentence every couple of minutes, and Cherise seems to believe the optimum response is to raise her voice an increment higher with each word. By the time their hour is up, Santana is biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to leave indentations, just to keep from unleashing the old HBIC on their pathetic asses.
“Okay!” It’s cheery, much cheerier than she feels, but that’s the perk of having been one of Sue Sylvester’s own for four years; those Cheerio-bred acting skills will stay with her for life. “Same time next week? I think we might actually be…getting somewhere.” Like an early grave for the both of you.
Watching them walk out, Cherise shoving her husband in the ribs, it strikes her how lucky her life is. Not that she and Brittany don’t bicker, because they do-more frequently than people realize, probably, because while she thinks they are just about the best couple in the history of relationships, Brittany can be damn hard to live with sometimes. And Santana does have to admit she’s not always a complete picnic herself. But despite the sometimes downright epic battles, she likes to think they’re pretty damn solid.
A fuck of a lot more solid than motherfucking James and Cherise, anyway.
She slouches over her desk, rubbing her eyes with annoyance. Helping people through their shit is well and good when they actually want to work things out, but when they don’t? It seriously calls into question Santana’s assessment of marriage. Not that she necessarily agrees with the system to begin with-people are too stupid, too selfish, and too unpredictable to make promises that are that weighty-but things can work out. It happens. Rachel and Quinn are suitably-disgusting proof of it.
She jumps when a pair of hands descend on her shoulders, locating with frightening accuracy the biggest knot in her neck. Either Trish the receptionist needs a quick seminar on appropriate behavior in the workplace, or…
“Bad day, baby?” Brittany asks lowly, pressing her thumbs in a little harder. Santana groans.
“People are dipshits.”
Her girlfriend chuckles, systematically working a spot at the base of Santana’s neck. The Latina lets her head slump forward onto the desktop, eyes closed.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“No,” Santana decides, turning her head this way and that against the cool wood. “Never again, actually. In fact, I’ve thought about it a lot in the last twenty minutes, and I’m quitting my job.”
“Uh huh,” Brittany murmurs, leaning down to press her lips against the back of Santana’s right ear. “And your new job will be…?”
“I used to be pretty good at threatening kids until they forked over their lunch money,” the Latina muses. “Inflation being the bitch that it is, those punk-ass brats have got to be carrying, what? Ten, twenty dollars a pop?”
She shivers a little when Brittany laughs, nipping at her earlobe playfully. “My girl, the criminal.”
“I suppose you think ‘doctor’ has a better ring to it?” Santana teases, twisting around in her chair and smiling faintly. Brittany, dressed in workout clothes, shrugs.
“Blame my parents. They’ve got a thing for legal careers.”
“No imagination, the Dutch.” Reaching out with both hands, Santana catches the taller woman by the pockets of her sweatpants and reels her down into her lap. “Didn’t think you were off today.”
“There’s some bug goin’ around.” Brittany shuffles, looping her arms around Santana’s neck and pressing a quick kiss to her lips. “Half the kids were out sick, and the rest looked like they were going to fall over if we asked them to do anything but sway. We canceled class early.”
“Poor germ-ridden beasts.” Santana grins, ducking the swat to her shoulder. “What? I spend my days with grown-up punks. You get ‘em at their mini stage. It’s all the same, really.”
“Except my punks are there to dance,” Brittany points out, wiggling her ass against Santana’s lap to prove the point. “Yours just like to yell a lot.”
“And call each other names,” Santana amends. “Don’t forget the name calling. That’s the best part. After the chair throwing.”
“Your life is a Jerry Springer episode,” Brittany drawls. “Remind me again why I visit you at work?”
“Mm.” Santana grins, catching the blonde’s ponytail in one fist and pulling her close with it. “Can’t imagine. I mean, it’s not like you ever get anything out of it…”
Brittany’s kiss is sweeter than usual-the product of a Capri-Sun and a handful of Starbursts, probably-and just as enthusiastic as ever. They probably shouldn’t be starting this now, despite Santana’s fairly open afternoon schedule; Trish has already walked in on them three times, and honestly, it gets pretty hard to conduct serious therapy in a room that smells like sex.
Logic’s not the easiest thing in the world to hang onto with a blonde bombshell of a dancer sucking on her tongue, however, so Santana gives up the battle before it’s even begun. Wrapping her arms around her girlfriend, she leans back in her chair and does her best to kiss hard and smile like an idiot at the same time.
“What’s so funny?” Brittany asks, sinking her teeth lightly into Santana’s bottom lip. The dark-haired woman whimpers.
“Nothing. Just. We seem to do this a lot?”
“Make out?” Short nails scratch along her scalp and down, deftly undoing the hair tie that makes ‘Dr. Lopez’ look oh-so professional. She makes a mental note to repair the damage before her next appointment.
“Have sex in my office,” Santana corrects. “I mean, is that even legal?”
“It’s your office,” Brittany points out. “And we aren’t having sex.”
Santana pulls back, eyes narrowed. “Who decided that?”
Ignoring the tone, Brittany grins and ducks her head, licking hot and fast up the side of her girlfriend’s neck. Santana bites down on a moan just as Brittany’s hand flicks open the first button on her blazer.
“We aren’t having sex,” Brittany repeats, scraping her teeth against flushing skin. “We’re just…hanging out on your lunch break.”
“I’ve already had my lunch break, B,” Santana mumbles, arching back in her chair as Brittany’s hips hike forward. “Fuck, babe. Did you at least lock the door?”
“Always do,” the blonde’s muffled reply comes from somewhere around her collar bone. Her pelvis grinds down again, building a sinful rhythm before Santana’s entirely ready for it. The Latina chuckles.
“I’ve got a permanently-blushing receptionist who begs to differ, babe.”
“Always do now that I know some people don’t know what sex yelling sounds like,” Brittany amends, working her way down Santana’s front, button by button. She lifts her head and flashes a beautiful, wicked grin. “Maybe we should’ve made her a whatchamacallit-educational CD when she started. Your old receptionist never bugged us.”
“My old receptionist was a flaming twink who would have combusted on the spot the second he saw lady kisses,” Santana points out, catching Brittany by the collar of her shirt and dragging her back up again. “Lady kisses I’m feeling right about now. Why are we talking?”
The blonde hums happily against her lips, and before she knows it, Santana is completely forgetting about being in the office at all. From where she’s sitting, the only things worth focusing on are the tongue in her mouth, the strong hands undoing her belt, and the panting noises Brittany huffs against her skin when she palms a breast under the blonde’s sports bra. Sure, this probably isn’t the best place in the world for sexy times, but it has been an awful week, and it turns out to be pretty damn impossible to shut down Brittany when she’s doing that-
Except that has turned in an instant to sliding down off of Santana’s chair and dangerously away from her body, Brittany tucking herself carefully under the desk. The Latina’s eyes flick open, hands gathering only air.
“What are you-“
“Dr. Lopez?” The door swishes open to reveal a curious redhead with a smile that more than borders on obnoxious. “Did you say something?”
It’s all Santana can do not to grit her teeth and unleash the blue-balled fury of a thousand suns. “No, Trish. If I was going to say something, I wouldn’t call through my door, would I?”
The young woman’s forehead creases. “I suppose not. But I thought I heard-“
“You didn’t,” Santana interrupts smoothly, trying valiantly to remember why she opted to hired this rather dense creature in the first place. “So if there’s nothing you need, you could-nnnuh.”
Trish’s eyebrows disappear under the fringe of bangs swooping low across her face. “Sorry?”
Santana would reply, except her pants are rather abruptly being yanked around her ankles, her thighs being pushed apart by insistent hands. An eager tongue works its way between her legs, licking and sucking like Brittany hasn’t eaten in days, and good God, this is the least appropriate moment of her life.
She is nothing short of loving it.
“N-nothing,” Santana bites off, pretending not to notice the baffled expression on her receptionist’s face. “Don’t worry about it.”
She chances a glance under the desk to see the top of Brittany’s head bobbing relentlessly. Her throat tightens around a moan.
“Honestly, Dr. Lopez, if you need something, I don’t mind,” Trish presses. “I-to be honest with you, it’s really getting a little dull out here.”
How fucking sad for you, Santana thinks, winding a hand into Brittany’s hair and urging her deeper. She catches a glimpse of her girlfriend’s eyes, all twinkling, evil mischievousness, and silently swears revenge. Brittany would think it completely hilarious to pull something like this, rolling her tongue softly, hands sliding temptingly up and down Santana’s inner thighs, teeth catching gently on a patch of slick skin before moving back in to lick harder and faster and-
“Dr. Lopez?”
“Trish,” Santana growls, “it’s very sad that you’re bored. Really. But I swear to you on your very job, if you do not leave this office right now, we will have words. Long, multi-syllabled, unhappy words. Do you understand me?”
Eyes wide, the redhead nods like the bobbleheaded cat on the dash of Brittany’s car and scoots obediently from the room. Santana’s eyes snap back to the blonde under her desk.
“That was all kinds of-holy shit, fuck, wow.”
Brittany pulls away long enough to tease, “Exactly,” before pressing a long, heated kiss right where Santana needs it most. The Latina closes her eyes, hips jerking against the other woman’s mouth as her tongue delves in to curl, and thrust, and-
“Shit, Brittany,” she gasps, back arching. “Shit, shit, fuck yeah.”
“Shh,” Brittany cautions, but she’s grinning as she says it, and the warning comes out as a steady stream of warm air against her skin. Shuddering, Santana forces her eyes to stay open, devouring and memorizing every image of Brittany pulling her body blissfully into a thousand perfect directions.
When she’s able to breathe again, she gives her girlfriend a gentle rap on the head. “Thought you locked it.”
Brittany grins, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and carefully pulling Santana’s pants back into place. “Guess not,” she says mildly. “Whoops.”
Laughing, Santana kisses the knowing smirk away.
***
She’s been dealing with this couple for the better part of two months now, and if she’s honest with herself, they actually aren’t bad. Two men-in this case, a reasonably young pair, Jacob and Charlie Greene-tend to be a hell of a lot less frustrating than anything involving women, she’s found. And though these two do have frustrating issues (Charlie carts his closet with him wherever he goes; Jacob struggles with keeping his pants on; neither of them can agree on whether or not children are a good idea), they’re at least willing to work through them. Together.
Which is more than she can say for some people.
Namely people named Brittany S. Pierce.
Who is driving her insane.
Charlie has the floor at the moment, and she can see his lips moving. She can also see the tension on Jacob’s face as he strains to keep calm and quiet, to let his husband present his issue without judgment or calamity. She sees it, and she’s pretty sure they’re on the verge of some kind of breakthrough-which is great.
Except their shrink can’t keep her head in the game.
She actually feels kind of guilty about it, because, despite herself, she likes these guys. To be honest, she is actually rooting for them in a manner she doesn’t bother with when it comes to most couples. They’re getting somewhere-which, unfortunately for the overall institution of marriage, is not usually the case-and she would really, really like to be focusing on that progress right now.
Unfortunately, there is a certain infuriating blonde who has been stomping through her mind with a relentlessness worthy of William Schuester’s desire for show tunes, unity, and bug-eyed germaphobes.
Gritting her teeth, she swipes her pen a few times against the pad on her lap, deepening lines that no doubt will bleed through to the cardboard backing at the end of the rainbow. This isn’t professional. Fuck Brittany and her fucking stupid lady grudges. This is work. This is her career. This is where her head should be.
“So you’ve started the coming out process at work,” she forces herself to reiterate at Charlie’s next pause. “And it’s been positive. Where are you planning on going…from…from there?”
He looks at her a little strangely, probably because no client has ever heard her stutter in the history of this practice, and shrugs. “I suppose…I suppose family would be…”
He glances desperately at Jacob, who squeezes his hand reassuringly. Santana’s molars scrape together. Hand-holding. It’s a good sign. Hell, in this profession, it’s practically messianic. So why is it making her want to hurl this notepad at them both?
Maybe because the hand she usually holds has been conspicuously absent for three days now.
Because Brittany’s being insane.
And we’re back.
“Family would be a great step,” she encourages blindly, hoping her voice doesn’t sound as frustrated as her thoughts. “Who do you think would be the easiest initial choice?”
He bites his lip before answering, and her pen moves to take down the response, but her brain isn’t processing a word of it. Her brain is back in the kitchen Monday night, reliving for the fiftieth time the sheer stupidity that culminated in Brittany leaving her couch-bound and annoyed. The yelling. The slamming of the dishwasher door. How Brittany’s forehead wrinkled when it failed to latch and banged right back open again. The little growl the blonde uttered when Santana tried to slip her arms around that familiar waist and soothe the annoyance before it raged into a full-blown shit-fest.
Didn’t go well. It never does, on those relatively rare occasions when Brittany gets really, truly upset. The woman isn’t known for losing her temper easily, but when it goes, it goes for miles.
Santana would be more inclined to wait it out if not for the fact that it wasn’t her damn fault. She just made a goddamn joke about stupid Finn and that fucking stupid decision to join the goddamn military. It wasn’t even that bad, by her usual standards, and Brittany ought to know as much. Not her fault that Brittany took it personally. And definitely not her fault that Brittany has been letting it stew ever since.
At this rate, she’ll make it back into the bedroom sometime around Thanksgiving.
At first, she felt slightly guilty-like maybe Brittany had a point, like maybe she really is getting too old to mock Finnocence anymore. But then the silent treatment wore on. The bathroom door remained locked during shower time. Her pillow hasn’t strayed from the sofa. And by now?
Santana Lopez is a little pissed too.
The crick in her neck is all kinds of not helping, and now she’s stuck staring at the joined hands of two men who are supposed to be fighting, but actually look like they’ve never been more in love in a five-year relationship.
“So. Your sister. She’s been vocal about gay rights and so on?”
She doesn’t know how she makes it through the rest of the session. By the time Jacob is twinkling two fingers at her in farewell, her blood is boiling over. Her head nods without the rest of her body paying attention, her teeth baring in what might constitute a grin-in feral nations built entirely on warfare. Charlie blinks and pushes on his husband’s shoulders, clearly itching to get away. She sighs.
This is getting ridiculous. Brittany’s stony glares and cold shoulders have got to go; they’re beginning to affect the workplace-a place Santana tries really damn hard to keep on a separate shelf entirely-and that’s just not acceptable. Her girlfriend needs to get over this shit, and she needs to get over it yesterday.
When the door bangs open hard enough to crash against the wall, Santana doesn’t bother swiveling in her chair in greeting. Barring a sudden explosive argument over who gets to drive home, there’s no way it’s the Greene couple. And Trish has really come a long way when it comes to learning her lesson with doors. Which leaves…
“Showing up unannounced,” she observes, doodling irritatedly upon her pad, “implies you’re actually going to talk this time.”
Being a smartass isn’t technically listed on the “How to Make Brittany Smile” catalog in her head, but she figures the woman deserves a little sniping. After all, their couch is total crap for anything other than hot sex and movie cuddles.
“Seriously, I’m surprised you didn’t drag it out longer,” she goes on, smirking. “Probably could’ve made the holidays with that kind of momentu-hey!”
The pad is flipped from her lap into the far table, narrowly missing the fern. The pen follows a beat later, bouncing off a leaf hard enough to snap it from the stem. Santana whips around at last, eyes narrowed fiercely.
“Because that was totally necessary-what are you doing?”
Ignoring her, Brittany grasps her by the wrists and hauls her from the chair. Her mouth is set in a firm line, her hair bound in a staunch ponytail. She looks, in short, like she means business-and given the experience this week has been, Santana can’t imagine it’s business she feels like attending to.
“Look, if you want to be an enormous bitch at home, that’s fine,” she snaps, trying to pull her arms free. “But this is work, and I’ve got an appointment in an hour. I need to be focused on-“
Brittany says nothing, only yanks her over to the desk and shoves her back against it. Santana arches an eyebrow, watching as her girlfriend turns abruptly on her heel, marches to the door, and makes a show of turning the lock into place.
“Oh, so now you give a damn about Trish,” the Latina snipes. “Go figure, you wouldn’t want her walking in on you being a-“
Rough hands land on her hips, pushing her harder into the wood. Brittany towers over her, eyes hooded, lips thin and cool. “You’re not talking now,” she warns, and something leaps in Santana’s chest because no matter how annoyed she is, these are still the first words she’s heard from her girlfriend in days.
And also…
“Something’s different,” she notes, blatantly ignoring what she knows was meant to be a command. Brittany’s fingers tighten, bunching around gray material until her skirt loses an inch or two.
She expects the blonde to repeat herself, to reprimand Santana for speaking again, but all she gets is a steady stare. It’s actually kind of unsettling; she shifts from one foot to the other, staring back uneasily.
“B? If you’ve got something to say, get on with it. Don’t have all the time in the world here.”
She senses that sarcasm really isn’t the way to go, but this is getting disconcerting, and she’s got a whole ream of paperwork that she should be looking at.
A whole ream that, with a flourishing brush of Brittany’s arm, is suddenly in utter disarray on the ground-along with her photographs, stapler, and autographed baseball from a game she didn’t even attend. She scowls.
“What the fuck, Britt? Do I come to the studio and smash mirrors?”
It begs a witty retort-except Brittany only grasps her under the thighs and hoists her roughly onto the desktop. Santana shakes her head, hands fisting in the blonde’s shirt and holding her still.
“Okay, stop. What the fuck is up with you? You don’t talk to me for three days, and then you just storm in and want…and want…huh.”
She’s a grown woman; she should be able to stick to her guns when necessary. And all of this crap has been Brittany’s fault. So how fair is it that Brittany only has to lower her lips to the side of Santana’s neck and suck feverishly at the skin just under her collared shirt? How fair is it that this is all it takes to silence Santana’s frustration and replace it with the urge to rut against her lover like a horny teenager?
Not fair. Not remotely so. And she’d be complaining if not for the slide of Brittany’s left hand under her suddenly-untucked shirt, warm and strong against her back. She feels the familiar fumble and flick of a clasp, coupled with the deft pop of buttons loosening, and grins into the top of Brittany’s head. Maybe grown women are supposed to talk out their problems, but fuck it-this is so much more fun.
It’s tacky to take your own advice, anyway.
She groans at the feel of Brittany’s mouth on her skin, traveling down inch by biting inch. Three days isn’t a hell of a long time, but this is a lot to miss. Especially when Brittany is in a mood like this one-hungry, domineering, just this side of brutal. It doesn’t happen often enough, Santana thinks, mostly because it usually marks the end of a fight. Which makes it all the sweeter when Brittany’s teeth close around one pert nipple, tugging a little harder than is the norm, until Santana’s breath hisses free.
“Fuck, baby. Miss me?”
Blue eyes are halfway to stormy gray when they meet hers, Brittany’s palm coming up to press against her shoulder blades. It’s a look she knows well; Santana obediently shuts up, gripping the back of Brittany’s head and growling softly when the blonde noses against her breast a little harder, tongue working furiously over puckered flesh.
Brittany moves back and forth systematically, operating on a rhythm Santana’s not privy to, showering caramel skin with sharp bites and hungry licks that have the Latina squirming in minutes. She doesn’t say a word, barely makes a sound, only runs her nails up and down Santana’s back, digging in just hard enough to sting. Her hips jerk once, just hard enough to let Santana know that yes, this is rather different. The making up part will come later, but first, she’s getting the punishment.
It’s one fuck of a lot better than Brittany’s cold-shoulder tactic.
When her system feels like it’s on the verge of combusting, each stroke of Brittany’s tongue delivering straight to her core, Santana grasps her girlfriend by the collar and kisses her violently. It’s more teeth and gasps than actual affection, but it’s exactly what Brittany seems to be looking for; she makes a husky noise and reaches down between the desk and her own body, fumbling with the front of her pants. Santana captures that too-talented tongue and wrenches it into her mouth, suckling until Brittany’s fingers go temporarily slack against her spine. Inwardly, she smirks; if Brittany wants her to bottom, she’ll play, but that will never mean going easy.
For a second, she thinks she’s actually done something incredible-that is, pulled the reins sharply enough to jerk Brittany out of whatever mood she’s in. She grins into the kiss, scraping her nails down the blonde’s shoulders, silently congratulating herself on a fight well-won.
The next thing she knows, she’s being yanked off the desk and twisted around, her skirt bunched around her waist. Soft lips brush her ear, the words barely more than a heated exhalation.
“You didn’t think it’d be that easy.”
She shudders as Brittany’s hands mold over her own, guiding her to grip the desk firmly. No, of course not; this is Brittany. The sweetest woman in the history of the world, sure-when she wants to be. And equally evil on opposite counts.
Standing in her own office, bent over her own desk, naked but for the skirt around her waist and a pair of panties that honestly aren’t likely to last the next five minutes-the only bit of “sweet” in this is Brittany’s decision to actually lock the door this time. Trish wouldn’t appreciate this view at all.
Santana grins down at the desk, flexing her fingers against smooth, shiny wood. “You bring me something, baby? A little present?”
“Present?” Brittany’s body curves against her from behind, hands stroking up and down her sides gently enough to raise goosebumps. “You really think you deserve a present?”
She shivers as one hand grips her hip, keeping her rooted in place; Brittany trails her free fingers up and down Santana’s back, the backs of her nails smooth against expectant skin. The caress strays low, into the dip at the base of her spine and down, cupping her ass tenderly. It’s a distinctive contrast to the roughness her body has come to expect, and Santana can’t resist moaning softly.
“Whatever, babe,” she gasps, leaning back into the touch when Brittany gives the flesh in her hand a hearty squeeze. “You came to give me something. So give it.”
Brittany gives a little chuckle, and Santana can’t help but be proud of how clearly there is no anger left in either of them. This is how she knows the job she does is a good one, even if it looks at every angle not to fit her in the slightest: she and Brittany, they’re good at this. They weren’t always, maybe; it took a few years to get the hang of being best friends who fuck, and then best friends who date. It wasn’t a fairy tale ride, and still isn’t. They fight. They fight, and they scream, and sometimes Santana throws things and Brittany storms out and their neighbors flinch to see them coming. But always, always, they come back to this. To love, and laughter, and-
“Holy mother of God,” she cries out, because Brittany didn’t actually give her a lot of warning before yanking her underwear down and guiding the shaft of the strap-on deep into her body. She really should know better than to let her mind wander in a situation like this.
“You asked for it,” Brittany teases, nipping the skin just behind her ear playfully. Santana can only groan, hips rolling back to draw her lover in deeper. Brittany, every inch the dancer, times each thrust perfectly, every wave of her body sinking in hard and slow; Santana is three steps ahead, nails digging into the desk, body jerking desperately. Normally, she’s better at this; then again, normally, she doesn't go without sex for several days. Her body’s a little bewildered right now.
Bewildered, but not finished, not if Brittany’s got anything to say about it. She feels the hands around her hips hold firm, slowing her down, easing her back into each thrust. The blonde is both rough and methodical, kissing her neck languidly in time with her body’s motions, growling a little in warning whenever Santana tries to pick up the pace. The Latina whines, eyes rolling back into her head; she’s so damn close, can feel the shadow of her orgasm rising and falling with every one of Brittany’s practiced plunges.
“Please,” she whimpers, all too aware that this is the heart of her punishment. For what, she can’t remember, and doesn’t particularly care; all that counts is getting Brittany to go a little faster, a touch harder.
The blonde’s lips touch her cheek, all movement stilling for a beat. “Please what, S?”
“Fuck me,” Santana husks, savoring the cliché as it burns along her tongue. “Fuck me harder, baby, come on. If you can.”
Brittany laughs at the challenge, head thrown back, fingers bruising on Santana’s waist. In the next moment, Santana becomes little more than a series of sensations: the thud of her desk as it rocks against the wall, the scorch of fingertips against her skin, the driving force of one orgasm, and then another, exploding behind closed eyes. The howl she sends up probably reaches the office down the hall; with Brittany panting in her ear, she can’t begin to care.
By the time she’s fully dressed and her two o’clock-Rob and Dawn Booth, teetering on the brink of divorce and likely to go over at any minute-is seated on the couch, Santana’s mind is a billion miles away all over again.
***
Things are going great. Really, really great. There’s no denying it. She has happy clients, a happy girlfriend, happy (though she hates that she even has these) married friends. Everything is happy, happy, happy.
Santana’s face feels like it might shatter under the strain of all that happy, as a matter of fact.
It’s stupid to complain about stress when everything’s going so well. It’s stupid to rock the boat. No matter how quickly she feels life is zooming.
She’s fully booked just about every day-word of mouth and some pretty stellar recommendations are keeping the Lopez-Pierce fridge well-stocked-and everyone seems to like what she’s doing. Even when her clients flat-out loathe one another, they seem perfectly willing to turn sunny smiles on her before leaving each session. Which is a little weird for the woman who spent high school terrorizing anyone in the remotest state of misfitdom, but she’ll take it. It comes with the territory of big bucks and big hours.
It’s not that she isn’t happy. She is. This is everything she could have wanted as she slaved through school, surviving on ramen cups, Bagel Bites, and Brittany’s stupendous talent for wanting sex at all the right times. This is fantastic.
It’s also hectic. And decidedly cutting into her sleep schedule. With more couples come more effort put into resolving their colorful and varied issues. With more effort comes less sleep. It’s the natural order of things, and Santana’s pretty cool with it.
Except, on days like this one, things get a little…tense.
It’s entirely possible that, despite it being eleven o’clock in the morning, she is running on a cup of coffee the size of Brazil and two Red Bulls. It’s also entirely possible that this is beginning to show. With abundant clarity.
At least, she’s assuming that’s the reason Chloe and Martin Edgar are looking so slack-jawed this morning. She gives them what she hopes is a reassuring smile.
“Are…are you all right?” Chloe asks hesitantly, because she is, under all of the repressed concern about being held back from her dreams for the last forty-five years, more or less Santana’s grandmother reincarnated.
“Fine,” Santana assures them both, “I’m perfectly fine. Martin, the last time we met, you were beginning to share your feelings on Chloe’s revelation. Would you like to continue?”
She spends the session running approximately four hours ahead, plotting and mapping the ideal block for her paperwork. If she skips lunch and aims for carry-out for dinner-maybe a pizza, or something from that Thai place they tried last month-she can have at least two case files taken care of by the evening’s end.
And then, assuming her girlfriend is still awake (assuming isn’t really the word; Brittany’s got this thing about not sleeping before Santana makes it into bed, so the odds are really chiming in her favor), she’ll just…work off a little of this extra energy.
It’s the perfect plan, except it can’t be set into motion until considerably later. And her leg is drumming spastically against the carpet right now. And Chloe’s looking concerned again.
The minute the clock clicks over to noon, her phone is in her hand, fingers flicking across the keyboard. She’s jittery enough to misspell “lunch” three times, which is annoying, but Brittany’s one of the worst text-spellers on earth; she’ll get it. Whether or not she’ll be able to drop everything and jog on over is the question; children can be slightly more needy than even the worst of her clients.
Only slightly-but still.
She’s pacing the office, left to right, right to left, when the confident rap sounds against her door. Brittany’s tousled head pokes in, her face pleasantly flushed. Santana grins.
“Thank God, B. I was worried some little monster needed extra help with his pirouettes or something.”
“Hip-hop, San,” Brittany reminds her patiently, slipping in and snapping the door shut with a bump of her hip. “Not a lot of pirouettes going on this week.”
Santana rolls her eyes, crossing the room in a few short steps and grasping Brittany by the collar. “Didja bring me anything?”
“What, like another tankful of sugar? You don’t look like you need a whole lot, Jitterbug,” Brittany drawls, leaning down and brushing her mouth across Santana’s slowly. The Latina stretches up on her toes, deepening the kiss with a flick of her tongue and a smile, displeased when Brittany breaks off first.
“Oh, I have needs,” Santana teases, watching her girlfriend saunter over to the couch and flop down carelessly. She’s wired as hell, every nerve jumping, ever hair standing on end, but Brittany looks the complete opposite: casual, languid, a little maxed out. It’s adorable, the way she nuzzles into the cushions and yawns.
“I love your needs, baby,” the blonde assures her. “But I just walked fifteen kids through a Beyonce sequence they didn’t seem to like. Jackson threw up. Kimberly got frustrated and punched Jessy in the throat. My needs involve a nap.”
Santana moves to her side, kneeling before the couch and brushing a sweaty lock of hair off Brittany’s forehead. “A nap?” she repeats, “Or relaxation?”
“Same thing, San,” Brittany mumbles, eyes closing as Santana showers her face with light, quick kisses. “What’re you doin’?”
“Kissin’,” Santana replies, muffled against the woman’s soft, pale skin. Brittany makes a lazy humming noise.
“Kissin’ for why?”
Santana chuckles, sliding a hand companionably up the blonde’s stomach. “I like kissing you. And you need to relax. Kissing is relaxing.”
“Kissing leads to other things,” Brittany points out, cracking one eye and smirking. “Other things that are like exercise.”
Leaving a swift trail of soft licks against velvet-smooth skin, Santana tries not to laugh. “You won’t have to do a thing, baby, except lay there and enjoy the ride.”
She feels Brittany bat her away, propping herself up on her elbows. “You,” the blonde observes with a coy smile, “are the corniest person in the world sometimes.”
“You like corn,” Santana notes, leaning in again. A warm finger nudges against her lips, holding her back.
“I like you,” Brittany says warmly. “Even when I’m sleepy and you’re horny.”
“Can I help having energy to burn?” She cranes her neck, trying to get at the lips on the other side of Brittany’s hand. The blonde stretches a little, smiling affectionately.
“You could try sleeping like a regular person once in a while. I miss having you in bed before three in the morning, S.”
A pang of guilt ripples through her, momentarily derailing the urge to pin her girlfriend down and work her to a quick and heavy climax. “I’m trying,” she mumbles. “I’m doing the best I can, for us to be happy. Things are just really busy, and I-“
One finger becomes a whole palm, trapping the words inside her mouth with one firm stroke. Brittany’s eyes are warm, full of love, and slightly amused.
“We’re doing fine, Santana,” she says, running the pad of her thumb slowly along the curve of the Latina’s bottom lip. “I’m happy. Are you?”
She stares up at the smiling woman and dumbly nods her head. Brittany gives her a light poke on the nose.
“You need to slow down, baby. I love it when you call me over for lunch sex, but I love it more when you do it on eight hours of sleep and a breakfast that involves actual food. Do you even know what’s in those Red Bulls?”
Santana wrinkles her nose. “You were talking to Rachel again.”
“Rachel’s smart,” Brittany replies with a matter-of-fact shrug. “Annoying. But smart. She says you should be eating leafy greens and soy products.”
“She’s gonna be eating my fist if she doesn’t learn to butt out,” Santana threatens, laughing when Brittany’s eyes roll. “All right, fine, I’ll try to take it a little easier. I’ve got a few couples who feel like they’re on their way out the door anyway; when they’re gone, I’ll be a little choosier about taking on new clients. Okay?”
“Good plan,” Brittany replies, flopping back into place on the couch and slinging a hand over her eyes. Santana leans in again, positioning her mouth at the blonde’s ear.
“Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” she breathes, pleased when her girlfriend trembles under the grazing touch, “can I please make you feel good? I’ve got all this energy now, and my lunch break only lasts so long…”
“Do I have to move?” Brittany asks playfully, tilting her body almost imperceptibly towards Santana. The Latina grins, gently working her teeth around the ridge of the blonde’s ear.
“You don’t have to do anything. If you can control yourself.”
She eases one long leg off the couch and grasps the drawstring of Brittany’s sweats, deftly unknotting the meticulous bow. Part of her wants to go nice and slow, draw this out with light touches that would have her girl squirming and wanting on this couch for hours. But the caffeine is still pumping rhythmically under her skin, and she was serious about the lunch break being shorter than God intended thing. The teasing will have to wait.
Brittany’s breath hitches, the arm flung over her face tensing as Santana guides her pants down and runs her fingertips up and up. The blonde’s legs go on for miles, culminating in a pair of Batman-logoed underwear that make Santana’s chest tighten with sheer love. Only Brittany could wear something like this and look completely sexy-although that might also have something to do with the way her free hand is groping for Santana’s, clearly not in the mood for anticipation.
“You’re making me move,” the blonde gripes, lips twitching. Santana smirks.
“You’re supposed to be relaxing.”
“So relax me,” Brittany drawls wryly, obediently splaying her hand across her own abs as Santana moves up on her knees to lean over the couch. She keeps her eyes on Brittany’s covered face, watching for the contractions of her jaw, the wrinkle to her forehead as Santana’s fingers urge under the band of the other girl’s underwear and curl inside. Two fingers, an instantaneous entrance, and Brittany’s moan of appreciation could not be more delicious if she tried. Unconsciously, Santana’s body jerks forward against the couch, thrusting in time with her fingers.
“Mm,” Brittany’s voice carries up from under her arm, her hips rolling to meet the dark-haired woman’s motions. Santana grins, pulling out and driving back in with exactly the right amount of force. She watches Brittany’s teeth latch around her own arm, her eyes rolling back as her body forms a graceful arch. It’s beautiful, fucking Brittany-always has been, always will be. The dance is intrinsic, instinctive.
Her muscles tighten, legs and arms and stomach, to mirror Brittany’s; her fingers pick up the pulse pounding inside her own head, speeding and slowing alternately until the blonde is gasping and twisting under her, sighing her name over and over again. That pale hand strokes up to cup her own breasts, teasing desperately through her thin t-shirt, and Santana adds a third finger; the heat is intoxicating, liquid pressure enveloping her as she drives Brittany to the edge and holds her back again.
Biting her lip, she finds herself rocking her hips against the couch as if the minimal friction will be even close to enough. Brittany’s hands reach up, searching, claiming the front of Santana’s shirt and dragging her atop her lithe frame. Hand urged into locating an even better angle, fingers still exploring Brittany’s core, Santana kisses her fiercely. She feels Brittany pull her close, guiding her to straddle one toned leg and grinds down gratefully; she’ll need a hell of a lot more tonight, but at least it’s better than humping her own furniture.
Half on the couch, half off of it, she presses her face into Brittany’s shoulder and curls her fingers directly into the spot that will make her girlfriend explode. The sound that tears from the blonde’s lips is astonishing, sexy and overwhelming enough to give Santana something of her own release; her muscles relax, breath coming hot and heady into Brittany’s shirt.
“How long before someone realizes we have sex on this couch, you think?” Brittany pants after a minute of shivering silence. Her hand strokes comfortably down Santana’s spine, settling just under her shirt. The Latina chuckles.
“They’re already paying out their asses for glorified advice. I don’t exactly work with geniuses, Britt.”
“Glorified advice from a sex goddess,” the blonde observes, dropping a firm kiss against the side of Santana’s head. “They’re lucky.”
Santana laughs again, too sated and warm to bother pointing out that she happens to be the lucky one.
Although, when Brittany pulls herself together, bestowing upon her another long, searching kiss before returning to her day, Santana does realize she’s just skipped lunch.
Another Red Bull, it is.
***
“Uh, S?”
She raises an eyebrow at Finn, who shrinks back a little and amends, “Santana.”
“Yes?” she replies primly, jaw tight.
“You do realize all of those stories ended in…well…” He hesitates, looking uncomfortable. Kurt pats his knee and takes over.
“Mind-blowing Sapphic sex that has nothing to do with therapy whatsoever.”
“And completely inappropriate in every way,” Tina adds blankly. Beside her, Artie looks like he’s having trouble formulating cohesive thoughts. Santana wonders if this is how he looked the night Brittany swiped his V-card.
“Do you ever actually do work?” Mercedes demands. Santana shrugs.
“I’m not getting paid for nothing. Did you really think I was going to share about other people’s lives? People, I’m a goddamn professional. There’s a code of honor and shit.”
“Since when have you been honorable?” Quinn quips. Her wife, wide-eyed, seems to have greater concerns.
“You’ve had sex on your couch?” Rachel looks hilariously horrified. “Santana! Innocent people sit on that!”
Santana snorts. “They’ll never know.”
“How does no one notice?” Puck asks, looking damn impressed. “I mean, I’ve scored a lot of pussy, Lopez, I would know. It’s noticeable.”
Kurt’s forehead creases with disgust. “It’s charming to see how you’ve grown, Noah Puckerman. Truly, your articulate expressions are an inspiration to us all.”
“He’s got a point,” Quinn says, stretching in her chair and cocking her head curiously. “Not that I’m surprised that you two are going at it like bunnies in the most inappropriate places, but how do you keep getting away with it?”
Santana shrugs, knocking back another mouthful of beer and smiling smugly when Brittany nuzzles against her neck. “I told you bitches:
“I am fucking good at what I do.”