Summer Lovin' (Had Me A Blast)
Title: Summer Lovin' (Had Me A Blast)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: A fill for this prompt: http://community.livejournal.com/glee_kink_meme/3381.html?thread=8598069. Hopefully it's about what was intended. Since it's mostly mindless smut.
A/N: YES, I TITLED IT AFTER A GREASE SONG, WHAT OF IT.
She remembers when summer used to be the greatest thing on earth. It wasn’t so long ago that days were spent racing through the park, forcing the boys to let her play on their pick-up teams, and generally thanking the gods of Three Month Vacations for the lack of homework. It wasn’t so long ago that summer absolutely ruled.
But now they’re here: sixteen years old, bending to Coach Sylvester’s every truly-sadistic whim, and summer has become a thing of dread and torment. There’s no such animal as a comfortable Cheerio in this heat, not with the wind sprints and tire-dragging fiascos Coach calls a normal workout.
Short version: Santana is really, really tired. And kind of missing school. And kind of hating herself violently for entertaining such blasphemous thoughts.
Even worse, her mom has confiscated the car for the afternoon-something about needing to drive her always-picky brother way out to Bumfuck Whatever for a shopping voyage that will doubtlessly take hours-so she and Brittany are left crawling home. Practically on their hands and knees, even.
Well. No. Not really. But it’s pretty damn close. Her legs do feel like gelatin, and the urge to drop to her knees and press her face against the boiling hot asphalt is unbearable-but she knows if she does that, she won’t be getting up again. And Brittany will probably fall right down beside her. And Coach is bound to dig up and horribly desecrate their graves if two of her highest-ranking cheerleaders get themselves turned into roadkill mere months before a competition.
So plug on they do, feet dragging in grass-stained work-out sneakers, water bottles dangling uselessly at their sides, until they reach Santana’s gate. The house is right there, easily within trudging distance, but it’s not even an option. There’s something better just around the corner.
She doesn’t even bother to whip off her t-shirt and shorts; it almost takes too long as it is to get out of the shoes and socks, and beside her, Brittany looks like she’s going to drop at any minute. There’s no time to waste.
They hit the water like it’s the last thing on earth to sustain them, all torrential sweat and scrambling desperation, and just like that, Santana can breathe again. Well-no, not just like that; she does have to surface first. But the point is, there are certain things in this life still worth giving thanks for.
Having a doctor for a father and, consequently, a massive pool in her yard: that qualifies.
She heaves a sigh as Brittany leans back and allows the water to cushion her comfortably, shirt billowing around her body. “Amazing.”
“I am,” Santana agrees, laughing when a spray hits her full in the face. It feels something like she would imagine a bitch-slap from the angel Gabriel might.
“Why don’t we do this every day?” Brittany asks, reaching under the water and fumbling with her shorts. “And why don’t you ever remind me to take these off first?”
“We don’t do this every day because my dumbass little brother is usually lurking with his Super Soaker,” Santana replies calmly, closing her eyes and relaxing until her body floats with ease, arms drifting at her sides. “And it’s hot. I was going to die if I didn’t get in right then. Shorts dry.”
She can feel Brittany eyeing her thoughtfully. “I can see your bra through your shirt.”
“Bikini,” Santana reminds her. “Shirts dry too. Come on, when do we ever get this place to ourselves? Enjoy it, babe.”
There’s a long pause, punctuated by some splashing; she assumes Brittany has managed to squirm out of her shorts at last, judging by the squelch of something small and wet hitting the pavement. A second sound heralds what Santana figures is the blonde’s shirt. She smiles.
“Gonna quit whining now?”
The hands that land on her head are graceful, slender, and utterly cruel as they shove her under. Brittany’s laugh follows in the next instant, muffled by the bubbles as Santana thrashes, kicking her way back to the surface and glaring soggily at her best friend.
“Well, that was a whore move.”
“I don’t whine,” Brittany replies primly, hands folded under her chin as she bats her eyes. Santana shakes her head.
“See if I let you into my pool again.”
Brittany’s flirtatious grin morphs into a heart-bruising pout. Santana’s arms cross over her chest, nose upturned.
“No. No, I see how it is. Trying to drown me when I’ve been so nice to you all this ti-hey!”
Brittany is taller, and stronger, and apparently meaner than she thought. The wave that comes down on her head leaves her spluttering, blinking water out of her eyes and scowling.
“All right, that’s it,” she announces, reaching down and yanking her shirt clumsily over her head. “The gloves are comin’ off.”
“You’re not wearing gloves,” Brittany observes wisely, giggling when Santana sends a small tidal wave her way in response.
She might have forgotten, sometime over the last few Sue Sylvester Summers, how awesome this can be. Not that she and Brittany don’t have fun together-they actually have many breeds of their very own fun, which cannot be replicated with any friend other than maybe (in a much more predictable, less enjoyable way) Puck. It’s just that things like this…things that remind her of childhood, of a time before social preoccupations and stupid diets…
They just don’t happen as often as she realizes she would like.
She loses track of how much time they spend chasing one another around in the water, splashing and screaming. Brittany’s trash talk could use some work (“Your water’s so fat, it WISHES it could be a duck!”), but her aim is impeccable, and soon enough, they’re up against the side of the pool, both laughing too hard to breathe. Santana’s shirt is lying somewhere along the floor of the pool, Brittany’s hair is plastered to her forehead, and the pavement is utterly drenched. She hasn’t felt this elated in days.
“Did I win?” Brittany asks, giggling as she pats the water with open palms. Santana scoffs.
“No.”
“But you’re all wet,” Brittany points out, reaching over and flicking a bead of water from the dark-haired girl’s cheek with her thumb. Santana smirks.
“You’re not much better off, B. Being wet and all.”
It sounds inoccuous enough, but Santana is unsurprised by how little it takes to edge a bit of the clarity from Brittany’s too-blue eyes-another product of the heat. One simple sentence, coupled with a defiant grin and a nudge, and Brittany’s entire manner shifts. Her thumb trails down Santana’s jawline, nail scratching lightly, lip working between her teeth.
“We’re outside.”
“And?” Santana asks, shifting to face the taller girl and tilting her chin up. Brittany licks her lips.
“Is your fence high enough?”
With the way Brittany’s staring at her mouth, Santana wouldn’t give a shit if there was no such thing as fences in this world. “Do you really care that much?”
“Well, there was that one time at my house when-“
Santana knows. Santana remembers all too well the incident. Being caught by Brittany’s elderly neighbor was a little sketchy, but nowhere near sketchy enough to prevent her from surging forward now and catching that blonde ponytail in her fist. Brittany’s mouth slants under hers, opening with a sharp pant as Santana drags her tongue along the seam of her lips.
Playing in the water is fun. This is perfection.
It’s yet another thing they can’t do most of the time, what with Santana’s little brother and his dopey friends running all over the place (she’ll do a lot, she rationalizes, but she will absolutely not be the one to introduce her eight-year-old sibling to the joys of lesbian sex), which is a shame. Because kissing Brittany is never a bad idea. Kissing Brittany like this-like a starving woman; like she hasn’t had human contact in days; like, if she doesn’t push the blonde a little harder against the wall of the pool, thrusting forward with her hips, they’re both going to drown in the next moment-is what she was made for.
Or, at least, it’s what this afternoon was made for. She wonders how they managed to spend so many minutes splashing and dunking one another before reaching this inevitable conclusion.
Brittany groans beneath her passionate assault, hands splayed across Santana’s back, fingers going to the knot behind her neck as if by sheer magnetic force. There’s a madness to they way they come together and jolt apart again, frantic and brilliant; Santana’s nails dig into Brittany’s scalp, her pelvis rocking forward. Brittany groans again.
“Here?” she gasps, arching when Santana slides a leg between hers and grinds hard, teeth nipping at her earlobe. “Never mind.”
“Unless you wanted to move?”
“No,” Brittany keens, palming one of Santana’s breasts with surprising ferocity as the Latina sucks on her skin. “No, no moving. Just-“
She almost wants to be a total bitch and take that ‘no moving’ plea seriously, but the way Brittany is wriggling is just too delicious to pass up. Grinning, she blows a hot breath directly into the blonde’s ear and grasps her hip with one hand, sliding the other slowly down unforgivably taut abs. Brittany whimpers, feet slipping against the tile floor.
“Now?” Santana teases, kissing a leisurely path down the other girl’s neck. Her fingers hook into the material of Brittany’s underwear (someday, she thinks, the girl will start wearing her bikini to practice like the rest of them) and pull. Brittany’s eyes flutter.
“Please.”
“Mm. I don’t know.” She scratches her index finger up and down, just under Brittany’s bellybutton, relishing the way the blonde shudders. “We could swim a little more. I mean, you’re looking kind of…hot…”
“S,” Brittany whines, “come on, don’t-don’t-oh.”
It feels a little weird, doing this under water, Santana thinks as she latches her lips to Brittany’s racing pulse and suckles voraciously, but the reaction is familiar. Brittany makes a guttural sound of approval as dedicated fingers press against her clit, stroking to the tempo of her canting hips. Grabbing Santana’s face in both hands, she yanks until their mouths collide brutally. For a second, Santana’s hand falters as Brittany’s tongue slides into her mouth, thumbs tracing along her cheekbones; the blonde gives an erratic thrust with her whole lower half, gasping what barely pass for words against her lips.
“Don’t-don’t stop.”
Head spinning, Santana obediently seeks out the source of Brittany’s heat, jerking the underwear down a few inches in her haste. She drives in with two fingers, ignoring the ache between her own thighs as Brittany continues to kiss her feverishly, body riding the waves born of their combined motion. Smoothly, she thrusts in and out, curling and angling until Brittany’s kisses grow sloppy and unrefined. Long fingers grip the back of her neck, trailing up into her ponytail as lean hips strive to drag her closer, one leg dragging up to latch around her waist.
There aren’t words so much as ecstatic cries, muffled by Santana’s own lips, but they’re growing rapidly louder as her fingers pound relentlessly against the spot that will make Brittany a quavering mess in about ten more seconds. She grins, biting down on Brittany’s bottom lip just as she slams her entire body forward behind her hand. Both of Brittany’s arms come loose from around her neck, dropping with a violent splash into the water as she lets a string of curses fly.
They stay for a moment, Brittany’s limp body held up only by the force of Santana pinning her to the wall. Silently, the Latina congratulates herself. Another day, another beautiful orgasm. Such a stud.
“Do.” Brittany’s voice cracks. She swallows, clears her throat, tries again. “Do you think anybody heard?”
Yes. “Probably not, baby.” Santana grins, softly kissing the girl’s shoulder. “I think this means I win, though.”
Brittany’s chest heaves against hers, her head shaking from side to side. “Game’s not over.”
“Oh?” She arches an eyebrow, leaning back. “And here I am thinkin’ you can barely stand up right now. How silly.”
“I can stand,” Brittany protests, pushing so Santana floats back a few inches. She windmills her arms in a bizarre sort of doggie paddle, laughing. “See?”
“That’s swimming, babe,” Santana teases. “Totally different.”
Obviously tuning her out, Brittany drifts to the ladder and shakily climbs free, adjusting her underwear as she goes. Santana tilts her head, momentarily too distracted by her best friend’s ass to move.
“You have to come if you want to come,” the blonde informs her with completely sobriety, arms crossed over her chest. That does it. In no time at all, Santana has heaved herself up over the side of the pool, shivering when the air hits her skin.
“You got a towel?”
“Not here,” Brittany admonishes, laughing. She reaches back and tangles their fingers together, all but dragging Santana up to the house. It’s a miracle they don’t slip and fall on their heads, she thinks, especially considering her dining room and kitchen are both patented Doom Zones for wet feet.
“Britt, you’re gonna kill us both if you don’t slow dow-okay, all right, hi.”
Being shoved up against the counter kind of hurts, she thinks (or, at least, she assumes it will when she finds the tiny bruises the next morning), but in a very good way. And there’s something totally awesome about how strong Brittany is-particularly how capable she is of hoisting Santana up like she weighs just about nothing (which, considering Coach’s Magic Shake regimen, might as well be true).
Her mother would be so pissed if she could see them right now. It makes it all the more glorious when Brittany pushes her thighs apart commandingly and sinks down between them.
“I-I have a bed, you know,” Santana feels the need to gasp out, even as Brittany’s tongue flattens against the front of her bottoms. “It’s-I mean, you’ve seen it-“
Ignoring her completely, Brittany traces her tongue in swirling patterns against the material, locating the pert bud and flicking at it rhythmically. Santana forgets her next sarcastic impulse, hand coming down a little violently atop drying blonde hair.
“Fuck,” she moans. “You need… you need to…fuck, B.”
“Mm hmm,” Brittany replies, inching the bikini bottoms down until Santana is bare-assed against her mother’s kitchen counter. Another girl might blush at the thought. It somehow just turns Santana on more.
“Now, baby,” she hears herself babble, “right now. I need you, fuck, I need you-“
“Shh,” Brittany soothes, grinning maddeningly from between her legs. “Does begging mean I win?”
Oh, hell. “Whatever you say, B,” she replies, leaning back until her shoulders meet cool cupboards. “Whatever you say, just as long as you-yes, that.”
She can’t stop herself from pressing a palm to the back of the other girl’s head, hips jerking against Brittany’s mouth as soft lips wrap around her clit and give a few experimental sucks. Her eyes roll back in her head as Brittany makes a delicate sound of appreciation, apparently intending upon taking her sweet time.
Which is fine, actually, because Brittany certainly knows what she’s doing. The tip of her tongue trails along Santana’s folds, drinking her in slowly, fingers digging into tanned hips to hold her down when her body tries to buck. She lets her head fall back with a soft thud, swearing when she feels Brittany smile.
“You’re…so…mean…”
For a second, she’s sure Brittany will take that as cause to stop and say something sweet, like she has no idea what she’s doing to Santana’s sanity right now. Instead, the other girl opens her mouth wider, licking feverishly at Santana’s core, teasing her tongue in and out until Santana gives an embarrassingly loud wail of approval.
She doesn’t have to say another coherent word, which is great, because she doesn’t think she could if she tried. The most she can do is spread her legs as far as she can, grinding up against Brittany’s mouth. One of those strong hands slinks down, scratching along the inside of her thigh until a thumb is pressed firmly to her clit; Santana growls, tugging on the golden strands between her fingers, riding Brittany’s tongue with a desperation bordering on life-or-death.
She wishes she could press her closer, pull until Brittany is completely inside of her, just to get more. When that perfect, magnificent tongue is replaced by two enthusiastic fingers, she wonders if her best friend has recently developed psychic powers.
And when those fingers twist, joined by the sheer vigor of Brittany’s tongue against her clit, she stops worrying about psychic notions and focuses on not entirely blacking out. The orgasm she’s been waiting for since fucking Brittany against the side of her pool coils and unleashes, exploding inside of her like a canon’s just gone off. She opens her mouth to howl and hears nothing except the steady drive of her heart against her ribcage.
By the time she manages to move again, Brittany has calmly run her fingers under the sink and wiped her mouth, eyes glittering happily. She breathes, fumbling sideways for her bottoms on the counter.
“Yeah, baby,” she mutters in reply to the unasked question. “You win.”
Brittany claps. “Do I get a trophy?”
That would be something, Santana thinks as she slides tremulously down and pulls the bikini bottoms back on. A trophy for best kitchen head ever.
“I’ll think about it, babe. After a nap?”
Grinning, Brittany skips ahead on the familiar trek to her room. Still trembling, Santana follows, trying not to look too recently fucked as she passes the front window. It’s true that summer vacation in high school is nothing like it used to be.
But it still kind of rules.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: A fill for this prompt: http://community.livejournal.com/glee_kink_meme/3381.html?thread=8598069. Hopefully it's about what was intended. Since it's mostly mindless smut.
A/N: YES, I TITLED IT AFTER A GREASE SONG, WHAT OF IT.
She remembers when summer used to be the greatest thing on earth. It wasn’t so long ago that days were spent racing through the park, forcing the boys to let her play on their pick-up teams, and generally thanking the gods of Three Month Vacations for the lack of homework. It wasn’t so long ago that summer absolutely ruled.
But now they’re here: sixteen years old, bending to Coach Sylvester’s every truly-sadistic whim, and summer has become a thing of dread and torment. There’s no such animal as a comfortable Cheerio in this heat, not with the wind sprints and tire-dragging fiascos Coach calls a normal workout.
Short version: Santana is really, really tired. And kind of missing school. And kind of hating herself violently for entertaining such blasphemous thoughts.
Even worse, her mom has confiscated the car for the afternoon-something about needing to drive her always-picky brother way out to Bumfuck Whatever for a shopping voyage that will doubtlessly take hours-so she and Brittany are left crawling home. Practically on their hands and knees, even.
Well. No. Not really. But it’s pretty damn close. Her legs do feel like gelatin, and the urge to drop to her knees and press her face against the boiling hot asphalt is unbearable-but she knows if she does that, she won’t be getting up again. And Brittany will probably fall right down beside her. And Coach is bound to dig up and horribly desecrate their graves if two of her highest-ranking cheerleaders get themselves turned into roadkill mere months before a competition.
So plug on they do, feet dragging in grass-stained work-out sneakers, water bottles dangling uselessly at their sides, until they reach Santana’s gate. The house is right there, easily within trudging distance, but it’s not even an option. There’s something better just around the corner.
She doesn’t even bother to whip off her t-shirt and shorts; it almost takes too long as it is to get out of the shoes and socks, and beside her, Brittany looks like she’s going to drop at any minute. There’s no time to waste.
They hit the water like it’s the last thing on earth to sustain them, all torrential sweat and scrambling desperation, and just like that, Santana can breathe again. Well-no, not just like that; she does have to surface first. But the point is, there are certain things in this life still worth giving thanks for.
Having a doctor for a father and, consequently, a massive pool in her yard: that qualifies.
She heaves a sigh as Brittany leans back and allows the water to cushion her comfortably, shirt billowing around her body. “Amazing.”
“I am,” Santana agrees, laughing when a spray hits her full in the face. It feels something like she would imagine a bitch-slap from the angel Gabriel might.
“Why don’t we do this every day?” Brittany asks, reaching under the water and fumbling with her shorts. “And why don’t you ever remind me to take these off first?”
“We don’t do this every day because my dumbass little brother is usually lurking with his Super Soaker,” Santana replies calmly, closing her eyes and relaxing until her body floats with ease, arms drifting at her sides. “And it’s hot. I was going to die if I didn’t get in right then. Shorts dry.”
She can feel Brittany eyeing her thoughtfully. “I can see your bra through your shirt.”
“Bikini,” Santana reminds her. “Shirts dry too. Come on, when do we ever get this place to ourselves? Enjoy it, babe.”
There’s a long pause, punctuated by some splashing; she assumes Brittany has managed to squirm out of her shorts at last, judging by the squelch of something small and wet hitting the pavement. A second sound heralds what Santana figures is the blonde’s shirt. She smiles.
“Gonna quit whining now?”
The hands that land on her head are graceful, slender, and utterly cruel as they shove her under. Brittany’s laugh follows in the next instant, muffled by the bubbles as Santana thrashes, kicking her way back to the surface and glaring soggily at her best friend.
“Well, that was a whore move.”
“I don’t whine,” Brittany replies primly, hands folded under her chin as she bats her eyes. Santana shakes her head.
“See if I let you into my pool again.”
Brittany’s flirtatious grin morphs into a heart-bruising pout. Santana’s arms cross over her chest, nose upturned.
“No. No, I see how it is. Trying to drown me when I’ve been so nice to you all this ti-hey!”
Brittany is taller, and stronger, and apparently meaner than she thought. The wave that comes down on her head leaves her spluttering, blinking water out of her eyes and scowling.
“All right, that’s it,” she announces, reaching down and yanking her shirt clumsily over her head. “The gloves are comin’ off.”
“You’re not wearing gloves,” Brittany observes wisely, giggling when Santana sends a small tidal wave her way in response.
She might have forgotten, sometime over the last few Sue Sylvester Summers, how awesome this can be. Not that she and Brittany don’t have fun together-they actually have many breeds of their very own fun, which cannot be replicated with any friend other than maybe (in a much more predictable, less enjoyable way) Puck. It’s just that things like this…things that remind her of childhood, of a time before social preoccupations and stupid diets…
They just don’t happen as often as she realizes she would like.
She loses track of how much time they spend chasing one another around in the water, splashing and screaming. Brittany’s trash talk could use some work (“Your water’s so fat, it WISHES it could be a duck!”), but her aim is impeccable, and soon enough, they’re up against the side of the pool, both laughing too hard to breathe. Santana’s shirt is lying somewhere along the floor of the pool, Brittany’s hair is plastered to her forehead, and the pavement is utterly drenched. She hasn’t felt this elated in days.
“Did I win?” Brittany asks, giggling as she pats the water with open palms. Santana scoffs.
“No.”
“But you’re all wet,” Brittany points out, reaching over and flicking a bead of water from the dark-haired girl’s cheek with her thumb. Santana smirks.
“You’re not much better off, B. Being wet and all.”
It sounds inoccuous enough, but Santana is unsurprised by how little it takes to edge a bit of the clarity from Brittany’s too-blue eyes-another product of the heat. One simple sentence, coupled with a defiant grin and a nudge, and Brittany’s entire manner shifts. Her thumb trails down Santana’s jawline, nail scratching lightly, lip working between her teeth.
“We’re outside.”
“And?” Santana asks, shifting to face the taller girl and tilting her chin up. Brittany licks her lips.
“Is your fence high enough?”
With the way Brittany’s staring at her mouth, Santana wouldn’t give a shit if there was no such thing as fences in this world. “Do you really care that much?”
“Well, there was that one time at my house when-“
Santana knows. Santana remembers all too well the incident. Being caught by Brittany’s elderly neighbor was a little sketchy, but nowhere near sketchy enough to prevent her from surging forward now and catching that blonde ponytail in her fist. Brittany’s mouth slants under hers, opening with a sharp pant as Santana drags her tongue along the seam of her lips.
Playing in the water is fun. This is perfection.
It’s yet another thing they can’t do most of the time, what with Santana’s little brother and his dopey friends running all over the place (she’ll do a lot, she rationalizes, but she will absolutely not be the one to introduce her eight-year-old sibling to the joys of lesbian sex), which is a shame. Because kissing Brittany is never a bad idea. Kissing Brittany like this-like a starving woman; like she hasn’t had human contact in days; like, if she doesn’t push the blonde a little harder against the wall of the pool, thrusting forward with her hips, they’re both going to drown in the next moment-is what she was made for.
Or, at least, it’s what this afternoon was made for. She wonders how they managed to spend so many minutes splashing and dunking one another before reaching this inevitable conclusion.
Brittany groans beneath her passionate assault, hands splayed across Santana’s back, fingers going to the knot behind her neck as if by sheer magnetic force. There’s a madness to they way they come together and jolt apart again, frantic and brilliant; Santana’s nails dig into Brittany’s scalp, her pelvis rocking forward. Brittany groans again.
“Here?” she gasps, arching when Santana slides a leg between hers and grinds hard, teeth nipping at her earlobe. “Never mind.”
“Unless you wanted to move?”
“No,” Brittany keens, palming one of Santana’s breasts with surprising ferocity as the Latina sucks on her skin. “No, no moving. Just-“
She almost wants to be a total bitch and take that ‘no moving’ plea seriously, but the way Brittany is wriggling is just too delicious to pass up. Grinning, she blows a hot breath directly into the blonde’s ear and grasps her hip with one hand, sliding the other slowly down unforgivably taut abs. Brittany whimpers, feet slipping against the tile floor.
“Now?” Santana teases, kissing a leisurely path down the other girl’s neck. Her fingers hook into the material of Brittany’s underwear (someday, she thinks, the girl will start wearing her bikini to practice like the rest of them) and pull. Brittany’s eyes flutter.
“Please.”
“Mm. I don’t know.” She scratches her index finger up and down, just under Brittany’s bellybutton, relishing the way the blonde shudders. “We could swim a little more. I mean, you’re looking kind of…hot…”
“S,” Brittany whines, “come on, don’t-don’t-oh.”
It feels a little weird, doing this under water, Santana thinks as she latches her lips to Brittany’s racing pulse and suckles voraciously, but the reaction is familiar. Brittany makes a guttural sound of approval as dedicated fingers press against her clit, stroking to the tempo of her canting hips. Grabbing Santana’s face in both hands, she yanks until their mouths collide brutally. For a second, Santana’s hand falters as Brittany’s tongue slides into her mouth, thumbs tracing along her cheekbones; the blonde gives an erratic thrust with her whole lower half, gasping what barely pass for words against her lips.
“Don’t-don’t stop.”
Head spinning, Santana obediently seeks out the source of Brittany’s heat, jerking the underwear down a few inches in her haste. She drives in with two fingers, ignoring the ache between her own thighs as Brittany continues to kiss her feverishly, body riding the waves born of their combined motion. Smoothly, she thrusts in and out, curling and angling until Brittany’s kisses grow sloppy and unrefined. Long fingers grip the back of her neck, trailing up into her ponytail as lean hips strive to drag her closer, one leg dragging up to latch around her waist.
There aren’t words so much as ecstatic cries, muffled by Santana’s own lips, but they’re growing rapidly louder as her fingers pound relentlessly against the spot that will make Brittany a quavering mess in about ten more seconds. She grins, biting down on Brittany’s bottom lip just as she slams her entire body forward behind her hand. Both of Brittany’s arms come loose from around her neck, dropping with a violent splash into the water as she lets a string of curses fly.
They stay for a moment, Brittany’s limp body held up only by the force of Santana pinning her to the wall. Silently, the Latina congratulates herself. Another day, another beautiful orgasm. Such a stud.
“Do.” Brittany’s voice cracks. She swallows, clears her throat, tries again. “Do you think anybody heard?”
Yes. “Probably not, baby.” Santana grins, softly kissing the girl’s shoulder. “I think this means I win, though.”
Brittany’s chest heaves against hers, her head shaking from side to side. “Game’s not over.”
“Oh?” She arches an eyebrow, leaning back. “And here I am thinkin’ you can barely stand up right now. How silly.”
“I can stand,” Brittany protests, pushing so Santana floats back a few inches. She windmills her arms in a bizarre sort of doggie paddle, laughing. “See?”
“That’s swimming, babe,” Santana teases. “Totally different.”
Obviously tuning her out, Brittany drifts to the ladder and shakily climbs free, adjusting her underwear as she goes. Santana tilts her head, momentarily too distracted by her best friend’s ass to move.
“You have to come if you want to come,” the blonde informs her with completely sobriety, arms crossed over her chest. That does it. In no time at all, Santana has heaved herself up over the side of the pool, shivering when the air hits her skin.
“You got a towel?”
“Not here,” Brittany admonishes, laughing. She reaches back and tangles their fingers together, all but dragging Santana up to the house. It’s a miracle they don’t slip and fall on their heads, she thinks, especially considering her dining room and kitchen are both patented Doom Zones for wet feet.
“Britt, you’re gonna kill us both if you don’t slow dow-okay, all right, hi.”
Being shoved up against the counter kind of hurts, she thinks (or, at least, she assumes it will when she finds the tiny bruises the next morning), but in a very good way. And there’s something totally awesome about how strong Brittany is-particularly how capable she is of hoisting Santana up like she weighs just about nothing (which, considering Coach’s Magic Shake regimen, might as well be true).
Her mother would be so pissed if she could see them right now. It makes it all the more glorious when Brittany pushes her thighs apart commandingly and sinks down between them.
“I-I have a bed, you know,” Santana feels the need to gasp out, even as Brittany’s tongue flattens against the front of her bottoms. “It’s-I mean, you’ve seen it-“
Ignoring her completely, Brittany traces her tongue in swirling patterns against the material, locating the pert bud and flicking at it rhythmically. Santana forgets her next sarcastic impulse, hand coming down a little violently atop drying blonde hair.
“Fuck,” she moans. “You need… you need to…fuck, B.”
“Mm hmm,” Brittany replies, inching the bikini bottoms down until Santana is bare-assed against her mother’s kitchen counter. Another girl might blush at the thought. It somehow just turns Santana on more.
“Now, baby,” she hears herself babble, “right now. I need you, fuck, I need you-“
“Shh,” Brittany soothes, grinning maddeningly from between her legs. “Does begging mean I win?”
Oh, hell. “Whatever you say, B,” she replies, leaning back until her shoulders meet cool cupboards. “Whatever you say, just as long as you-yes, that.”
She can’t stop herself from pressing a palm to the back of the other girl’s head, hips jerking against Brittany’s mouth as soft lips wrap around her clit and give a few experimental sucks. Her eyes roll back in her head as Brittany makes a delicate sound of appreciation, apparently intending upon taking her sweet time.
Which is fine, actually, because Brittany certainly knows what she’s doing. The tip of her tongue trails along Santana’s folds, drinking her in slowly, fingers digging into tanned hips to hold her down when her body tries to buck. She lets her head fall back with a soft thud, swearing when she feels Brittany smile.
“You’re…so…mean…”
For a second, she’s sure Brittany will take that as cause to stop and say something sweet, like she has no idea what she’s doing to Santana’s sanity right now. Instead, the other girl opens her mouth wider, licking feverishly at Santana’s core, teasing her tongue in and out until Santana gives an embarrassingly loud wail of approval.
She doesn’t have to say another coherent word, which is great, because she doesn’t think she could if she tried. The most she can do is spread her legs as far as she can, grinding up against Brittany’s mouth. One of those strong hands slinks down, scratching along the inside of her thigh until a thumb is pressed firmly to her clit; Santana growls, tugging on the golden strands between her fingers, riding Brittany’s tongue with a desperation bordering on life-or-death.
She wishes she could press her closer, pull until Brittany is completely inside of her, just to get more. When that perfect, magnificent tongue is replaced by two enthusiastic fingers, she wonders if her best friend has recently developed psychic powers.
And when those fingers twist, joined by the sheer vigor of Brittany’s tongue against her clit, she stops worrying about psychic notions and focuses on not entirely blacking out. The orgasm she’s been waiting for since fucking Brittany against the side of her pool coils and unleashes, exploding inside of her like a canon’s just gone off. She opens her mouth to howl and hears nothing except the steady drive of her heart against her ribcage.
By the time she manages to move again, Brittany has calmly run her fingers under the sink and wiped her mouth, eyes glittering happily. She breathes, fumbling sideways for her bottoms on the counter.
“Yeah, baby,” she mutters in reply to the unasked question. “You win.”
Brittany claps. “Do I get a trophy?”
That would be something, Santana thinks as she slides tremulously down and pulls the bikini bottoms back on. A trophy for best kitchen head ever.
“I’ll think about it, babe. After a nap?”
Grinning, Brittany skips ahead on the familiar trek to her room. Still trembling, Santana follows, trying not to look too recently fucked as she passes the front window. It’s true that summer vacation in high school is nothing like it used to be.
But it still kind of rules.