I Promise To Sing To You (When All The Music Dies)
Title: I Promise To Sing To You (When All The Music Dies)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Nothing major.
Summary: [Brittana Week: Day 3-Wedding/Proposal] "Let's get married."
A/N: Title from Train's "Marry Me."
“Let’s get married.”
The words pop out of her mouth before she can fully recognize them, and in most such situations, Santana would be scrambling to swallow them back down again, but-
“I mean it,” she says, when Brittany’s head turns against the pillow curiously. “You and me. Hitched up all old-fashioned-like. Let’s do it.”
“Seriously?” Brittany asks, which kind of hurts and makes sense at the same time. Santana hasn’t really been known for her quick adaptation skills where this relationship is concerned, after all. All the same…
“Yeah, seriously.” She rolls onto her side, propping her head up on one hand and grinning. “Let’s ring the bells, babe. White dresses, pretty flowers, forcing our family and friends to eat questionable fish. Let’s do the whole nine yards.”
“Is nine your lucky number now?” Brittany asks, smiling right back. It’s the kind of smile that doesn’t entirely scream, I believe you’re in your right head right now. Santana scowls.
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Never would,” Brittany promises, slinging an arm around Santana’s waist and scooting closer. Long, smooth legs tangle together, a slim foot easing up the back of Santana’s calf. Her breath hitches.
“And now you’re just trying to distract me.”
“Naaah,” Brittany teases, even as her tongue flicks out and skates along Santana’s lower lip. Santana’s forehead creases with irritation even as her gut clenches pleasurably.
“Not fair. I’m trying to talk serious here.”
“And I’m trying to have sex,” Brittany replies good-naturedly. Her hand skips across Santana’s backside and up, palming along the curve of her spine. Against her better judgment, Santana allows her groin to take over for the moment, her hips jutting forward in one swift motion.
“Marriage, babe. I’m talking about marriage.”
“I know.” It’s almost maddening, how calm Brittany sounds. This isn’t the way a girl is supposed to respond to a proposal, not according to every story Santana has ever pretended to scoff at. Then again, she supposes rolling over and announcing, Let’s get married doesn’t strike the books as an epic way to pop the question.
Fuck, even Finn Hudson’s dippy gigantor ass probably did a better job-and that was in fucking high school.
She lets Brittany kiss her, all hot tongue and languid strokes, nails skimming under her shirt. She could get used to this. She is used to this, and still, it never gets old. The way Brittany holds her, strong, yet gentle. The taste of Brittany’s lips, parting over her own. The heat of Brittany’s body, tight and coy, as she rolls Santana onto her back and straddles her hips.
Other people have been close before, but nobody else has been this close. Nobody else smiles quite like Brittany, or nudges her lip with a playful nose quite like Brittany, or grinds recklessly down quite the way Brittany does. No one’s hand skirts around to settle, not on her breasts, but between them, letting her heartbeat burn through skin the way Brittany does.
No one has ever had her heart like Brittany, and she can’t imagine anyone ever will. Brittany vibrates with a song all her own; she has from the day they met, and will on through eternity. Which is why-
“Married,” she mumbles into Brittany’s mouth, the syllables bumping against the low growl of Brittany’s want. “Married to you. It’s what I want.”
“Mmhmm,” Brittany hums, teeth closing lightly around Santana’s bottom lip. Her hand curls between Santana’s breast, a fist pressed tight to her pulse. Santana’s hips buck, her own hands instinctively catching around Brittany’s waist and guiding her slowly forward and back.
“A house,” she husks, pumping her hips to match the pace she’s forcing Brittany to keep. “A dog. Maybe two. A bed.”
“We have a bed,” Brittany points out, arching her back and groaning wickedly. Santana’s eyelashes flicker, her lips parting.
“A better one. In a room that’s not controlled by some asshole landlord. A real house, with a real kitchen, and a bathtub, and walls we’re allowed to paint.”
“Yellow?” Brittany asks, pushing Santana’s hair off her forehead. Her fingertips dig into Santana’s scalp, massaging lightly, setting off brilliant sparks behind Santana’s eyelids.
“Any color you want. Anything. I want it all with you.”
“We don’t have to be married to have a house,” Brittany points out, her voice low and raspy. Santana’s left hand slips off her hipbone, angling awkwardly under the waistband of her sleep shorts.
“Don’t care. I want the married. I want the ring, and the party where everyone’s looking at us for a whole night. I want the license that says you’re my girl, forever and ever. I want everyone to know.”
“Everyone does-mm, oh-know,” Brittany points out as Santana’s fingers circle red-hot nerves, feeling out the music scorched beneath Brittany’s skin. “They’ve always known.”
“It’ll be different,” Santana swears, biting her lip as Brittany’s face trembles, hips lifting and sinking in a steady pattern. “I want you to be my wife, Britt. I want-I want you.”
Brittany’s reply comes in sounds, rather than words, and Santana takes the opportunity to memorize for the zillionth time the angles of her face, the way her eyebrows knit together and her mouth falls open, one hand tangled in long blonde hair. She follows every movement with her eyes, with her hips, and knows-as she has for longer than can remember-that this is the one.
The music in her head has never chimed louder with anyone else.
“Marry me,” she says again, when Brittany falls back onto the mattress, chest heaving against Santana’s arm. “Marry me.”
“Make an honest woman of you?” Brittany teases, struggling to regain her breath. Santana grins.
“We both know that’s unlikely. But try anyway?”
Brittany tiredly taps a finger against her chin, trying to hide the smile that is creeping back across her lips. “Will there be sex?”
“All the sex,” Santana promises, laughing.
“And kids?”
“As many as you want.”
Brittany’s palm presses to Santana’s cheek, beaming. “And you’ll love me forever, even when I’m old and can’t dance anymore?”
“You’ll always dance,” Santana says, because that’s the way it always has been. She can’t imagine anything less, not when she knows she will never stop singing in Brittany’s direction. The music is just part of the package.
And then Brittany is kissing her again. A new kind of kiss. A yes, absolutely, I will be your wife kind of kiss.
Maybe other people need wine and roses for this sort of thing, but Santana thinks doing it this way was pretty damn perfect.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Nothing major.
Summary: [Brittana Week: Day 3-Wedding/Proposal] "Let's get married."
A/N: Title from Train's "Marry Me."
“Let’s get married.”
The words pop out of her mouth before she can fully recognize them, and in most such situations, Santana would be scrambling to swallow them back down again, but-
“I mean it,” she says, when Brittany’s head turns against the pillow curiously. “You and me. Hitched up all old-fashioned-like. Let’s do it.”
“Seriously?” Brittany asks, which kind of hurts and makes sense at the same time. Santana hasn’t really been known for her quick adaptation skills where this relationship is concerned, after all. All the same…
“Yeah, seriously.” She rolls onto her side, propping her head up on one hand and grinning. “Let’s ring the bells, babe. White dresses, pretty flowers, forcing our family and friends to eat questionable fish. Let’s do the whole nine yards.”
“Is nine your lucky number now?” Brittany asks, smiling right back. It’s the kind of smile that doesn’t entirely scream, I believe you’re in your right head right now. Santana scowls.
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Never would,” Brittany promises, slinging an arm around Santana’s waist and scooting closer. Long, smooth legs tangle together, a slim foot easing up the back of Santana’s calf. Her breath hitches.
“And now you’re just trying to distract me.”
“Naaah,” Brittany teases, even as her tongue flicks out and skates along Santana’s lower lip. Santana’s forehead creases with irritation even as her gut clenches pleasurably.
“Not fair. I’m trying to talk serious here.”
“And I’m trying to have sex,” Brittany replies good-naturedly. Her hand skips across Santana’s backside and up, palming along the curve of her spine. Against her better judgment, Santana allows her groin to take over for the moment, her hips jutting forward in one swift motion.
“Marriage, babe. I’m talking about marriage.”
“I know.” It’s almost maddening, how calm Brittany sounds. This isn’t the way a girl is supposed to respond to a proposal, not according to every story Santana has ever pretended to scoff at. Then again, she supposes rolling over and announcing, Let’s get married doesn’t strike the books as an epic way to pop the question.
Fuck, even Finn Hudson’s dippy gigantor ass probably did a better job-and that was in fucking high school.
She lets Brittany kiss her, all hot tongue and languid strokes, nails skimming under her shirt. She could get used to this. She is used to this, and still, it never gets old. The way Brittany holds her, strong, yet gentle. The taste of Brittany’s lips, parting over her own. The heat of Brittany’s body, tight and coy, as she rolls Santana onto her back and straddles her hips.
Other people have been close before, but nobody else has been this close. Nobody else smiles quite like Brittany, or nudges her lip with a playful nose quite like Brittany, or grinds recklessly down quite the way Brittany does. No one’s hand skirts around to settle, not on her breasts, but between them, letting her heartbeat burn through skin the way Brittany does.
No one has ever had her heart like Brittany, and she can’t imagine anyone ever will. Brittany vibrates with a song all her own; she has from the day they met, and will on through eternity. Which is why-
“Married,” she mumbles into Brittany’s mouth, the syllables bumping against the low growl of Brittany’s want. “Married to you. It’s what I want.”
“Mmhmm,” Brittany hums, teeth closing lightly around Santana’s bottom lip. Her hand curls between Santana’s breast, a fist pressed tight to her pulse. Santana’s hips buck, her own hands instinctively catching around Brittany’s waist and guiding her slowly forward and back.
“A house,” she husks, pumping her hips to match the pace she’s forcing Brittany to keep. “A dog. Maybe two. A bed.”
“We have a bed,” Brittany points out, arching her back and groaning wickedly. Santana’s eyelashes flicker, her lips parting.
“A better one. In a room that’s not controlled by some asshole landlord. A real house, with a real kitchen, and a bathtub, and walls we’re allowed to paint.”
“Yellow?” Brittany asks, pushing Santana’s hair off her forehead. Her fingertips dig into Santana’s scalp, massaging lightly, setting off brilliant sparks behind Santana’s eyelids.
“Any color you want. Anything. I want it all with you.”
“We don’t have to be married to have a house,” Brittany points out, her voice low and raspy. Santana’s left hand slips off her hipbone, angling awkwardly under the waistband of her sleep shorts.
“Don’t care. I want the married. I want the ring, and the party where everyone’s looking at us for a whole night. I want the license that says you’re my girl, forever and ever. I want everyone to know.”
“Everyone does-mm, oh-know,” Brittany points out as Santana’s fingers circle red-hot nerves, feeling out the music scorched beneath Brittany’s skin. “They’ve always known.”
“It’ll be different,” Santana swears, biting her lip as Brittany’s face trembles, hips lifting and sinking in a steady pattern. “I want you to be my wife, Britt. I want-I want you.”
Brittany’s reply comes in sounds, rather than words, and Santana takes the opportunity to memorize for the zillionth time the angles of her face, the way her eyebrows knit together and her mouth falls open, one hand tangled in long blonde hair. She follows every movement with her eyes, with her hips, and knows-as she has for longer than can remember-that this is the one.
The music in her head has never chimed louder with anyone else.
“Marry me,” she says again, when Brittany falls back onto the mattress, chest heaving against Santana’s arm. “Marry me.”
“Make an honest woman of you?” Brittany teases, struggling to regain her breath. Santana grins.
“We both know that’s unlikely. But try anyway?”
Brittany tiredly taps a finger against her chin, trying to hide the smile that is creeping back across her lips. “Will there be sex?”
“All the sex,” Santana promises, laughing.
“And kids?”
“As many as you want.”
Brittany’s palm presses to Santana’s cheek, beaming. “And you’ll love me forever, even when I’m old and can’t dance anymore?”
“You’ll always dance,” Santana says, because that’s the way it always has been. She can’t imagine anything less, not when she knows she will never stop singing in Brittany’s direction. The music is just part of the package.
And then Brittany is kissing her again. A new kind of kiss. A yes, absolutely, I will be your wife kind of kiss.
Maybe other people need wine and roses for this sort of thing, but Santana thinks doing it this way was pretty damn perfect.