Nobody Knows Me Like You (We’ve Got A Lot To Get Through)
Title: Nobody Knows Me Like You (We’ve Got A Lot To Get Through)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: Hard R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Nothing in particular.
Summary: The weeks belong to the struggle for popularity, for keeping what they do hidden from the world, for boys like Puck to dig their dirty fingernails in and hang on tight, but the weekend…the weekend belongs only to them.
A/N: [Picture Show 5/14]- "Weekend"
We are the ones that put on a show
I am the one that never let go
I’m never alone when I’m around you
We can pretend-pretend for the weekend
Sometimes, Brittany wonders if Santana still remembers childhood the way she does. Not the little-kid stuff that she isn’t supposed to like anymore (but still kind of does), like Gushers, or hula-hoops, or movies where the talking dogs get to go to Heaven for being so awesome, but the real stuff. The important stuff. Like how to smile so your eyes light up. Or how to stick out your tongue at mean people and walk away with your head held high.
Instead, Santana seems stuck on being mean right back. Which Brittany has to admit works, and is even kind of fun, depending on who you’re talking to-she particularly enjoys making Rachel Berry scrunch up her nose in irritation-but isn’t all that practical. Not when the people who are being mean are striking out at nerves you don’t know how to protect.
Santana, for being so strong, and so brave, and so hard around the edges, has shockingly thin skin about some things. Like about what other people might think of the things she really likes-things like a girl playing video games, or a girl watching Batman movies, or a girl kissing another girl on rainy afternoons, with no intention of letting any dumb boy watch.
For example.
It makes her sad sometimes, how much Santana has changed even just since coming to high school, and it makes it even worse, that Santana doesn’t even seem to realize it. It’s like she thinks this is all normal-being rude to everyone she encounters (although, truthfully, Santana has always lacked a little in the manners department), caking on the makeup that she doesn’t need, running lines that feel cut from a 1980s film script. It’s like she thinks this is the way she’s supposed to be, like she doesn’t realize how weird it feels to somebody who has known her a lot longer than the show has been parading on. Somebody who has never needed her to pretend to be anyone but herself.
But Santana, if nothing else, is a terrible listener when it comes to hard truths like that one, so Brittany doesn’t try. She quickens her pace in the halls, keeping an arm locked companionably through the crook of Santana’s elbow, bats her eyes and offers fluttery winks to anyone who looks at them sideways. It’s a perk-maybe the only one-of The Secret getting out to Noah Puckerman all those months ago: they can do this now. Santana isn’t so afraid of the looks that come from hanging off her best friend in public when she’s got a boyfriend on the sidelines, sneering and licking his lips the way Puck can’t seem to resist. It’s not dangerous to seem too close to Brittany when she so obviously has a man waiting for her.
That would make her sad, too, if she let it-so she doesn’t. She goes out with her own football players (and hockey players, and occasionally really cute members of the chess team), and tries not to imagine what it would be like if they didn’t live in small-town Ohio. If Santana wasn’t so mad for the top Cheerio spot. If Brittany had the power to make everyone else go away.
None of that is helpful to think about. None of it makes her heart beat less erratically when Santana’s hand glides along her skin, fingers meshing together with hers like home. None of it makes her teeth stop grinding whenever Puck saunters into the picture, grasping Santana possessively around the waist like he has any right to her.
He’s her boyfriend now, and maybe that’s only because he had a better chance than most of destroying them with a word, but it doesn’t matter. Santana seems to like him okay, and even Brittany has to admit he can be funny sometimes. Funny, but not sweet. She still believes Santana could use someone sweet.
She just doesn’t dare believe that someone could be her anymore.
Not on school days, anyway, when there’s no escape from Santana’s flirty expressions, or her bedroom eyes, or the too-clear view of her fingers tracing up into the buzzed hair around Puck’s dumb mohawk. School days are for what Brittany thinks of as The Show-The Show, replacing The Secret, and Brittany wonders why there is always some act for her to put on with Santana. The Show is where they smile at boys, and flick their skirts a little too high, and sometimes sneak out of class to make out with burly baseball players with broad hands and baggy jeans. The Show is what’s getting them places, Santana says, making people really believe how awesome they are, and she looks so happy when she says it that Brittany can’t stop herself from nodding. Santana wants to be on top, wants everybody to look at her, see her, and Brittany can’t bring herself to stand in the way of that.
It takes some time, but she convinces herself that The Show isn’t so bad. It makes her head tingle in weird ways sometimes-especially when she has to witness the absolutely grody image of Puck’s creepy man-tongue slurping its way past Santana’s lips-but at least the stone resting on her heart hasn’t grown any bigger. And it does make her feel good, to see the way people have been looking at her-like she’s interesting, and sexy, and someone they want to spend time with.
It’s not as good as Santana, but it gets her through the week.
And then come the weekends: beautiful, sterling weekends, when The Show goes into temporary intermission. The weekends push Brittany on to real smiles, to the laughter of childhood, because weekends aren’t for anybody else. The weeks belong to the struggle for popularity, for keeping what they do hidden from the world, for boys like Puck to dig their dirty fingernails in and hang on tight, but the weekend…the weekend belongs only to them.
Santana is still different on weekends from how she used to be. She still spends too much time in front of the mirror, and too little tracing the lines on Brittany’s palm. She still checks her phone for messages from Quinn, or Puck, or their teammates. Sometimes, Brittany catches her staring at her reflection, eyes old and distant, trying to figure out the details of a story Brittany already knows by heart.
Santana is still different, but on the weekends, she is at least Santana. Coiled in Brittany’s bed, lazy muscles relaxing with each pass of Brittany’s lips, hands, gaze, she smiles. Maybe not the bright, piecing smile of a ten-year-old on a baseball diamond, but it warms Brittany anyway. It fills her with the kind of hope she shouldn’t be letting herself have anymore: that, someday, this will all change back to how it was. Someday, Puck will find the door and never return, and Santana will stop charging around with fists raised beneath a tense chin, and Brittany can finally hold her hand in public without tacking on a knowing wink for their adoring audience.
The weeks make it hard to believe, but weekends are different. Weekends are familiar, and homey, and smell like oatmeal-raisin cookies and the breath of Santana’s goodnight kiss.
It’s hard, on a Sunday night-Monday morning-Wednesday afternoon, knowing how short a weekend can be. Two days, three nights, and that’s all they’ve got. Funny how, on Fridays, after Santana has slipped in from her date and kicked off her shoes and tucked herself into Brittany’s bed, everything feels so like forever. And then, not three days later, they find themselves standing on the back stoop of Sunday: Santana’s hand clutching at her other arm, lip between her teeth, trying not to look guilty. Brittany, bending to kiss her cheek once, the way friends are still allowed to under cover of streetlamps, and forcing a smile.
It’s hard, knowing how unfairly short a weekend can be when school days drag on and on, but she tries to forget. Because right now, it’s Saturday afternoon, and her head rests on Santana’s folded legs. Santana has one hand combing through her hair, nails licking at the scalp here and there, the other closed around a remote control. There’s nothing on TV, but she keeps searching anyway, darting from home renovation program to crappy cartoon to half-over Drew Barrymore movie. Brittany closes her eyes, humming, fingers plucking an invisible guitar.
“You should play,” Santana says quietly, unwilling to break the mood. Brittany cracks one eye, craning back to stare at the underside of Santana’s chin.
“I don’t have a guitar.”
“So we’ll buy you one.” Santana shrugs, abandoning the remote at last in favor of curling her fingers around Brittany’s mid-strum. “We could find somebody who’d teach you. It’d be easy.”
Of course it would; Puck plays better than anybody would assume from looking at him. But of course, Santana won’t say that out loud. Not on a weekend. Weekends are for pretending none of that exists.
“Maybe,” Brittany settles for saying, stretching up and brushing a warm kiss into Santana’s neck. She gets a happy little squirm for her trouble, and just barely manages to keep from wondering if Santana ever squirms for anyone else.
“It would be sexy,” Santana says, satisfied, falling backwards until her head is cushioned upon a pile of pillows. “Sexy rocker girl.”
Brittany laughs and twists around, clambering up Santana’s body until they’re face to face. “I am pretty sexy, huh?”
“The sexiest,” Santana agrees, hands slipping into Brittany’s back pockets and giving a cheerful little pat. “After me, anyway.”
Brittany can’t argue that. She wriggles in closer, mouth enveloping Santana’s bottom lip, delighted when the hands on her ass squeeze reflexively. There’s a lot about Santana that never grows old, and kissing may well be at the very top of the list. Brittany has kissed a lot of people in recent memory, but no one does it like Santana-plump lips, hot tongue, low moans that vibrate all the way down to Brittany’s toes and back again. Santana holds her close, grinds her hips in time to the ever-shifting angles of her head, and never seems willing to let go.
Brittany thinks that might be her very favorite part. It’s in these moments, her waist between Santana’s legs, her hair tangled around gentle fingers, the tip of her tongue drawing shapes and hopes into the breadth of Santana’s, that she applauds herself for holding out until Friday night. Moments like this one, where Santana shifts and sighs, palm grazing up under Brittany’s shirt and resting against the waistband of her jeans, leave her breathless and whole, the way she hasn’t felt since rushing home with The Secret in her pocket.
Her mouth opens to Santana, graciously accepting the nip of her teeth, the whispered moan that sends tickles through the tips of her fingers, and holds tighter to Santana’s shoulder, cheek, hair. Anything she can reach belongs to her, suits her, fits inside her domain-hers, and no one else. When it’s Santana, and her, and this empty room, she doesn’t have to share a thing. Not if she doesn’t want to.
As Santana’s nails trace thin lines just left of the groove of her spine, until Brittany’s back arches and her breath leaves her, Brittany can’t imagine why she’d ever let anyone else into this. This is the only place she ever wants to be.
If they could do this every day…if every day could be the weekend, with no one staring, no one waiting, no one whisking Santana away-
But there’s no point thinking like that right now, no point making herself sad. It’s Saturday. Santana’s kisses are deliciously slow and calculated, her palms running higer, fingers flicking at the bra clasp she finds without effort. Santana’s body is lazy, her jeans tight, her hips rocking to match Brittany’s rhythm. This isn’t the time to be thinking about school, and boys, and popularity contests. None of that exists here.
Here, she knows to grasp Santana’s leg, just beneath the bend of her knee, and slide her hand slowly up. She knows the weight and curve of Santana’s thigh as it meets her backside, and higher, until she’s all sharp hipbone and delicate waist. She knows the spot, just beneath the waistband of her jeans, that will make Santana buck up into her, warmth flooding between her legs. She knows to kiss the base of Santana’s neck, to stroke a deliberate path along the jut of her collarbone until it glistens, until Santana’s chest rises and falls a little quicker, her breath catching. She knows to palm Santana’s left breast first, over the shirt, squeezing just hard enough to be felt, and she knows to hike her hips forward just as her palm skates across the erect nipple.
In this bed, she knows what the dark glaze in Santana’s eyes means-not hurry up, but more, please-and she knows that the wait makes it better. That Santana is wildly impatient, but that this is Saturday, and the longer it lasts, the better. That Santana is pushing off the mattress, her mouth seeking out Brittany’s with an almost casual want, like she knows she’s going to get exactly what she’s looking for just as soon as Brittany is ready to give it.
It’s only on the weekend that they can take their time, replacing rough, heated kisses with careful, purposeful ones. It’s only on the weekend that Brittany can raise Santana’s shirt an inch at a time, tasting every corner and curve of skin as she finds it. It’s only on the weekend that Santana will lift up like that on her elbows to watch, and lift a hand to the top of Brittany’s head, stroking through thick gold to hang on for the ride.
If they do this on a weekday, it’s hurried, frantic, a get-off-and-get-gone situation. On weekdays, it’s Brittany backed up against a desk, Santana half-mounting her before she’s fully aware that they’re even here. It’s Santana, pressed face-first into a shower stall, keening as quietly as she can while Brittany’s hips are fitted snugly around her, fingers buried between spread legs. It’s stolen moments beneath the bleachers when the want grows too hot, too forest-fire-reckless to be forgotten for the sake of The Show.
On a weekday, an orgasm might be explosive, incendiary, a hundred words Brittany hasn’t yet invented, but on a weekend…with her tongue swirling around a tight nipple, her palm rubbing across the seam of Santana’s warm, dampening jeans, her head bobbing with the knowledge that Santana’s gaze-flickering long eyelashes stroking across rosy cheeks on every down-stroke-is fixed solidly upon her…
On weekends, on Saturdays, she knows Santana’s brain isn’t firing a thousand miles an hour, working out problems and schedules, the hierarchy of the whole town mapped out behind her kiss. On Saturdays, Santana is right here: hips lifting obediently, legs kicking off denim, and cotton, leaving nothing behind but radiant velvet skin and the glisten of a job well worked. Santana is right in this bed, her hand still closed around the back of Brittany’s head, guiding her, easing her, granting permission and begging for a gift all at the same time. Santana is bending and spinning, arching and groaning, every whimper and whine sinking into Brittany’s ears as she works: tongue, and lips, and the barest scratch of teeth. She is allowed free reign on a Saturday, allowed to open Santana slowly, to press knowing palms to inner thighs and spread as far as they will go. She is allowed to take her time, to sweep long, luxurious kisses up, and across, skipping over the hottest, most wanting of parts until Santana’s squirms turn to jerks, until Santana’s nails bite into her scalp, her voice huskier, raspier, pushing Brittany to the limit of her own sanity.
On a weekday, she wouldn’t be allowed to even get this far, to reach her knees and part her lips, but on a Saturday, she may stay here as long as she likes. Inhaling Santana, until the only thing in the world is this, the sight of a flexing stomach, of a free hand kneading one soft breast, of Santana’s hips rising and falling without measure. She may kiss, and lick, all open-mouthed kisses and brief tastes, embracing Santana with eager lips, driving Santana with fascinated strokes of a loving tongue.
On a Saturday, she gets to hear all the words Santana won’t say otherwise: the breathy begging, the growls for more, the oh’s and mmph’s, the strangled moans that clench on the back of her tongue and then release, vibrant and explosive, into the bedroom air. On a Saturday, she hears the words that tumble and shimmer in her dreams: the I need you, the only you, the Brittany, Brittany, Brittany that she can’t find anywhere else. And she knows, in this moment, with one hand cupped against Santana’s skin and the other pressing in, two fingers curling faster as her mouth descends again, that Santana doesn’t get this with other people. Santana doesn’t give this with other people. Santana won’t admit it out loud, won’t say it in so many words, but the I need you’s are so true, so much more real than anything Puck or those other guys will ever see.
Santana comes around her, muscles vibrating, legs trembling, slick and smooth and triumphant, and Brittany thanks God for Saturdays. Saturdays are when everything else goes away, when nothing else matters but the taste of Santana on her tongue, the flare of a blush across Santana’s chest, the swollen sight of Santana’s skin, still hot and damp, hidden between her legs. Saturdays are when she gets Santana the way Santana has always had her, and maybe it’s not perfect-maybe it’s not enough-but it’s something more than Brittany ever thought she’d have, once The Secret was out. Maybe it’s sad, and maybe it hurts, but in the end, to be able to stroke slow kisses back up Santana’s thigh, to nibble at her hip, to taste the edge of her ribcage, the smooth underside of her breast, the rapid thump-thump-thump of her heartbeat-
It’s more than she thought she’d ever get again, months ago, and yet, here they are. Here Santana is: still angry, still different, still forgetting how to give up and give what she wants a real chance, but here nonetheless.
It’s the weekend, and it’s what keeps Brittany from letting go when Monday arrives with its trademark smirk and a pair of linked pinkies.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: Hard R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Nothing in particular.
Summary: The weeks belong to the struggle for popularity, for keeping what they do hidden from the world, for boys like Puck to dig their dirty fingernails in and hang on tight, but the weekend…the weekend belongs only to them.
A/N: [Picture Show 5/14]- "Weekend"
We are the ones that put on a show
I am the one that never let go
I’m never alone when I’m around you
We can pretend-pretend for the weekend
Sometimes, Brittany wonders if Santana still remembers childhood the way she does. Not the little-kid stuff that she isn’t supposed to like anymore (but still kind of does), like Gushers, or hula-hoops, or movies where the talking dogs get to go to Heaven for being so awesome, but the real stuff. The important stuff. Like how to smile so your eyes light up. Or how to stick out your tongue at mean people and walk away with your head held high.
Instead, Santana seems stuck on being mean right back. Which Brittany has to admit works, and is even kind of fun, depending on who you’re talking to-she particularly enjoys making Rachel Berry scrunch up her nose in irritation-but isn’t all that practical. Not when the people who are being mean are striking out at nerves you don’t know how to protect.
Santana, for being so strong, and so brave, and so hard around the edges, has shockingly thin skin about some things. Like about what other people might think of the things she really likes-things like a girl playing video games, or a girl watching Batman movies, or a girl kissing another girl on rainy afternoons, with no intention of letting any dumb boy watch.
For example.
It makes her sad sometimes, how much Santana has changed even just since coming to high school, and it makes it even worse, that Santana doesn’t even seem to realize it. It’s like she thinks this is all normal-being rude to everyone she encounters (although, truthfully, Santana has always lacked a little in the manners department), caking on the makeup that she doesn’t need, running lines that feel cut from a 1980s film script. It’s like she thinks this is the way she’s supposed to be, like she doesn’t realize how weird it feels to somebody who has known her a lot longer than the show has been parading on. Somebody who has never needed her to pretend to be anyone but herself.
But Santana, if nothing else, is a terrible listener when it comes to hard truths like that one, so Brittany doesn’t try. She quickens her pace in the halls, keeping an arm locked companionably through the crook of Santana’s elbow, bats her eyes and offers fluttery winks to anyone who looks at them sideways. It’s a perk-maybe the only one-of The Secret getting out to Noah Puckerman all those months ago: they can do this now. Santana isn’t so afraid of the looks that come from hanging off her best friend in public when she’s got a boyfriend on the sidelines, sneering and licking his lips the way Puck can’t seem to resist. It’s not dangerous to seem too close to Brittany when she so obviously has a man waiting for her.
That would make her sad, too, if she let it-so she doesn’t. She goes out with her own football players (and hockey players, and occasionally really cute members of the chess team), and tries not to imagine what it would be like if they didn’t live in small-town Ohio. If Santana wasn’t so mad for the top Cheerio spot. If Brittany had the power to make everyone else go away.
None of that is helpful to think about. None of it makes her heart beat less erratically when Santana’s hand glides along her skin, fingers meshing together with hers like home. None of it makes her teeth stop grinding whenever Puck saunters into the picture, grasping Santana possessively around the waist like he has any right to her.
He’s her boyfriend now, and maybe that’s only because he had a better chance than most of destroying them with a word, but it doesn’t matter. Santana seems to like him okay, and even Brittany has to admit he can be funny sometimes. Funny, but not sweet. She still believes Santana could use someone sweet.
She just doesn’t dare believe that someone could be her anymore.
Not on school days, anyway, when there’s no escape from Santana’s flirty expressions, or her bedroom eyes, or the too-clear view of her fingers tracing up into the buzzed hair around Puck’s dumb mohawk. School days are for what Brittany thinks of as The Show-The Show, replacing The Secret, and Brittany wonders why there is always some act for her to put on with Santana. The Show is where they smile at boys, and flick their skirts a little too high, and sometimes sneak out of class to make out with burly baseball players with broad hands and baggy jeans. The Show is what’s getting them places, Santana says, making people really believe how awesome they are, and she looks so happy when she says it that Brittany can’t stop herself from nodding. Santana wants to be on top, wants everybody to look at her, see her, and Brittany can’t bring herself to stand in the way of that.
It takes some time, but she convinces herself that The Show isn’t so bad. It makes her head tingle in weird ways sometimes-especially when she has to witness the absolutely grody image of Puck’s creepy man-tongue slurping its way past Santana’s lips-but at least the stone resting on her heart hasn’t grown any bigger. And it does make her feel good, to see the way people have been looking at her-like she’s interesting, and sexy, and someone they want to spend time with.
It’s not as good as Santana, but it gets her through the week.
And then come the weekends: beautiful, sterling weekends, when The Show goes into temporary intermission. The weekends push Brittany on to real smiles, to the laughter of childhood, because weekends aren’t for anybody else. The weeks belong to the struggle for popularity, for keeping what they do hidden from the world, for boys like Puck to dig their dirty fingernails in and hang on tight, but the weekend…the weekend belongs only to them.
Santana is still different on weekends from how she used to be. She still spends too much time in front of the mirror, and too little tracing the lines on Brittany’s palm. She still checks her phone for messages from Quinn, or Puck, or their teammates. Sometimes, Brittany catches her staring at her reflection, eyes old and distant, trying to figure out the details of a story Brittany already knows by heart.
Santana is still different, but on the weekends, she is at least Santana. Coiled in Brittany’s bed, lazy muscles relaxing with each pass of Brittany’s lips, hands, gaze, she smiles. Maybe not the bright, piecing smile of a ten-year-old on a baseball diamond, but it warms Brittany anyway. It fills her with the kind of hope she shouldn’t be letting herself have anymore: that, someday, this will all change back to how it was. Someday, Puck will find the door and never return, and Santana will stop charging around with fists raised beneath a tense chin, and Brittany can finally hold her hand in public without tacking on a knowing wink for their adoring audience.
The weeks make it hard to believe, but weekends are different. Weekends are familiar, and homey, and smell like oatmeal-raisin cookies and the breath of Santana’s goodnight kiss.
It’s hard, on a Sunday night-Monday morning-Wednesday afternoon, knowing how short a weekend can be. Two days, three nights, and that’s all they’ve got. Funny how, on Fridays, after Santana has slipped in from her date and kicked off her shoes and tucked herself into Brittany’s bed, everything feels so like forever. And then, not three days later, they find themselves standing on the back stoop of Sunday: Santana’s hand clutching at her other arm, lip between her teeth, trying not to look guilty. Brittany, bending to kiss her cheek once, the way friends are still allowed to under cover of streetlamps, and forcing a smile.
It’s hard, knowing how unfairly short a weekend can be when school days drag on and on, but she tries to forget. Because right now, it’s Saturday afternoon, and her head rests on Santana’s folded legs. Santana has one hand combing through her hair, nails licking at the scalp here and there, the other closed around a remote control. There’s nothing on TV, but she keeps searching anyway, darting from home renovation program to crappy cartoon to half-over Drew Barrymore movie. Brittany closes her eyes, humming, fingers plucking an invisible guitar.
“You should play,” Santana says quietly, unwilling to break the mood. Brittany cracks one eye, craning back to stare at the underside of Santana’s chin.
“I don’t have a guitar.”
“So we’ll buy you one.” Santana shrugs, abandoning the remote at last in favor of curling her fingers around Brittany’s mid-strum. “We could find somebody who’d teach you. It’d be easy.”
Of course it would; Puck plays better than anybody would assume from looking at him. But of course, Santana won’t say that out loud. Not on a weekend. Weekends are for pretending none of that exists.
“Maybe,” Brittany settles for saying, stretching up and brushing a warm kiss into Santana’s neck. She gets a happy little squirm for her trouble, and just barely manages to keep from wondering if Santana ever squirms for anyone else.
“It would be sexy,” Santana says, satisfied, falling backwards until her head is cushioned upon a pile of pillows. “Sexy rocker girl.”
Brittany laughs and twists around, clambering up Santana’s body until they’re face to face. “I am pretty sexy, huh?”
“The sexiest,” Santana agrees, hands slipping into Brittany’s back pockets and giving a cheerful little pat. “After me, anyway.”
Brittany can’t argue that. She wriggles in closer, mouth enveloping Santana’s bottom lip, delighted when the hands on her ass squeeze reflexively. There’s a lot about Santana that never grows old, and kissing may well be at the very top of the list. Brittany has kissed a lot of people in recent memory, but no one does it like Santana-plump lips, hot tongue, low moans that vibrate all the way down to Brittany’s toes and back again. Santana holds her close, grinds her hips in time to the ever-shifting angles of her head, and never seems willing to let go.
Brittany thinks that might be her very favorite part. It’s in these moments, her waist between Santana’s legs, her hair tangled around gentle fingers, the tip of her tongue drawing shapes and hopes into the breadth of Santana’s, that she applauds herself for holding out until Friday night. Moments like this one, where Santana shifts and sighs, palm grazing up under Brittany’s shirt and resting against the waistband of her jeans, leave her breathless and whole, the way she hasn’t felt since rushing home with The Secret in her pocket.
Her mouth opens to Santana, graciously accepting the nip of her teeth, the whispered moan that sends tickles through the tips of her fingers, and holds tighter to Santana’s shoulder, cheek, hair. Anything she can reach belongs to her, suits her, fits inside her domain-hers, and no one else. When it’s Santana, and her, and this empty room, she doesn’t have to share a thing. Not if she doesn’t want to.
As Santana’s nails trace thin lines just left of the groove of her spine, until Brittany’s back arches and her breath leaves her, Brittany can’t imagine why she’d ever let anyone else into this. This is the only place she ever wants to be.
If they could do this every day…if every day could be the weekend, with no one staring, no one waiting, no one whisking Santana away-
But there’s no point thinking like that right now, no point making herself sad. It’s Saturday. Santana’s kisses are deliciously slow and calculated, her palms running higer, fingers flicking at the bra clasp she finds without effort. Santana’s body is lazy, her jeans tight, her hips rocking to match Brittany’s rhythm. This isn’t the time to be thinking about school, and boys, and popularity contests. None of that exists here.
Here, she knows to grasp Santana’s leg, just beneath the bend of her knee, and slide her hand slowly up. She knows the weight and curve of Santana’s thigh as it meets her backside, and higher, until she’s all sharp hipbone and delicate waist. She knows the spot, just beneath the waistband of her jeans, that will make Santana buck up into her, warmth flooding between her legs. She knows to kiss the base of Santana’s neck, to stroke a deliberate path along the jut of her collarbone until it glistens, until Santana’s chest rises and falls a little quicker, her breath catching. She knows to palm Santana’s left breast first, over the shirt, squeezing just hard enough to be felt, and she knows to hike her hips forward just as her palm skates across the erect nipple.
In this bed, she knows what the dark glaze in Santana’s eyes means-not hurry up, but more, please-and she knows that the wait makes it better. That Santana is wildly impatient, but that this is Saturday, and the longer it lasts, the better. That Santana is pushing off the mattress, her mouth seeking out Brittany’s with an almost casual want, like she knows she’s going to get exactly what she’s looking for just as soon as Brittany is ready to give it.
It’s only on the weekend that they can take their time, replacing rough, heated kisses with careful, purposeful ones. It’s only on the weekend that Brittany can raise Santana’s shirt an inch at a time, tasting every corner and curve of skin as she finds it. It’s only on the weekend that Santana will lift up like that on her elbows to watch, and lift a hand to the top of Brittany’s head, stroking through thick gold to hang on for the ride.
If they do this on a weekday, it’s hurried, frantic, a get-off-and-get-gone situation. On weekdays, it’s Brittany backed up against a desk, Santana half-mounting her before she’s fully aware that they’re even here. It’s Santana, pressed face-first into a shower stall, keening as quietly as she can while Brittany’s hips are fitted snugly around her, fingers buried between spread legs. It’s stolen moments beneath the bleachers when the want grows too hot, too forest-fire-reckless to be forgotten for the sake of The Show.
On a weekday, an orgasm might be explosive, incendiary, a hundred words Brittany hasn’t yet invented, but on a weekend…with her tongue swirling around a tight nipple, her palm rubbing across the seam of Santana’s warm, dampening jeans, her head bobbing with the knowledge that Santana’s gaze-flickering long eyelashes stroking across rosy cheeks on every down-stroke-is fixed solidly upon her…
On weekends, on Saturdays, she knows Santana’s brain isn’t firing a thousand miles an hour, working out problems and schedules, the hierarchy of the whole town mapped out behind her kiss. On Saturdays, Santana is right here: hips lifting obediently, legs kicking off denim, and cotton, leaving nothing behind but radiant velvet skin and the glisten of a job well worked. Santana is right in this bed, her hand still closed around the back of Brittany’s head, guiding her, easing her, granting permission and begging for a gift all at the same time. Santana is bending and spinning, arching and groaning, every whimper and whine sinking into Brittany’s ears as she works: tongue, and lips, and the barest scratch of teeth. She is allowed free reign on a Saturday, allowed to open Santana slowly, to press knowing palms to inner thighs and spread as far as they will go. She is allowed to take her time, to sweep long, luxurious kisses up, and across, skipping over the hottest, most wanting of parts until Santana’s squirms turn to jerks, until Santana’s nails bite into her scalp, her voice huskier, raspier, pushing Brittany to the limit of her own sanity.
On a weekday, she wouldn’t be allowed to even get this far, to reach her knees and part her lips, but on a Saturday, she may stay here as long as she likes. Inhaling Santana, until the only thing in the world is this, the sight of a flexing stomach, of a free hand kneading one soft breast, of Santana’s hips rising and falling without measure. She may kiss, and lick, all open-mouthed kisses and brief tastes, embracing Santana with eager lips, driving Santana with fascinated strokes of a loving tongue.
On a Saturday, she gets to hear all the words Santana won’t say otherwise: the breathy begging, the growls for more, the oh’s and mmph’s, the strangled moans that clench on the back of her tongue and then release, vibrant and explosive, into the bedroom air. On a Saturday, she hears the words that tumble and shimmer in her dreams: the I need you, the only you, the Brittany, Brittany, Brittany that she can’t find anywhere else. And she knows, in this moment, with one hand cupped against Santana’s skin and the other pressing in, two fingers curling faster as her mouth descends again, that Santana doesn’t get this with other people. Santana doesn’t give this with other people. Santana won’t admit it out loud, won’t say it in so many words, but the I need you’s are so true, so much more real than anything Puck or those other guys will ever see.
Santana comes around her, muscles vibrating, legs trembling, slick and smooth and triumphant, and Brittany thanks God for Saturdays. Saturdays are when everything else goes away, when nothing else matters but the taste of Santana on her tongue, the flare of a blush across Santana’s chest, the swollen sight of Santana’s skin, still hot and damp, hidden between her legs. Saturdays are when she gets Santana the way Santana has always had her, and maybe it’s not perfect-maybe it’s not enough-but it’s something more than Brittany ever thought she’d have, once The Secret was out. Maybe it’s sad, and maybe it hurts, but in the end, to be able to stroke slow kisses back up Santana’s thigh, to nibble at her hip, to taste the edge of her ribcage, the smooth underside of her breast, the rapid thump-thump-thump of her heartbeat-
It’s more than she thought she’d ever get again, months ago, and yet, here they are. Here Santana is: still angry, still different, still forgetting how to give up and give what she wants a real chance, but here nonetheless.
It’s the weekend, and it’s what keeps Brittany from letting go when Monday arrives with its trademark smirk and a pair of linked pinkies.