Gladiator (2/2)
Title: Gladiator (2/2)
Pairing: Brittany/Santana, side Rachel/Quinn
Rating: R; sexuality, girl-on-girl, and Santana's got a mouth.
Spoilers: None; more or less AU. I'm just shamelessly playing.
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profits gained.
Summary: Costume party at Finn's. Quinn wants Rachel. Santana just wants a decent Friday night. Enter Brittany.
Santana finds she can’t even think anymore, and when the blonde yanks her into a small room and slams the door shut behind them, flipping the lock easily, she is baffled to find herself pressed up against the nearest wall.
Hands on either side of her head, pinning her resolutely in place, the blonde gives a cunning grin and licks her lips. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Santana sucks in a heavy breath, fingers instinctively gripping the blonde’s belt loops. “Think you’re pretty charming, don’t you?” she breathes, forcing herself not to lean into the girl’s touch when long fingers tickle her ear. “Think you’re hot stuff?”
The blonde tosses her head, fedora shadowing blue eyes. “Pretty much.”
Santana smirks, winding the fabric of one belt loop around her finger as tightly as it will go. She can feel one angular hipbone against her knuckles, hot through black material, can gauge the muscles in the thighs flush against her own. The girl’s in shape. Worthy.
"Well, I’ve got news for you, Blondie,” Santana hears herself snip, yanking hard on the girl’s pants until their hips crash together. The taller girl doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t even gasp. She only smiles, waiting. Santana growls.
“I’m the motherfucking top dog around here. No one is hotter than me. Might want to remember that.”
She’s not sure what she expects the reaction to be, but when the blonde runs a teasing finger across Santana’s lower lip and leans in, warm citrus breath tangling with her own, and chuckles, Santana’s knees almost give out. And when the blonde murmurs, “Got that right, hot stuff,” half-mocking, half-hungry, Santana can’t help giving her hips another brutal tug. Their bodies slam together a second time, generating absolutely no convenient friction, and Santana hears herself whimper in frustration.
"Fuck,” she mumbles, barely an inch away from the stranger’s mouth. “I don’t even know who you are.”
But somehow, that doesn’t matter, because the girl is surging forward, planting her lips hard against Santana’s. Her tongue reaches in, stripping away any resolve Santana might’ve had left, and the Latina groans. She bites back, hard, on a full bottom lip, hands groping blindly around the blonde’s waist and landing on her ass, dragging her impossibly closer.
She thinks she hears the blonde giggle against her lips, so she gives another sharp bite, and grins when the sound turns into a gasp. The wall is digging hard into her back, and she’s damning the metal breastplate as vehemently as she can, because it’s the only thing separating her body from the undoubtedly pliant woman currently devouring her every breath. She squirms as the blonde’s tongue delves in deep, caressing her own, hands trailing up and down her bare arms.
“Hey,” she gasps, ripping her mouth free for a second. Undeterred, the blonde simply shifts her kisses to Santana’s neck, each press a little hotter, a little wetter than the last. Santana feels her eyes roll back. “Hey, help me with this.”
“Hmm?” Barely raising her head, the blonde peers up through curious lashes. Santana groans.
"The costume, help me with the fucking costume. I need-oh God.”
The blonde has maneuvered one long leg between both of hers and presses up hard under her skirt. Her hands, thankfully, shift around behind Santana’s back and tear at the straps holding the breastplate in place as the Latina arches her back desperately.
It takes a few seconds of fumbling, and the blonde actually does remove her lips from Santana’s skin as she works, brow furrowed in bewilderment, but the stupid piece of metal crashes at last to the tile floor. The echo resounds so magnificently that Santana is positive someone must be able to hear, but who the fuck cares; there is nothing bulkier than a black tank top on her now, taking up space. Now that she can move freely, she practically scrambles against the blonde’s torso, hands gripping hard against her back. The girl hisses as nails scratch fervently through her shirt, and rocks her leg harder.
It’s a battle for dominance, Santana realizes even as she releases the first moan. It’s a violent struggle, all teeth and tongue and scratches, and she can’t be sure who’s even winning right now. She bucks hard against the toned thigh, skirt riding up almost to her waist, and yanks the suspenders off the blonde’s shoulders. The girl licks a long line from the base of her throat up to her ear, grinning a little when Santana’s normally-dexterous fingers slip gracelessly on the highest button of her shirt.
“Gonna do something with that, or just play with it all night?” she taunts, sucking hard on the soft lobe until Santana releases an embarrassingly breathy whine. The Latina smacks hard against the blonde’s front, annoyed when she receives little more than an amused sigh in return.
“You’re distracting me,” she grumbles, stretching off the wall. Her fingers manage to unhook the first three buttons before slipping again; she bites her lip, eyes slamming closed when the blonde’s teeth scrape purposefully against her ear. “Fuck. You…fuck.”
“Basically,” the blonde agrees, leaning back and tilting her head charmingly. “You’re sexy, you know that?”
“Fucking duh,” Santana gripes, grasping the front of the girl’s shirt and fairly ripping the final buttons open. Her reward is a black lace bra topping the nicest abs she has ever seen-nicer than her own and Quinn’s put together. She gapes. “Shit.”
"Hot enough for you, princess?” Blonde eyebrows wiggle seductively. When Santana can only stare back, the blonde laughs.
“Who the hell are you?” Santana demands, swallowing convulsively as she watches the lightly-defined muscles in the other girl’s stomach quiver.
“I’m the standard, sweetheart,” the blonde quips, strolling right back into Santana’s personal bubble and replacing her leg where it had been minutes before. Santana, against her own will, mewls softly.
"You’re a fucking tease, is what you are,” Santana growls. She rolls her hips a couple of times, increasing the pressure between her legs, and wraps both arms around the blonde’s shoulders. The girl laughs again.
"Sure,” she replies amiably. “The standard for teasing.”
One hand winds between their bodies, curling behind Santana’s back and pushing the tank top up almost to her shoulder blades. The Latina curses softly-the wall is fucking freezing-and then gasps when that same hand traces a path up and around, palming flat against her left breast. The blonde smirks, bites her lip softly, feigns a demure expression.
If Santana weren’t so turned on, she thinks she might like to smack her. No one looks at Santana Lopez like this, not even while manhandling her in a bathroom. It’s just not done. It’s not acceptable.
Except for the part where it sort of is, and Santana doesn’t understand what the difference is. When it’s Puck’s hands on her body, or any other football (baseball, basketball, lacrosse) player, this doesn’t happen. She doesn’t let go. She pushes, and she snarls, and she drags them to the edge and back again, and it is all her. Always. This? This isn’t right. This doesn’t feel the same. This feels wanton, crazy, like she’s not completely in control of her own body. She’s pulsing hard against the girl’s thigh, arching her back to fit more of herself into that curiously cupping hand, scratching hard against ivory shoulders until finally the blonde lets a faint hiss curl through her gritted teeth.
That’s more like it, Santana thinks even as she continues to grind helplessly against the not-enough barrier between her legs. She’s completely and utterly soaked, completely and utterly at the mercy of this girl, and it’s so fucking weird, but she think she kind of likes it. Maybe more than kind of. Maybe a lot.
She’s pushing harder, grasping at the blonde desperately in an effort to squirm closer. The girl, blessedly obedient for the first time tonight, bows her head and bites down on Santana’s collarbone, harder than the smaller girl expects. She cries out, throwing her head back against the wall with a soft thunk once, twice, rubbing herself faster against that marvelous, evil leg.
A hand sneaks gingerly up to cradle the back of her skull, protecting her from a probable concussion. Santana opens her eyes, curious, and finds herself staring down a fond smile.
"I’m all for breaking the consciousness barrier,” the blonde says plainly, “but you’d better let me do it for you. I’d hate to follow this up with a trip to the hospital.”
Santana feels herself blush, which is even stranger than the rest of this situation, and bows her head. Fingers catch under her chin, pulling her back up again, blue eyes sparkling in the crappy half-burnt-out light.
"Don’t get shy on me now, hot stuff.” One eye opens and closes in a lazy wink. Despite herself, Santana smiles, nods, and resumes the steady rhythm they’ve built. The beautiful stranger’s hands drop to her waist, guiding her with a quick push-pull motion that presses her harder than ever downward.
"Come on, baby,” the girl coaxes, bending to nip at the skin disappearing quickly beneath Santana’s tank top. Santana bends backwards, pushing off the wall, swearing low under her breath when a hot mouth descends over one breast, sucking hard through the material of her shirt. She can feel the blonde’s tongue, ravenous, and the fevered drag of fingertips just above the waistband of her skirt, and she’s riding this woman’s leg like there’s no tomorrow, growling and mewling and crying out when blunt teeth catch hold of a nipple through fabric.
It’s all far, far too much, and if Santana were more inclined towards thought, she’d be thinking that she’s dangerously treading the edge of a high school cliché-bucking and grinding on some beautiful stranger in a bathroom at an otherwise unmemorable Friday night soiree. She’d be thinking about how she didn’t come here for this, about how she doesn’t do this out of control bullshit, about how getting laid is great and all, but not at the expense of one’s rational mind.
She’d be thinking all of this if she were able to think, but the fact of the matter is, the blonde has switched to her other breast, tonguing her nipple gently through her shirt, and the thrusting motion her hips have been clinging to is finally doing its job. She’s coming apart, hard and finally, burning and shivering all over as she moans into the top of the blonde’s head, biting down at the last minute on the brim of that godforsaken hat to muffle the sound.
When the lights come back, she leans her head wearily against the wall, careful not to slam it this time. The blonde pulls her leg free, shirt still gaping wide open over a reasonably perfect torso, and Santana can only gaze at her. She’s tired, but not done-not nearly done, not with the blonde wearing that self-satisfied little smile-and she just needs a minute to breathe.
The girl, to her wonder, reaches up and fingers the edge of the fedora. She looks entirely too amused when she asks, “Did you really bite my hat?”
Santana stares back, stubborn. “Does it matter?”
The blonde grins. “Well, yeah. I really like this hat. Can’t have you leaving all kinds of teeth marks in it. What kind of animal does that?”
“The kind that cares less about a fucking hat than about getting caught,” Santana snipes in return, pushing a sweaty lock of hair off her own forehead. The blonde shakes her head.
"Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to bite?”
“I’ll show you a real bite, you keep talking like that,” Santana threatens, and she finds she’s not kidding around; the strength has nearly returned to her legs already, and there’s a half-naked woman grinning at her as if she fucking owns everything, and that just will not do. Santana steps forward, advancing until the taller girl is pressed back against the countertop, and reaches for the girl’s belt.
It happens faster than she anticipates-probably, she thinks with a mixture of grumpy arousal, because her head still isn’t on entirely straight. She only knows that she had the blonde right where she wanted her, tailbone digging into the marble of the Hudson’s sink, and then suddenly their positions are being reversed and Santana is being heaved up onto the counter, her skirt bunched up to her waist. The blonde’s hands are on either side of her thighs, thumbs barely brushing skin, eyes dark and heavy with lust. Santana growls a little, annoyed with how she keeps getting thrown around like a goddamn rag doll, and more annoyed with how much her body appreciates it.
She catches hold of the girl’s face with both hands, hauling her in close, and kisses her with everything she can muster. The blonde melts into her, upper body rolling in close, and Santana takes barely ten seconds to reach around and unsnap the bra that’s been mocking her for long, desperately sexy minutes. The girl yelps a little when greedy hands latch hold, pinching pink nipples, and Santana thinks her smirk might just crack her face.
"Gotcha,” she teases, nipping along the blonde’s jawline. The girl gives a husky giggle.
“’bout time you did something with those hands. God,” she adds when Santana gives a quick squeeze and locks her legs firmly around her waist. “God, yeah, okay, keep doing-”
It’s hot to hear the girl speak, but hotter still to shut her up. Santana goes back to kissing her, hard and aggressive, flicking her tongue possessively into a whimpering mouth. Her hands roam free, covering every inch of skin in long strokes before grabbing hold of the shirt lapels. The blonde tilts further until she’s flush against the counter, flush against Santana’s slowly grinding pelvis, reaching up around the Latina to drag the tank top carefully up. Santana allows her to remove the article entirely-it’s really fucking hot in here, after all-and watches as the blonde chucks it sideways into the bathtub.
“Two points,” she mocks, grinning when the blonde rolls her eyes and kisses her chin.
"Just remember to grab that before we leave. I’m pretty sure that weirdly tall kid will have a stroke if he realizes what went on in his bathroom tonight.”
Santana feels an unexpected pang at the word ‘we’, and compensates for it by sinking her teeth into a flawless shoulder. Air rushes out of the blonde, blowing distractingly against her skin, and Santana scoots forward on the counter to press their bodies together. It’s warm, and soft, and perfect, and Santana wonders why she never went after a girl before now. There’s something absolutely intoxicating about another woman’s breasts rubbing like that against her own, ripping a long moan from the base of her chest before she even realizes it’s her voice.
The blonde seems to agree; she’s panting, rocking her hips against the counter, fingertips digging into Santana’s back hard enough to bruise. Santana loosens one leg from around the other girl’s body and reaches down, flicking her thin belt open and trailing her hand lower until blue eyes go beautifully wide.
“Help me out,” Santana commands quietly, and the blonde can’t move fast enough to comply, trembling fingers yanking the belt off and ripping down her own zipper. Santana smirks, catching hold of the pale-skinned wrist and twisting it gently down against the counter.
“I said help,” she points out with one eyebrow quirked skyward. “Not do for me.”
The blonde whines a little, but stills, fingers tapping impatiently against marble. “Hurry up, then.”
There’s an edge to her voice, something new and completely beautiful. Grinning, Santana circles one finger along the soft skin of the girl’s wrist, achingly slow. Taller, stronger, and yet completely at her mercy, the girl bestows upon her a vaguely wounded look, lower lip pouting.
"You’re just being mean now,” she says, clearly bemused by the whole thing. Santana inclines her head and blows lightly over the girl’s exposed collarbone and down, across her breasts. She shivers.
"It isn’t mean,” Santana corrects, scratching with one nail along a prominent blue vein under the girl’s pale skin. “It’s called keeping things…interesting.”
“Interesting would be you fucking me senseless,” the girl responds bluntly, flexing her hand under Santana’s. “This is the opposite.”
Her next deep breath startles in her chest, nudging uncertainly through her lungs as if it has lost track of the ideal path out, but Santana isn’t willing to show her surprise. She reaches out, a taunting grin dancing on full lips, and captures the blonde girl's beloved hat with her free hand. Tossing it jauntily atop her own head, she winks.
"What do you think? Suit me all right?"
The blonde's eyes are hooded, tongue peeking out to moisten soft lips. "Gorgeous," she murmurs, and Santana can't take it anymore. She rushes forward, hands pulling at the bobby pins keeping that lustrous hair in place until it's all free, waving lazily around the open white collar of that stupid fucking shirt. She buries her hands in it up to the wrists and yanks until the blonde is kissing her again, hungry and open-mouthed, teeth catching on Santana's lips here, there, everywhere.
Santana's hand moves down of its own accord, shoving past the boundary of pinstriped pants and lacy panties as if they're not even there, and the blonde gives a strangled cry straight into her mouth as Santana strokes once, twice, again.
"Yeah?" she asks, because she's pretty sure she's doing this exactly right, but somehow she needs to be sure. Blonde hair shivers madly as the girl's head nods, frantic.
"Yeah, yeah, there, yes," the girl babbles, spreading her legs and raising one against the counter to give the Latina better leverage. Santana finds herself nearly beaming with pride because here, this is it. This beautiful fucking woman thought she could take Santana Lopez and render her completely inarticulate, but here is proof--no one bests the top dog.
She curls her fingers through slick heat, grinning when the blonde's hips ratchet forward. She touches lightly at first, then presses down, rubbing quick circles until the girl's mouth drops open and she releases a moan so low, Santana feels it reverberate in the pit of her own stomach. She strokes again, angling her wrist lower, until she finds the source of the heat and plunges recklessly inside.
"Oh God," the girl whimpers, nuzzling her head into the crook of Santana's neck as her body jerks and bucks with every thrust. Biting her lip, Santana goes faster, then slower, then as hard as she possibly can, until the goddess writhing against her shatters visibly, blue eyes disappearing into the back of her skull, mouth gaping.
Santana waits for the girl to come down, drawing her hand free only when the blonde's hands relax against the counter. The girl bends at the shoulders, bowing her head as she pants for air; Santana, for her part, inspects her fingers with interest.
"Very nice," she comments. The blonde raises one eyebrow, arms shaking with the effort of holding her body upright.
"Thanks."
"Anytime," Santana replies, and though she's not entirely sure what she means by it, she has the sneaking suspicion it's more than she's prepared to give. The girl smiles, chewing lightly on her lip, almost shy now that she stands bare chested, pants hanging open at the fly, a sheen of sweat coating her forehead.
Santana slips off the counter, adjusting her skirt as she goes, and allows her body to press teasingly against the taller girl's. Tilting her head back, she removes the stolen fedora and is aiming to replace it on its rightful mantle when pale fingers wrap around her wrist. The girl's head shakes.
"Looks good on you," she explains when Santana cocks a perplexed eyebrow. "Not as good as on me, maybe, but..." She gives a faux-modest shrug. Despite herself, Santana giggles.
They stand there for a long moment, Santana's back crushed against the counter, her hands laying instinctively on the girl's waist. Finally, the blonde reaches down, gently guiding black hair behind a tan ear.
"Good party," she says softly. Santana nods, feeling inexplicably full in a way she's never quite known before. She watches as the blonde backs away far enough to collect her bra and stuff it into one pocket, gingerly doing up the buttons on her shirt. All the while, she gazes at the smaller girl in a way that should be entirely uncomfortable. Santana doesn't mind.
When the girl has retrieved her tank top and that godforsaken breastplate and Santana has managed to make herself look slightly less like she's just had rip-roaring counter sex with a completely fascinating stranger, the blonde reaches for the doorknob. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiles mysteriously.
"Hey."
Santana lifts an eyebrow, arms crossed resolutely over her chest. "Hey."
"I'm Brittany."
Something swells in the very middle of Santana's chest until she's presented with the unshakable image of an overfull balloon, one she's not sure she's equipped to protect from popping and absolutely decimating her insides. "Santana," she replies after a heady beat, tapping two fingers against her breastbone unnecessarily.
That beautiful smile widens. "Pretty. Hey, Santana?"
"Hey Brittany?" Santana replies, at a loss for anything better. The girl winks, roguish as her costume.
"We are so hotter than your friends."
Santana flings her head back, laughing harder than she has in weeks. Clearly pleased with herself, the blonde reaches back, captures the smaller girl's hand, and pulls her into a gentle kiss.
When Santana opens her eyes, the girl is gone, the door cracked open. She presses her forehead against the cool wood for a second, collecting herself, then pushes off and out into the din. Everything is exactly as she left it.
She sets off to locate Quinn.
Pairing: Brittany/Santana, side Rachel/Quinn
Rating: R; sexuality, girl-on-girl, and Santana's got a mouth.
Spoilers: None; more or less AU. I'm just shamelessly playing.
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profits gained.
Summary: Costume party at Finn's. Quinn wants Rachel. Santana just wants a decent Friday night. Enter Brittany.
Santana finds she can’t even think anymore, and when the blonde yanks her into a small room and slams the door shut behind them, flipping the lock easily, she is baffled to find herself pressed up against the nearest wall.
Hands on either side of her head, pinning her resolutely in place, the blonde gives a cunning grin and licks her lips. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Santana sucks in a heavy breath, fingers instinctively gripping the blonde’s belt loops. “Think you’re pretty charming, don’t you?” she breathes, forcing herself not to lean into the girl’s touch when long fingers tickle her ear. “Think you’re hot stuff?”
The blonde tosses her head, fedora shadowing blue eyes. “Pretty much.”
Santana smirks, winding the fabric of one belt loop around her finger as tightly as it will go. She can feel one angular hipbone against her knuckles, hot through black material, can gauge the muscles in the thighs flush against her own. The girl’s in shape. Worthy.
"Well, I’ve got news for you, Blondie,” Santana hears herself snip, yanking hard on the girl’s pants until their hips crash together. The taller girl doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t even gasp. She only smiles, waiting. Santana growls.
“I’m the motherfucking top dog around here. No one is hotter than me. Might want to remember that.”
She’s not sure what she expects the reaction to be, but when the blonde runs a teasing finger across Santana’s lower lip and leans in, warm citrus breath tangling with her own, and chuckles, Santana’s knees almost give out. And when the blonde murmurs, “Got that right, hot stuff,” half-mocking, half-hungry, Santana can’t help giving her hips another brutal tug. Their bodies slam together a second time, generating absolutely no convenient friction, and Santana hears herself whimper in frustration.
"Fuck,” she mumbles, barely an inch away from the stranger’s mouth. “I don’t even know who you are.”
But somehow, that doesn’t matter, because the girl is surging forward, planting her lips hard against Santana’s. Her tongue reaches in, stripping away any resolve Santana might’ve had left, and the Latina groans. She bites back, hard, on a full bottom lip, hands groping blindly around the blonde’s waist and landing on her ass, dragging her impossibly closer.
She thinks she hears the blonde giggle against her lips, so she gives another sharp bite, and grins when the sound turns into a gasp. The wall is digging hard into her back, and she’s damning the metal breastplate as vehemently as she can, because it’s the only thing separating her body from the undoubtedly pliant woman currently devouring her every breath. She squirms as the blonde’s tongue delves in deep, caressing her own, hands trailing up and down her bare arms.
“Hey,” she gasps, ripping her mouth free for a second. Undeterred, the blonde simply shifts her kisses to Santana’s neck, each press a little hotter, a little wetter than the last. Santana feels her eyes roll back. “Hey, help me with this.”
“Hmm?” Barely raising her head, the blonde peers up through curious lashes. Santana groans.
"The costume, help me with the fucking costume. I need-oh God.”
The blonde has maneuvered one long leg between both of hers and presses up hard under her skirt. Her hands, thankfully, shift around behind Santana’s back and tear at the straps holding the breastplate in place as the Latina arches her back desperately.
It takes a few seconds of fumbling, and the blonde actually does remove her lips from Santana’s skin as she works, brow furrowed in bewilderment, but the stupid piece of metal crashes at last to the tile floor. The echo resounds so magnificently that Santana is positive someone must be able to hear, but who the fuck cares; there is nothing bulkier than a black tank top on her now, taking up space. Now that she can move freely, she practically scrambles against the blonde’s torso, hands gripping hard against her back. The girl hisses as nails scratch fervently through her shirt, and rocks her leg harder.
It’s a battle for dominance, Santana realizes even as she releases the first moan. It’s a violent struggle, all teeth and tongue and scratches, and she can’t be sure who’s even winning right now. She bucks hard against the toned thigh, skirt riding up almost to her waist, and yanks the suspenders off the blonde’s shoulders. The girl licks a long line from the base of her throat up to her ear, grinning a little when Santana’s normally-dexterous fingers slip gracelessly on the highest button of her shirt.
“Gonna do something with that, or just play with it all night?” she taunts, sucking hard on the soft lobe until Santana releases an embarrassingly breathy whine. The Latina smacks hard against the blonde’s front, annoyed when she receives little more than an amused sigh in return.
“You’re distracting me,” she grumbles, stretching off the wall. Her fingers manage to unhook the first three buttons before slipping again; she bites her lip, eyes slamming closed when the blonde’s teeth scrape purposefully against her ear. “Fuck. You…fuck.”
“Basically,” the blonde agrees, leaning back and tilting her head charmingly. “You’re sexy, you know that?”
“Fucking duh,” Santana gripes, grasping the front of the girl’s shirt and fairly ripping the final buttons open. Her reward is a black lace bra topping the nicest abs she has ever seen-nicer than her own and Quinn’s put together. She gapes. “Shit.”
"Hot enough for you, princess?” Blonde eyebrows wiggle seductively. When Santana can only stare back, the blonde laughs.
“Who the hell are you?” Santana demands, swallowing convulsively as she watches the lightly-defined muscles in the other girl’s stomach quiver.
“I’m the standard, sweetheart,” the blonde quips, strolling right back into Santana’s personal bubble and replacing her leg where it had been minutes before. Santana, against her own will, mewls softly.
"You’re a fucking tease, is what you are,” Santana growls. She rolls her hips a couple of times, increasing the pressure between her legs, and wraps both arms around the blonde’s shoulders. The girl laughs again.
"Sure,” she replies amiably. “The standard for teasing.”
One hand winds between their bodies, curling behind Santana’s back and pushing the tank top up almost to her shoulder blades. The Latina curses softly-the wall is fucking freezing-and then gasps when that same hand traces a path up and around, palming flat against her left breast. The blonde smirks, bites her lip softly, feigns a demure expression.
If Santana weren’t so turned on, she thinks she might like to smack her. No one looks at Santana Lopez like this, not even while manhandling her in a bathroom. It’s just not done. It’s not acceptable.
Except for the part where it sort of is, and Santana doesn’t understand what the difference is. When it’s Puck’s hands on her body, or any other football (baseball, basketball, lacrosse) player, this doesn’t happen. She doesn’t let go. She pushes, and she snarls, and she drags them to the edge and back again, and it is all her. Always. This? This isn’t right. This doesn’t feel the same. This feels wanton, crazy, like she’s not completely in control of her own body. She’s pulsing hard against the girl’s thigh, arching her back to fit more of herself into that curiously cupping hand, scratching hard against ivory shoulders until finally the blonde lets a faint hiss curl through her gritted teeth.
That’s more like it, Santana thinks even as she continues to grind helplessly against the not-enough barrier between her legs. She’s completely and utterly soaked, completely and utterly at the mercy of this girl, and it’s so fucking weird, but she think she kind of likes it. Maybe more than kind of. Maybe a lot.
She’s pushing harder, grasping at the blonde desperately in an effort to squirm closer. The girl, blessedly obedient for the first time tonight, bows her head and bites down on Santana’s collarbone, harder than the smaller girl expects. She cries out, throwing her head back against the wall with a soft thunk once, twice, rubbing herself faster against that marvelous, evil leg.
A hand sneaks gingerly up to cradle the back of her skull, protecting her from a probable concussion. Santana opens her eyes, curious, and finds herself staring down a fond smile.
"I’m all for breaking the consciousness barrier,” the blonde says plainly, “but you’d better let me do it for you. I’d hate to follow this up with a trip to the hospital.”
Santana feels herself blush, which is even stranger than the rest of this situation, and bows her head. Fingers catch under her chin, pulling her back up again, blue eyes sparkling in the crappy half-burnt-out light.
"Don’t get shy on me now, hot stuff.” One eye opens and closes in a lazy wink. Despite herself, Santana smiles, nods, and resumes the steady rhythm they’ve built. The beautiful stranger’s hands drop to her waist, guiding her with a quick push-pull motion that presses her harder than ever downward.
"Come on, baby,” the girl coaxes, bending to nip at the skin disappearing quickly beneath Santana’s tank top. Santana bends backwards, pushing off the wall, swearing low under her breath when a hot mouth descends over one breast, sucking hard through the material of her shirt. She can feel the blonde’s tongue, ravenous, and the fevered drag of fingertips just above the waistband of her skirt, and she’s riding this woman’s leg like there’s no tomorrow, growling and mewling and crying out when blunt teeth catch hold of a nipple through fabric.
It’s all far, far too much, and if Santana were more inclined towards thought, she’d be thinking that she’s dangerously treading the edge of a high school cliché-bucking and grinding on some beautiful stranger in a bathroom at an otherwise unmemorable Friday night soiree. She’d be thinking about how she didn’t come here for this, about how she doesn’t do this out of control bullshit, about how getting laid is great and all, but not at the expense of one’s rational mind.
She’d be thinking all of this if she were able to think, but the fact of the matter is, the blonde has switched to her other breast, tonguing her nipple gently through her shirt, and the thrusting motion her hips have been clinging to is finally doing its job. She’s coming apart, hard and finally, burning and shivering all over as she moans into the top of the blonde’s head, biting down at the last minute on the brim of that godforsaken hat to muffle the sound.
When the lights come back, she leans her head wearily against the wall, careful not to slam it this time. The blonde pulls her leg free, shirt still gaping wide open over a reasonably perfect torso, and Santana can only gaze at her. She’s tired, but not done-not nearly done, not with the blonde wearing that self-satisfied little smile-and she just needs a minute to breathe.
The girl, to her wonder, reaches up and fingers the edge of the fedora. She looks entirely too amused when she asks, “Did you really bite my hat?”
Santana stares back, stubborn. “Does it matter?”
The blonde grins. “Well, yeah. I really like this hat. Can’t have you leaving all kinds of teeth marks in it. What kind of animal does that?”
“The kind that cares less about a fucking hat than about getting caught,” Santana snipes in return, pushing a sweaty lock of hair off her own forehead. The blonde shakes her head.
"Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to bite?”
“I’ll show you a real bite, you keep talking like that,” Santana threatens, and she finds she’s not kidding around; the strength has nearly returned to her legs already, and there’s a half-naked woman grinning at her as if she fucking owns everything, and that just will not do. Santana steps forward, advancing until the taller girl is pressed back against the countertop, and reaches for the girl’s belt.
It happens faster than she anticipates-probably, she thinks with a mixture of grumpy arousal, because her head still isn’t on entirely straight. She only knows that she had the blonde right where she wanted her, tailbone digging into the marble of the Hudson’s sink, and then suddenly their positions are being reversed and Santana is being heaved up onto the counter, her skirt bunched up to her waist. The blonde’s hands are on either side of her thighs, thumbs barely brushing skin, eyes dark and heavy with lust. Santana growls a little, annoyed with how she keeps getting thrown around like a goddamn rag doll, and more annoyed with how much her body appreciates it.
She catches hold of the girl’s face with both hands, hauling her in close, and kisses her with everything she can muster. The blonde melts into her, upper body rolling in close, and Santana takes barely ten seconds to reach around and unsnap the bra that’s been mocking her for long, desperately sexy minutes. The girl yelps a little when greedy hands latch hold, pinching pink nipples, and Santana thinks her smirk might just crack her face.
"Gotcha,” she teases, nipping along the blonde’s jawline. The girl gives a husky giggle.
“’bout time you did something with those hands. God,” she adds when Santana gives a quick squeeze and locks her legs firmly around her waist. “God, yeah, okay, keep doing-”
It’s hot to hear the girl speak, but hotter still to shut her up. Santana goes back to kissing her, hard and aggressive, flicking her tongue possessively into a whimpering mouth. Her hands roam free, covering every inch of skin in long strokes before grabbing hold of the shirt lapels. The blonde tilts further until she’s flush against the counter, flush against Santana’s slowly grinding pelvis, reaching up around the Latina to drag the tank top carefully up. Santana allows her to remove the article entirely-it’s really fucking hot in here, after all-and watches as the blonde chucks it sideways into the bathtub.
“Two points,” she mocks, grinning when the blonde rolls her eyes and kisses her chin.
"Just remember to grab that before we leave. I’m pretty sure that weirdly tall kid will have a stroke if he realizes what went on in his bathroom tonight.”
Santana feels an unexpected pang at the word ‘we’, and compensates for it by sinking her teeth into a flawless shoulder. Air rushes out of the blonde, blowing distractingly against her skin, and Santana scoots forward on the counter to press their bodies together. It’s warm, and soft, and perfect, and Santana wonders why she never went after a girl before now. There’s something absolutely intoxicating about another woman’s breasts rubbing like that against her own, ripping a long moan from the base of her chest before she even realizes it’s her voice.
The blonde seems to agree; she’s panting, rocking her hips against the counter, fingertips digging into Santana’s back hard enough to bruise. Santana loosens one leg from around the other girl’s body and reaches down, flicking her thin belt open and trailing her hand lower until blue eyes go beautifully wide.
“Help me out,” Santana commands quietly, and the blonde can’t move fast enough to comply, trembling fingers yanking the belt off and ripping down her own zipper. Santana smirks, catching hold of the pale-skinned wrist and twisting it gently down against the counter.
“I said help,” she points out with one eyebrow quirked skyward. “Not do for me.”
The blonde whines a little, but stills, fingers tapping impatiently against marble. “Hurry up, then.”
There’s an edge to her voice, something new and completely beautiful. Grinning, Santana circles one finger along the soft skin of the girl’s wrist, achingly slow. Taller, stronger, and yet completely at her mercy, the girl bestows upon her a vaguely wounded look, lower lip pouting.
"You’re just being mean now,” she says, clearly bemused by the whole thing. Santana inclines her head and blows lightly over the girl’s exposed collarbone and down, across her breasts. She shivers.
"It isn’t mean,” Santana corrects, scratching with one nail along a prominent blue vein under the girl’s pale skin. “It’s called keeping things…interesting.”
“Interesting would be you fucking me senseless,” the girl responds bluntly, flexing her hand under Santana’s. “This is the opposite.”
Her next deep breath startles in her chest, nudging uncertainly through her lungs as if it has lost track of the ideal path out, but Santana isn’t willing to show her surprise. She reaches out, a taunting grin dancing on full lips, and captures the blonde girl's beloved hat with her free hand. Tossing it jauntily atop her own head, she winks.
"What do you think? Suit me all right?"
The blonde's eyes are hooded, tongue peeking out to moisten soft lips. "Gorgeous," she murmurs, and Santana can't take it anymore. She rushes forward, hands pulling at the bobby pins keeping that lustrous hair in place until it's all free, waving lazily around the open white collar of that stupid fucking shirt. She buries her hands in it up to the wrists and yanks until the blonde is kissing her again, hungry and open-mouthed, teeth catching on Santana's lips here, there, everywhere.
Santana's hand moves down of its own accord, shoving past the boundary of pinstriped pants and lacy panties as if they're not even there, and the blonde gives a strangled cry straight into her mouth as Santana strokes once, twice, again.
"Yeah?" she asks, because she's pretty sure she's doing this exactly right, but somehow she needs to be sure. Blonde hair shivers madly as the girl's head nods, frantic.
"Yeah, yeah, there, yes," the girl babbles, spreading her legs and raising one against the counter to give the Latina better leverage. Santana finds herself nearly beaming with pride because here, this is it. This beautiful fucking woman thought she could take Santana Lopez and render her completely inarticulate, but here is proof--no one bests the top dog.
She curls her fingers through slick heat, grinning when the blonde's hips ratchet forward. She touches lightly at first, then presses down, rubbing quick circles until the girl's mouth drops open and she releases a moan so low, Santana feels it reverberate in the pit of her own stomach. She strokes again, angling her wrist lower, until she finds the source of the heat and plunges recklessly inside.
"Oh God," the girl whimpers, nuzzling her head into the crook of Santana's neck as her body jerks and bucks with every thrust. Biting her lip, Santana goes faster, then slower, then as hard as she possibly can, until the goddess writhing against her shatters visibly, blue eyes disappearing into the back of her skull, mouth gaping.
Santana waits for the girl to come down, drawing her hand free only when the blonde's hands relax against the counter. The girl bends at the shoulders, bowing her head as she pants for air; Santana, for her part, inspects her fingers with interest.
"Very nice," she comments. The blonde raises one eyebrow, arms shaking with the effort of holding her body upright.
"Thanks."
"Anytime," Santana replies, and though she's not entirely sure what she means by it, she has the sneaking suspicion it's more than she's prepared to give. The girl smiles, chewing lightly on her lip, almost shy now that she stands bare chested, pants hanging open at the fly, a sheen of sweat coating her forehead.
Santana slips off the counter, adjusting her skirt as she goes, and allows her body to press teasingly against the taller girl's. Tilting her head back, she removes the stolen fedora and is aiming to replace it on its rightful mantle when pale fingers wrap around her wrist. The girl's head shakes.
"Looks good on you," she explains when Santana cocks a perplexed eyebrow. "Not as good as on me, maybe, but..." She gives a faux-modest shrug. Despite herself, Santana giggles.
They stand there for a long moment, Santana's back crushed against the counter, her hands laying instinctively on the girl's waist. Finally, the blonde reaches down, gently guiding black hair behind a tan ear.
"Good party," she says softly. Santana nods, feeling inexplicably full in a way she's never quite known before. She watches as the blonde backs away far enough to collect her bra and stuff it into one pocket, gingerly doing up the buttons on her shirt. All the while, she gazes at the smaller girl in a way that should be entirely uncomfortable. Santana doesn't mind.
When the girl has retrieved her tank top and that godforsaken breastplate and Santana has managed to make herself look slightly less like she's just had rip-roaring counter sex with a completely fascinating stranger, the blonde reaches for the doorknob. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiles mysteriously.
"Hey."
Santana lifts an eyebrow, arms crossed resolutely over her chest. "Hey."
"I'm Brittany."
Something swells in the very middle of Santana's chest until she's presented with the unshakable image of an overfull balloon, one she's not sure she's equipped to protect from popping and absolutely decimating her insides. "Santana," she replies after a heady beat, tapping two fingers against her breastbone unnecessarily.
That beautiful smile widens. "Pretty. Hey, Santana?"
"Hey Brittany?" Santana replies, at a loss for anything better. The girl winks, roguish as her costume.
"We are so hotter than your friends."
Santana flings her head back, laughing harder than she has in weeks. Clearly pleased with herself, the blonde reaches back, captures the smaller girl's hand, and pulls her into a gentle kiss.
When Santana opens her eyes, the girl is gone, the door cracked open. She presses her forehead against the cool wood for a second, collecting herself, then pushes off and out into the din. Everything is exactly as she left it.
She sets off to locate Quinn.