We Can Make This Last Forever (So Please Don’t Stop The Rain)
Title: We Can Make This Last Forever (So Please Don’t Stop The Rain)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany
Rating: R; sexy timez
Spoilers: So there was this Glee club…
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Mindless rainy day fluffin’. Pretty damn plotless, if I do say so myself.
A/N: Figured my smut-writin’ could use some work. Who better to practice on than these ladies? Oh, and the title’s swiped from James Morrison’s “Please Don’t Stop The Rain”.
Santana Lopez is soaked.
It isn’t even a light dampness, where her hair is kind of a ruined mess and her clothes are spotted over with rainwater. Santana is soaked, the real, textbook kind of wet, drenched so thoroughly that she can actually hear herself squelching as she stumbles down the hall of her crappy apartment.
Ohio rainstorms were always kind of bad, but New York storms are epic. Santana doesn’t appreciate them.
Fitting the key into the lock takes a few tries. The door always sticks on good days, and when her skin is slippery and her motor functions compromised by the whole ‘half-drowned’ thing, the issue gets worse. By the time she manages to pry the thing open, Santana is chewing viciously on the inside of her cheek, bags thrown messily over one shoulder, glaring with the full force of her legendary bitchface as if the door might be cowed by her frustration.
She kind of hates everything.
It seems to be the New York way.
She pushes hard against the wood until the door swings jerkily open, sticking on the carpet and threatening to bang back into her face. Santana growls out a string of curse words, fully aware that she probably looks worse than that homeless man who ambles back and forth outside of the subway station. Her hair is matted, her make-up a complete travesty, and her sweatpants are actually falling down with the amount of liquid they have soaked up.
Her pants have become a sponge.
It is a bad day.
To make matters worse, classes were so awful today that Santana skipped for the third time in her college career, only to find out an hour later that she managed to skip a slightly important exam in the process. She was nearly run down by a dreadlocked boy on a ten speed as she rushed to correct the matter, and her Criminal Psychology book is now waterlogged as all hell from the small lake she reflexively heaved it into.
Plus, she hasn’t had a meal since the bagel she stuffed into her mouth around seven this morning, and she’s running on approximately six jumbo-sized cups of coffee.
Santana Lopez, apart from being the Latina equivalent of a drowned rat, wants to explode.
The apartment is silent when she stomps in, hurling bags every which way. For a moment, Santana thinks she’s alone, which is both depressing and a mild relief (on days like this, she has a slight tendency to go off on anyone and anything that crosses her path-even the things she loves best in this world). She sinks down against the kitchen counter, arms braced, and lowers her forehead against cool, cracked tile.
She loves her life, she reminds herself firmly. She loves school, loves being independent enough that her only phone calls home are of the well-wishing variety, and loves how, despite their hopes and dreams, almost no one from McKinley High has found their way into the city. It feels, for all its vastness, to be a private bubble free of memories and past inclinations, and Santana thinks she loves that best of all. Two years from now, when she graduates and goes on to begin an undoubtedly successful career, paying off the loans as she goes, everything will be perfect.
Well. Almost perfect.
The rain will still be all apocalyptic and shit.
Santana exhales against the counter top and is just thinking that a nice BLT might whisk all her problems temporarily out the window when a pair of toned arms wrap around her middle. It is a mark of how long she’s lived here that she does not jump (the last time she did that, two years prior, she nearly chipped a tooth in the process). She only breathes out again and allows her body to relax.
“Hey babe.”
“Hi,” Brittany chirps against her ear, running the fingers of one hand lightly down the nape of Santana’s neck. “You’re all soggy.”
Santana thunks her head against the counter, managing to shrug even with her body pinned so utterly. Brittany soothingly strokes the shorter girl’s back, leaning her own forehead against Santana’s ratty hair.
“Bad day?” she asks, and Santana groans.
“Don’ wanna talk about it,” she mumbles, arching to press her head harder into the counter. Brittany chuckles softly into her hair.
“Come on.”
Santana doesn’t want to move-the tile feels nice, and with her eyes closed, it’s easy to pretend every possible thing didn’t go wrong today-but Brittany isn’t a woman she’s ever been great at ignoring. The blonde turns her carefully around and holds her by the hips against the counter, smiling.
“You look like a duck,” she observes with entirely too much mirth. Santana scowls.
“Thanks, babe. Real badass.”
“Ducks are totally badass,” Brittany argues, rocking her hips from side to side in an inexplicable dance. Mesmerized, Santana can only stare, basking in the pleasurable heat of her girlfriend’s hands burning through her damnable sponge-pants.
“Ducks are fluffy,” Santana fires back when her tongue feels ready for speech again. The blonde shakes her head, grinning.
“Well, so are you, but that doesn’t make you any less Santana-like, does it?”
It’s Brittany-logic, through and through, and therefore makes less than no sense, but Santana doesn’t feel like arguing the point. She lets Brittany push her back against the counter, smiling a little when the taller girl brushes close.
“What are you doing?”
Brittany kisses her ear gently. “Nothin’.”
“Doesn’t feel like nothin’,” Santana replies, eyes rolling a little when the blonde shifts to kiss her other ear. “Babe.”
Brittany makes a humming sound against her, nipping at the sensitive lobe. Heat floods Santana’s rain-chilled body. She presses her hands back against the girl’s shoulders and looks her in the eye.
“What?” Brittany asks, positively dripping innocence in her baby blue tank top and short shorts. Santana is forever thankful she fell in love with a dancer; there is no sight on earth more magnificent than Brittany in lounge-wear, all toned thighs, lightly muscled calves, washboard-tight abs. Each part of her flows smoothly into the next without a single fracture. The girl is practically a work of art, and she has been Santana’s since before they even knew what being “somebody’s” meant.
Santana doesn’t put much stock in any one God, but the rare moments of spirituality she does indulge in always stem from watching Brittany move about their life together.
The girl is just plain stupid-pretty. Even now, Santana can feel her brain shut down looking at her-although that might have something to do with the downhill train this day has been on since its very inception.
Brittany is, of course, completely aware of the effect she has over the Latina. She’s been aware since they were eight, and has milked it shamelessly all these years. With anyone else, Santana would be irked.
With Brittany, she’s mostly just turned on.
Sure, she’s sopping wet and miserable, her head looks more or less like a pigeon nested there this morning, and in all likelihood she’ll have to retake Criminal Psych, but the fact of the matter is, Brittany’s hands are skating up her torso, brushing tantalizingly up and down her stomach, and all Santana can focus on is the sheer beauty of the woman in front of her. She lets herself be propelled back against the counter again and leans forward until Brittany’s breath is her own, until Brittany’s hands have no choice but to slink up under her t-shirt. For a long moment, she hovers there, inhaling and exhaling, reveling in the first pleasant thing she’s been met with all day.
Then Brittany is surging forward, tongue already dueling with Santana’s, hands wrapping dramatically around the shorter woman’s neck to hold her close. Santana groans into the kiss, splaying her own fingers across the strong plane of Brittany’s back, grinning at the distinct lack of bra under the skimpy tank top.
“Sneaky,” she marvels, snapping the tank’s strap. Brittany licks her lips, burrowing into the juncture of Santana’s neck and shoulder.
“Just thinking ahead, love.”
Santana can’t help but laugh then, because that is so Brittany. She pulls the long, warm body closer, moving her hips like she’s trying to climb inside, and Brittany moves back gladly. They stand, sharing the same three floor tiles, trading languid kisses until Santana isn’t sure her legs will hold up any longer.
“Couch,” she mumbles against the hollow of Brittany’s throat, hissing when the blonde gives her hair a particularly excited tug. “Bed. Something.”
“Table,” Brittany decides, spinning them both around and guiding Santana backwards. The Latina nods agreeably, digging blunt nails into the soft skin of Brittany’s waist.
The vase will have to be replaced, and they should probably wash the placemats before their next use, but when Santana finds herself being hoisted up and laid back, the sanitary qualifications of their dining room could not be further from her mind. All she can feel is the sudden chill of her shirt being yanked free, followed immediately by silky heat when Brittany’s skin replaces cotton, and Santana groans deep in her throat. Her back arches, her nails clawing instinctively at every inch of her girl as Brittany rolls her body expertly, sliding up and down until Santana is sure her nerves will shatter from overstimulation. Soft breasts rub and press, and Santana’s thighs jerk apart, legs wrapping insistently around as she grabs hold of Brittany’s hair and yanks the familiar, pliant mouth back to her own.
“Kiss me,” she gasps against the girl, pleased when Brittany’s hips rock desperately down against her own. Long fingers trail in spastic random patterns along her torso, first slow, then wild, until Santana forgets she was ever cold and miserable to begin with. She whimpers when Brittany cups one breast, thumbs the nipple roughly, winks cheekily.
“Y’know, I don’t think this is entirely hygienic,” she teases, pinching lightly until Santana scratches at her back vengefully. “What if we have guests for dinner, San?”
“We don’t have friends,” Santana points out, snarling a little when Brittany’s free hand slinks down between them and tucks itself into the waistband of her stupidly-heavy sweatpants. “Fuck, Britt.”
“I haven’t even touched you yet,” the girl points out, amused. Santana shakes her head and hooks one leg around the blonde’s hips, seeking friction with an animal’s need.
“You’d better fix that quick. I had the shittiest day.”
“Poor baby,” Brittany whispers, gently twisting her wrist until her hand disappears into Santana’s rain-sodden underwear. The Latina’s hips jump the second nimble fingers land just there, rubbing hard enough that Santana thinks she might just burst from the contact. She spreads her legs wider, sprawls as unceremoniously as she can manage atop that table, and Brittany chuckles in her deep, husky way.
“Don’t,” Santana gasps, eyes rolling back into her skull for a second before she recovers. “Don’t laugh at me, just…uhh, just…yeah, there, that, do that.”
Brittany, a step ahead the way only she can be, has driven two fingers deep and is smiling like she owns the world. “That?”
“Yes, yes,” Santana babbles back, hips grinding riotously. Brittany has to push her whole body forward to hold her down as she pumps slowly in and out, each thrust more maddening than the last.
“Slow down,” she soothes, brushing Santana’s hair out of her eyes with her free hand. “Breathe.”
Santana growls, biting down hard on her lip. “Baby,” she whines, “it’s been a really fucking long day. Just…just, fuck, fuck, harder, there.”
Brittany knows her the way an artist knows her studio, knows exactly where to push and how much, knows exactly how fast is fast enough and how much more than that is perfection. Brittany knows, but sometimes Brittany likes to tease, and right now, Santana needs her to just not. She moans, long and low, and sways up as vehemently as she can make her body move, and Brittany responds by planting her forehead against Santana’s, her lips finding the Latina’s skin as her arm speeds up.
Santana is almost there-literally, ten seconds from sparks and earth-rattling screams-when Brittany yanks free and pulls away entirely, dropping to her knees. Head thunking back against the wood, Santana bangs her fists on her spread thighs in frustration.
“Fuck, Britt, I can’t take-“
“Yes,” she feels the blonde breathe against her crotch. “You can.”
Her stupid sponge-imitating sweatpants are a thing of the past a second later, soggy socks following suit, and Santana can’t remember how to think, because Brittany is almost as good with her mouth as she is with complicated dance steps. The Latina bends her knees and grips a thick handful of blonde hair, unable to keep still as a warm, wet tongue slips and slides, pinning her with long, lazy strokes.
“Jesus,” Santana hears herself cry out, forcing Brittany closer. She can’t make her body do what she wants, can’t open any further, can’t pull Brittany in until there’s no space between them, but she can coax that tongue deep with heavy pants and a string of rambling curse words. Brittany hums a vibrating note, locating that bundle of red-hot nerves and flicking feverishly. When Santana comes hard, trembling all the way to her toes, she swears she hears the other woman giggle.
Brittany waits until Santana’s fists uncurl, tiny half-moons bit deep into tan skin, then bounces up to take the girl’s shaking hand. She pulls gently until Santana is standing, naked and half-supported by Brittany’s own weight, and carefully eases them both the four short steps to the living room.
“Down,” she commands. Santana couldn’t argue even if she wanted to; on a day like this one, orgasms pretty much suck the energy from every pore until she feels limp and pathetic in the best way possible. She sinks down into the threadbare cushions and lets Brittany fuss above her, tossing a number of poorly-crocheted blankets over her shivering form.
“Tired,” she mumbles, and Brittany pauses, smiling wryly.
“Woman, you’re lucky getting you off is enough for me this evening. You should owe me something fierce for that one.”
“Later,” Santana replies sleepily, tucking her hands beneath her chin. “Quick nap. Then I’ll rock your pretty world.”
Brittany laughs, climbing over the half-asleep young woman and stretching out with one arm draped carelessly over her middle. “You always do, hot stuff.”
“Fuck yeah,” Santana yawns, nestling back into bare breasts and long legs. “Never forget it.”
“With your Saturn-sized ego around to remind me?” Brittany nuzzles the back of her neck, dropping a lingering kiss under rapidly-frizzing black hair. “No way.”
Santana drops like a stone from there, embracing sleep with the security of a child. She can deal, she thinks blearily, with the wreckage of that skipped exam and the nightmare of New York weather some other time.
For now, a short nap. She’s got some favors to return once her strength sidles back again.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany
Rating: R; sexy timez
Spoilers: So there was this Glee club…
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Mindless rainy day fluffin’. Pretty damn plotless, if I do say so myself.
A/N: Figured my smut-writin’ could use some work. Who better to practice on than these ladies? Oh, and the title’s swiped from James Morrison’s “Please Don’t Stop The Rain”.
Santana Lopez is soaked.
It isn’t even a light dampness, where her hair is kind of a ruined mess and her clothes are spotted over with rainwater. Santana is soaked, the real, textbook kind of wet, drenched so thoroughly that she can actually hear herself squelching as she stumbles down the hall of her crappy apartment.
Ohio rainstorms were always kind of bad, but New York storms are epic. Santana doesn’t appreciate them.
Fitting the key into the lock takes a few tries. The door always sticks on good days, and when her skin is slippery and her motor functions compromised by the whole ‘half-drowned’ thing, the issue gets worse. By the time she manages to pry the thing open, Santana is chewing viciously on the inside of her cheek, bags thrown messily over one shoulder, glaring with the full force of her legendary bitchface as if the door might be cowed by her frustration.
She kind of hates everything.
It seems to be the New York way.
She pushes hard against the wood until the door swings jerkily open, sticking on the carpet and threatening to bang back into her face. Santana growls out a string of curse words, fully aware that she probably looks worse than that homeless man who ambles back and forth outside of the subway station. Her hair is matted, her make-up a complete travesty, and her sweatpants are actually falling down with the amount of liquid they have soaked up.
Her pants have become a sponge.
It is a bad day.
To make matters worse, classes were so awful today that Santana skipped for the third time in her college career, only to find out an hour later that she managed to skip a slightly important exam in the process. She was nearly run down by a dreadlocked boy on a ten speed as she rushed to correct the matter, and her Criminal Psychology book is now waterlogged as all hell from the small lake she reflexively heaved it into.
Plus, she hasn’t had a meal since the bagel she stuffed into her mouth around seven this morning, and she’s running on approximately six jumbo-sized cups of coffee.
Santana Lopez, apart from being the Latina equivalent of a drowned rat, wants to explode.
The apartment is silent when she stomps in, hurling bags every which way. For a moment, Santana thinks she’s alone, which is both depressing and a mild relief (on days like this, she has a slight tendency to go off on anyone and anything that crosses her path-even the things she loves best in this world). She sinks down against the kitchen counter, arms braced, and lowers her forehead against cool, cracked tile.
She loves her life, she reminds herself firmly. She loves school, loves being independent enough that her only phone calls home are of the well-wishing variety, and loves how, despite their hopes and dreams, almost no one from McKinley High has found their way into the city. It feels, for all its vastness, to be a private bubble free of memories and past inclinations, and Santana thinks she loves that best of all. Two years from now, when she graduates and goes on to begin an undoubtedly successful career, paying off the loans as she goes, everything will be perfect.
Well. Almost perfect.
The rain will still be all apocalyptic and shit.
Santana exhales against the counter top and is just thinking that a nice BLT might whisk all her problems temporarily out the window when a pair of toned arms wrap around her middle. It is a mark of how long she’s lived here that she does not jump (the last time she did that, two years prior, she nearly chipped a tooth in the process). She only breathes out again and allows her body to relax.
“Hey babe.”
“Hi,” Brittany chirps against her ear, running the fingers of one hand lightly down the nape of Santana’s neck. “You’re all soggy.”
Santana thunks her head against the counter, managing to shrug even with her body pinned so utterly. Brittany soothingly strokes the shorter girl’s back, leaning her own forehead against Santana’s ratty hair.
“Bad day?” she asks, and Santana groans.
“Don’ wanna talk about it,” she mumbles, arching to press her head harder into the counter. Brittany chuckles softly into her hair.
“Come on.”
Santana doesn’t want to move-the tile feels nice, and with her eyes closed, it’s easy to pretend every possible thing didn’t go wrong today-but Brittany isn’t a woman she’s ever been great at ignoring. The blonde turns her carefully around and holds her by the hips against the counter, smiling.
“You look like a duck,” she observes with entirely too much mirth. Santana scowls.
“Thanks, babe. Real badass.”
“Ducks are totally badass,” Brittany argues, rocking her hips from side to side in an inexplicable dance. Mesmerized, Santana can only stare, basking in the pleasurable heat of her girlfriend’s hands burning through her damnable sponge-pants.
“Ducks are fluffy,” Santana fires back when her tongue feels ready for speech again. The blonde shakes her head, grinning.
“Well, so are you, but that doesn’t make you any less Santana-like, does it?”
It’s Brittany-logic, through and through, and therefore makes less than no sense, but Santana doesn’t feel like arguing the point. She lets Brittany push her back against the counter, smiling a little when the taller girl brushes close.
“What are you doing?”
Brittany kisses her ear gently. “Nothin’.”
“Doesn’t feel like nothin’,” Santana replies, eyes rolling a little when the blonde shifts to kiss her other ear. “Babe.”
Brittany makes a humming sound against her, nipping at the sensitive lobe. Heat floods Santana’s rain-chilled body. She presses her hands back against the girl’s shoulders and looks her in the eye.
“What?” Brittany asks, positively dripping innocence in her baby blue tank top and short shorts. Santana is forever thankful she fell in love with a dancer; there is no sight on earth more magnificent than Brittany in lounge-wear, all toned thighs, lightly muscled calves, washboard-tight abs. Each part of her flows smoothly into the next without a single fracture. The girl is practically a work of art, and she has been Santana’s since before they even knew what being “somebody’s” meant.
Santana doesn’t put much stock in any one God, but the rare moments of spirituality she does indulge in always stem from watching Brittany move about their life together.
The girl is just plain stupid-pretty. Even now, Santana can feel her brain shut down looking at her-although that might have something to do with the downhill train this day has been on since its very inception.
Brittany is, of course, completely aware of the effect she has over the Latina. She’s been aware since they were eight, and has milked it shamelessly all these years. With anyone else, Santana would be irked.
With Brittany, she’s mostly just turned on.
Sure, she’s sopping wet and miserable, her head looks more or less like a pigeon nested there this morning, and in all likelihood she’ll have to retake Criminal Psych, but the fact of the matter is, Brittany’s hands are skating up her torso, brushing tantalizingly up and down her stomach, and all Santana can focus on is the sheer beauty of the woman in front of her. She lets herself be propelled back against the counter again and leans forward until Brittany’s breath is her own, until Brittany’s hands have no choice but to slink up under her t-shirt. For a long moment, she hovers there, inhaling and exhaling, reveling in the first pleasant thing she’s been met with all day.
Then Brittany is surging forward, tongue already dueling with Santana’s, hands wrapping dramatically around the shorter woman’s neck to hold her close. Santana groans into the kiss, splaying her own fingers across the strong plane of Brittany’s back, grinning at the distinct lack of bra under the skimpy tank top.
“Sneaky,” she marvels, snapping the tank’s strap. Brittany licks her lips, burrowing into the juncture of Santana’s neck and shoulder.
“Just thinking ahead, love.”
Santana can’t help but laugh then, because that is so Brittany. She pulls the long, warm body closer, moving her hips like she’s trying to climb inside, and Brittany moves back gladly. They stand, sharing the same three floor tiles, trading languid kisses until Santana isn’t sure her legs will hold up any longer.
“Couch,” she mumbles against the hollow of Brittany’s throat, hissing when the blonde gives her hair a particularly excited tug. “Bed. Something.”
“Table,” Brittany decides, spinning them both around and guiding Santana backwards. The Latina nods agreeably, digging blunt nails into the soft skin of Brittany’s waist.
The vase will have to be replaced, and they should probably wash the placemats before their next use, but when Santana finds herself being hoisted up and laid back, the sanitary qualifications of their dining room could not be further from her mind. All she can feel is the sudden chill of her shirt being yanked free, followed immediately by silky heat when Brittany’s skin replaces cotton, and Santana groans deep in her throat. Her back arches, her nails clawing instinctively at every inch of her girl as Brittany rolls her body expertly, sliding up and down until Santana is sure her nerves will shatter from overstimulation. Soft breasts rub and press, and Santana’s thighs jerk apart, legs wrapping insistently around as she grabs hold of Brittany’s hair and yanks the familiar, pliant mouth back to her own.
“Kiss me,” she gasps against the girl, pleased when Brittany’s hips rock desperately down against her own. Long fingers trail in spastic random patterns along her torso, first slow, then wild, until Santana forgets she was ever cold and miserable to begin with. She whimpers when Brittany cups one breast, thumbs the nipple roughly, winks cheekily.
“Y’know, I don’t think this is entirely hygienic,” she teases, pinching lightly until Santana scratches at her back vengefully. “What if we have guests for dinner, San?”
“We don’t have friends,” Santana points out, snarling a little when Brittany’s free hand slinks down between them and tucks itself into the waistband of her stupidly-heavy sweatpants. “Fuck, Britt.”
“I haven’t even touched you yet,” the girl points out, amused. Santana shakes her head and hooks one leg around the blonde’s hips, seeking friction with an animal’s need.
“You’d better fix that quick. I had the shittiest day.”
“Poor baby,” Brittany whispers, gently twisting her wrist until her hand disappears into Santana’s rain-sodden underwear. The Latina’s hips jump the second nimble fingers land just there, rubbing hard enough that Santana thinks she might just burst from the contact. She spreads her legs wider, sprawls as unceremoniously as she can manage atop that table, and Brittany chuckles in her deep, husky way.
“Don’t,” Santana gasps, eyes rolling back into her skull for a second before she recovers. “Don’t laugh at me, just…uhh, just…yeah, there, that, do that.”
Brittany, a step ahead the way only she can be, has driven two fingers deep and is smiling like she owns the world. “That?”
“Yes, yes,” Santana babbles back, hips grinding riotously. Brittany has to push her whole body forward to hold her down as she pumps slowly in and out, each thrust more maddening than the last.
“Slow down,” she soothes, brushing Santana’s hair out of her eyes with her free hand. “Breathe.”
Santana growls, biting down hard on her lip. “Baby,” she whines, “it’s been a really fucking long day. Just…just, fuck, fuck, harder, there.”
Brittany knows her the way an artist knows her studio, knows exactly where to push and how much, knows exactly how fast is fast enough and how much more than that is perfection. Brittany knows, but sometimes Brittany likes to tease, and right now, Santana needs her to just not. She moans, long and low, and sways up as vehemently as she can make her body move, and Brittany responds by planting her forehead against Santana’s, her lips finding the Latina’s skin as her arm speeds up.
Santana is almost there-literally, ten seconds from sparks and earth-rattling screams-when Brittany yanks free and pulls away entirely, dropping to her knees. Head thunking back against the wood, Santana bangs her fists on her spread thighs in frustration.
“Fuck, Britt, I can’t take-“
“Yes,” she feels the blonde breathe against her crotch. “You can.”
Her stupid sponge-imitating sweatpants are a thing of the past a second later, soggy socks following suit, and Santana can’t remember how to think, because Brittany is almost as good with her mouth as she is with complicated dance steps. The Latina bends her knees and grips a thick handful of blonde hair, unable to keep still as a warm, wet tongue slips and slides, pinning her with long, lazy strokes.
“Jesus,” Santana hears herself cry out, forcing Brittany closer. She can’t make her body do what she wants, can’t open any further, can’t pull Brittany in until there’s no space between them, but she can coax that tongue deep with heavy pants and a string of rambling curse words. Brittany hums a vibrating note, locating that bundle of red-hot nerves and flicking feverishly. When Santana comes hard, trembling all the way to her toes, she swears she hears the other woman giggle.
Brittany waits until Santana’s fists uncurl, tiny half-moons bit deep into tan skin, then bounces up to take the girl’s shaking hand. She pulls gently until Santana is standing, naked and half-supported by Brittany’s own weight, and carefully eases them both the four short steps to the living room.
“Down,” she commands. Santana couldn’t argue even if she wanted to; on a day like this one, orgasms pretty much suck the energy from every pore until she feels limp and pathetic in the best way possible. She sinks down into the threadbare cushions and lets Brittany fuss above her, tossing a number of poorly-crocheted blankets over her shivering form.
“Tired,” she mumbles, and Brittany pauses, smiling wryly.
“Woman, you’re lucky getting you off is enough for me this evening. You should owe me something fierce for that one.”
“Later,” Santana replies sleepily, tucking her hands beneath her chin. “Quick nap. Then I’ll rock your pretty world.”
Brittany laughs, climbing over the half-asleep young woman and stretching out with one arm draped carelessly over her middle. “You always do, hot stuff.”
“Fuck yeah,” Santana yawns, nestling back into bare breasts and long legs. “Never forget it.”
“With your Saturn-sized ego around to remind me?” Brittany nuzzles the back of her neck, dropping a lingering kiss under rapidly-frizzing black hair. “No way.”
Santana drops like a stone from there, embracing sleep with the security of a child. She can deal, she thinks blearily, with the wreckage of that skipped exam and the nightmare of New York weather some other time.
For now, a short nap. She’s got some favors to return once her strength sidles back again.