We Can Burn Brighter (Than The Sun)
Title: We Can Burn Brighter (Than The Sun)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through 3x08.
Summary: This dance is going to win them Sectionals-if Santana can ever get the stupid steps down.
A/N: Title from fun.’s “We Are Young.”
“Fuck!”
“Not yet,” Brittany responds vaguely, adjusting the hem of her t-shirt where it’s riding up in the back. Santana scowls and takes a step back from her girlfriend.
“This just isn’t working.”
“Sure it is.” Brittany smiles brightly. “You just need a little more-“
“Practice?” Santana fires back, thumping a fist down on the piano. They’ve been at this for hours, strutting back and forth across the McKinley stage, and she doesn’t seem to be getting any better. For fuck’s sake, even Wheezy has gotten her shit together, paired together with that sketchy little sprite who, for some reason, keeps staring at her all the time and scribbling notes in a journal. (Which reminds her: sooner or later, she’s going to have to do something about that; Sugar Motta seems harmless enough, but the dopey way she keeps gaping at her-and at Brittany, especially when they’re together-is sort of starting to freak her out.)
Wheezy’s figured it out, and so have the array of background dancers they’ve scrounged up from the Cheerios, but Santana can’t get it. And Santana is paired with unarguably the most graceful creature in the district.
She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t supremely fucking embarrassing.
Brittany waits, arms folded loosely across her body, and Santana gives herself one more moment of staring in frustration into the piano lid before raising her head again. This is pathetic. On their worst day, their all-girl star power kicks the crap out of Schuester’s merry band of geeks; there’s really no competition there. And it isn’t like she hasn’t done far more complex routines before, even for Sylvester’s squad. That a little tango is threatening to crush her spirits is just…
Pathetic.
She gazes at Brittany, drinking in the baggy red sweatpants and sweat-dampened white t-shirt, the way Brittany hooks one sneaker-clad foot around her own ankle to itch a hard-to-reach spot. Brittany is beautiful, and patient, and has helped Shelby choreograph this whole crazy ride. If anybody should be able to walk her through…
But, again: hours. Hours of work, and still, she catches herself tripping through the steps, seizing up when Brittany moves to dip her gently backwards. The rest of it, she can manage, moving her arms around and rotating her hips smoothly-the rest of it is somehow everyday, natural, movements she’s been working her way through since long before choir groups became her main reason for coming to school. She’s not a bad dancer, after all; never has been. Any idiot with two legs and a rockin’ set of abs can dance.
It’s this she can’t do, she thinks as Brittany moves slowly toward her again, still wearing that patient little smile. This is what’s different.
She’s danced with Brittany a hundred thousand times, but never like this. Never in front of hundreds of people. Never when everybody already knew…
Brittany’s arm slinks around her waist, fingers raking gently across the bare patch of skin above her shorts until Santana tilts her head up. The look on Brittany’s face is familiar; it’s the same one she’s given for years, every time Santana grew too frustrated to function. The time she couldn’t beat the final Mario boss, and hurled her controller across the room at a lamp. The time she couldn’t master a backflip on the trampoline. The time she couldn’t for her life work out multiplication of fractions (although, on that occasion, Brittany’s smile grew a little more forced-mostly because the only way she was going to pass was if Santana did). Brittany has given her this same look for the entire span of their friendship, and Santana knows it well. It says, You’ve got this, babe. It says, I believe in you. It says, Stop punching inanimate objects and try again.
A rough breath winds in and out of her lungs. “Okay. One more time.”
They go slow, Brittany’s hand confident in Santana’s, and this time-for the first time all afternoon-Santana closes her eyes. Brittany wrote the steps to this song, waltzing with a ghost in her basement studio; it’s Brittany’s baby as much as last year’s Regional piece belonged in Rachel Berry’s heart. Brittany knows the way. Santana just has to trust her to get her there.
Each movement is deliberate, each step precise; the weight of Brittany’s fingertips resting just above her hipbone resonates with the beat of the song. It’s her song, her lead, even when Santana propels them forward. Everyone will be able to see Brittany’s strength, her simple authority, out there on that stage, and Santana can feel herself bursting with pride underneath a thin layer of anxiety. She concentrates, eyes closed, counting the steps as Brittany eases her across the floor.
They come to the first dip, and she shifts her grasp on Brittany’s waist, careful not to adjust positions too jerkily. “Lay me back,” Brittany told her the first time, “like when we’re at home. Nice and easy.” The advice sent a sharp sputter through her body then, and it does it again now, because Brittany is looking up at her with absolute trust, and yeah-it’s exactly like when they’re home, locked safely behind Santana’s bedroom door. She can feel the hum of energy under her palm, the burn of Brittany’s skin through the thinnest of t-shirts, and this time, when she swallows hard, it’s not because of the dance. Brittany’s eyes flame bright in the dim auditorium lighting, her back arching, supported only by Santana, and it’s all she can do not to follow through with the movement, straight down to the floor. It would be so easy to forget this whole routine, the song, the stupid war with Hudson and Berry and everyone else-to just sink down with Brittany now and make their own kind of music.
The corner of Brittany’s mouth twitches like she knows exactly what Santana’s thinking, and her head shakes almost imperceptibly. Not now. Focus, Santana tells herself firmly, swinging Brittany back up again as her mind races ahead to the next movement. A step, a twirl, and Brittany has reversed their positions, her whole body following the arc of Santana’s dip. She closes her eyes again and trusts that Brittany will have her, will never let her fall.
This is Brittany, after all, the only person she’s ever let do those dumb trust exercises with her at cheerleading camp, the only person who could ever coax her up a treehouse ladder, the only one who can take her hand and make her feel like she’ll never have to worry about falling again. The tension creeps away from her shoulders, her spine losing the familiar rigid anxiety from the last six run-throughs. Brittany’s hand splays across the small of her back and slides, until her whole arm is bracing Santana’s weight, guiding her down-and back up again.
Her body rights itself, feet flat on the floor, and that’s it; the rest is a cake walk. She exhales shakily, one hand fisting tight around Brittany’s shirt, and laughs. “Fuck.”
“Mmhmm,” Brittany replies, humming along with the iPod as it stubbornly marches into the next chorus without them. “Told you.”
“Don’t gloat,” Santana replies, leaning her forehead against Brittany’s shoulder. A hand brushes up and down her back soothingly, nudging under her shirt and tickling the base of her spine. She smiles. “Getting handsy on school property?”
“Haven’t been caught yet,” Brittany murmurs, her nose already nuzzling Santana’s ear where it’s most sensitive. Her breath catches, her fingers flexing against Brittany’s abdomen. The dip flashes again in her mind, the seductive visual of Brittany sinking back, of Santana following her down.
Well-it isn’t like she doesn’t deserve a little reward for getting it right this time.
She lifts her head and reaches for Brittany’s hand, pulling it back into position. Her free arm wraps around Brittany’s hips, cupping her ass through the sweatpants. “Again,” she rasps, and Brittany instantly catches on, pulling Santana tight against her body. Too tight, much tighter than the choreography calls for. She thrusts her hips subtly, one thigh moving up between Santana’s legs even as she propels them both forward.
A low groan slips from Santana’s lips, luxuriating in the teasing rub of thigh, then knee, then nothing at all as Brittany coaxes them across the stage to their first mark. She turns her face against Brittany’s neck, sucking gently at soft skin until it reddens, relishing the way Brittany’s chest rises and falls directly against her own. Her hands shift, squeezing, her body turning Brittany’s momentum backward, and this time, it isn’t Brittany leading anymore. They can save that for Sectionals, for the world watching them move together for the first time; for now, the control is entirely Santana’s.
She moves through the steps without thinking, without paining herself to memorize each deliberate action. This, she can do-reading Brittany’s body, her palm skating up under Brittany’s shirt until her bare belly presses against Santana’s, dragging her teeth lightly across the skin just above Brittany’s collar. Long fingers clench around her free hand as Brittany gasps, her head falling back as Santana kisses her collarbone and scrapes her teeth along its length.
They reach their second mark, and Santana moves into the dip, watching Brittany’s hooded eyes all the while. One hand braced against the base of Brittany’s spine, she slides the other up a long torso, pulling the shirt with her as she goes. It’s the most beautiful sight: Brittany’s abs are visibly tight, her breasts confined under a red sports bra. Santana stares openly, tongue darting out to wet her lips as her fingers trace down Brittany’s stomach, blunt nails scratching each line and shadow. She can feel Brittany’s legs tensing on either side of her own, trembling like they’re going to give out, and her smile widens. Predatory, Brittany remarked once, while they watched some Animal Planet feature on lions. The way that lion watches the zebra, when he knows it’s going to be dinner? That’s the way you look at me. All the time.
It’s justified, she thinks even as she snaps Brittany back upright again, yanking until they’re plastered together, all hastily pushed-aside cotton and sweaty skin. She can hear her breath coming harder, her blood pumping in her ears when Brittany touches her, hands measured and steady as they skate up her sides. The shirt is going as Brittany’s head bows, her mouth coming down between Santana’s breasts, kissing every single inch, taking her time. Her hips roll down on Santana’s thigh, her tongue tracing broad stripes along each available patch of skin, each lick punctuated by a tiny, throaty gasp that makes Santana feel like she’s going to burst on the spot.
She shifts, hands scrambling for Brittany’s face and hauling her up until their mouths are locked together, slow and sturdy. Lips drift across lips, a tongue skirting out to touch a lower lip and then breach, sinking deep inside until Santana can’t remember what belongs to her and what is Brittany’s. She rakes her nails through Brittany’s ponytail, jerking the hair tie free and pulling her closer, moaning around each metered stroke of Brittany’s kiss.
It never feels like enough, even having Brittany this close, even knowing Brittany belongs to her as completely as she has always belonged to Brittany. She loses herself in the sway of hips, the way Brittany’s hands possess her body, her palms soft and powerful as they hold Santana up. Her fingers clutch at Brittany’s face and hair, her mouth opening sloppily under a kiss growing more frenzied by the second, and she can feel the way Brittany is starting to claw at her sports bra, at the shorts that have begun drifting down her hips; the desperation fuels the music pounding inside as she bites hard at Brittany’s lip. Her own hands have pushed the bright red sweatpants down as far as it will go with Brittany still straddling her leg, her fingers rushing to interrupt the grind of cotton on skin.
Her bra is uncomfortably displaced now, with Brittany’s nimble hands traveling from one breast to the other like she can’t decide which deserves her attention more. Santana leans back just enough to yank it the rest of the way off, over her head, and lets out a cry of surprise when Brittany surges forward, teeth clasping around a nipple and sucking fiercely. She cradles the back of Brittany’s head, groaning and rolling her upper body in an effort to get closer, eyes fluttering each time Brittany nips at her skin.
“Dip,” Brittany growls, head rising suddenly, and Santana obeys, throwing herself into the backward motion recklessly. Brittany is there, she knows, Brittany’s left hand is sure against her back even as her right hand situates itself between Santana’s breasts and pushes. She lets herself go, lets Brittany draw her down to the floor and settle between her legs, kicking the sweatpants across the stage. Her body flows up until they're face to face, her hips pinning Santana down; elbows resting on either side of Santana’s head, she grinds against the front of her shorts, heated and insistent, like she’ll do anything just to be able to press inside of Santana and stay there forever. Santana’s legs spread apart on their own, her hands clawing at Brittany’s shoulders as she bucks up into each lithe motion.
Finally, growling, Brittany traces her right hand between them, fingers pushing past cotton and panties and reaching slick skin. She draws a tight pattern, close, quick circles that make Santana’s eyes roll back in her head, and rains kisses across her forehead, her cheeks, her gasping, parted lips. Santana hears herself whimper, her legs pistoning against the stage floor in an effort to get Brittany right where she needs her; she scratches up Brittany’s back, probably too hard, until Brittany makes a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a hungry moan and thrusts two fingers as deep as they’ll go.
Santana clenches, biting her own lip violently enough to draw blood as Brittany works in her, as deliberate and insistent as the dance. Her eyes peel open just long enough to see Brittany’s face above her, brow knitted in concentration, arm pumping between her legs, and then her head is arching against the cold floor, eyes snapping shut again. She comes with a brutal force, the way only Brittany has ever figured out how to reach, soft lips smothering the name she can’t help crying out.
The kiss goes on for a long moment, endlessly ravenous, until Santana regains just enough breath in her lungs to twist up from the floor and send Brittany reeling backward. She lands with her mouth pressed flush to Brittany’s stomach, groaning as the muscles contract beneath her tongue. She slips lower, nipping at one hipbone, sucking until it flushes crimson, and Brittany makes a mad keening noise that suggests she’ll die if Santana doesn’t get on with it.
She raises her head just long enough to revel in Brittany’s rosy cheeks and slack jaw, the way her eyes narrow when Santana grins. “Dip,” Brittany commands breathlessly, her hand pressing down against the top of Santana’s head. A thrill races through her from heart to groin and back again.
Yes, ma’am.
She strips off the ruined underwear and buries her head between Brittany’s thighs, feeling the hand in her hair go momentarily slack as Brittany sighs in approval. Her tongue touches warm flesh, circling from lips to slit and back again, and Brittany’s hips buck with her. It’s a whole other kind of dance, tasting Brittany, memorizing the way she gasps and twitches when Santana alternates between barely licking and sucking unrelentingly. It’s the kind of dance she’s best at, if she’s honest; she knows what Brittany’s every signal means, how to read each and every pattern of her body. It’s an art by now, her very favorite kind.
She laps enthusiastically now, one hand flat against Brittany’s stomach as her tongue makes its way over and around the swollen bundle of nerves -the one responsible for the way Brittany is writhing, her back arching off the stage as her fingers mercilessly wrench at Santana’s hair. Long, broad strokes followed by tiny flicks of her tongue, until Brittany is methodically whisper-screaming her name over and over, and then Santana pushes in as deep as she can. Brittany’s body spasms, her walls clutching at Santana’s tongue; her palm presses down on the back of Santana’s head, heedless of any need to breathe or desire to make it last. Now, the motion screams, give it to me right fucking now, and Santana does, relishing the taste and the smell and the way Brittany’s body is striving to pump every last ounce of pleasure from her actions. She moans against hot skin, and Brittany cries out one last time, muffled from the way Santana knows she’s biting down on her own hand.
She waits until the spasms cease, until Brittany’s legs go still on either side of her head, until the hand in her hair presses at the base of her skull. Brittany-code for, Come up now. Come up so I can kiss me off of you.
She crawls up and collapses at Brittany’s side, kissing her neck tenderly. “I love you, you know.”
“I think,” Brittany pants, “you’ve got it down.”
“Great teacher,” Santana teases, lifting up and patting Brittany’s breast playfully. “Come on. No pillow talk in the auditorium, Piano Boy might find us.”
“Or Sugar,” Brittany says thoughtfully, sitting up as well and groping around for her pants. “You ever notice how she’s always-“
“Staring at us like a mondo fuckin’ creeper?” Santana laughs, tossing the sweatpants into Brittany’s arms and struggling into her shorts. “No shit. Something’s seriously off about that girl. You see my bra anywhere?”
“To your left,” Brittany calls from inside her shirt. Reflexively, Santana glances right; sure enough, there’s the bra. She shakes her head, grinning.
“You think there’s something gross about having sex where Finn Hudson has attempted to dance?” she wonders. Brittany comes to stand behind her, arms winding around her waist, and rests her chin against Santana’s shoulder.
“Better than having it where Puck has already done somebody.”
She makes a face. “When did that happen?”
“Under the bleachers,” Brittany says calmly. “Last March. Remember? We found that can of dip after we finished?”
“So gross.” Leaning back comfortably, Santana gazes out into the empty rows. “Three days, and this place is gonna be packed. Kind of crazy, having Sectionals without Berry barking orders or Artie wheeling over people’s feet.”
“Kind of,” Brittany agrees, placing a kiss just under her ear. “But we’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’re going to be amazing.”
“Like last year?” Santana asks. Brittany grins against her skin.
“Better. Girl power always wins. You’ll see.”
Santana is silent for a moment. She doesn’t know about that, but-“Your dance is incredible, Britt. If anything’s going to help us win…”
“It’s gonna be all of us,” Brittany interrupts firmly, twisting Santana around to face her. “Mercedes’ voice. Your voice. You as my partner-“
“Sugar laying down her sick ‘what’s,” Santana fills in, laughing. Brittany touches a hand to her cheek, beaming.
“Everything. We’ve got this in the bag. And when we win, everybody’s gonna see how amazing you-we-really are.”
Santana can’t imagine it’ll be that easy. New Directions are sloppy, but by no means terrible, and who even knows who their third competitor will be. Plus, there’s always the fact that the Troubletones are led by a known lesbian, who will be flouncing up and down that stage with her girlfriend; in Lima, there’s no telling what kind of damage that could do to their odds.
But they’re going to do it, judges and haters be damned, and Brittany’s right; if they take this thing, if they secure a spot at Regionals…it’s going to be fucking epic.
Standing on this dim stage, three hours after the final school bell, with Brittany leaning slowly down to capture her lips again with a gentle, perfect kiss, Santana genuinely believes they’ve got one hell of a fighting chance.
Sectionals, here we fucking come.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through 3x08.
Summary: This dance is going to win them Sectionals-if Santana can ever get the stupid steps down.
A/N: Title from fun.’s “We Are Young.”
“Fuck!”
“Not yet,” Brittany responds vaguely, adjusting the hem of her t-shirt where it’s riding up in the back. Santana scowls and takes a step back from her girlfriend.
“This just isn’t working.”
“Sure it is.” Brittany smiles brightly. “You just need a little more-“
“Practice?” Santana fires back, thumping a fist down on the piano. They’ve been at this for hours, strutting back and forth across the McKinley stage, and she doesn’t seem to be getting any better. For fuck’s sake, even Wheezy has gotten her shit together, paired together with that sketchy little sprite who, for some reason, keeps staring at her all the time and scribbling notes in a journal. (Which reminds her: sooner or later, she’s going to have to do something about that; Sugar Motta seems harmless enough, but the dopey way she keeps gaping at her-and at Brittany, especially when they’re together-is sort of starting to freak her out.)
Wheezy’s figured it out, and so have the array of background dancers they’ve scrounged up from the Cheerios, but Santana can’t get it. And Santana is paired with unarguably the most graceful creature in the district.
She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t supremely fucking embarrassing.
Brittany waits, arms folded loosely across her body, and Santana gives herself one more moment of staring in frustration into the piano lid before raising her head again. This is pathetic. On their worst day, their all-girl star power kicks the crap out of Schuester’s merry band of geeks; there’s really no competition there. And it isn’t like she hasn’t done far more complex routines before, even for Sylvester’s squad. That a little tango is threatening to crush her spirits is just…
Pathetic.
She gazes at Brittany, drinking in the baggy red sweatpants and sweat-dampened white t-shirt, the way Brittany hooks one sneaker-clad foot around her own ankle to itch a hard-to-reach spot. Brittany is beautiful, and patient, and has helped Shelby choreograph this whole crazy ride. If anybody should be able to walk her through…
But, again: hours. Hours of work, and still, she catches herself tripping through the steps, seizing up when Brittany moves to dip her gently backwards. The rest of it, she can manage, moving her arms around and rotating her hips smoothly-the rest of it is somehow everyday, natural, movements she’s been working her way through since long before choir groups became her main reason for coming to school. She’s not a bad dancer, after all; never has been. Any idiot with two legs and a rockin’ set of abs can dance.
It’s this she can’t do, she thinks as Brittany moves slowly toward her again, still wearing that patient little smile. This is what’s different.
She’s danced with Brittany a hundred thousand times, but never like this. Never in front of hundreds of people. Never when everybody already knew…
Brittany’s arm slinks around her waist, fingers raking gently across the bare patch of skin above her shorts until Santana tilts her head up. The look on Brittany’s face is familiar; it’s the same one she’s given for years, every time Santana grew too frustrated to function. The time she couldn’t beat the final Mario boss, and hurled her controller across the room at a lamp. The time she couldn’t master a backflip on the trampoline. The time she couldn’t for her life work out multiplication of fractions (although, on that occasion, Brittany’s smile grew a little more forced-mostly because the only way she was going to pass was if Santana did). Brittany has given her this same look for the entire span of their friendship, and Santana knows it well. It says, You’ve got this, babe. It says, I believe in you. It says, Stop punching inanimate objects and try again.
A rough breath winds in and out of her lungs. “Okay. One more time.”
They go slow, Brittany’s hand confident in Santana’s, and this time-for the first time all afternoon-Santana closes her eyes. Brittany wrote the steps to this song, waltzing with a ghost in her basement studio; it’s Brittany’s baby as much as last year’s Regional piece belonged in Rachel Berry’s heart. Brittany knows the way. Santana just has to trust her to get her there.
Each movement is deliberate, each step precise; the weight of Brittany’s fingertips resting just above her hipbone resonates with the beat of the song. It’s her song, her lead, even when Santana propels them forward. Everyone will be able to see Brittany’s strength, her simple authority, out there on that stage, and Santana can feel herself bursting with pride underneath a thin layer of anxiety. She concentrates, eyes closed, counting the steps as Brittany eases her across the floor.
They come to the first dip, and she shifts her grasp on Brittany’s waist, careful not to adjust positions too jerkily. “Lay me back,” Brittany told her the first time, “like when we’re at home. Nice and easy.” The advice sent a sharp sputter through her body then, and it does it again now, because Brittany is looking up at her with absolute trust, and yeah-it’s exactly like when they’re home, locked safely behind Santana’s bedroom door. She can feel the hum of energy under her palm, the burn of Brittany’s skin through the thinnest of t-shirts, and this time, when she swallows hard, it’s not because of the dance. Brittany’s eyes flame bright in the dim auditorium lighting, her back arching, supported only by Santana, and it’s all she can do not to follow through with the movement, straight down to the floor. It would be so easy to forget this whole routine, the song, the stupid war with Hudson and Berry and everyone else-to just sink down with Brittany now and make their own kind of music.
The corner of Brittany’s mouth twitches like she knows exactly what Santana’s thinking, and her head shakes almost imperceptibly. Not now. Focus, Santana tells herself firmly, swinging Brittany back up again as her mind races ahead to the next movement. A step, a twirl, and Brittany has reversed their positions, her whole body following the arc of Santana’s dip. She closes her eyes again and trusts that Brittany will have her, will never let her fall.
This is Brittany, after all, the only person she’s ever let do those dumb trust exercises with her at cheerleading camp, the only person who could ever coax her up a treehouse ladder, the only one who can take her hand and make her feel like she’ll never have to worry about falling again. The tension creeps away from her shoulders, her spine losing the familiar rigid anxiety from the last six run-throughs. Brittany’s hand splays across the small of her back and slides, until her whole arm is bracing Santana’s weight, guiding her down-and back up again.
Her body rights itself, feet flat on the floor, and that’s it; the rest is a cake walk. She exhales shakily, one hand fisting tight around Brittany’s shirt, and laughs. “Fuck.”
“Mmhmm,” Brittany replies, humming along with the iPod as it stubbornly marches into the next chorus without them. “Told you.”
“Don’t gloat,” Santana replies, leaning her forehead against Brittany’s shoulder. A hand brushes up and down her back soothingly, nudging under her shirt and tickling the base of her spine. She smiles. “Getting handsy on school property?”
“Haven’t been caught yet,” Brittany murmurs, her nose already nuzzling Santana’s ear where it’s most sensitive. Her breath catches, her fingers flexing against Brittany’s abdomen. The dip flashes again in her mind, the seductive visual of Brittany sinking back, of Santana following her down.
Well-it isn’t like she doesn’t deserve a little reward for getting it right this time.
She lifts her head and reaches for Brittany’s hand, pulling it back into position. Her free arm wraps around Brittany’s hips, cupping her ass through the sweatpants. “Again,” she rasps, and Brittany instantly catches on, pulling Santana tight against her body. Too tight, much tighter than the choreography calls for. She thrusts her hips subtly, one thigh moving up between Santana’s legs even as she propels them both forward.
A low groan slips from Santana’s lips, luxuriating in the teasing rub of thigh, then knee, then nothing at all as Brittany coaxes them across the stage to their first mark. She turns her face against Brittany’s neck, sucking gently at soft skin until it reddens, relishing the way Brittany’s chest rises and falls directly against her own. Her hands shift, squeezing, her body turning Brittany’s momentum backward, and this time, it isn’t Brittany leading anymore. They can save that for Sectionals, for the world watching them move together for the first time; for now, the control is entirely Santana’s.
She moves through the steps without thinking, without paining herself to memorize each deliberate action. This, she can do-reading Brittany’s body, her palm skating up under Brittany’s shirt until her bare belly presses against Santana’s, dragging her teeth lightly across the skin just above Brittany’s collar. Long fingers clench around her free hand as Brittany gasps, her head falling back as Santana kisses her collarbone and scrapes her teeth along its length.
They reach their second mark, and Santana moves into the dip, watching Brittany’s hooded eyes all the while. One hand braced against the base of Brittany’s spine, she slides the other up a long torso, pulling the shirt with her as she goes. It’s the most beautiful sight: Brittany’s abs are visibly tight, her breasts confined under a red sports bra. Santana stares openly, tongue darting out to wet her lips as her fingers trace down Brittany’s stomach, blunt nails scratching each line and shadow. She can feel Brittany’s legs tensing on either side of her own, trembling like they’re going to give out, and her smile widens. Predatory, Brittany remarked once, while they watched some Animal Planet feature on lions. The way that lion watches the zebra, when he knows it’s going to be dinner? That’s the way you look at me. All the time.
It’s justified, she thinks even as she snaps Brittany back upright again, yanking until they’re plastered together, all hastily pushed-aside cotton and sweaty skin. She can hear her breath coming harder, her blood pumping in her ears when Brittany touches her, hands measured and steady as they skate up her sides. The shirt is going as Brittany’s head bows, her mouth coming down between Santana’s breasts, kissing every single inch, taking her time. Her hips roll down on Santana’s thigh, her tongue tracing broad stripes along each available patch of skin, each lick punctuated by a tiny, throaty gasp that makes Santana feel like she’s going to burst on the spot.
She shifts, hands scrambling for Brittany’s face and hauling her up until their mouths are locked together, slow and sturdy. Lips drift across lips, a tongue skirting out to touch a lower lip and then breach, sinking deep inside until Santana can’t remember what belongs to her and what is Brittany’s. She rakes her nails through Brittany’s ponytail, jerking the hair tie free and pulling her closer, moaning around each metered stroke of Brittany’s kiss.
It never feels like enough, even having Brittany this close, even knowing Brittany belongs to her as completely as she has always belonged to Brittany. She loses herself in the sway of hips, the way Brittany’s hands possess her body, her palms soft and powerful as they hold Santana up. Her fingers clutch at Brittany’s face and hair, her mouth opening sloppily under a kiss growing more frenzied by the second, and she can feel the way Brittany is starting to claw at her sports bra, at the shorts that have begun drifting down her hips; the desperation fuels the music pounding inside as she bites hard at Brittany’s lip. Her own hands have pushed the bright red sweatpants down as far as it will go with Brittany still straddling her leg, her fingers rushing to interrupt the grind of cotton on skin.
Her bra is uncomfortably displaced now, with Brittany’s nimble hands traveling from one breast to the other like she can’t decide which deserves her attention more. Santana leans back just enough to yank it the rest of the way off, over her head, and lets out a cry of surprise when Brittany surges forward, teeth clasping around a nipple and sucking fiercely. She cradles the back of Brittany’s head, groaning and rolling her upper body in an effort to get closer, eyes fluttering each time Brittany nips at her skin.
“Dip,” Brittany growls, head rising suddenly, and Santana obeys, throwing herself into the backward motion recklessly. Brittany is there, she knows, Brittany’s left hand is sure against her back even as her right hand situates itself between Santana’s breasts and pushes. She lets herself go, lets Brittany draw her down to the floor and settle between her legs, kicking the sweatpants across the stage. Her body flows up until they're face to face, her hips pinning Santana down; elbows resting on either side of Santana’s head, she grinds against the front of her shorts, heated and insistent, like she’ll do anything just to be able to press inside of Santana and stay there forever. Santana’s legs spread apart on their own, her hands clawing at Brittany’s shoulders as she bucks up into each lithe motion.
Finally, growling, Brittany traces her right hand between them, fingers pushing past cotton and panties and reaching slick skin. She draws a tight pattern, close, quick circles that make Santana’s eyes roll back in her head, and rains kisses across her forehead, her cheeks, her gasping, parted lips. Santana hears herself whimper, her legs pistoning against the stage floor in an effort to get Brittany right where she needs her; she scratches up Brittany’s back, probably too hard, until Brittany makes a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a hungry moan and thrusts two fingers as deep as they’ll go.
Santana clenches, biting her own lip violently enough to draw blood as Brittany works in her, as deliberate and insistent as the dance. Her eyes peel open just long enough to see Brittany’s face above her, brow knitted in concentration, arm pumping between her legs, and then her head is arching against the cold floor, eyes snapping shut again. She comes with a brutal force, the way only Brittany has ever figured out how to reach, soft lips smothering the name she can’t help crying out.
The kiss goes on for a long moment, endlessly ravenous, until Santana regains just enough breath in her lungs to twist up from the floor and send Brittany reeling backward. She lands with her mouth pressed flush to Brittany’s stomach, groaning as the muscles contract beneath her tongue. She slips lower, nipping at one hipbone, sucking until it flushes crimson, and Brittany makes a mad keening noise that suggests she’ll die if Santana doesn’t get on with it.
She raises her head just long enough to revel in Brittany’s rosy cheeks and slack jaw, the way her eyes narrow when Santana grins. “Dip,” Brittany commands breathlessly, her hand pressing down against the top of Santana’s head. A thrill races through her from heart to groin and back again.
Yes, ma’am.
She strips off the ruined underwear and buries her head between Brittany’s thighs, feeling the hand in her hair go momentarily slack as Brittany sighs in approval. Her tongue touches warm flesh, circling from lips to slit and back again, and Brittany’s hips buck with her. It’s a whole other kind of dance, tasting Brittany, memorizing the way she gasps and twitches when Santana alternates between barely licking and sucking unrelentingly. It’s the kind of dance she’s best at, if she’s honest; she knows what Brittany’s every signal means, how to read each and every pattern of her body. It’s an art by now, her very favorite kind.
She laps enthusiastically now, one hand flat against Brittany’s stomach as her tongue makes its way over and around the swollen bundle of nerves -the one responsible for the way Brittany is writhing, her back arching off the stage as her fingers mercilessly wrench at Santana’s hair. Long, broad strokes followed by tiny flicks of her tongue, until Brittany is methodically whisper-screaming her name over and over, and then Santana pushes in as deep as she can. Brittany’s body spasms, her walls clutching at Santana’s tongue; her palm presses down on the back of Santana’s head, heedless of any need to breathe or desire to make it last. Now, the motion screams, give it to me right fucking now, and Santana does, relishing the taste and the smell and the way Brittany’s body is striving to pump every last ounce of pleasure from her actions. She moans against hot skin, and Brittany cries out one last time, muffled from the way Santana knows she’s biting down on her own hand.
She waits until the spasms cease, until Brittany’s legs go still on either side of her head, until the hand in her hair presses at the base of her skull. Brittany-code for, Come up now. Come up so I can kiss me off of you.
She crawls up and collapses at Brittany’s side, kissing her neck tenderly. “I love you, you know.”
“I think,” Brittany pants, “you’ve got it down.”
“Great teacher,” Santana teases, lifting up and patting Brittany’s breast playfully. “Come on. No pillow talk in the auditorium, Piano Boy might find us.”
“Or Sugar,” Brittany says thoughtfully, sitting up as well and groping around for her pants. “You ever notice how she’s always-“
“Staring at us like a mondo fuckin’ creeper?” Santana laughs, tossing the sweatpants into Brittany’s arms and struggling into her shorts. “No shit. Something’s seriously off about that girl. You see my bra anywhere?”
“To your left,” Brittany calls from inside her shirt. Reflexively, Santana glances right; sure enough, there’s the bra. She shakes her head, grinning.
“You think there’s something gross about having sex where Finn Hudson has attempted to dance?” she wonders. Brittany comes to stand behind her, arms winding around her waist, and rests her chin against Santana’s shoulder.
“Better than having it where Puck has already done somebody.”
She makes a face. “When did that happen?”
“Under the bleachers,” Brittany says calmly. “Last March. Remember? We found that can of dip after we finished?”
“So gross.” Leaning back comfortably, Santana gazes out into the empty rows. “Three days, and this place is gonna be packed. Kind of crazy, having Sectionals without Berry barking orders or Artie wheeling over people’s feet.”
“Kind of,” Brittany agrees, placing a kiss just under her ear. “But we’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’re going to be amazing.”
“Like last year?” Santana asks. Brittany grins against her skin.
“Better. Girl power always wins. You’ll see.”
Santana is silent for a moment. She doesn’t know about that, but-“Your dance is incredible, Britt. If anything’s going to help us win…”
“It’s gonna be all of us,” Brittany interrupts firmly, twisting Santana around to face her. “Mercedes’ voice. Your voice. You as my partner-“
“Sugar laying down her sick ‘what’s,” Santana fills in, laughing. Brittany touches a hand to her cheek, beaming.
“Everything. We’ve got this in the bag. And when we win, everybody’s gonna see how amazing you-we-really are.”
Santana can’t imagine it’ll be that easy. New Directions are sloppy, but by no means terrible, and who even knows who their third competitor will be. Plus, there’s always the fact that the Troubletones are led by a known lesbian, who will be flouncing up and down that stage with her girlfriend; in Lima, there’s no telling what kind of damage that could do to their odds.
But they’re going to do it, judges and haters be damned, and Brittany’s right; if they take this thing, if they secure a spot at Regionals…it’s going to be fucking epic.
Standing on this dim stage, three hours after the final school bell, with Brittany leaning slowly down to capture her lips again with a gentle, perfect kiss, Santana genuinely believes they’ve got one hell of a fighting chance.
Sectionals, here we fucking come.