Too Much Too Soon (Too Little And Now You're Coming Unglued)
Title: Too Much Too Soon (Too Little And Now You're Coming Unglued)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany
Rating: NC-17ish
Spoilers: AU
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Bar sex is sexy. And then kind of fluffy. Whoo, bars!
A/N: I might be a little obsessed with this sort of scenario. Title from Green Day's "Too Much Too Soon", because I...am vastly unoriginal when it comes to titling.
She doesn’t particularly enjoy the bar scene, truth be told. She’s much more a fan of clubs, with their pulsing, rapid beats and stomach-turning strobe lights. She likes to throw herself around the dance floor, arms windmilling, letting little gay boys poke and prod and tell her exactly how fabulous her shoes are. It usually makes for a damn good night.
But sometimes, she finds herself in places like this one. Not a dive, exactly; not well-lit or listed in any guide books as a “must visit” either, of course, but she isn’t totally settling. The floor has been swept at least once in the last week, and the bar itself gleams. She has yet to see a single cockroach.
Fuck, how she hates cockroaches.
She isn’t looking for anything in particular, coming to this sort of setting. It's not the locals who draw her in-she can find tired businessmen and lonely, drunk twenty-somethings just about anywhere in a town like this one-and it sure as hell isn’t the music (she’s pretty sure they’re only playing albums released in 1994). If asked under penalty of death, she isn’t sure she’d be able to explain herself at all-she doesn’t even think about showing up on nights like these. It’s as if some moment in her day-sporadic, random, incalculable-always leads to this point, and suddenly here she is, seated on a bar stool, trying not to listen to the Counting Crows as they belt out “Mr. Jones” for the third time tonight.
The drink in her hand could be her first, her fifth, her seventeenth. It’s weak, whatever it is-whenever she ends up here, or somewhere so similar she can’t tell the difference in the first place, she asks the bartender to shoot her whatever poison he prefers. She doesn’t care; alcohol is alcohol, and anyway, she doesn’t come to get drunk. Not expressly.
She knows all the reasons she’s not employing, it seems. Someday, she hopes to find out the one that actually does count for something.
Until then, she will continue this ongoing, unknowable, somehow sad trend. Why not? She’s got nothing better to do.
An hour or so has gone by when someone stumbles into her bar stool. Well, maybe stumbles is not the correct word; the woman certainly doesn’t seem intoxicated. Strange, perhaps; a little worn around the edges and a lot stressed out. Beautiful, in an exotic, straight-to-your-soul kind of way. She sits up on her stool, gives the woman a steady once-over, and silently pronounces her a dangerous, but lovely, work of art.
“Can I help you?” she asks when the woman shifts a little from one foot to the other-not nervously so much as with a vague annoyance.
“Got a proposition for you,” the woman says in a low voice, so low that she must lean away from the bar to hear properly. Her brows knit, curious and a bit concerned. Propositions in bars like this one usually end in disease, arrest, or the removal of wallets.
“Should I even ask?”
The woman’s mouth, full and pouty, turns up at the edges. “Probably not, but you’re going to anyway.”
It’s a valid point. Sitting at this bar is quickly growing monotonous, and though she isn’t drunk, she is just drunk enough to be restless. She shrugs.
“Fine. What’s up?”
It’s a brazen question, posed as if they know each other intimately, as if they’ve known each other so long, they shouldn’t have to ask such things to begin with. It’s strange; she’s never seen this woman before, nor anyone quite like her-she’s sure she would remember such lustrous black hair and silky caramel skin-but she isn’t strained by her presence as she might be with another stranger. It doesn’t bother her in the least that this woman, in her tight black jeans and low-cut top, heels digging into the light layer of grime on the floor, is standing almost too close. It should bother her-and yet.
The woman’s eyes are too dark to read, but when she smiles, there is a distinctly predatory glint to the expression. “I need you to do me a little favor.”
She wishes they’d stop beating around this bush; she doesn’t do cliffhanger conversations. They’re usually not worth her time.
“Okay,” she manages to say as patiently as she knows how, resisting the urge to drum slender fingers against the bar.
The woman leans close, until her body is pressed against her prey (she’s pretty sure that’s her role in this game, after all, the rabbit trapped between the paws of a wolf), soft breasts molding against a strong shoulder. Her lips graze blonde hair, a pale shell of an ear. It almost hurts to breathe around the scent of her breath, betraying not even a hint of stale beer.
“I need you to kiss me.”
It’s an odd request-not the oddest she’s ever heard, but odd enough. She quirks an eyebrow, ignoring the way her left hand has clenched around her glass dangerously.
“And I would do that why?”
The black-haired woman-a Latina, she notes, having been scrambling for the correct descriptor for minutes-twitches her head almost imperceptibly backwards. “Got a friend back there,” she replies huskily, one hand coming up to play with a lock of blonde hair. “Kind of gets on my nerves. Need to prove a point.”
“Mm. And what’s in it for me?” She sounds flirtier than she means to-flirtier than she’s been with anyone in a good long while. The Latina grins, feral.
“Other than the pleasure of my stellar company?” Long fingers flick into her face, wrapped around a small wad of bills. “How’s twenty bucks do ya?”
She looks the lithe body up and down, smirking when the woman steps back an inch or two to preen under the attention. “Do I look like a prostitute to you?”
“In that coat? A little.” White teeth flash; she’s kidding (or so it seems). “Mostly, you just look lonely. And hot. Very, very fuckin’ hot.”
“Well, there’s that.” She’s smiling back without thinking about it, without weighing the pros and cons. She’s never been much for thinking very far ahead-it’s how she ended up in this town to begin with-and doesn’t see a point in starting now. Roll with the punches, go with the flow, dance to your own goddamn beat, and fuck anyone who gets in your way. It’s not the healthiest, most compassionate of mantras, but it’s hers, and it’s gotten her this far.
“So.” The woman’s leaning in again, scraping a nail down one porcelain cheek, leering a little. “What do you say?”
A sensible person would say no. A sensible person would shake their head, politely decline, and go back to their forty-eighth-or-whatever drink in peace. A sensible person, considering this woman and the gleam in her too-dark eyes, might even slap down a few dollars to cover the tab and make short work of the door.
She kind of loathes sensible people.
She doesn’t waste energy nodding, or shaking hands, or even slipping the wrinkled Jackson from the woman’s grasp. Any good dance only has a certain number of steps to it, and this one is wearing out fast. Best to jump directly into new choreography without missing a beat, lest she otherwise fall flat on her face.
She stands from the stool, swigs one last mouthful from her glass, and pulls the woman in by her belt loops. Dark eyes narrow in a challenge, and she narrows her baby blues right back. She can play with the big dogs, and she has the feeling she should prove that now, before this woman goes getting any ideas.
Kissing a woman is neither new, nor unpleasant. She doesn’t do it often-contrary to her mother’s anxious belief, she’s not whoring herself out to pay her distressingly-high rent-but right now, she wonders why that is. This woman is softer than most (unexpected, given her mildly callous demeanor), and gives a delightful little sigh when slight pressure is added. She cranes her neck, pushes forward into the kiss, alternating between feather-light and promising-as-hell. The Latina responds happily enough, slow and patient, rotating her head to seek new angles every couple of seconds.
It’s not much-child’s play, the practicing guesswork of teenagers under cover of darkness-and it should not be so intoxicating.
She draws back just enough to breathe, and murmurs, “Asking your name would probably ruin this, huh?”
The woman shrugs, trailing her nails up and down the front of her partner’s shirt. The touch blazes through cotton, too gentle to be captured properly. “Probably.”
She considers it, knows it’s true. Decides she doesn’t care so much. “Brittany.”
Dark eyes twinkle. “Santana.”
“Are we proving your point, Santana?” she asks, grinning faintly when tan fingers hook in the collar of her t-shirt, brushing against the skin beneath.
“Not nearly well enough.”
They’re kissing again, and this time, it’s what she expected from the moment the proposition was made. It’s hard and fast, Brittany running her tongue along the seam of the other woman’s lips, Santana receiving forcefully, grasping hold with her own and sucking hard. Brittany feels hands slink up around her throat, against her cheeks, into her hair. She grips the shirt at the small of the Latina’s back, digs her nails in, gives a tug until her body is sandwiched between the bar and the girl.
She can’t breathe, but it’s the good kind of suffocation, eyes closed and blissful, enjoying the way the wild woman in her arms rolls her tongue like she’s speaking a silent language. She goes with it. It’s a hundred times better than the usual routine.
It doesn’t take long to realize something is pooling in the center of her stomach, low and deep, coiling so tightly, she doubts she’ll be able to rein it in for much longer. Santana’s kisses are unrelenting, almost desperate, and it is most definitely like she is trying to prove something-but Brittany gets the suspicious feeling it has nothing to do with some annoying friend, or a bet, or whatever it was that got this ball rolling.
Not to be outdone, she kisses back, hungry, snagging the girl’s bottom lip and sinking her teeth in tenderly. Santana makes a noise somewhere deep in her throat, threads her fingers into golden hair and uses it to brace herself even closer. It’s good-it’s great-so Brittany does it again, pulling back, releasing, and going for the Latina’s jawline with a vengeance. She kisses, bites, drags her teeth bluntly along skin until Santana tilts her head back and pushes with one palm, guiding Brittany down her neck. Her nails scratch hard, and the blonde woman thinks where else those nails might wander tonight. She grinds forward at the thought, uncontrolled, and Santana yips in surprise.
“Getting frisky?” she snipes, rolling her eyes when Brittany gives a long lick in response to the side of her throat. “Damn, you were a really good choice.”
“What choice?” Brittany takes a bit of skin between her teeth and sucks hard enough to turn it blotchy. “Look around. Show me my competition.”
It’s a cocky thing to say, downright clichéd, but it feels right with this girl. Sure enough, Santana gives a throaty chuckle.
“Baby’s got a little bite to her.” She sounds almost fond, and again, it’s as if they’ve known each other forever. Brittany’s skin tingles at the notion.
“Baby’s got a lot of bite,” she settles for taunting, nipping lightly. “Among other things. Willing to share, if you’re up for it.”
Santana draws back at last, far enough that Brittany has to pull at her hips to keep her within reach. “You serious?”
Something sinks in the pit of the blonde woman’s stomach. She shrugs, forcing indifference. “Why not?”
The Latina regards her, long eyelashes shielding her expression, until Brittany feels her fingers begin to uncurl in defeat from the other woman’s body. She retracts her hands, stuffs them into her pockets, leans against the bar. Too far, she thinks bitterly. Too fast.
It’s a lesson she’s never been adept at picking up. Too much too soon destroys everything, burns bright and burns out, and she should know it by now. This city is fast-paced, operating in its own tragic corner of the universe, but even it is not quick enough to keep up with her.
But Santana isn’t running. She may have only requested a kiss, but Brittany is fully prepared to give her a hell of a lot more-and, looking at her curiously, Brittany can’t help but think maybe she hasn’t blown this after all. Maybe this show has the potential to lose its audience, ditch the Katy Perry bullshit, and move on to something more remarkable after all.
Slowly, the Latina reaches out, wraps a hand around the buckle of Brittany’s belt, and stills. The blonde swallows.
“Thoughts?”
“I’d have to ditch my friends,” the girl muses, not sounding at all sorry about the idea. Brittany shrugs.
“I don’t really dig on threesomes, true.”
“And I haven’t done a girl since high school,” Santana adds, almost absently. Heat flares directly between Brittany’s legs. She forces another shrug.
“I haven’t done anyone in a year. Not overly concerned with timelines here.”
Santana cocks her head, fingers twitching lower on the buckle. “You clean?”
“Like I said,” Brittany drawls, trying not to dwell on the tantalizing heat drawing closer to the front of her jeans. “Been a while.”
“I don’t do bar hook-ups,” Santana says, and it sounds almost like a warning, even as her hand creeps low and cups Brittany teasingly. The blonde’s knees threaten to give out; Santana backs her against the bar, forehead brushing forehead.
“I don’t do bonding,” Brittany responds shakily, exhaling when Santana adds the barest pressure. She’s starting to soak through her panties, she knows, and if they don’t get out of here right now, they’re likely to spend the evening in a cell for indecent exposure.
The smirk ghosting over Santana’s too-tempting lips suggests she agrees.
They’re in the cab almost before she knows it, and at her apartment even more instantly. Brittany is pretty sure that too much too fast should be tattooed on her forearm after this night, but when Santana crushes her against the front door, jams a leg between her own, and enthusiastically pins her with an open-mouthed kiss, it wipes the thought clean out of her system. She kisses back, groping with one hand for the key in her pocket, because if Mrs. Brown down the hall sidles out to walk her dogs, she’s bound to drop dead of a heart attack. Brittany doesn’t especially want something like that on her conscience.
“You’re slow,” Santana pants against her mouth, reaching around to help guide the key into the light.
“You’re distracting,” Brittany retorts, groaning when Santana pounds her thigh upward. “I can’t do this without looking.”
Without missing a beat, Santana spins her to face the door, plastering her warm body against Brittany’s back and sucking wetly on the back of her neck. “So look,” she mumbles against slick skin, teasing letters into the goosepimpled flesh with the tip of her tongue until Brittany’s eyes cross. Unlocking a door has never felt so much like an Olympic feat as when Santana’s wandering hand stalks around to claim her through her jeans again, palm grinding with an agonizing lack of friction. Brittany is actually pretty proud of herself when she finally jimmies the thing open between a moan and a gasp.
“You’re being counterproductive,” she grumbles, squeaking when Santana gives her a light squeeze and a slap on the ass before stepping around her and into the apartment.
“You’re being wordy,” the woman calls back over her shoulder, sauntering deeper into the two-bedroom as if she already owns the place. “Hurry your shit up, I’m getting tired of this being clothed crap.”
Hands trembling, Brittany fumbles the door shut, flips the lock, and very nearly runs to the bedroom. Santana stands, arms crossed, leaning against the dresser. She looks for all the world like a panther surveying its next meal, licking her lips when Brittany shoves the coat off of her shoulders and whips her t-shirt up over her head.
“Better,” she observes haughtily, undoing the clasp on each heel before slipping free of them. Shoeless, she proves to be several inches shorter than Brittany, who instantly feels much more in control.
“You’re behind,” she points out, kicking out of her own boots and striding forward in jeans and her bra.
Santana grins when Brittany catches her around the waist and fairly tosses her onto the bed, climbing to straddle her. She yanks her own shirt off and flings it apathetically into the mountain of laundry near the bathroom, then grasps Brittany by the face and kisses her hard enough to bruise.
"Better?" she gasps when the blonde sinks willowy fingers into her shoulders, hooking under the straps of her dark red bra and over-excitedly snapping them against soft skin. "Fuck. Are you twelve?"
A little embarrassed, but mostly turned on, Brittany grins back and slides the straps down the girl's arms. Santana's smirking expression fades as she arches up off the bed, allowing Brittany to reach around and free her. She sits back on her haunches, staring unabashedly, and Santana stares back without a care in the world. It's the first time a girl has looked at Brittany from this position without blushing or covering herself.
"You're not nervous," she notes quietly, shifting so her hands rest against the mattress above the Latina's shoulders. Santana only smiles, dark and dangerous, her fingers catching on Brittany's belt and painstakingly unfastening it.
"You are," she claims, shimmying the belt free and dropping it off the bed. Brittany's knees clench around her waist, denim scratching on denim. It's true, but only a little bit, and she couldn't explain it if she tried. She settles for ignoring the jibe, lowering her mouth once more to the other woman's.
Santana's kisses are bold, betraying a starvation Brittany herself is not wholly unfamiliar with, but not rough this time. She traces lethargic patterns with a curious tongue, stroking through Brittany's mouth aimlessly until the blonde moans lowly into her, pelvis rolling instinctively. When nimble fingers flick at the button keeping her jeans in place, Brittany raises her hips and lets the woman ease the material down her legs, employing just enough grace through arousal to kick them off without injuring either of them.
She sits, warm and more than a little damp, atop the Latina and suddenly feels as though she's been trip-trapping her way through a hip-hop routine only to lose the next step. The way Santana is looking at her--devouring her--is more intoxicating than any half-assed drink could ever be. Her fingers twitch nervously against the bedspread.
"Are you going to sit there looking like a kid in a candy store?" Santana asks softly, one hand behind her own head. "Or are we gonna do this thing?"
This thing suddenly feels weightier than it did half an hour ago. Too fuckin' weighty for a bar hook-up. Brittany swallows.
"Hey." Santana sits up as best she can with the blonde on top of her, until Brittany is perched on her lap, skin-to-skin. Warm arms come to rest low on her back, rooting her safely in place. "We don't have to, you know. I mean..." She trails off, rubbing Brittany's bare back almost soothingly. "I was looking for a make out session to piss off a mohawked douchebag. We don't have to go this far. I just thought you wanted..."
"I do," Brittany replies, louder than intended. Santana doesn't jump, doesn't flinch, though her eyes do roll a little when Brittany's breasts push insistently against her own.
"Good," she says, smiling. "Okay."
She lays back again and pulls Brittany with her until they're facing each other atop the blue comforter, kissing all the while like it's the last thing she'll ever do. Both hands go to the waistband of her own jeans, popping the button open and unzipping while Brittany's touch roams from neck to shoulders to spine.
The blink of an eye, and they're both clad in nothing better than underwear, legs twined, nails scratching skin, and Brittany's head is thrown back in ecstasy because Santana's got one nipple in her mouth, twisting with her teeth, tickling under the blonde's bellybutton with an enthusiastic hand. This sensation alone is enough to make Brittany wonder why the hell she hesitated; it's just sex, after all, simple and instinctual. She likes sex--loves it, in the case of wildcats like this one--and that's that. It's not a cause for stress.
Santana raises her eyes, tongue still laving with an intensity Brittany can't help whimpering under, and smirks. Brittany twines a hand in black silk, forces her closer, closes her eyes.
She wants to say something now, something witty and clever and sexy, but all she can manage is a strangled moan when Santana bites down unexpectedly and strokes across the front of her panties with three fingers. Her fingers curl, cupping through the fabric, and Brittany's hips jerk involuntarily in response.
"Good," Santana breathes again. "Christ, you're wet."
"Happens," Brittany manages to growl out, bucking up again. Santana chuckles against her skin, raspy and low, kissing down one breast and across to the other. Brittany's eyes clench.
"You want me," Santana husks, and again, it isn't a question. Brittany finds herself rapidly getting sick of this talking thing; the Latina seems to think this has turned into some kind of power struggle, and Brittany doesn't feel like losing.
She grabs for Santana's hips, yanks her close, driving two fingers into the girl's underwear and pressing down hard on her clit. Santana yowls in surprise and returns the favor, until they're see-sawing back and forth with an increasingly wild rhythm. Brittany's hand keeps slipping when Santana hits just right, which in turn makes the tan girl smirk winningly, serving only to dial up Brittany's need to shut her ego up with well-timed circles. They're groaning into each other, heads bowed, licking and sucking at whatever skin is most readily available, and Brittany thinks belatedly that she should track down whatever "mohawked douchebag" started all of this and shake his hand heartily.
A familiar tensing starts deep within, and Brittany shakes her head, because there is no way she's coming first. The girl pressed against her would take it as some kind of admission of subservience or something; she can't have that. She bites her lip hard, angles her wrist until she finds the source of the other woman's dripping heat, and grins.
Santana's eyes widen almost comically when she slides inside, nails digging deep into Brittany's skin. "Holy fuck."
Brittany hums in return, thrusting her fingers and adding another when the Latina grinds back. She isn't slipping anymore, isn't doing anything uncalculated, because Santana's hand has faltered against her own sex and her head is clearing rapidly. For her part, Santana's mouth hangs open, uttering all manner of moans and mewling sounds, rocking herself against Brittany's fingers, as she tries to send the blonde deeper. She looks unimaginably sexy, and perfect, and Brittany can't stop herself from crushing their lips together in a blind, desperate way, seeking out the girl's tongue with her own.
"Almost, almost," Santana begins to babble against her, and Brittany grins. She doesn't need the verbal update; she can feel just fine the way slick walls have begun to quiver and clench around her, the way Santana's body has spiraled fantastically out of control. It's the best thing about sex, even better than her own orgasm; watching a woman come, feeling her smash apart in Brittany's hands is exactly why she loves this.
Especially this woman, because Christ, Santana looks gorgeous. Keening, wailing, using both hands to clutch at Brittany as her body loses complete control, she is nothing less than a goddess, and Brittany thanks every deity in the pantheon for this night.
When the Latina begins at last to breathe again, Brittany frees her hand and wipes it on the comforter, skin buzzing all over with satisfaction.
"You didn't...," Santana gasps, turning her face into Brittany's neck and inhaling. The blonde wraps an arm around her waist, holds her close. Cuddling is not a typical follow-up to any sort of one-night-stand, but it feels right enough. When Santana brushes blonde hair out of the way and drops a soft kiss against the hollow of her throat, she smiles.
"I will," she promises, as if she knows Santana isn't going anywhere. The Latina makes a noise into her.
"Nice bed," she murmurs sleepily, nails scraping light shapes into Brittany's breastbone and trailing lower, cupping soft flesh and thumbing at the girl's nipples. It isn't sexual so much as comfortable, and Brittany's face almost hurts from resisting an idiotic smile.
"Brought it from home," she replies, adding, "Ohio," as if she can sense Santana's curiosity. She feels the Latina nod, pinching lightly, licking at Brittany's pulse point as a cat might companionably respond to a particularly pleasant petting.
"Far cry from this hellhole."
Brittany shrugs, kisses the top of Santana's head. "There are a few things worth sticking around for."
The girl raises her head, one eyebrow arched sardonically, but she's smiling broadly. "You're kind of a sap, aren't you?"
"No," Brittany grumbles, grinning a bit herself. Santana pokes her.
"You are. I bet you've seen The Notebook, what, seven times?"
"Twelve," Brittany amends, sniffing. "Sue me, I like the ducks at the beginning."
Santana laughs. "That takes up all of fifteen seconds."
"It's a great opening." She sticks out her tongue, unsurprised when Santana claims it instantly, sucking gently until Brittany releases a tiny moan.
When they part again, Santana nuzzles against Brittany's jawline with her nose. "So. I'm thinking a couple of hours shut-eye, maybe a leisurely shower in which I fuck you mercilessly, and then breakfast? Not Denny's, I fuckin' hate that place."
"Sounds good," Brittany mumbles, delighted when Santana nods and tucks her head beneath the blonde's chin again.
This isn't the sort of thing she goes looking for when she winds up in bars, she thinks as she starts to drift off, but it certainly doesn't hurt to be surprised now and then.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany
Rating: NC-17ish
Spoilers: AU
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Bar sex is sexy. And then kind of fluffy. Whoo, bars!
A/N: I might be a little obsessed with this sort of scenario. Title from Green Day's "Too Much Too Soon", because I...am vastly unoriginal when it comes to titling.
She doesn’t particularly enjoy the bar scene, truth be told. She’s much more a fan of clubs, with their pulsing, rapid beats and stomach-turning strobe lights. She likes to throw herself around the dance floor, arms windmilling, letting little gay boys poke and prod and tell her exactly how fabulous her shoes are. It usually makes for a damn good night.
But sometimes, she finds herself in places like this one. Not a dive, exactly; not well-lit or listed in any guide books as a “must visit” either, of course, but she isn’t totally settling. The floor has been swept at least once in the last week, and the bar itself gleams. She has yet to see a single cockroach.
Fuck, how she hates cockroaches.
She isn’t looking for anything in particular, coming to this sort of setting. It's not the locals who draw her in-she can find tired businessmen and lonely, drunk twenty-somethings just about anywhere in a town like this one-and it sure as hell isn’t the music (she’s pretty sure they’re only playing albums released in 1994). If asked under penalty of death, she isn’t sure she’d be able to explain herself at all-she doesn’t even think about showing up on nights like these. It’s as if some moment in her day-sporadic, random, incalculable-always leads to this point, and suddenly here she is, seated on a bar stool, trying not to listen to the Counting Crows as they belt out “Mr. Jones” for the third time tonight.
The drink in her hand could be her first, her fifth, her seventeenth. It’s weak, whatever it is-whenever she ends up here, or somewhere so similar she can’t tell the difference in the first place, she asks the bartender to shoot her whatever poison he prefers. She doesn’t care; alcohol is alcohol, and anyway, she doesn’t come to get drunk. Not expressly.
She knows all the reasons she’s not employing, it seems. Someday, she hopes to find out the one that actually does count for something.
Until then, she will continue this ongoing, unknowable, somehow sad trend. Why not? She’s got nothing better to do.
An hour or so has gone by when someone stumbles into her bar stool. Well, maybe stumbles is not the correct word; the woman certainly doesn’t seem intoxicated. Strange, perhaps; a little worn around the edges and a lot stressed out. Beautiful, in an exotic, straight-to-your-soul kind of way. She sits up on her stool, gives the woman a steady once-over, and silently pronounces her a dangerous, but lovely, work of art.
“Can I help you?” she asks when the woman shifts a little from one foot to the other-not nervously so much as with a vague annoyance.
“Got a proposition for you,” the woman says in a low voice, so low that she must lean away from the bar to hear properly. Her brows knit, curious and a bit concerned. Propositions in bars like this one usually end in disease, arrest, or the removal of wallets.
“Should I even ask?”
The woman’s mouth, full and pouty, turns up at the edges. “Probably not, but you’re going to anyway.”
It’s a valid point. Sitting at this bar is quickly growing monotonous, and though she isn’t drunk, she is just drunk enough to be restless. She shrugs.
“Fine. What’s up?”
It’s a brazen question, posed as if they know each other intimately, as if they’ve known each other so long, they shouldn’t have to ask such things to begin with. It’s strange; she’s never seen this woman before, nor anyone quite like her-she’s sure she would remember such lustrous black hair and silky caramel skin-but she isn’t strained by her presence as she might be with another stranger. It doesn’t bother her in the least that this woman, in her tight black jeans and low-cut top, heels digging into the light layer of grime on the floor, is standing almost too close. It should bother her-and yet.
The woman’s eyes are too dark to read, but when she smiles, there is a distinctly predatory glint to the expression. “I need you to do me a little favor.”
She wishes they’d stop beating around this bush; she doesn’t do cliffhanger conversations. They’re usually not worth her time.
“Okay,” she manages to say as patiently as she knows how, resisting the urge to drum slender fingers against the bar.
The woman leans close, until her body is pressed against her prey (she’s pretty sure that’s her role in this game, after all, the rabbit trapped between the paws of a wolf), soft breasts molding against a strong shoulder. Her lips graze blonde hair, a pale shell of an ear. It almost hurts to breathe around the scent of her breath, betraying not even a hint of stale beer.
“I need you to kiss me.”
It’s an odd request-not the oddest she’s ever heard, but odd enough. She quirks an eyebrow, ignoring the way her left hand has clenched around her glass dangerously.
“And I would do that why?”
The black-haired woman-a Latina, she notes, having been scrambling for the correct descriptor for minutes-twitches her head almost imperceptibly backwards. “Got a friend back there,” she replies huskily, one hand coming up to play with a lock of blonde hair. “Kind of gets on my nerves. Need to prove a point.”
“Mm. And what’s in it for me?” She sounds flirtier than she means to-flirtier than she’s been with anyone in a good long while. The Latina grins, feral.
“Other than the pleasure of my stellar company?” Long fingers flick into her face, wrapped around a small wad of bills. “How’s twenty bucks do ya?”
She looks the lithe body up and down, smirking when the woman steps back an inch or two to preen under the attention. “Do I look like a prostitute to you?”
“In that coat? A little.” White teeth flash; she’s kidding (or so it seems). “Mostly, you just look lonely. And hot. Very, very fuckin’ hot.”
“Well, there’s that.” She’s smiling back without thinking about it, without weighing the pros and cons. She’s never been much for thinking very far ahead-it’s how she ended up in this town to begin with-and doesn’t see a point in starting now. Roll with the punches, go with the flow, dance to your own goddamn beat, and fuck anyone who gets in your way. It’s not the healthiest, most compassionate of mantras, but it’s hers, and it’s gotten her this far.
“So.” The woman’s leaning in again, scraping a nail down one porcelain cheek, leering a little. “What do you say?”
A sensible person would say no. A sensible person would shake their head, politely decline, and go back to their forty-eighth-or-whatever drink in peace. A sensible person, considering this woman and the gleam in her too-dark eyes, might even slap down a few dollars to cover the tab and make short work of the door.
She kind of loathes sensible people.
She doesn’t waste energy nodding, or shaking hands, or even slipping the wrinkled Jackson from the woman’s grasp. Any good dance only has a certain number of steps to it, and this one is wearing out fast. Best to jump directly into new choreography without missing a beat, lest she otherwise fall flat on her face.
She stands from the stool, swigs one last mouthful from her glass, and pulls the woman in by her belt loops. Dark eyes narrow in a challenge, and she narrows her baby blues right back. She can play with the big dogs, and she has the feeling she should prove that now, before this woman goes getting any ideas.
Kissing a woman is neither new, nor unpleasant. She doesn’t do it often-contrary to her mother’s anxious belief, she’s not whoring herself out to pay her distressingly-high rent-but right now, she wonders why that is. This woman is softer than most (unexpected, given her mildly callous demeanor), and gives a delightful little sigh when slight pressure is added. She cranes her neck, pushes forward into the kiss, alternating between feather-light and promising-as-hell. The Latina responds happily enough, slow and patient, rotating her head to seek new angles every couple of seconds.
It’s not much-child’s play, the practicing guesswork of teenagers under cover of darkness-and it should not be so intoxicating.
She draws back just enough to breathe, and murmurs, “Asking your name would probably ruin this, huh?”
The woman shrugs, trailing her nails up and down the front of her partner’s shirt. The touch blazes through cotton, too gentle to be captured properly. “Probably.”
She considers it, knows it’s true. Decides she doesn’t care so much. “Brittany.”
Dark eyes twinkle. “Santana.”
“Are we proving your point, Santana?” she asks, grinning faintly when tan fingers hook in the collar of her t-shirt, brushing against the skin beneath.
“Not nearly well enough.”
They’re kissing again, and this time, it’s what she expected from the moment the proposition was made. It’s hard and fast, Brittany running her tongue along the seam of the other woman’s lips, Santana receiving forcefully, grasping hold with her own and sucking hard. Brittany feels hands slink up around her throat, against her cheeks, into her hair. She grips the shirt at the small of the Latina’s back, digs her nails in, gives a tug until her body is sandwiched between the bar and the girl.
She can’t breathe, but it’s the good kind of suffocation, eyes closed and blissful, enjoying the way the wild woman in her arms rolls her tongue like she’s speaking a silent language. She goes with it. It’s a hundred times better than the usual routine.
It doesn’t take long to realize something is pooling in the center of her stomach, low and deep, coiling so tightly, she doubts she’ll be able to rein it in for much longer. Santana’s kisses are unrelenting, almost desperate, and it is most definitely like she is trying to prove something-but Brittany gets the suspicious feeling it has nothing to do with some annoying friend, or a bet, or whatever it was that got this ball rolling.
Not to be outdone, she kisses back, hungry, snagging the girl’s bottom lip and sinking her teeth in tenderly. Santana makes a noise somewhere deep in her throat, threads her fingers into golden hair and uses it to brace herself even closer. It’s good-it’s great-so Brittany does it again, pulling back, releasing, and going for the Latina’s jawline with a vengeance. She kisses, bites, drags her teeth bluntly along skin until Santana tilts her head back and pushes with one palm, guiding Brittany down her neck. Her nails scratch hard, and the blonde woman thinks where else those nails might wander tonight. She grinds forward at the thought, uncontrolled, and Santana yips in surprise.
“Getting frisky?” she snipes, rolling her eyes when Brittany gives a long lick in response to the side of her throat. “Damn, you were a really good choice.”
“What choice?” Brittany takes a bit of skin between her teeth and sucks hard enough to turn it blotchy. “Look around. Show me my competition.”
It’s a cocky thing to say, downright clichéd, but it feels right with this girl. Sure enough, Santana gives a throaty chuckle.
“Baby’s got a little bite to her.” She sounds almost fond, and again, it’s as if they’ve known each other forever. Brittany’s skin tingles at the notion.
“Baby’s got a lot of bite,” she settles for taunting, nipping lightly. “Among other things. Willing to share, if you’re up for it.”
Santana draws back at last, far enough that Brittany has to pull at her hips to keep her within reach. “You serious?”
Something sinks in the pit of the blonde woman’s stomach. She shrugs, forcing indifference. “Why not?”
The Latina regards her, long eyelashes shielding her expression, until Brittany feels her fingers begin to uncurl in defeat from the other woman’s body. She retracts her hands, stuffs them into her pockets, leans against the bar. Too far, she thinks bitterly. Too fast.
It’s a lesson she’s never been adept at picking up. Too much too soon destroys everything, burns bright and burns out, and she should know it by now. This city is fast-paced, operating in its own tragic corner of the universe, but even it is not quick enough to keep up with her.
But Santana isn’t running. She may have only requested a kiss, but Brittany is fully prepared to give her a hell of a lot more-and, looking at her curiously, Brittany can’t help but think maybe she hasn’t blown this after all. Maybe this show has the potential to lose its audience, ditch the Katy Perry bullshit, and move on to something more remarkable after all.
Slowly, the Latina reaches out, wraps a hand around the buckle of Brittany’s belt, and stills. The blonde swallows.
“Thoughts?”
“I’d have to ditch my friends,” the girl muses, not sounding at all sorry about the idea. Brittany shrugs.
“I don’t really dig on threesomes, true.”
“And I haven’t done a girl since high school,” Santana adds, almost absently. Heat flares directly between Brittany’s legs. She forces another shrug.
“I haven’t done anyone in a year. Not overly concerned with timelines here.”
Santana cocks her head, fingers twitching lower on the buckle. “You clean?”
“Like I said,” Brittany drawls, trying not to dwell on the tantalizing heat drawing closer to the front of her jeans. “Been a while.”
“I don’t do bar hook-ups,” Santana says, and it sounds almost like a warning, even as her hand creeps low and cups Brittany teasingly. The blonde’s knees threaten to give out; Santana backs her against the bar, forehead brushing forehead.
“I don’t do bonding,” Brittany responds shakily, exhaling when Santana adds the barest pressure. She’s starting to soak through her panties, she knows, and if they don’t get out of here right now, they’re likely to spend the evening in a cell for indecent exposure.
The smirk ghosting over Santana’s too-tempting lips suggests she agrees.
They’re in the cab almost before she knows it, and at her apartment even more instantly. Brittany is pretty sure that too much too fast should be tattooed on her forearm after this night, but when Santana crushes her against the front door, jams a leg between her own, and enthusiastically pins her with an open-mouthed kiss, it wipes the thought clean out of her system. She kisses back, groping with one hand for the key in her pocket, because if Mrs. Brown down the hall sidles out to walk her dogs, she’s bound to drop dead of a heart attack. Brittany doesn’t especially want something like that on her conscience.
“You’re slow,” Santana pants against her mouth, reaching around to help guide the key into the light.
“You’re distracting,” Brittany retorts, groaning when Santana pounds her thigh upward. “I can’t do this without looking.”
Without missing a beat, Santana spins her to face the door, plastering her warm body against Brittany’s back and sucking wetly on the back of her neck. “So look,” she mumbles against slick skin, teasing letters into the goosepimpled flesh with the tip of her tongue until Brittany’s eyes cross. Unlocking a door has never felt so much like an Olympic feat as when Santana’s wandering hand stalks around to claim her through her jeans again, palm grinding with an agonizing lack of friction. Brittany is actually pretty proud of herself when she finally jimmies the thing open between a moan and a gasp.
“You’re being counterproductive,” she grumbles, squeaking when Santana gives her a light squeeze and a slap on the ass before stepping around her and into the apartment.
“You’re being wordy,” the woman calls back over her shoulder, sauntering deeper into the two-bedroom as if she already owns the place. “Hurry your shit up, I’m getting tired of this being clothed crap.”
Hands trembling, Brittany fumbles the door shut, flips the lock, and very nearly runs to the bedroom. Santana stands, arms crossed, leaning against the dresser. She looks for all the world like a panther surveying its next meal, licking her lips when Brittany shoves the coat off of her shoulders and whips her t-shirt up over her head.
“Better,” she observes haughtily, undoing the clasp on each heel before slipping free of them. Shoeless, she proves to be several inches shorter than Brittany, who instantly feels much more in control.
“You’re behind,” she points out, kicking out of her own boots and striding forward in jeans and her bra.
Santana grins when Brittany catches her around the waist and fairly tosses her onto the bed, climbing to straddle her. She yanks her own shirt off and flings it apathetically into the mountain of laundry near the bathroom, then grasps Brittany by the face and kisses her hard enough to bruise.
"Better?" she gasps when the blonde sinks willowy fingers into her shoulders, hooking under the straps of her dark red bra and over-excitedly snapping them against soft skin. "Fuck. Are you twelve?"
A little embarrassed, but mostly turned on, Brittany grins back and slides the straps down the girl's arms. Santana's smirking expression fades as she arches up off the bed, allowing Brittany to reach around and free her. She sits back on her haunches, staring unabashedly, and Santana stares back without a care in the world. It's the first time a girl has looked at Brittany from this position without blushing or covering herself.
"You're not nervous," she notes quietly, shifting so her hands rest against the mattress above the Latina's shoulders. Santana only smiles, dark and dangerous, her fingers catching on Brittany's belt and painstakingly unfastening it.
"You are," she claims, shimmying the belt free and dropping it off the bed. Brittany's knees clench around her waist, denim scratching on denim. It's true, but only a little bit, and she couldn't explain it if she tried. She settles for ignoring the jibe, lowering her mouth once more to the other woman's.
Santana's kisses are bold, betraying a starvation Brittany herself is not wholly unfamiliar with, but not rough this time. She traces lethargic patterns with a curious tongue, stroking through Brittany's mouth aimlessly until the blonde moans lowly into her, pelvis rolling instinctively. When nimble fingers flick at the button keeping her jeans in place, Brittany raises her hips and lets the woman ease the material down her legs, employing just enough grace through arousal to kick them off without injuring either of them.
She sits, warm and more than a little damp, atop the Latina and suddenly feels as though she's been trip-trapping her way through a hip-hop routine only to lose the next step. The way Santana is looking at her--devouring her--is more intoxicating than any half-assed drink could ever be. Her fingers twitch nervously against the bedspread.
"Are you going to sit there looking like a kid in a candy store?" Santana asks softly, one hand behind her own head. "Or are we gonna do this thing?"
This thing suddenly feels weightier than it did half an hour ago. Too fuckin' weighty for a bar hook-up. Brittany swallows.
"Hey." Santana sits up as best she can with the blonde on top of her, until Brittany is perched on her lap, skin-to-skin. Warm arms come to rest low on her back, rooting her safely in place. "We don't have to, you know. I mean..." She trails off, rubbing Brittany's bare back almost soothingly. "I was looking for a make out session to piss off a mohawked douchebag. We don't have to go this far. I just thought you wanted..."
"I do," Brittany replies, louder than intended. Santana doesn't jump, doesn't flinch, though her eyes do roll a little when Brittany's breasts push insistently against her own.
"Good," she says, smiling. "Okay."
She lays back again and pulls Brittany with her until they're facing each other atop the blue comforter, kissing all the while like it's the last thing she'll ever do. Both hands go to the waistband of her own jeans, popping the button open and unzipping while Brittany's touch roams from neck to shoulders to spine.
The blink of an eye, and they're both clad in nothing better than underwear, legs twined, nails scratching skin, and Brittany's head is thrown back in ecstasy because Santana's got one nipple in her mouth, twisting with her teeth, tickling under the blonde's bellybutton with an enthusiastic hand. This sensation alone is enough to make Brittany wonder why the hell she hesitated; it's just sex, after all, simple and instinctual. She likes sex--loves it, in the case of wildcats like this one--and that's that. It's not a cause for stress.
Santana raises her eyes, tongue still laving with an intensity Brittany can't help whimpering under, and smirks. Brittany twines a hand in black silk, forces her closer, closes her eyes.
She wants to say something now, something witty and clever and sexy, but all she can manage is a strangled moan when Santana bites down unexpectedly and strokes across the front of her panties with three fingers. Her fingers curl, cupping through the fabric, and Brittany's hips jerk involuntarily in response.
"Good," Santana breathes again. "Christ, you're wet."
"Happens," Brittany manages to growl out, bucking up again. Santana chuckles against her skin, raspy and low, kissing down one breast and across to the other. Brittany's eyes clench.
"You want me," Santana husks, and again, it isn't a question. Brittany finds herself rapidly getting sick of this talking thing; the Latina seems to think this has turned into some kind of power struggle, and Brittany doesn't feel like losing.
She grabs for Santana's hips, yanks her close, driving two fingers into the girl's underwear and pressing down hard on her clit. Santana yowls in surprise and returns the favor, until they're see-sawing back and forth with an increasingly wild rhythm. Brittany's hand keeps slipping when Santana hits just right, which in turn makes the tan girl smirk winningly, serving only to dial up Brittany's need to shut her ego up with well-timed circles. They're groaning into each other, heads bowed, licking and sucking at whatever skin is most readily available, and Brittany thinks belatedly that she should track down whatever "mohawked douchebag" started all of this and shake his hand heartily.
A familiar tensing starts deep within, and Brittany shakes her head, because there is no way she's coming first. The girl pressed against her would take it as some kind of admission of subservience or something; she can't have that. She bites her lip hard, angles her wrist until she finds the source of the other woman's dripping heat, and grins.
Santana's eyes widen almost comically when she slides inside, nails digging deep into Brittany's skin. "Holy fuck."
Brittany hums in return, thrusting her fingers and adding another when the Latina grinds back. She isn't slipping anymore, isn't doing anything uncalculated, because Santana's hand has faltered against her own sex and her head is clearing rapidly. For her part, Santana's mouth hangs open, uttering all manner of moans and mewling sounds, rocking herself against Brittany's fingers, as she tries to send the blonde deeper. She looks unimaginably sexy, and perfect, and Brittany can't stop herself from crushing their lips together in a blind, desperate way, seeking out the girl's tongue with her own.
"Almost, almost," Santana begins to babble against her, and Brittany grins. She doesn't need the verbal update; she can feel just fine the way slick walls have begun to quiver and clench around her, the way Santana's body has spiraled fantastically out of control. It's the best thing about sex, even better than her own orgasm; watching a woman come, feeling her smash apart in Brittany's hands is exactly why she loves this.
Especially this woman, because Christ, Santana looks gorgeous. Keening, wailing, using both hands to clutch at Brittany as her body loses complete control, she is nothing less than a goddess, and Brittany thanks every deity in the pantheon for this night.
When the Latina begins at last to breathe again, Brittany frees her hand and wipes it on the comforter, skin buzzing all over with satisfaction.
"You didn't...," Santana gasps, turning her face into Brittany's neck and inhaling. The blonde wraps an arm around her waist, holds her close. Cuddling is not a typical follow-up to any sort of one-night-stand, but it feels right enough. When Santana brushes blonde hair out of the way and drops a soft kiss against the hollow of her throat, she smiles.
"I will," she promises, as if she knows Santana isn't going anywhere. The Latina makes a noise into her.
"Nice bed," she murmurs sleepily, nails scraping light shapes into Brittany's breastbone and trailing lower, cupping soft flesh and thumbing at the girl's nipples. It isn't sexual so much as comfortable, and Brittany's face almost hurts from resisting an idiotic smile.
"Brought it from home," she replies, adding, "Ohio," as if she can sense Santana's curiosity. She feels the Latina nod, pinching lightly, licking at Brittany's pulse point as a cat might companionably respond to a particularly pleasant petting.
"Far cry from this hellhole."
Brittany shrugs, kisses the top of Santana's head. "There are a few things worth sticking around for."
The girl raises her head, one eyebrow arched sardonically, but she's smiling broadly. "You're kind of a sap, aren't you?"
"No," Brittany grumbles, grinning a bit herself. Santana pokes her.
"You are. I bet you've seen The Notebook, what, seven times?"
"Twelve," Brittany amends, sniffing. "Sue me, I like the ducks at the beginning."
Santana laughs. "That takes up all of fifteen seconds."
"It's a great opening." She sticks out her tongue, unsurprised when Santana claims it instantly, sucking gently until Brittany releases a tiny moan.
When they part again, Santana nuzzles against Brittany's jawline with her nose. "So. I'm thinking a couple of hours shut-eye, maybe a leisurely shower in which I fuck you mercilessly, and then breakfast? Not Denny's, I fuckin' hate that place."
"Sounds good," Brittany mumbles, delighted when Santana nods and tucks her head beneath the blonde's chin again.
This isn't the sort of thing she goes looking for when she winds up in bars, she thinks as she starts to drift off, but it certainly doesn't hurt to be surprised now and then.