I Remember When (We Were Gambling To Win)
Title: I Remember When (We Were Gambling To Win)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Do you feel like everything I write is pre-Glee (or AU)? Because…it’s true.
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Santana has no idea how they got here.
A/N: My life is all about writin’z da pornz lately. …sixteen-year-old-me would be so shocked. I don't know why I keep writing various incarnations of The Brittana First Time, but...have another? Title from Metric's "Gold Guns Girls."
Santana has no idea how they got here. It didn’t start like this, not even a little bit, and she honestly can’t see how it ended up in this place. This has never happened before.
Not that she’s complaining, exactly, but she usually likes to feel more in control than this.
It was a sleepover. Which would sound like a porno cliché of a whatever, except for the the part where it was a sleepover. For Chrissake, this is what they do. Sure, sixteen is a little old for calling it that, but they’ve been having these things every week since they were eleven. It would be just plain silly to toss all that aside just because they can legally operate motor vehicles (well…she can; Brittany is notoriously afraid of cars, claiming her attention span isn’t expansive enough for such a high-octane activity as driving--although, being Brittany, she uses fewer words to describe that fear).
Whatever. The point is, it was a fucking sleepover, and that was all it was. Two best friends, flopped out on Santana’s bed, giggling and chucking Skittles at each other, thankful that the Lopez clan had taken a trek out to Nana Martin’s for the weekend. Santana would have gone along, except for the mandatory Sunday Cheerios practice Coach has set up (claiming, as she does, that her kids should be worshipping something worthwhile on an alleged holy day). And also, Nana Martin kind of can’t handle Santana-not since the girl was seven and, through a series of calamitous and wholly-inexplicable events, rammed a child-sized hole through the basement wall.
(Santana claims she doesn’t remember the incident, but does her damndest to avoid Nana Martin anyway. She’s kind of a bitch in school, but even she would feel bad if an accidental antic sent the matriarch of her mother’s family into cardiac arrest.)
They were on Santana’s bed-where they still are, but she’s getting to that-and things were progressing as planned. Two Mountain Dews in, Brittany was weirdly calm (because that’s Brittany for you; after two cans of sheer sugar, Santana’s about ready to check herself into the NASA space program and go bounding around Mars, but Brittany is fully and frighteningly able to twist herself into a ball and pass out on the spot), resting her cheek on Santana’s thigh as the dark-haired girl flicked absently through the television stations.
Boring. Boring. Pretty Woman. CNN. Boring. Some show with Bret Michaels and about thirty plastic women.
She settled at last on a Buffy rerun, if only because Faith was in the episode and Santana has always felt a cozy sort of bond with the rogue Slayer. Has a little something to do, she thinks, with the chick’s penchant for wicked-cool knives and, y’know, running the fucking show the way Buffy herself never could.
(Still not the point. Although Santana really, really loves Buffy.)
So they were sitting, half-watching Faith strangle the living shit out of Xander (who sometimes reminds her of Finn, and therefore grates on her nerves something extra-special; she wants to cheer Faith on for stripping the boy of his virginity, if only because it means he will forever be powerless in comparison to her badassery), and Santana’s still pretty clear on this part. Brittany’s head on her leg, her own head on the pillows, Brittany’s hand tracing polygons into Santana’s thigh, Santana’s hand combing through blonde hair. She’s got that. She’s up on it.
It’s the part right after that’s gone a little fuzzy.
She remembers laughing at something on the show (something not really meant to be funny, but then, that’s Santana), and she remembers Brittany grinning up at her, warm cheek pressing tight to the skin right below the cuff of the Latina’s shorts (sue her, it’s a fucking warm night). She remembers the way Brittany’s hand stilled, fingertips searing through thin material (too thin, maybe, but clothes should breathe, right?). She remembers feeling very warm, maybe too warm, but not in a constricting wanna-die way, like at the end (and middle, and kind of beginning) of every practice with Coach. It was Brittany-warm, and Santana has always liked Brittany-warm. It’s what gets her through Ohio winters.
So she remembers that, the looking, and the smiling, and the warm. And she remembers Brittany sitting up slowly, inching her way up Santana’s body, shifting so they were shoulder-to-shoulder, and that still wasn’t weird. Friends sit side-by-side all the time. They share space, even if that space happens to be a bed meant for a single body.
Normal.
The pressure of Brittany’s shoulder was comfortable. Brittany leaning her head onto Santana’s shoulder was comfortable. Brittany’s lips touching softly to the underside of Santana’s jaw was…
Curious.
But not unheard of. Brittany kisses her cheek sometimes, or her forehead, or the back of her hand. It’s a friend-thing, a comfort-thing, a Brittany-does-what-she-feels thing, and Santana’s cool with it. Brittany’s lips are soft, and she always smells a little like oranges and cookies, and there’s nothing wrong with a friendly kiss now and again.
But.
Brittany’s lips didn’t stay on Santana’s jaw. Not in one place, anyway. They migrated, softly, slowly, inch by too-intense inch, and here is where Santana loses all track of the timeline, because she remembers Brittany reaching the corner of her mouth-and stopping.
She remembers Brittany leaning back, blue eyes dark and searching, and she remembers the faint smile that stole across her lips.
The next thing she knows, she’s laying on her side, stroking a hand down Brittany’s arm, kissing her with everything she’s got.
Like she said: no friggin’ idea.
She does know she has no intention of stopping. That much is abundantly clear, and from the pressure Brittany’s hand is exercising on the back of her neck, winding in the finest strands of black hair, she suspects her friend feels the same. Brittany is warm against her and heating up fast, her skin baby-soft under Santana’s drifting fingers, her body shifting ever-closer, and it’s nice. It’s really nice, in a way Santana never expected, in a way she figures no one expects to find out about their best friend.
Who kisses their best friend, anyway? All the movies say it’s a bad idea-unless it’s a rom-com, in which case Santana probably thinks it’s upendingly idiotic in the first place. Anyway, nobody does this; Puck has never kissed Finn (she hopes), Quinn has never kissed her (thank God), and she’s pretty sure the world would up and implode if Mercedes and Kurt ever went near each other’s faces unless a mascara brush happened to be involved. Who does this? Fucking nobody, that’s who.
Except she does, apparently. She is, and it’s really not bad. Not even a little bit. Brittany is a damn good kisser, just the right blend of gentle and persistent, and though their kisses have all been chaste thus far, Santana can feel herself rocketing quickly towards the edge of that particular precipice. Brittany is just too fucking soft to resist for much longer; if her lips are this tender, what must her tongue feel like?
On instinct, Santana’s lips part. Brittany’s mouth slants against her, following suit, and the whole thing is almost lethargic-like the Mountain Dew has sent the blonde into some kind of sleep-kissing coma. She’d almost believe Brittany to be asleep, except for the steady thumping of the organ beneath her skimpy tank top. The blonde’s heart is crashing against her breastbone like she’s been running for years, and Santana finds herself feeling inexplicably proud. Something tells her this is her fault, and she thinks she likes that.
Brittany’s mouth moves again, slipping a little, and it strikes Santana just how wet their kisses have grown. Her mouth is open now, Brittany’s bottom lip caught between both of hers, and Santana can’t resist the need to lick the other girl’s skin. It’s a feather-light touch, almost nothing at all, so she’s surprised when Brittany gives a lost-sounding pant directly into her mouth and scoots forward along the mattress, grasping the back of Santana’s head in a vise grip. Her hands are strong, and careful, and Santana leans into the touch, wondering why on earth more best friends don’t do things like this. It’s so…safe, this knowledge that Brittany has her, gets her, won’t ever let her go.
She squeezes Brittany’s shoulder, one finger slipping under the barely-there strap of the girl’s top, tracing it from below until it reaches the curve of Brittany’s breast. She freezes there, uncertain, and Brittany pulls away enough to look at her again-that same steady look from before, blue eyes uncharacteristically dark. The blonde gives her a hazy smile, but it’s nothing like her usual vibrant expression; it’s slow, and calculating, and seductive, like she’s been ready for Santana to do something like her entire life, and it is in that moment that Santana realizes:
They’re going to cross a line tonight.
More than that, they’re going to barrel through the line, damaging it irreversibly, smashing it into so many invididual particles that Santana knows they won’t even remember the line’s existence when they’re through. It should scare her. It should send her into a mewling panic, dragging her back from this whole thing and setting her feet back on rational ground again.
It doesn’t. Somehow, with Brittany looking at her like that, eyes heady with such obvious want, Santana can’t find it in herself to be afraid of anything at all. She likes the way that strong hand cups the back of her skull, fingers dancing delectably down the nape of her neck, threading through her hair and pulling the strands taut. She likes the way Brittany’s body molds to hers, laying parallel on the mattress with their chests barely touching, their legs locked and writhing together, Brittany’s toes skimming Santana’s ankle. She loves the way Brittany bends her head forward, taking Santana’s mouth with her own, claiming her with cautious teeth and a probing tongue, until Santana feels she will crack open in a dozen unseen places if she doesn’t kiss back just as hard, just as intimately.
She feels the weight of Brittany’s free hand as it trails between them, creating a brand new path up the flat plane of Santana’s quivering stomach. She feels it burn, fingertips, palm, the backs of Brittany’s knuckles as she turns that hand over and trails it right back down again in firm, knowing strokes. She’s still wearing a shirt-still wearing everything-and she suddenly can’t fathom the reason for that. She can’t think through much of anything at all, honestly, except for how lovely it feels every time her muscles lunge desperately into Brittany’s hand as it sinks and rises along her belly.
They’re kissing, still, again, always, open-mouthed and frantic, Brittany’s tongue performing acrobatics between Santana’s teeth. The dark-haired girl realizes she’s panting-they both are-like she’s been running a fucking marathon, and she can’t stop. She can’t breathe; under any other circumstances, she’d be flailing for the inhaler she doesn’t own, desperate to jolt open her airway. Right now, she’s content to die here, with Brittany’s body swelling forward against her own, breasts crushing against hers until her lungs beg for mercy.
She feels Brittany’s shirt slide aside, revealing firm muscles, feels Brittany’s hand push her t-shirt all the way up to her breasts so they can feel each other, reveling in the sensation of pure skin. The panting sounds are growing louder, joined by the quietest whimpers Santana has ever heard, and she can’t establish who the sounds are even coming from-only that Brittany’s skin, the jumping muscles in her abdomen, the weight of Brittany’s hand against the small of her back, urging her closer, is all that matters. Maybe it’s all that has ever mattered, and certainly, she can’t imagine anything else counting for as much ever again. Not when she knows this exists.
Brittany’s mouth pulls away from her own with an almost humorous pop, and Santana would laugh, except kisses are being dropped against the corner of her lips, the dimple just under her nose, the round expanse of both cheeks. Santana would laugh, except she’s never been so distracted in her life as right now, with Brittany’s teeth clamping gently around her ear, tongue snaking out to draw intricate circles behind the lobe. She would do many things, except she can feel nothing outside of Brittany’s hot breath, panting in and around and through every single one of her senses, searing through her very sanity. She thinks she hears Brittany say something, or maybe many somethings (“Is this okay?” “You’re so soft.” “God, I want you.” “Touch me, please.”), and all she can do is crane her head back on the pillow and whimper from deep within her chest.
She wants to speak, wants to be calm, but Brittany’s on top of her, long, lithe body pressing in a dozen overwhelming places, and she can’t even move for fear it will somehow end. It’s all far too much: the curving swells of Brittany’s breasts rubbing delicately against her own, the curl of Brittany’s tongue behind her ear, the warmth of Brittany down, down, pressed flush against Santana, as if Brittany’s intent is to push down so hard and so needfully that they simply cease to be separate entities. She knows it’s irrational, knows it could never work, but in this moment, she so badly wants to be part of Brittany, to know that the blonde girl is feeling every inch of what she is.
Her hands dig into Brittany’s hips, dipping beneath the girl’s waistband, skimming velvet skin. Brittany kisses her ear again, hard, and hisses something into it, one hand still caught in Santana’s hair while the other ghosts along her hipbone. She’s pinning the smaller girl to the mattress, and again, Santana wonders if she should feel claustrophobic, or panicked, like a rabbit in a trap. But it’s Brittany, murmuring affection straight into her brain, breath tickling the rim of her ear, lips traveling down her neck until she’s shivering all over with a want so strong, it almost feels deadly.
“Please,” she hears herself whimper, and realizes her hips are bucking into Brittany in time with the girl’s lips, sucking softly at a spot Santana didn’t know existed before this moment. “Please,” she says again when Brittany’s teeth scrape that same spot and electricity pumps through her whole body, the highest voltage she could possibly handle without coming apart. “Please,” she pants, gasps, nearly cries, when Brittany’s blonde head moves lower, nipping at the skin just under her collar, her hand skating mercilessly up to cup one full breast.
It takes only a second for Brittany to sit up, pulling Santana with her and whisking both shirts into an uninteresting corner of the room, but in that time, Santana misses her more than she can explain. Then Brittany is pushing her back down again, a hand in the very center of her chest, and Santana thinks she can feel it in her lungs, her heart, her bloodstream. The blonde slides back down again, pressing against Santana as wholly as possible, mouth latching onto the opposite side of her neck, and Santana’s hand grasps her by the hair, holds her in place. It’s not a movement that feels especially within Santana’s control; she’s too busy focusing on her other hand, nails dragging painstakingly down Brittany’s long, pale back until the girl hisses in response.
With anyone else, she would want to speak, to gloat, to mark the moment; with Brittany, she wants only to feel, to press sporadic kisses against wild blonde hair, to move her hips in time with Brittany’s. She can still feel the girl’s heat directly against her own, a place as yet untouched by anyone other than Santana herself, and she groans at the sparking sensation. Brittany lifts her head, eyes rolling back into her skull, then blinks and crushes her mouth against Santana’s. They grind together again, and again, until Santana feels like she’s teetering on the edge of something grand and perfect and blinding. She’s gripping the backs of Brittany’s thighs and up, clutching at the girl’s ass in a desperate attempt to move faster and harder and closer, to build friction until they both explode. And then, just when she thinks she might be there-panting against Brittany’s open mouth, swallowing every gasp and tiny, excited curse with reckless abandon-Brittany rolls her hips to the side, thrusting a powerful leg between Santana’s and slamming forcefully up.
She comes, and it’s almost embarrassing, because they’re half-clothed and grinding like animals, Santana scrabbling and clawing at Brittany’s back while the blonde rides the leg that’s wound up between her thighs with equal fervor. It’s almost embarrassing, except Brittany’s breath is coming in sharp whines against her neck, her teeth sinking in here and there, sucking until the skin reddens and flames, and Santana can’t be embarrassed. Not with Brittany riding her so desperately, not when she can feel how wet the girl is through two layers of thin cloth, not with the sounds Brittany makes-a low growling, so completely unlike her that Santana shivers to hear it-as she urges Santana to rub harder.
It takes less time than she’d expect for Brittany to shudder against her body, and she almost has time to stop and think then, almost has time to wonder again what the hell has just passed between them, except Brittany makes that growling sound again and pulls away. She flings one leg over both of Santana’s, straddles her and pushes down with her hips; taken by surprise, Santana’s body goes hot all over, and she pushes back up, mouth dropping open to question it.
Except Brittany’s bowing her head again, kissing her again and again and again, licking at the roof of her mouth, the back of her teeth, any place she can possibly reach, like she’s trying to memorize Santana in her entirety. Santana groans, bites down on Brittany’s lip, and turns her head away, seeking air.
“I want,” she keens, and stops, unable to finish. Brittany grins, sultry and confident in a way she doesn’t remember seeing before, and Santana can’t help but think the girl looks like her. This is a Santana thing, dominating and seducing, getting the ball rolling, making things happen. Brittany has always followed where she has led, seemingly without question, and she has always loved her for it.
But now, Brittany is leading with strong hands and passionate touches, and Santana thinks she loves her even more. Especially with fingers latching onto her breasts, experimentally twisting and teasing until Santana’s back arches up off the bed. She wails into Brittany’s mouth, and then into empty air when Brittany replaces curious fingers with even more curious lips and teeth, licking and licking until Santana clutches the top of her head and pins her where she wants her, until her nipples ache in a blessed, indescribable way. She reaches down Brittany’s shoulders, drags her back up again and holds her by the chin.
Brittany’s eyes clear for a second, and something very much like anxiety slips in, like she expects Santana to scold her for everything that’s been happening in this bed. Deliberately, Santana leans up and brushes her lips against the tip of the blonde’s nose, against her mouth, against her cheekbone. Brittany grins.
“I want,” she says calmly, though her chest is heaving against Santana’s damp, sweat-soaked breasts. Santana nods, and Brittany drops down her body, sliding with an inhuman grace until she’s nearly off the bed. She guides Santana’s knees to bend, slips her hands under the Latina’s thighs, and strokes inward until she reaches the seam of the shorts. Santana drags in a shaky breath when long fingers run down, pressing for only a second before dropping lower.
"There," she half-moans when Brittany strokes along her source. She's soaking through, she knows, and from the awed expression on Brittany's face, the blonde doesn't seem to mind. In the back of her mind, Santana thinks on how she always expected this part to be awkward, nerve-wracking, trying to explain to some guy how this all works. But it's Brittany, and yeah, it's a little weird for a moment when the girl hooks her fingers into Santana's shorts and yanks them down. And yeah, it's a little bizarre when she flattens her palm against Santana, cupping through her underwear, running two fingers down the girl's slit until her eyes squeeze shut and she whimpers. And yeah, she never expected it to be like this, with Brittany reverently removing that final barrier, dropping them off the bed and staring with wide eyes at a place even Santana hasn't really looked at before.
But it's Brittany, and she's Santana, and it sucks that they've never talked about this or planned it out, or even admitted that it might be a possibility, but Brittany doesn't look scared, and Santana mostly just feels warm, and when the blonde closes her eyes and lowers her head, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right there, the Latina almost flies free of her skin. She feels Brittany smile against her as she does it a second time, kissing again and again until Santana's hands fist in golden hair and try to pull her closer. And then she feels those same lips curve, wrapping around what she knows is the highest order of nerve endings in her entire body--and she knows this mostly because every single one is humming, buzzing, flaming all over as Brittany gently sucks, applying alternating pressure. And she feels that tongue curl, stroking down into tight heat, and still that isn't what does it.
What does it is the sound Brittany makes as she laps, hands holding Santana's bucking hips. That sound, warm and wet and satisfied, makes something in the very base of who Santana is snap. She pulls hard at the girl's hair, feels the tip of her tongue actually slide inside her body, and releases the loudest moan she's ever heard from anyone.
She's shaking, and Brittany's tongue is still searching, exploring, and Santana cries out again, tugging until Brittany climbs back up her body and perches there, shorts feeling uncomfortably bulky against Santana's swollen, tired flesh. She wrenches at the last remaining articles of clothing, nearly tearing them in her madness, and the exhausted little bit of thought left over feels guilty that she's not being more gentle, the way Brittany was with her. The rest of her is side-tracked with the memory of what it felt like to explode, so she kisses Brittany hard and tries not to make too embarrassing a squeaking noise at the slightly bitter taste of what must be her, mixed in with Brittany's intoxicating flavor.
It takes all of her effort--and she suspects Brittany must be helping--but she manages to flip them both over and shift to the side, running her fingers along Brittany's ribcage. The blonde giggles, squirming, and Santana bends to sink sweet kisses into porcelain skin, pleased when Brittany stops wriggling around and starts emitting little sighs instead. She lifts her head, nudging one of Brittany's small, round breasts with her nose; the blonde inhales and grins, as if they're sharing the best secret ever.
Santana supposes that much is true.
Part of her wants to test everything, inspect every individual territory of Brittany's body--the firm muscles in her calves, the deceptive strength in her biceps, the soft skin around her bellybutton--but most of her wants to watch her scream. She kisses the girl's collarbone, licking a line down between her breasts, and runs a hand up the inside of one thigh.
Brittany yelps, fingers closing around her wrist; Santana raises her head, worried.
"What?"
Brittany shakes her head, swallows, and for the first time tonight, Santana sees the girl she met as a child: beautiful, hopeful, scared out of her mind. She bends, kisses Brittany deep and full and whole, smiling when the fingers around her skin slowly move to guide instead of halt.
Brittany is soft everywhere, it seems, and wetter even than Santana. It's impressive, especially considering this is all Santana's fault (in a manner of speaking; she supposes technically Brittany was the one who started it).
It would feel overwrought to comment on it, to blast some husky statement of the obvious down through the lamplit room, so Santana doesn't. She allows Brittany to show her where to go, where to press, and smiles when Brittany gasps and grinds up into her hand easily.
She doesn't search out the girl's entrance, desperate to plunge inside and feel everything at once. She wants it, of course--wants to feel Brittany tightening around her fingers, wants to see Brittany shatter with infinite beauty, sparkling all over with the effort of it all--but for now, it's enough to just do this. Slow, steady, tiny figure-eight patterns with fingers, with the heel of her hand, and finally with her thumb. Brittany, hand still clamped around Santana's, twists her head to the side, cheeks pinker than Santana has ever seen them, and gasps and gasps. Though no sound escapes, her lips are forming Santana's name; the Latina beams, pressing one last time and watching as Brittany's whole body reacts.
They're warm, when they fall together into an embrace, and it's just like every other sleepover now. A little more naked, perhaps, and a little muskier, but Brittany's head is still tucked beneath Santana's chin, her arm thrown across Santana's stomach, her legs wrapped around both of Santana's (she is still hot and wet, pressed teasingly against Santana's vibrating skin, and that part is new). Santana thinks she should be feeling all sorts of righteous, wild emotions right now--she just had sex--but mostly? She just feels sleepy. Sleepy, and secure, with Brittany's breathing already slowing to a comfortable, lazy pace against her neck.
She kisses the crown of the girl's head, rubbing her cheek against gold silk, and closes her eyes.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Do you feel like everything I write is pre-Glee (or AU)? Because…it’s true.
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Santana has no idea how they got here.
A/N: My life is all about writin’z da pornz lately. …sixteen-year-old-me would be so shocked. I don't know why I keep writing various incarnations of The Brittana First Time, but...have another? Title from Metric's "Gold Guns Girls."
Santana has no idea how they got here. It didn’t start like this, not even a little bit, and she honestly can’t see how it ended up in this place. This has never happened before.
Not that she’s complaining, exactly, but she usually likes to feel more in control than this.
It was a sleepover. Which would sound like a porno cliché of a whatever, except for the the part where it was a sleepover. For Chrissake, this is what they do. Sure, sixteen is a little old for calling it that, but they’ve been having these things every week since they were eleven. It would be just plain silly to toss all that aside just because they can legally operate motor vehicles (well…she can; Brittany is notoriously afraid of cars, claiming her attention span isn’t expansive enough for such a high-octane activity as driving--although, being Brittany, she uses fewer words to describe that fear).
Whatever. The point is, it was a fucking sleepover, and that was all it was. Two best friends, flopped out on Santana’s bed, giggling and chucking Skittles at each other, thankful that the Lopez clan had taken a trek out to Nana Martin’s for the weekend. Santana would have gone along, except for the mandatory Sunday Cheerios practice Coach has set up (claiming, as she does, that her kids should be worshipping something worthwhile on an alleged holy day). And also, Nana Martin kind of can’t handle Santana-not since the girl was seven and, through a series of calamitous and wholly-inexplicable events, rammed a child-sized hole through the basement wall.
(Santana claims she doesn’t remember the incident, but does her damndest to avoid Nana Martin anyway. She’s kind of a bitch in school, but even she would feel bad if an accidental antic sent the matriarch of her mother’s family into cardiac arrest.)
They were on Santana’s bed-where they still are, but she’s getting to that-and things were progressing as planned. Two Mountain Dews in, Brittany was weirdly calm (because that’s Brittany for you; after two cans of sheer sugar, Santana’s about ready to check herself into the NASA space program and go bounding around Mars, but Brittany is fully and frighteningly able to twist herself into a ball and pass out on the spot), resting her cheek on Santana’s thigh as the dark-haired girl flicked absently through the television stations.
Boring. Boring. Pretty Woman. CNN. Boring. Some show with Bret Michaels and about thirty plastic women.
She settled at last on a Buffy rerun, if only because Faith was in the episode and Santana has always felt a cozy sort of bond with the rogue Slayer. Has a little something to do, she thinks, with the chick’s penchant for wicked-cool knives and, y’know, running the fucking show the way Buffy herself never could.
(Still not the point. Although Santana really, really loves Buffy.)
So they were sitting, half-watching Faith strangle the living shit out of Xander (who sometimes reminds her of Finn, and therefore grates on her nerves something extra-special; she wants to cheer Faith on for stripping the boy of his virginity, if only because it means he will forever be powerless in comparison to her badassery), and Santana’s still pretty clear on this part. Brittany’s head on her leg, her own head on the pillows, Brittany’s hand tracing polygons into Santana’s thigh, Santana’s hand combing through blonde hair. She’s got that. She’s up on it.
It’s the part right after that’s gone a little fuzzy.
She remembers laughing at something on the show (something not really meant to be funny, but then, that’s Santana), and she remembers Brittany grinning up at her, warm cheek pressing tight to the skin right below the cuff of the Latina’s shorts (sue her, it’s a fucking warm night). She remembers the way Brittany’s hand stilled, fingertips searing through thin material (too thin, maybe, but clothes should breathe, right?). She remembers feeling very warm, maybe too warm, but not in a constricting wanna-die way, like at the end (and middle, and kind of beginning) of every practice with Coach. It was Brittany-warm, and Santana has always liked Brittany-warm. It’s what gets her through Ohio winters.
So she remembers that, the looking, and the smiling, and the warm. And she remembers Brittany sitting up slowly, inching her way up Santana’s body, shifting so they were shoulder-to-shoulder, and that still wasn’t weird. Friends sit side-by-side all the time. They share space, even if that space happens to be a bed meant for a single body.
Normal.
The pressure of Brittany’s shoulder was comfortable. Brittany leaning her head onto Santana’s shoulder was comfortable. Brittany’s lips touching softly to the underside of Santana’s jaw was…
Curious.
But not unheard of. Brittany kisses her cheek sometimes, or her forehead, or the back of her hand. It’s a friend-thing, a comfort-thing, a Brittany-does-what-she-feels thing, and Santana’s cool with it. Brittany’s lips are soft, and she always smells a little like oranges and cookies, and there’s nothing wrong with a friendly kiss now and again.
But.
Brittany’s lips didn’t stay on Santana’s jaw. Not in one place, anyway. They migrated, softly, slowly, inch by too-intense inch, and here is where Santana loses all track of the timeline, because she remembers Brittany reaching the corner of her mouth-and stopping.
She remembers Brittany leaning back, blue eyes dark and searching, and she remembers the faint smile that stole across her lips.
The next thing she knows, she’s laying on her side, stroking a hand down Brittany’s arm, kissing her with everything she’s got.
Like she said: no friggin’ idea.
She does know she has no intention of stopping. That much is abundantly clear, and from the pressure Brittany’s hand is exercising on the back of her neck, winding in the finest strands of black hair, she suspects her friend feels the same. Brittany is warm against her and heating up fast, her skin baby-soft under Santana’s drifting fingers, her body shifting ever-closer, and it’s nice. It’s really nice, in a way Santana never expected, in a way she figures no one expects to find out about their best friend.
Who kisses their best friend, anyway? All the movies say it’s a bad idea-unless it’s a rom-com, in which case Santana probably thinks it’s upendingly idiotic in the first place. Anyway, nobody does this; Puck has never kissed Finn (she hopes), Quinn has never kissed her (thank God), and she’s pretty sure the world would up and implode if Mercedes and Kurt ever went near each other’s faces unless a mascara brush happened to be involved. Who does this? Fucking nobody, that’s who.
Except she does, apparently. She is, and it’s really not bad. Not even a little bit. Brittany is a damn good kisser, just the right blend of gentle and persistent, and though their kisses have all been chaste thus far, Santana can feel herself rocketing quickly towards the edge of that particular precipice. Brittany is just too fucking soft to resist for much longer; if her lips are this tender, what must her tongue feel like?
On instinct, Santana’s lips part. Brittany’s mouth slants against her, following suit, and the whole thing is almost lethargic-like the Mountain Dew has sent the blonde into some kind of sleep-kissing coma. She’d almost believe Brittany to be asleep, except for the steady thumping of the organ beneath her skimpy tank top. The blonde’s heart is crashing against her breastbone like she’s been running for years, and Santana finds herself feeling inexplicably proud. Something tells her this is her fault, and she thinks she likes that.
Brittany’s mouth moves again, slipping a little, and it strikes Santana just how wet their kisses have grown. Her mouth is open now, Brittany’s bottom lip caught between both of hers, and Santana can’t resist the need to lick the other girl’s skin. It’s a feather-light touch, almost nothing at all, so she’s surprised when Brittany gives a lost-sounding pant directly into her mouth and scoots forward along the mattress, grasping the back of Santana’s head in a vise grip. Her hands are strong, and careful, and Santana leans into the touch, wondering why on earth more best friends don’t do things like this. It’s so…safe, this knowledge that Brittany has her, gets her, won’t ever let her go.
She squeezes Brittany’s shoulder, one finger slipping under the barely-there strap of the girl’s top, tracing it from below until it reaches the curve of Brittany’s breast. She freezes there, uncertain, and Brittany pulls away enough to look at her again-that same steady look from before, blue eyes uncharacteristically dark. The blonde gives her a hazy smile, but it’s nothing like her usual vibrant expression; it’s slow, and calculating, and seductive, like she’s been ready for Santana to do something like her entire life, and it is in that moment that Santana realizes:
They’re going to cross a line tonight.
More than that, they’re going to barrel through the line, damaging it irreversibly, smashing it into so many invididual particles that Santana knows they won’t even remember the line’s existence when they’re through. It should scare her. It should send her into a mewling panic, dragging her back from this whole thing and setting her feet back on rational ground again.
It doesn’t. Somehow, with Brittany looking at her like that, eyes heady with such obvious want, Santana can’t find it in herself to be afraid of anything at all. She likes the way that strong hand cups the back of her skull, fingers dancing delectably down the nape of her neck, threading through her hair and pulling the strands taut. She likes the way Brittany’s body molds to hers, laying parallel on the mattress with their chests barely touching, their legs locked and writhing together, Brittany’s toes skimming Santana’s ankle. She loves the way Brittany bends her head forward, taking Santana’s mouth with her own, claiming her with cautious teeth and a probing tongue, until Santana feels she will crack open in a dozen unseen places if she doesn’t kiss back just as hard, just as intimately.
She feels the weight of Brittany’s free hand as it trails between them, creating a brand new path up the flat plane of Santana’s quivering stomach. She feels it burn, fingertips, palm, the backs of Brittany’s knuckles as she turns that hand over and trails it right back down again in firm, knowing strokes. She’s still wearing a shirt-still wearing everything-and she suddenly can’t fathom the reason for that. She can’t think through much of anything at all, honestly, except for how lovely it feels every time her muscles lunge desperately into Brittany’s hand as it sinks and rises along her belly.
They’re kissing, still, again, always, open-mouthed and frantic, Brittany’s tongue performing acrobatics between Santana’s teeth. The dark-haired girl realizes she’s panting-they both are-like she’s been running a fucking marathon, and she can’t stop. She can’t breathe; under any other circumstances, she’d be flailing for the inhaler she doesn’t own, desperate to jolt open her airway. Right now, she’s content to die here, with Brittany’s body swelling forward against her own, breasts crushing against hers until her lungs beg for mercy.
She feels Brittany’s shirt slide aside, revealing firm muscles, feels Brittany’s hand push her t-shirt all the way up to her breasts so they can feel each other, reveling in the sensation of pure skin. The panting sounds are growing louder, joined by the quietest whimpers Santana has ever heard, and she can’t establish who the sounds are even coming from-only that Brittany’s skin, the jumping muscles in her abdomen, the weight of Brittany’s hand against the small of her back, urging her closer, is all that matters. Maybe it’s all that has ever mattered, and certainly, she can’t imagine anything else counting for as much ever again. Not when she knows this exists.
Brittany’s mouth pulls away from her own with an almost humorous pop, and Santana would laugh, except kisses are being dropped against the corner of her lips, the dimple just under her nose, the round expanse of both cheeks. Santana would laugh, except she’s never been so distracted in her life as right now, with Brittany’s teeth clamping gently around her ear, tongue snaking out to draw intricate circles behind the lobe. She would do many things, except she can feel nothing outside of Brittany’s hot breath, panting in and around and through every single one of her senses, searing through her very sanity. She thinks she hears Brittany say something, or maybe many somethings (“Is this okay?” “You’re so soft.” “God, I want you.” “Touch me, please.”), and all she can do is crane her head back on the pillow and whimper from deep within her chest.
She wants to speak, wants to be calm, but Brittany’s on top of her, long, lithe body pressing in a dozen overwhelming places, and she can’t even move for fear it will somehow end. It’s all far too much: the curving swells of Brittany’s breasts rubbing delicately against her own, the curl of Brittany’s tongue behind her ear, the warmth of Brittany down, down, pressed flush against Santana, as if Brittany’s intent is to push down so hard and so needfully that they simply cease to be separate entities. She knows it’s irrational, knows it could never work, but in this moment, she so badly wants to be part of Brittany, to know that the blonde girl is feeling every inch of what she is.
Her hands dig into Brittany’s hips, dipping beneath the girl’s waistband, skimming velvet skin. Brittany kisses her ear again, hard, and hisses something into it, one hand still caught in Santana’s hair while the other ghosts along her hipbone. She’s pinning the smaller girl to the mattress, and again, Santana wonders if she should feel claustrophobic, or panicked, like a rabbit in a trap. But it’s Brittany, murmuring affection straight into her brain, breath tickling the rim of her ear, lips traveling down her neck until she’s shivering all over with a want so strong, it almost feels deadly.
“Please,” she hears herself whimper, and realizes her hips are bucking into Brittany in time with the girl’s lips, sucking softly at a spot Santana didn’t know existed before this moment. “Please,” she says again when Brittany’s teeth scrape that same spot and electricity pumps through her whole body, the highest voltage she could possibly handle without coming apart. “Please,” she pants, gasps, nearly cries, when Brittany’s blonde head moves lower, nipping at the skin just under her collar, her hand skating mercilessly up to cup one full breast.
It takes only a second for Brittany to sit up, pulling Santana with her and whisking both shirts into an uninteresting corner of the room, but in that time, Santana misses her more than she can explain. Then Brittany is pushing her back down again, a hand in the very center of her chest, and Santana thinks she can feel it in her lungs, her heart, her bloodstream. The blonde slides back down again, pressing against Santana as wholly as possible, mouth latching onto the opposite side of her neck, and Santana’s hand grasps her by the hair, holds her in place. It’s not a movement that feels especially within Santana’s control; she’s too busy focusing on her other hand, nails dragging painstakingly down Brittany’s long, pale back until the girl hisses in response.
With anyone else, she would want to speak, to gloat, to mark the moment; with Brittany, she wants only to feel, to press sporadic kisses against wild blonde hair, to move her hips in time with Brittany’s. She can still feel the girl’s heat directly against her own, a place as yet untouched by anyone other than Santana herself, and she groans at the sparking sensation. Brittany lifts her head, eyes rolling back into her skull, then blinks and crushes her mouth against Santana’s. They grind together again, and again, until Santana feels like she’s teetering on the edge of something grand and perfect and blinding. She’s gripping the backs of Brittany’s thighs and up, clutching at the girl’s ass in a desperate attempt to move faster and harder and closer, to build friction until they both explode. And then, just when she thinks she might be there-panting against Brittany’s open mouth, swallowing every gasp and tiny, excited curse with reckless abandon-Brittany rolls her hips to the side, thrusting a powerful leg between Santana’s and slamming forcefully up.
She comes, and it’s almost embarrassing, because they’re half-clothed and grinding like animals, Santana scrabbling and clawing at Brittany’s back while the blonde rides the leg that’s wound up between her thighs with equal fervor. It’s almost embarrassing, except Brittany’s breath is coming in sharp whines against her neck, her teeth sinking in here and there, sucking until the skin reddens and flames, and Santana can’t be embarrassed. Not with Brittany riding her so desperately, not when she can feel how wet the girl is through two layers of thin cloth, not with the sounds Brittany makes-a low growling, so completely unlike her that Santana shivers to hear it-as she urges Santana to rub harder.
It takes less time than she’d expect for Brittany to shudder against her body, and she almost has time to stop and think then, almost has time to wonder again what the hell has just passed between them, except Brittany makes that growling sound again and pulls away. She flings one leg over both of Santana’s, straddles her and pushes down with her hips; taken by surprise, Santana’s body goes hot all over, and she pushes back up, mouth dropping open to question it.
Except Brittany’s bowing her head again, kissing her again and again and again, licking at the roof of her mouth, the back of her teeth, any place she can possibly reach, like she’s trying to memorize Santana in her entirety. Santana groans, bites down on Brittany’s lip, and turns her head away, seeking air.
“I want,” she keens, and stops, unable to finish. Brittany grins, sultry and confident in a way she doesn’t remember seeing before, and Santana can’t help but think the girl looks like her. This is a Santana thing, dominating and seducing, getting the ball rolling, making things happen. Brittany has always followed where she has led, seemingly without question, and she has always loved her for it.
But now, Brittany is leading with strong hands and passionate touches, and Santana thinks she loves her even more. Especially with fingers latching onto her breasts, experimentally twisting and teasing until Santana’s back arches up off the bed. She wails into Brittany’s mouth, and then into empty air when Brittany replaces curious fingers with even more curious lips and teeth, licking and licking until Santana clutches the top of her head and pins her where she wants her, until her nipples ache in a blessed, indescribable way. She reaches down Brittany’s shoulders, drags her back up again and holds her by the chin.
Brittany’s eyes clear for a second, and something very much like anxiety slips in, like she expects Santana to scold her for everything that’s been happening in this bed. Deliberately, Santana leans up and brushes her lips against the tip of the blonde’s nose, against her mouth, against her cheekbone. Brittany grins.
“I want,” she says calmly, though her chest is heaving against Santana’s damp, sweat-soaked breasts. Santana nods, and Brittany drops down her body, sliding with an inhuman grace until she’s nearly off the bed. She guides Santana’s knees to bend, slips her hands under the Latina’s thighs, and strokes inward until she reaches the seam of the shorts. Santana drags in a shaky breath when long fingers run down, pressing for only a second before dropping lower.
"There," she half-moans when Brittany strokes along her source. She's soaking through, she knows, and from the awed expression on Brittany's face, the blonde doesn't seem to mind. In the back of her mind, Santana thinks on how she always expected this part to be awkward, nerve-wracking, trying to explain to some guy how this all works. But it's Brittany, and yeah, it's a little weird for a moment when the girl hooks her fingers into Santana's shorts and yanks them down. And yeah, it's a little bizarre when she flattens her palm against Santana, cupping through her underwear, running two fingers down the girl's slit until her eyes squeeze shut and she whimpers. And yeah, she never expected it to be like this, with Brittany reverently removing that final barrier, dropping them off the bed and staring with wide eyes at a place even Santana hasn't really looked at before.
But it's Brittany, and she's Santana, and it sucks that they've never talked about this or planned it out, or even admitted that it might be a possibility, but Brittany doesn't look scared, and Santana mostly just feels warm, and when the blonde closes her eyes and lowers her head, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right there, the Latina almost flies free of her skin. She feels Brittany smile against her as she does it a second time, kissing again and again until Santana's hands fist in golden hair and try to pull her closer. And then she feels those same lips curve, wrapping around what she knows is the highest order of nerve endings in her entire body--and she knows this mostly because every single one is humming, buzzing, flaming all over as Brittany gently sucks, applying alternating pressure. And she feels that tongue curl, stroking down into tight heat, and still that isn't what does it.
What does it is the sound Brittany makes as she laps, hands holding Santana's bucking hips. That sound, warm and wet and satisfied, makes something in the very base of who Santana is snap. She pulls hard at the girl's hair, feels the tip of her tongue actually slide inside her body, and releases the loudest moan she's ever heard from anyone.
She's shaking, and Brittany's tongue is still searching, exploring, and Santana cries out again, tugging until Brittany climbs back up her body and perches there, shorts feeling uncomfortably bulky against Santana's swollen, tired flesh. She wrenches at the last remaining articles of clothing, nearly tearing them in her madness, and the exhausted little bit of thought left over feels guilty that she's not being more gentle, the way Brittany was with her. The rest of her is side-tracked with the memory of what it felt like to explode, so she kisses Brittany hard and tries not to make too embarrassing a squeaking noise at the slightly bitter taste of what must be her, mixed in with Brittany's intoxicating flavor.
It takes all of her effort--and she suspects Brittany must be helping--but she manages to flip them both over and shift to the side, running her fingers along Brittany's ribcage. The blonde giggles, squirming, and Santana bends to sink sweet kisses into porcelain skin, pleased when Brittany stops wriggling around and starts emitting little sighs instead. She lifts her head, nudging one of Brittany's small, round breasts with her nose; the blonde inhales and grins, as if they're sharing the best secret ever.
Santana supposes that much is true.
Part of her wants to test everything, inspect every individual territory of Brittany's body--the firm muscles in her calves, the deceptive strength in her biceps, the soft skin around her bellybutton--but most of her wants to watch her scream. She kisses the girl's collarbone, licking a line down between her breasts, and runs a hand up the inside of one thigh.
Brittany yelps, fingers closing around her wrist; Santana raises her head, worried.
"What?"
Brittany shakes her head, swallows, and for the first time tonight, Santana sees the girl she met as a child: beautiful, hopeful, scared out of her mind. She bends, kisses Brittany deep and full and whole, smiling when the fingers around her skin slowly move to guide instead of halt.
Brittany is soft everywhere, it seems, and wetter even than Santana. It's impressive, especially considering this is all Santana's fault (in a manner of speaking; she supposes technically Brittany was the one who started it).
It would feel overwrought to comment on it, to blast some husky statement of the obvious down through the lamplit room, so Santana doesn't. She allows Brittany to show her where to go, where to press, and smiles when Brittany gasps and grinds up into her hand easily.
She doesn't search out the girl's entrance, desperate to plunge inside and feel everything at once. She wants it, of course--wants to feel Brittany tightening around her fingers, wants to see Brittany shatter with infinite beauty, sparkling all over with the effort of it all--but for now, it's enough to just do this. Slow, steady, tiny figure-eight patterns with fingers, with the heel of her hand, and finally with her thumb. Brittany, hand still clamped around Santana's, twists her head to the side, cheeks pinker than Santana has ever seen them, and gasps and gasps. Though no sound escapes, her lips are forming Santana's name; the Latina beams, pressing one last time and watching as Brittany's whole body reacts.
They're warm, when they fall together into an embrace, and it's just like every other sleepover now. A little more naked, perhaps, and a little muskier, but Brittany's head is still tucked beneath Santana's chin, her arm thrown across Santana's stomach, her legs wrapped around both of Santana's (she is still hot and wet, pressed teasingly against Santana's vibrating skin, and that part is new). Santana thinks she should be feeling all sorts of righteous, wild emotions right now--she just had sex--but mostly? She just feels sleepy. Sleepy, and secure, with Brittany's breathing already slowing to a comfortable, lazy pace against her neck.
She kisses the crown of the girl's head, rubbing her cheek against gold silk, and closes her eyes.