Crowd Surf Off A Cliff (9/13)
Title: Crowd Surf Off A Cliff (9/13)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany, side Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R/NC-17ish
Spoilers: AU
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Santana Lopez hates school, Lima, and those damn Cheerios--for the most part.
A/N: Title swiped from the Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton song of the same name.
This is exactly the opposite of everything she has been working towards, exactly the opposite of why she’s been kicking the shit out of her own wants and needs since first laying eyes on this girl, and truthfully, the whole thing is beginning to remind her uncomfortably of a porno she saw once-but Santana’s having one hell of a time putting a stop to it.
“Bad idea,” she mumbles, inhaling something so completely Brittany that her head spins. “Bad, bad, bad idea.”
“Bad,” Brittany agrees, craning her long neck forward until her words etch themselves lightly onto Santana’s skin. “But we’re doing this. Aren’t we?”
“No,” Santana denies unconvincingly, lips brushing the other girl’s like the caress of a ghost. “No, we are not.”
“Think we are,” Brittany breathes, barely touching her, and fuck, Santana wants so very much to die at this moment. She feels the weight of the girl’s hands hovering over her shoulders, sees the promise in blue eyes, and simultaneously knows what it is to love and hate absolutely everything.
“Think we shouldn’t,” she replies distantly, waiting, praying for footsteps to clatter on the stairs outside. The door’s unlocked, she remembers. Anyone could burst in. Anyone could save them both.
“You’re not exactly running away,” Brittany points out, and Santana really wishes the girl would refrain from using words like ‘running’, because her lips come even nearer when she says it. She swallows, watches the girl’s gaze dart from her eyes to her lips and back again.
“I am,” she insists softly, clutching her own arms so tightly, it actually feels like she’s leaving bruises behind. “In my head, I am halfway up those stairs right now.”
“Your head is a crappy place,” Brittany teases, and Santana tacks words like ‘crappy’ onto her list of ‘things Brittany’s mouth should not speak when hovering almost flush against Santana’s’. She shakes her head.
“If we do this-“
“Shut up,” Brittany pants softly against her mouth, and they’re kissing now, Santana’s lips slipping and sliding under Brittany’s assault. She whines into the other girl, digging her nails into her own skin.
“If we do this-“
“Still talking,” Brittany admonishes, leaning uncomfortably across the bench and pressing her mouth ever closer.
“I need you to listen,” Santana insists, though her lips are kissing back entirely without the input of her brain. “I need you to hear-“
“I’ve listened enough,” Brittany proclaims, moaning almost soundlessly when Santana catches her lip between curious teeth and tugs. “I’ve heard it. You’re scared. You don’t want to break me. Yada yada. It’s old, Lopez.”
Santana can’t think of anything to say to that, so she decides to stop operating on two separate planes of existence at once, instead pushing off the locker and kissing back hard. Her arms slip around Brittany’s shoulders, yanking until the blonde makes a frustrated noise and swings both legs over the bench, winding one arm around Santana’s middle and punching her right back into the wall again with a metallic clang.
“Fuck,” Santana hisses, because no matter how turned on she is, a handle to the spine is never delightful. Brittany makes an apologetic sound, followed immediately by a hungry one, nipping at her lips.
“Sorry.”
You’re going to be, Santana can’t resist thinking morosely, splaying her fingers across the back of the girl’s pristine uniform. It’s oddly delicate, for something that symbolizes so much hate and anger; only the best for Sylvester’s underlings, she supposes. If it were any other article of clothing, she might consider donning it herself.
But it is what it is, and there’s no denying that-even though Brittany seems all too keen to do so, roping Santana along for that dismal little ride.
This is such a bad idea.
She threads a hand into Brittany’s taut ponytail, tugging a few strands loose as she gropes hopefully for the black tie hidden within spun gold. “Why,” she demands after a second of yanking as gently as she can, “do you wear this stupid thing all the time, anyway?”
“Have to,” Brittany grinds out, trailing quick, wet kisses alone Santana’s jawbone. “Flogged if I don’t.”
It’s a mark of Sylvester’s evil reign that Santana doesn’t even think about questioning the reality of that claim.
“It’s stupid,” she says anyway, finally easing the tie free and running her fingers through Brittany’s hair. “It’s really fucking stupid. What’s the point?”
“Winning, I guess.” Brittany’s teeth graze hot skin seconds before her tongue follows suit, licking a blazing path to Santana’s ear. “Coach likes to win.”
“So do I,” Santana admits, groaning when blunt teeth meet her sensitive lobe. Her body tries to arch off the lockers, her mouth seeking Brittany’s skin; the blonde shoves her back, hands to hips, grinning.
“Are you winning now?” she asks playfully, biting down harder and sucking until Santana’s nails scrape her scalp desperately.
“Could go either way at this point,” the Latina manages. A low chuckle fills her ear.
“You’re about to get lucky in the locker room,” Brittany points out, pulling back and raising an eyebrow. “If this isn’t winning, you are so playing the wrong game.”
Santana growls, pushing her hips forward. She’s hoping to catch the girl off-guard, but Brittany meets her halfway, kissing her with a slow, easy patience that strikes Santana as both maddening and beautiful. Tongues brush and caress, and though Santana may not be much of a dancer-not the way Brittany is, anyway-this tango is one she knows intimately. She pulls Brittany closer, cupping the back of her head and urging her mouth to open wider, pleased when the girl gasps.
“You’re good,” the blonde observes when Santana breaks off for air.
“Not good enough, if you’re still running that mouth,” her dark-haired partner returns, smiling tensely. Brittany laughs and kisses her again and again, body molding close, breasts warm and weighty against Santana’s torso.
She feels Brittany’s hand coast under her shirt, toying against her abdomen with a child’s innocence-something she might actually put some stock in if not for the hearty way the Cheerio sucks down her throat, leaving blatant marks that will be an absolute bitch to cover up. Santana thinks she might just not bother; Quinn will shoot her some unrepentant looks of annoyance, and her mother will probably give that familiar ‘my daughter is a whore’ frown, but the fact that these marks are proof of Brittany’s place in her life-fucked up and confusing though that place is-almost makes it worth it.
As if sensing her drifting thoughts, Brittany gives a particularly voracious suckle and grins into Santana’s skin when her hips jump forward again. “Focus, stud,” she teases, running that adventurous hand up high enough to skim just below Santana’s sports bra.
“I’m focused,” Santana replies instantly, curving into the girl’s touch as it inches ever-higher, kneading her through fabric. “I’m suddenly very…very focused.”
“Awesome,” Brittany chirps, almost too sweet for what her hand is doing under Santana’s shirt. She gives the nipple a quick pinch, clearly pleased with its pebble-hard response to her ministrations. Santana catches the back of her neck, guiding pink lips back to her own.
“We could get caught, you know,” she says when they part, one hand tousling Brittany’s hair. She smiles. “I like it like this. All messy. You look sexy.”
“I’m always sexy,” Brittany bites off, squeezing with abrupt roughness. Santana groans, back bending on command. “This is coming off now,” the blonde adds as a sort of afterthought, grasping the hem of the shirt and directing it upwards. Santana moves, letting her make short work of the clothing, until she stands naked from the waist up. She shivers.
“Fuckin’ lockers.”
“Cold?” Brittany asks innocently, tracing a winding path between Santana’s heaving breasts with one finger. The Latina bares her teeth, hands clenching just under the edge of that damnable uniform top.
The banter’s fun and all, but she finds she appreciates Brittany so much more with their lips crushed together, sinking her tongue deep into the blonde’s waiting mouth. Somehow, Brittany’s shirt joins her own on the floor, and Santana finds herself hoisted up, back scratching painfully against the grating on the lockers, until her legs are wound around the blonde’s waist. She moans embarassingly loudly when Brittany’s head bows, mouth latching onto air-cooled skin, hips advancing to press Santana harder into the wall.
This is new; usually Santana is the aggressive one, calling all the shots and grinding against the women wrapped around her body. It’s new, but it’s not necessarily bad, not with Brittany’s wildly-talented lips doing that thing against her breast, drawing the skin in tight and painting sizzling circles around the bud. Santana feels her shoulders roll back, her hands fisting in the girl’s hair, taking every wave of pleasure with guttural retorts until the soaking heat running down her thighs grows too intense to ignore. Her pelvis has developed a mind of its own, as it always does during sex, canting frenziedly into Brittany, but thanks both to her position and the sweatpants she’s still wearing, it isn’t doing much good.
She presses her lips against the halo of blonde hair, tugging until Brittany’s head tilts back, eyes searching out Santana’s. “Not enough,” she pants, kissing the girl breathless. “More. Now.”
Brittany shifts her hands under the Latina’s thighs, lifting her a little higher, and rears back until her body connects with the bench. She drops into a seated position, pulling until Santana straddles her lap, and grins charmingly.
“Better?”
It would be cute, except the word is punctuated with a deft roll of her hips, and even through the weight of her sweatpants, Santana feels something. Her hands lock around Brittany’s neck, her own body responding with a hungry rhythm, and it doesn’t matter that they aren’t touching as much or as perfectly as she needs. Brittany has one hand on her hip, the other palming her cheek, her mouth fluid and wanting as she kisses Santana to the point of stupidity. It isn’t enough in the way Santana is so accustomed to, the shiver-all-over-and-scream breaking point, but it feels blissful all the same.
She loses track of time as they ride together, Brittany’s breath hitching each time Santana comes down against her. She loses track of everything-who she is, how she is, the darkness her name pins her with. She loses track of the locker room, of the absurdity that is her involvement in Glee Club, of how very much she despises McKinley and the unoriginality it stands for. Her thighs clench on either side of Brittany, her knees prying into the wood, and though the angle is awful and there is still far too much clothing involved, their kisses are hungry without being hostile, delicious in some desperate way. It’s something Santana has never known before, this feeling of utter desire without loathing, the rub of Brittany’s tongue against her own, of Brittany’s breasts against her own, of Brittany’s smile under hers.
The warm hand on her hip slides around, Brittany’s body bucking up, and Santana finds herself rising up on her knees just enough to create space for that hand to move in. Her mouth swings open at the first press of Brittany against her, burning through the sweats, cupping with light pressure.
Brittany’s eyes meet hers, uncertain for the first time. “Okay?” she asks softly, grinding her palm carefully up when Santana releases a low whine. “Good?”
Santana can only nod feverishly, riding up and down, urging the heel of the girl’s hand where it needs to go. She clutches the back of Brittany’s neck, fingers sweeping under thick waves, nails digging in, groaning when Brittany’s fingers replace her palm. The girl rubs in slow, heavy motions, each stroke a promise of something deeper and more real, and Santana’s body carries itself away without her consent.
She kisses the blonde again, reaches down, wraps slim fingers around Brittany’s wrist. Shifting, she pushes their hands down the front of her sweats, into the underwear lurking beneath, and moans huskily as Brittany curls straight inside. Bowing her back, Santana impales herself upon strong fingers, her own hand stroking her clit in sharp, fanatical motions that directly oppose the measured, deliberate pattern of Brittany’s thrusts.
She’s never been one to keep her eyes open during sex-has never particularly cared to see who’s doing the deed-but right now, it would be impossible to look away. Brittany’s eyes seem to go on forever, dark rings tinging vibrant blue. Santana gazes deep, taking every thrust and twist with rocking hips, making mad, wild sounds the likes of which she’s never heard before. She strokes herself hard, slamming down with her whole body, walls clenching convulsively, and tastes Brittany’s pleased groan as she cries out.
Brittany kisses her until the aftershocks fade away, until Santana can find the energy to slip from the Cheerio’s lap, hand easing out of her sweatpants. She kneels on the concrete ground, fully aware of how unsanitary it is (for Christ’s sake, she’s having sex in a high school locker room-how hygienically appealing could any of it be?), and runs her hands up Brittany’s legs, spreading the girl.
Blonde hair shivers, Brittany’s hand finding the top of Santana’s head and gently coaxing her down. She smiles, hooking her fingers into the material blocking her path and pulling until she’s faced with a red skirt and light curls.
She tilts her head up, peering at Brittany through hooded eyes, enjoying the heat from the hand pressing down. “Hi.”
Brittany’s lips quiver. “Hi.”
She feels words on her tongue, waiting to be released. It’s so tempting to tell the girl everything-why she pushes her away, what her family is like, what Santana is like. But the hand on her head is pushing gently, guiding her, and Santana allows the distraction to happen. It’s so much easier-so much better-to lower her mouth to Brittany’s flushed skin, to trace intricate little patterns with her tongue against swollen flesh, to loop her arms under the girl’s open legs and run one hand up firm abs. It’s so much better-so much safer-to lick and suck, feeling the weighty press of Brittany’s heels against her shoulders, hearing the throaty appreciative moans reverberating off the walls as Brittany thrusts up into her mouth. She opens her eyes, gazing up the plane that is Brittany, to see the Cheerio’s head thrown back, her lips forming unintelligible words. The hand in her hair tugs hard enough to hurt in some faraway delicious way, urging her closer; Santana bumps her nose against the girl’s clit, drags her tongue up and down and in.
Brittany’s free hand remains on the bench, steadying her body as she bends up onto the air, hips churning almost hard enough to dislodge the dark-haired girl between her knees. The ground is getting harder and colder under Santana, her legs whimpering in frustration, but Brittany is beginning to wail, thighs clamping around Santana’s head. The pain fades off, distracted by the way Brittany cups the back of the her neck under her hair, begging silently. Santana flattens her tongue, scratches her nails up the blonde’s all-too-perfect abs, and sucks greedily at the wettest, softest part of the girl. She feels Brittany explode, feels the trembling in her muscles and the release of every inch of tension she’s ever carried, and closes her eyes against a sudden sadness.
It takes a moment to work up the motivation to pull away; her mouth isn’t done, isn’t ready to leave this world behind, her ears unprepared for the idea that she will likely never hear those sounds of desperate pleasure again. She trails long, lazy licks down one of Brittany’s thighs, kisses her way slowly and serenely back up the way she came, feels pale fingers drawing shapes on the nape of her neck.
Brittany makes a low purring sound, tilting her hips to receive the open-mouthed kiss Santana leaves on slippery flesh. “Mm. Not bad, Lopez.”
Dark eyes flash, unreasonably put off by both the cavalier use of her last name and the implication behind it. “Not bad? You want to go again, Blondie?”
Though she’s joking, her entire body jolts excitedly, arousal snapping straight to her core again. Brittany smiles lazily down, fingers coasting through dark hair, tapping her toes against Santana’s upper back.
“I’m up if you are,” she says casually, bright eyes sparkling, and Santana has to bite down on a sense of extreme lust. She wants to say no-needs to say no-because this cannot be a thing. Sex isn’t dating, it’s true (hell, it doesn’t even have to be friendship; she’s never before had sex with someone she didn’t in some way look down on or deplore), but that doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. She should say no, extricate herself from the dancer-strong legs around her, pull her sports bra and shirt back on and go upstairs. She should go to class.
But Brittany’s sitting up there in her red bra and skirt, expression so open and hopeful that Santana thinks it’s a wonder they haven’t both lost their minds from this whole thing. Maybe they have; maybe that’s what this is. She’s concerned, she can’t deny it, but Brittany is tracing what she thinks might be a duck into the back of her neck, and she’s smiling, and Santana has never before felt quite this wrecked.
She crawls up, back into the blonde’s lap, hooking her fingers under the straps of the girl’s bra and pulling her close. It’s bad, she thinks as her mouth descends feverishly, and it’s wrong, and Quinn is going to be so confused when this comes to light, but she can’t help it.
And anyway, what’s one more time?
Brittany’s tongue vibrates against the roof of her mouth, and suddenly Santana isn’t thinking so much anymore.
[Part 10]
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany, side Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R/NC-17ish
Spoilers: AU
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Santana Lopez hates school, Lima, and those damn Cheerios--for the most part.
A/N: Title swiped from the Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton song of the same name.
This is exactly the opposite of everything she has been working towards, exactly the opposite of why she’s been kicking the shit out of her own wants and needs since first laying eyes on this girl, and truthfully, the whole thing is beginning to remind her uncomfortably of a porno she saw once-but Santana’s having one hell of a time putting a stop to it.
“Bad idea,” she mumbles, inhaling something so completely Brittany that her head spins. “Bad, bad, bad idea.”
“Bad,” Brittany agrees, craning her long neck forward until her words etch themselves lightly onto Santana’s skin. “But we’re doing this. Aren’t we?”
“No,” Santana denies unconvincingly, lips brushing the other girl’s like the caress of a ghost. “No, we are not.”
“Think we are,” Brittany breathes, barely touching her, and fuck, Santana wants so very much to die at this moment. She feels the weight of the girl’s hands hovering over her shoulders, sees the promise in blue eyes, and simultaneously knows what it is to love and hate absolutely everything.
“Think we shouldn’t,” she replies distantly, waiting, praying for footsteps to clatter on the stairs outside. The door’s unlocked, she remembers. Anyone could burst in. Anyone could save them both.
“You’re not exactly running away,” Brittany points out, and Santana really wishes the girl would refrain from using words like ‘running’, because her lips come even nearer when she says it. She swallows, watches the girl’s gaze dart from her eyes to her lips and back again.
“I am,” she insists softly, clutching her own arms so tightly, it actually feels like she’s leaving bruises behind. “In my head, I am halfway up those stairs right now.”
“Your head is a crappy place,” Brittany teases, and Santana tacks words like ‘crappy’ onto her list of ‘things Brittany’s mouth should not speak when hovering almost flush against Santana’s’. She shakes her head.
“If we do this-“
“Shut up,” Brittany pants softly against her mouth, and they’re kissing now, Santana’s lips slipping and sliding under Brittany’s assault. She whines into the other girl, digging her nails into her own skin.
“If we do this-“
“Still talking,” Brittany admonishes, leaning uncomfortably across the bench and pressing her mouth ever closer.
“I need you to listen,” Santana insists, though her lips are kissing back entirely without the input of her brain. “I need you to hear-“
“I’ve listened enough,” Brittany proclaims, moaning almost soundlessly when Santana catches her lip between curious teeth and tugs. “I’ve heard it. You’re scared. You don’t want to break me. Yada yada. It’s old, Lopez.”
Santana can’t think of anything to say to that, so she decides to stop operating on two separate planes of existence at once, instead pushing off the locker and kissing back hard. Her arms slip around Brittany’s shoulders, yanking until the blonde makes a frustrated noise and swings both legs over the bench, winding one arm around Santana’s middle and punching her right back into the wall again with a metallic clang.
“Fuck,” Santana hisses, because no matter how turned on she is, a handle to the spine is never delightful. Brittany makes an apologetic sound, followed immediately by a hungry one, nipping at her lips.
“Sorry.”
You’re going to be, Santana can’t resist thinking morosely, splaying her fingers across the back of the girl’s pristine uniform. It’s oddly delicate, for something that symbolizes so much hate and anger; only the best for Sylvester’s underlings, she supposes. If it were any other article of clothing, she might consider donning it herself.
But it is what it is, and there’s no denying that-even though Brittany seems all too keen to do so, roping Santana along for that dismal little ride.
This is such a bad idea.
She threads a hand into Brittany’s taut ponytail, tugging a few strands loose as she gropes hopefully for the black tie hidden within spun gold. “Why,” she demands after a second of yanking as gently as she can, “do you wear this stupid thing all the time, anyway?”
“Have to,” Brittany grinds out, trailing quick, wet kisses alone Santana’s jawbone. “Flogged if I don’t.”
It’s a mark of Sylvester’s evil reign that Santana doesn’t even think about questioning the reality of that claim.
“It’s stupid,” she says anyway, finally easing the tie free and running her fingers through Brittany’s hair. “It’s really fucking stupid. What’s the point?”
“Winning, I guess.” Brittany’s teeth graze hot skin seconds before her tongue follows suit, licking a blazing path to Santana’s ear. “Coach likes to win.”
“So do I,” Santana admits, groaning when blunt teeth meet her sensitive lobe. Her body tries to arch off the lockers, her mouth seeking Brittany’s skin; the blonde shoves her back, hands to hips, grinning.
“Are you winning now?” she asks playfully, biting down harder and sucking until Santana’s nails scrape her scalp desperately.
“Could go either way at this point,” the Latina manages. A low chuckle fills her ear.
“You’re about to get lucky in the locker room,” Brittany points out, pulling back and raising an eyebrow. “If this isn’t winning, you are so playing the wrong game.”
Santana growls, pushing her hips forward. She’s hoping to catch the girl off-guard, but Brittany meets her halfway, kissing her with a slow, easy patience that strikes Santana as both maddening and beautiful. Tongues brush and caress, and though Santana may not be much of a dancer-not the way Brittany is, anyway-this tango is one she knows intimately. She pulls Brittany closer, cupping the back of her head and urging her mouth to open wider, pleased when the girl gasps.
“You’re good,” the blonde observes when Santana breaks off for air.
“Not good enough, if you’re still running that mouth,” her dark-haired partner returns, smiling tensely. Brittany laughs and kisses her again and again, body molding close, breasts warm and weighty against Santana’s torso.
She feels Brittany’s hand coast under her shirt, toying against her abdomen with a child’s innocence-something she might actually put some stock in if not for the hearty way the Cheerio sucks down her throat, leaving blatant marks that will be an absolute bitch to cover up. Santana thinks she might just not bother; Quinn will shoot her some unrepentant looks of annoyance, and her mother will probably give that familiar ‘my daughter is a whore’ frown, but the fact that these marks are proof of Brittany’s place in her life-fucked up and confusing though that place is-almost makes it worth it.
As if sensing her drifting thoughts, Brittany gives a particularly voracious suckle and grins into Santana’s skin when her hips jump forward again. “Focus, stud,” she teases, running that adventurous hand up high enough to skim just below Santana’s sports bra.
“I’m focused,” Santana replies instantly, curving into the girl’s touch as it inches ever-higher, kneading her through fabric. “I’m suddenly very…very focused.”
“Awesome,” Brittany chirps, almost too sweet for what her hand is doing under Santana’s shirt. She gives the nipple a quick pinch, clearly pleased with its pebble-hard response to her ministrations. Santana catches the back of her neck, guiding pink lips back to her own.
“We could get caught, you know,” she says when they part, one hand tousling Brittany’s hair. She smiles. “I like it like this. All messy. You look sexy.”
“I’m always sexy,” Brittany bites off, squeezing with abrupt roughness. Santana groans, back bending on command. “This is coming off now,” the blonde adds as a sort of afterthought, grasping the hem of the shirt and directing it upwards. Santana moves, letting her make short work of the clothing, until she stands naked from the waist up. She shivers.
“Fuckin’ lockers.”
“Cold?” Brittany asks innocently, tracing a winding path between Santana’s heaving breasts with one finger. The Latina bares her teeth, hands clenching just under the edge of that damnable uniform top.
The banter’s fun and all, but she finds she appreciates Brittany so much more with their lips crushed together, sinking her tongue deep into the blonde’s waiting mouth. Somehow, Brittany’s shirt joins her own on the floor, and Santana finds herself hoisted up, back scratching painfully against the grating on the lockers, until her legs are wound around the blonde’s waist. She moans embarassingly loudly when Brittany’s head bows, mouth latching onto air-cooled skin, hips advancing to press Santana harder into the wall.
This is new; usually Santana is the aggressive one, calling all the shots and grinding against the women wrapped around her body. It’s new, but it’s not necessarily bad, not with Brittany’s wildly-talented lips doing that thing against her breast, drawing the skin in tight and painting sizzling circles around the bud. Santana feels her shoulders roll back, her hands fisting in the girl’s hair, taking every wave of pleasure with guttural retorts until the soaking heat running down her thighs grows too intense to ignore. Her pelvis has developed a mind of its own, as it always does during sex, canting frenziedly into Brittany, but thanks both to her position and the sweatpants she’s still wearing, it isn’t doing much good.
She presses her lips against the halo of blonde hair, tugging until Brittany’s head tilts back, eyes searching out Santana’s. “Not enough,” she pants, kissing the girl breathless. “More. Now.”
Brittany shifts her hands under the Latina’s thighs, lifting her a little higher, and rears back until her body connects with the bench. She drops into a seated position, pulling until Santana straddles her lap, and grins charmingly.
“Better?”
It would be cute, except the word is punctuated with a deft roll of her hips, and even through the weight of her sweatpants, Santana feels something. Her hands lock around Brittany’s neck, her own body responding with a hungry rhythm, and it doesn’t matter that they aren’t touching as much or as perfectly as she needs. Brittany has one hand on her hip, the other palming her cheek, her mouth fluid and wanting as she kisses Santana to the point of stupidity. It isn’t enough in the way Santana is so accustomed to, the shiver-all-over-and-scream breaking point, but it feels blissful all the same.
She loses track of time as they ride together, Brittany’s breath hitching each time Santana comes down against her. She loses track of everything-who she is, how she is, the darkness her name pins her with. She loses track of the locker room, of the absurdity that is her involvement in Glee Club, of how very much she despises McKinley and the unoriginality it stands for. Her thighs clench on either side of Brittany, her knees prying into the wood, and though the angle is awful and there is still far too much clothing involved, their kisses are hungry without being hostile, delicious in some desperate way. It’s something Santana has never known before, this feeling of utter desire without loathing, the rub of Brittany’s tongue against her own, of Brittany’s breasts against her own, of Brittany’s smile under hers.
The warm hand on her hip slides around, Brittany’s body bucking up, and Santana finds herself rising up on her knees just enough to create space for that hand to move in. Her mouth swings open at the first press of Brittany against her, burning through the sweats, cupping with light pressure.
Brittany’s eyes meet hers, uncertain for the first time. “Okay?” she asks softly, grinding her palm carefully up when Santana releases a low whine. “Good?”
Santana can only nod feverishly, riding up and down, urging the heel of the girl’s hand where it needs to go. She clutches the back of Brittany’s neck, fingers sweeping under thick waves, nails digging in, groaning when Brittany’s fingers replace her palm. The girl rubs in slow, heavy motions, each stroke a promise of something deeper and more real, and Santana’s body carries itself away without her consent.
She kisses the blonde again, reaches down, wraps slim fingers around Brittany’s wrist. Shifting, she pushes their hands down the front of her sweats, into the underwear lurking beneath, and moans huskily as Brittany curls straight inside. Bowing her back, Santana impales herself upon strong fingers, her own hand stroking her clit in sharp, fanatical motions that directly oppose the measured, deliberate pattern of Brittany’s thrusts.
She’s never been one to keep her eyes open during sex-has never particularly cared to see who’s doing the deed-but right now, it would be impossible to look away. Brittany’s eyes seem to go on forever, dark rings tinging vibrant blue. Santana gazes deep, taking every thrust and twist with rocking hips, making mad, wild sounds the likes of which she’s never heard before. She strokes herself hard, slamming down with her whole body, walls clenching convulsively, and tastes Brittany’s pleased groan as she cries out.
Brittany kisses her until the aftershocks fade away, until Santana can find the energy to slip from the Cheerio’s lap, hand easing out of her sweatpants. She kneels on the concrete ground, fully aware of how unsanitary it is (for Christ’s sake, she’s having sex in a high school locker room-how hygienically appealing could any of it be?), and runs her hands up Brittany’s legs, spreading the girl.
Blonde hair shivers, Brittany’s hand finding the top of Santana’s head and gently coaxing her down. She smiles, hooking her fingers into the material blocking her path and pulling until she’s faced with a red skirt and light curls.
She tilts her head up, peering at Brittany through hooded eyes, enjoying the heat from the hand pressing down. “Hi.”
Brittany’s lips quiver. “Hi.”
She feels words on her tongue, waiting to be released. It’s so tempting to tell the girl everything-why she pushes her away, what her family is like, what Santana is like. But the hand on her head is pushing gently, guiding her, and Santana allows the distraction to happen. It’s so much easier-so much better-to lower her mouth to Brittany’s flushed skin, to trace intricate little patterns with her tongue against swollen flesh, to loop her arms under the girl’s open legs and run one hand up firm abs. It’s so much better-so much safer-to lick and suck, feeling the weighty press of Brittany’s heels against her shoulders, hearing the throaty appreciative moans reverberating off the walls as Brittany thrusts up into her mouth. She opens her eyes, gazing up the plane that is Brittany, to see the Cheerio’s head thrown back, her lips forming unintelligible words. The hand in her hair tugs hard enough to hurt in some faraway delicious way, urging her closer; Santana bumps her nose against the girl’s clit, drags her tongue up and down and in.
Brittany’s free hand remains on the bench, steadying her body as she bends up onto the air, hips churning almost hard enough to dislodge the dark-haired girl between her knees. The ground is getting harder and colder under Santana, her legs whimpering in frustration, but Brittany is beginning to wail, thighs clamping around Santana’s head. The pain fades off, distracted by the way Brittany cups the back of the her neck under her hair, begging silently. Santana flattens her tongue, scratches her nails up the blonde’s all-too-perfect abs, and sucks greedily at the wettest, softest part of the girl. She feels Brittany explode, feels the trembling in her muscles and the release of every inch of tension she’s ever carried, and closes her eyes against a sudden sadness.
It takes a moment to work up the motivation to pull away; her mouth isn’t done, isn’t ready to leave this world behind, her ears unprepared for the idea that she will likely never hear those sounds of desperate pleasure again. She trails long, lazy licks down one of Brittany’s thighs, kisses her way slowly and serenely back up the way she came, feels pale fingers drawing shapes on the nape of her neck.
Brittany makes a low purring sound, tilting her hips to receive the open-mouthed kiss Santana leaves on slippery flesh. “Mm. Not bad, Lopez.”
Dark eyes flash, unreasonably put off by both the cavalier use of her last name and the implication behind it. “Not bad? You want to go again, Blondie?”
Though she’s joking, her entire body jolts excitedly, arousal snapping straight to her core again. Brittany smiles lazily down, fingers coasting through dark hair, tapping her toes against Santana’s upper back.
“I’m up if you are,” she says casually, bright eyes sparkling, and Santana has to bite down on a sense of extreme lust. She wants to say no-needs to say no-because this cannot be a thing. Sex isn’t dating, it’s true (hell, it doesn’t even have to be friendship; she’s never before had sex with someone she didn’t in some way look down on or deplore), but that doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. She should say no, extricate herself from the dancer-strong legs around her, pull her sports bra and shirt back on and go upstairs. She should go to class.
But Brittany’s sitting up there in her red bra and skirt, expression so open and hopeful that Santana thinks it’s a wonder they haven’t both lost their minds from this whole thing. Maybe they have; maybe that’s what this is. She’s concerned, she can’t deny it, but Brittany is tracing what she thinks might be a duck into the back of her neck, and she’s smiling, and Santana has never before felt quite this wrecked.
She crawls up, back into the blonde’s lap, hooking her fingers under the straps of the girl’s bra and pulling her close. It’s bad, she thinks as her mouth descends feverishly, and it’s wrong, and Quinn is going to be so confused when this comes to light, but she can’t help it.
And anyway, what’s one more time?
Brittany’s tongue vibrates against the roof of her mouth, and suddenly Santana isn’t thinking so much anymore.
[Part 10]