|Can You Feel the Gravity?
Author: NegativeSpaces PM
In the halls of Lima, fame and fortune are sacred words. Santana knows this all too well, and realizes her own key could lie in new coach and dancer Brittany Pierce. She thinks it'll be easy, but sometimes fate has other plans. Brittana, AU, G!P.Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Drama - Brittany P. & Santana L. - Chapters: 3 - Words: 16,327 - Reviews: 46 - Favs: 57 - Follows: 200 - Updated: 02-25-12 - Published: 01-27-12 - id: 7778861
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Good god this chapter is long. Sorry for my sporadic updating times, but I believe you'll find that it's worth the wait. As said previously, I still need a beta if anybody is willing.
Regardless, enjoy how Santana gets her first taste of Brittany's many surprises.
It's to an overexcited text that Brittany wakes the next week. Sun filters in through her flimsy blinds and paints dreams on the backs of her eyelids, whispers about a future and a garden with another indistinct figure. Their hands touch upon hers and she smiles, content with the fingers playing patterns against her porcelain skin even as her smile is like the warmth of the sun-
"Ow." She mumbles, lifting her eyes open a fraction and instantly regretting it. The dream shatters into a million fragments, the silken secrets disappearing from under her supple palms to be replaced by sheets of sandpaper in comparison. Her limbs are hopelessly tangled in the navy blankets, braid snaking its way along the curve of her back to rest haphazardly on the bed beside her. Sleepy blue peers out from under heavy lashes, still clinging to those last vestiges of nirvana. One hand flails out for the offending beep, clamping her lids firmly shut again only to lever one eye open and scan the horribly bright text against the dim room's background. Everything is fuzzy - she mashes one heel against her skull to clear away the haze and try again.
u wanna come 2 glee club 2day? - Curly
Curly? Who the hell is- oh, right.
"Tubbs, did you change the contacts on my phone again?" Her throat is scratchy with exhaustion, hearing only a muffled meow in response. She grumbles softly before getting up, eyes flicking down to the straining erection trying to push its way out of her small boxer shorts. Upon gentle contact with the shaft another dream sears its way into her memory, of dark skin and a sultry laugh with a face evading the clutches of her grasp. She shudders at the feeling of ghostly nails trailing along her spine, sneaking one hand down the band of her underwear, bottom lip taken between her teeth as her feet twitch in the air. Everything is slowly lighting on fire, the haze of sleep burned away by the soft arousal quickly hurtling speed - she is the thunderstorm that gathers slowly, raging for hours with its own pulse replacing your own.
Her fingers dance along the shaft but she has no time for foreplay - a sharp yank and her breath catches in her throat. Brittany spreads her legs lewdly until she's bared herself in the mirror to see. Her eyes hungrily watch the rapid pump of her fist along her length, a flush creeping up her pale chest and staining the curve of her jaw. The image blurs when her head tilts back and she closes her eyes, chasing the dream of flashing abs and smooth hair and charcoal eyes.
Time seems to fly by quickly and not at all, the only sound in the room the frantic slapping of flesh upon flesh. Brittany is close - she can feel it in her bones, a tremble she aches and begs to quell, never quite there but always upon the edge.
When she opens up from her daydream, Santana smirks down at her from vivid imagination.
"O-oh fu-" She lets out a choked cry and doesn't have time to reach for a tissue, cock already jumping to spray thick spurts of come into her enclosed fist. It seeps through her fingers and coats her palm, lodging under her nails even as she milks the last aftershocks from her long appendage. Blush now staining the plateaus of her face she chances a glance at the clock.
If she wasn't fucking late before.
Brittany opts for a crushingly tight pair of compression shorts and skintight jeans to match, never used to how, when put on, all evidence simply disappears. Of course, any tighter and she'll lose blood flow to her dick, but it's a price she's more than willing to pay.
Leaving her braid intact she rushes out the door, grinning sheepishly at a lounging Lord Tubbington II as she passes. It's become a sort of ritual to always be those five minutes late, but Figgins is so happy that Sue is gone - and with it her potential for amazing blackmail - that she could probably get away with doing anything at the school. (Or anyone, but she so doesn't need to go there in these jeans.)
Almost immediately upon arriving she's whisked away by Emma - she's nervously spouting something off about the Cheerios and rates of insanity amongst young cheerleaders that Coach Sue had taught over the years. More like rate of bitchiness, she muses, watching Quinn twist her arm in a perfect flick as the slushie flies out of the cup and splatters on two figures in front of her. The boy - his mouth was pretty in the way all fragile things were pretty, cherry red from the slushie and hours of nervous nibbling - had managed to get his book up in front of his face, shielding him from the worst of the damage. He almost glided across the floor before being rudely interrupted, slowly blinking whirlwind eyes that shift rapid colours like he didn't know who he wanted to be. Brittany watches in curiosity as he simply shakes back his immaculately styled hair, glancing at his companion; who, by her facial expressions, is having a much harder time keeping her composure.
She furiously wipes the gunk from her eyes though her hair drips it hopelessly across her browning skin. Her little skirt is ruined from the deep blue as it creates gentle swirls on the tiles below her. Quinn looks at her impassively though there's a flicker of a smirk crawling along her lips, smug in the ways that Brittany was never able to be. Carefully excusing herself from Emma, she shoulders her way out of the counsellor's office.
Upon closer inspection the boy wasn't simply stiff, he was rigid.
(Brittany saw the sneaking bruises hidden under his collar, the way his eyes scanned the hallways for any type of threat, the way he curled into himself until his ribs could be stroking bony fingers down the inside of his spine. His lips split to utter a scathing retort that had Quinn's eyes flashing. She saw it all the way nobody else did, and as she made eye contact with him, he knew she saw it too.)
"Q, what are you doing?" She keeps her voice and expression neutral but the furrow of her brow gives her away. Quinn immediately turns, dropping the cup low as if to hide the evidence that's already clear as day. "Oh, um. Hi, Coach." The younger blonde mutters nervously. The halls are silent, nothing but the soft drip of the slushie sliding off skin penetrates their bubble.
Brittany levels an unimpressed eyebrow in her direction and watches her try not to wilt. Somewhere out of the corner of her eye, Porcelain purses his lips as if impressed. It's a first.
"It's a welcoming act to McKinley. All the freshmen go through it. I know it doesn't look very nice, but it's how the school works." Quinn is flawless in execution - eyes wide, smile demure, posture straight. If Brittany didn't hear the scoff sound, loud and agitated, she'd be inclined to believe her.
Also, the fact that the tradition of slushie throwing existed five years ago, and it was nowhere near friendly and welcoming.
"I'm going to stop you right there," she starts, voice level. "because that's not how things are going to be around here. Coach Sylvester might not have cared - and I admit, I've been on the giving end of one or two when I was here a few years ago - but I do. I'm not going to throw you into detention because the teachers at this school obviously don't know how to do their own damn jobs,"
A sharp intake of breath from the collective group. Brittany's eyes are like slate as she assess and calculates and chips away bit by bit. "so you're going to be looking forward to extra time on the field." She tries not to grin at Quinn's look of abject disappointment, but it's proving too difficult. "Now get to class. You're skipping as it is."
A mumbled "yes, Coach" before the squeak of sneakers fade in and out of their hearing.
They stand in silence for a moment, watching her go. Porcelain turns to look at her, baby-bird bones shifting until his almost-transperancy as he sizes her up with a wary but hopeful gaze. She finds herself wanting to lock him up in a shelf to keep him safe from harm with his big eyes and bigger mouth.
"That was impressive."
She shrugs softly, her dislike of conflict seeping down to her roots and lingering with the inherent need to get away from the frozen puddle and eyes like ocean storms. "Not really. This happen often?" His expression says all she needs to know, and Brittany sighs.
"It's hard at this school. I thought it would be different once I got here, but it's just like a suped up version of middle school. Bigger bullies, bigger dreams, bigger problems."
Her fingers tug at her braid - nervous habit. Something she never seems to shake no matter how many people watch her create moving masterpieces. "I'll talk to them," she murmurs, noting how the girl hasn't even taken notice of her, furiously trying to claw the bits of ice from her hair. "no telling of how it'll do, but I'll try. Go get cleaned up and say you were with me."
They turn to leave, but Porcelain looks back briefly, silhouette willow-thin against the soft lighting framing his boyish face. "Thanks."
As soon as the bell rings, she's flanked by Mr. Schue, babbling excitedly about the club. She furrows her brows but attempts to listen, genuinely interested about meeting the kids. It's been a long time since she's been in the choir room. Though she's toured with countless people, the favourite stage she's ever touched was in New York when they were handed that first place trophy.
"They're such good kids," he was saying, gesticulating rapidly with his hands, fingers twitching and palms sliding against each other. It's almost a dance, their story he's trying to weave in crude motions that won't ever do them justice. "A bit on the wild side, but you knew about that, didn't you?" He still remembers the afterparty of the National's win, and Brittany swears her head pangs with phantom sympathy. She was sick for days. "Just... don't be deterred by Rachel. She's loud and extremely bossy."
The blonde arches an eyebrow, lips curling into a smirk that lowers her eyebrows and highlights her cheekbones. "I had to deal with Madonna when we were rehearsing for her big tour. Do you really think a couple of students will throw me?"
He doesn't have an answer (and if she's to be perfectly honest, the doubt on his face plants own in her mind) but she sweeps into the familiar room with all the grace she's learned over the years, eyes travelling to where the chairs are more worn and there are a few extra trophies lining the shelves. She spots her own and grins, the polished reflection beaming back at her. Brittany pointedly ignores all the stares drilling into her skull and trails her fingers along the piano, almost surprised at Brad still sitting there. They share a small smile and she ducks her head in greeting, turning only as Mr. Schue walks in. The place smells like paper and teenagers and home, something about it that settles neatly in the curl of her spine and blankets her in contentment. She's finally back where she belongs.
"Hey guys! I'm sorry I'm late. Before we start, I'd like to introduce you to our new addition. This is Brittany Pierce, and she's-"
"Mr. Schue, is she here to join the club?" Asks the short brunette from earlier, seemingly oblivious to the fact they've already met. "She seems a bit... old. Is she here for a victory lap?" Brittany's eyes narrow in irritation and she holds up a hand to silence the older teacher.
"No, actually." She comes close to snapping. Her eyes roam and meet the boy from earlier, an encouraging smile painted on his face. "I'm the new coach of the Cheerios. I was Head Cheerio along with Glee Club five years ago, and Mr. Schue asked me to pop up. And I'm only twenty two, thanks."
Movement from the front. "Hold up," says a black girl, her lips split into an easy smile. Brittany finds herself immediately taking to her. "you were in both? That's some crazy talk right there. Them Cheerios wouldn't dream of setting foot near us."
Murmurs of consent from the figures around them. Brittany finds it appalling that Glee Club has fallen so far out of favour in the years she'd been gone - a quick glance at her old teacher simply confirms her thoughts. From the back Porcelain speaks up - high and lilting with a touch of weariness that makes him seem much older than he is. "You never know. From what I've heard it's only recently the cheerleaders have really gone nuts. Coach Sylvester stopped reigning them in and they took advantage of that." Brittany stores that piece of information away for later interrogation, but Mr. Schuester interrupts before anybody else can question her prowess.
"Guys, I'll have you know that Ms. Pierce has been quite successful out in New York. She's toured with Beyonce, Shakira, Black Eyed Peas... even Lady Gaga, right?" She grins slightly, widening at the array of gasps around the room. "That's right. The queen herself."
They all snicker to each other, and she takes the time to notice how they all weave in and out like a conscious being. Hands brush and legs touch and words overlap like the meaningless waves on the shore, a soothing rhythm flowing together as they laugh amongst themselves. This is the Glee Club she grew up with, a cohesive mass of teenagers so in tune with each other that expressions and explanations weren't needed to get their point across. Without disturbing them she wanders over to the band, sending a quick smile and a few fluttered eyelashes. Within seconds, they're picking up their instruments.
She sets herself up on the floor, grimaces as she notices, once again, the uncomfortable pressure in the crotch of her jeans. No splits for her this time.
"So you're a Glee Club." She offers, shaking out her arms. Multiple confused sets of heads turn to her, voices dying out as she pulls at her muscles and lengthens like a savage feline preparing to pounce. Her cat-like eyes flash in the lights, turning a brilliant blue before retreating back. "You walk the walk, but can you talk the talk?" A slow beat starts out on the drum and she waits, torso popping softly with the rhythm but nothing more. At their faces she arches an eyebrow.
It only takes a few seconds before the black girl - Mercedes, she's learned - throws her hands up. "Like hell we ain't gonna defend ourselves. Name it, Coach."
"Ring the Alarm." They grin at each other before sharp clapping begins to filter through the room, drum starting to take on a certain rhythm.
"Ring the alarm
I been through this too long
But I'll be damned if I see another chick on your arm
Won't you ring the alarm
I been through this too long
But I'll be damned if I see another chick on your arm!"
Brittany puts her hands down on the piano, popping her legs and whipping once to face them as the song starts. Her braid flies about her face as her palms glide across smooth skin, dipping down to shake her ass to the hollers behind her. This is her element, where everything but the beat and Mercedes' surprisingly commanding voice just filters out. She's a puppet on strings, going down on one knee to grind her hips forward and spring up into a high kick while she stalks forward with flames licking in her gaze. Some are simply watching with eyes wide open - Porcelain shimmies in his seat, and the tall Asian is doing a series of pop n' lock moves that catch her attention.
"She gon' be rockin' chinchilla coats
If I let you go
Get in the house off the coast
If I let you go
She gon' take everything I own
If I let you go
I can't let you go, damn if I let you go"
Her arms shoot out like she's dragging herself forward; legs wide set, she goes low again, thrusts her hips almost violently before jumping up to shuffle to her right, feet gliding across the tile. Brittany's muscles ripple as her legs crouch and extend, bringing them back to stomp on the ground even as her arms bend at the elbows and hit her chest twice. She ducks and weaves, wrists clasped behind her back when her shoulders jerk forward. The power in Mercedes' voice increases tenfold - she can feel it reverberating from her chest like all true things do, straight from the soul and out of her lips. One finger crooks and beckons to Dancing Asian. He doesn't even hesitate before flying to her side.
Together they go through surprisingly fast steps, pleased at how he's capable to keep up. Together they storm to the front, arms flying out as they grasp their heads, jerking this way and that before leaping up into the air with a crude spin. She pushes him and he falls away, rolling gracefully on the ground to flow back up like a raging river. Brittany doesn't let up - pushing, punching, kicking. He has that dancer's intuition and knows where she's going to land, blocking and catching and throwing to compensate for her violence.
Her chest pops and the vibration echoes to him, reigning him back beside her.
"Tell me how should I feel
When I know what I know
And my female intuition tellin me you a dog
People told me 'bout the flames
I couldn't see through the smoke
When I need answers, accusations
What you mean you gon choke"
He drops to his knees and Brittany tugs the scarf she'd been wearing taut around his neck - his fingers flail to it even as she dances above him. Nothing's choreographed (the best ones never are) but the way her muscles move in sync make it seem that way. Sweat shines on her skin but they all watch the two with rapt attention, backing the singer up when needed. Some in the hallway have slowed to stare at the beautiful blonde and her partner, spinning back up from his position on the floor to plant his palms over her abdomen and shove. She goes flying back but rolls once she hits the ground, catching the flicker of sorry over his face with a shrug.
"You can't stay, you gotta go
Ain't no other chick spendin' your dough
This is taking a toll, the way the story unfolds
Not the picture perfect movie everyone would've saw"
Not to be outdone, the blonde runs her hands up her body, fingers catching her shirt to reveal a teasing amount of skin before going into a brutal series of locking with him breezing around her frame. Hair stained and slick, she reaches out for his shoulders and he obliges, becoming a steady pillar when she rears up and scissors her legs in the air. Thanks to the uncomfortable twinge in her groin she doesn't go as high as she wants to, but the effect is achieved regardless when they hoot and cheer. He grins even as she uses her momentum to spin him towards her - for his defense, he takes the roll reversal in stride. They stalk towards the hallway for a moment before Brittany shoves hard at his chest - he collapses in on himself where she shuts the door with a solid thunk.
A moment of stunned silence before the choir room erupts in applause. Brittany wipes at her face with a large grin, letting in the Asian whose name she learns to be Mike. Thanking him and promising another duet, she spins to the kids. Her whole body thrums and flushes in the way only dancing makes her tingle, from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair, the rush that never ceases no matter how many times she does it. It's what defines her; every dip of her spine or brush of her hand is its own form.
"And that, boys and girls, is how it's done!"
The hallway is bright and painfully hot. Brittany's skin slicks; even after stepping in from the outside, the warmth here is heavier. It suffocates her with its girth.
There is a gentle pounding under her feet - a slow rhythm. For a moment she believes it to be the heartbeat of the earth, humming to her in this moment of serenity. She halts and shuffles her feet along the tile, ears straining for the sound. It's all silent save for the hypnotizing bass that reminds her of countless hours under thousands of different lights.
Like a siren's song, she follows.
Gradually, other things are made known to her. The quiet rustle of a snare drum and the twang of a guitar. A singer's voice sliding smoothly over indecipherable notes, cool and calming against the unbearable heat that's taken the now deserted school. She pulls her braid from her neck and creeps forward, feet flying over the hard floor with a quiet hush.
There's a figure in the training room, body taut and stiff as she holds herself up over a metal bar. Sweat runs in rivulets and stains her ebony hair but her palms don't slide, covered in chalk and white from strain. Her handstand is straight and true, but Brittany watches as she manages to curl in on herself until her feet hang over her vision.
(With all things, Santana lures her most when she doesn't try. In this moment, there's no mask holding her expressions. Simply the grimace of burning muscles and determination to do better.
She glides silently into the room, sparing a short glance at the radio that croons to her. The booming is stronger now, shaking up to her knees and settling in her bones. Santana's hand goes to lift herself up to the next bar - Brittany sees frustration painted on her face when she's incapable of bringing herself up to the heights she needs. (Just like every kid in this godforsaken town.)
"Shift your weight further." Santana wobbles in surprise and the blonde rushes to catch her. The skin of her calves is sticky but silky smooth under her palms, warm like sunkissed honey. She feels powerful muscles shift under her long fingers, trembling slightly from exertion. Beautiful in every way.
"Sorry, Coach," she mumbles, voice deep and dark and catching. Her shirt rides up and skirt falls away, so deliciously prone for Brittany's eyes to devour. "Took me by surprise."
Brittany grins, adjusting her hold. Her nails brush along the inside of her knees and the shiver it elicits prompts her to repeat the action. If possible, the buzzing of the darker girl's skin increases to a steady hum. "I do that to people. What are you trying to do? School's way out."
She doesn't answer, simply shuffling her weight over to one side and moving her arms - Brittany smirks as the pads of her fingers start to burn patterns into her thighs and her biceps shudder in return. Santana rocks back and forth until she begins to straighten out again, prompting one hand to splay on the plains of her abdomen. A sharp intake of breath as her nails rest lightly on the waistband of her Cheerios skirts; the rest of her inhale is drowned out by a swell in the music. Brittany presses hard, feels the twitching muscles play against her palm. She absently wonders what they'd feel like free of confining cotton.
"Quinn's not the only one who has tricks up her sleeve." Santana grunts, trying again to reach for the bar in front of her. She is breathless and breathtaking - the scent of sweat and chalk mixes in with cinnamon and something else Brittany can't decipher. She traces the strength of her cheekbones and the starkness of her muscles, beckoning her forward though they're already pressed so close together. There's a flash of a smirk on the younger girl's face, disappearing once Brittany presses a shoulder dangerously close to her core and wraps a long arm around her waist.
"Lift yourself up," Brittany murmurs, sweet scent of her breath brushing against Santana's exposed skin. "I've got you. You won't fall." A shaky hand reaches up before securing the bar above her, fingers now slippery with sweat. Her spine slithers even as her other hand pushes off, catching the metal with a muffled hiss of victory. She stands tall, proud; Brittany watches her eyes gleam with a soft smile even as she lets her down.
Right side up, Santana's even more striking. Her face is flushed from exertion but she glows from every nerve, sticky with sweat and damp hair turning into careful waves where the ponytail has failed. She wipes a minutely trembling hand over her brow and gives a silent smile in thanks (no teeth this time, just firm lips and indents in her caramel cheeks) as her coach hands over a water bottle. Her throat shudders when she swallows, rivulets of water slipping across her jaw from when the suction of her mouth opens to pull in oxygen. Brittany sits on the bench press, legs split open around the seat and leaning back on her hands. Santana pauses and eyes her with something that makes the pit of her stomach stir in excitement.
"What were you doing?" She shrugs, the murmur of the radio and crinkle of the water bottle the only thing breaking the charged silence, shoulders rising and falling in a show of nonchalance. The cheerleader arches her neck, drawing a red towel along her skin. "Practicing."
She smirks then; eyebrows drawing in and eyes flashing, predatory, but this time in the best of ways. "I can do it better than her." There's no need to ask who her is, a flash of blonde hair in her mind's eye that's quickly obliterated as Santana sways towards her, gaze dark and probing. There's a jump in Brittany's abdomen - an erection in these jeans means nothing but pain, but the way Santana's looking at her gives her little choice. "I can do a lot of things better than her, you know." She purrs, dropping down to her knees between Brittany's spread thighs. Her knuckles grip the bench until they turn white.
"But I'd need some extra practice. Just to be on the safe side."
Brittany opens her mouth, but Santana like this, crouched and sultry with her fingers playing patterns on the denim of her thighs steals the breath from her. When her body lurches it's without conscious thought, hands going to the back of her neck before leaning down to bring her into a bruising kiss.
It's all teeth and wet tongue - sloppy but excited as she nibbles on Santana's puffy lower lip. She tastes of salt and sweetness, a medley of confusing senses, the silk of her voice swallowed by Brittany's seeking mouth. Santana presses into her, hands gripping the base of her waist even as her tongue flashes out to slide against her own and she feels long fingers pulling at her ponytail. Raven hair spills out over her shoulders, sticking to her neck and along her cheek but she simply opens her lips at the blonde's request, shuddering as a searing tongue runs teasingly along the roof of her mouth.
Santana had always wondered why her body would ignite from another girl's touch in a way that a boy could never stroke her, but all those fires are merely embers compared to what Brittany's doing to her. The hand around her neck has migrated to her spine, strong fingertips digging into her back in an effort to draw her closer. Everything is too loud but not enough at once - when the blonde licks a stripe of liquid heat from the hinge of her jaw to her chin, her hands scrabble for the girl's zipper before she loses control.
Yet that action makes the writhing body freeze under her, hands tightening in warning. Santana pauses and looks up curiously. The blue has almost been swallowed by a deeper colour, clashing and whirling into a thundercloud about to break. It shoots a violent shock of arousal straight to her core, and her hips gyrate, finding nothing but thin air. The whimper she makes is swallowed by her own throat, but Brittany looks oddly serious.
"Santana, I..." Words fail her as the younger girl looks up, lips swollen and shiny. Her eyebrows raise at her coach's expression, caught between hesitation and lust. Hair is scattered about her shoulders, chest heaving with the burning between her legs - something, anything to quell the ache. She's never done this before, but beginner's luck is something Santana knows well.
"You want it too." She's surprised at how low her voice has dipped, coated in velvet and so very dark. It makes Brittany's eyes flash in arousal, so she presses on. "I know you do, I can feel it."
And see it; her skin is tainted red and breaks out into a thin sheen. Pink lips work soundlessly to fish out the words that refuse to come forth.
"I... I'm different than other girls." Santana narrows her eyes in confusion, fingers toying with the button of her jeans. Despite the urge to simply ignore all warnings she slows, meeting the blonde's gaze with curiosity. "Different?" Brittany hums softly but her hips vibrate under Santana's ministrations. She offers no more hints so the younger girl simply takes a deep breath and pops the button; the drag of the zipper deafening against the room that's now fallen silent save from twin pants filling the air with steam.
Her hands stutter at the tight black fabric that clings to Brittany's skin, almost seeming to hug straight to the bone. As her fingers trace the cool fabric her palms moves to flatten against her center, trembling slightly with excitement.
There's something there.
She halts in alarm, trying to come to terms with the large bulge pressing against her hand. The darker girl glances up to her coach, licking her lips when she receives a silent, inquisitive stare in return. "I-is that...?" She trails off when Brittany looks away, the first beginnings of insecurity attempting to creep into her face.
"I told you I was different." She murmurs quietly. Her voice, still laden with arousal, is subdued now, almost resigned. It seems that it's happened before.
Santana hesitates before leaning up, drawing Brittany's face back to her. She smiles despite herself at the furrow in fair eyebrows, shiny teeth biting down on a lower lip. The kiss this time is gentler, smoother; Santana teases the stress from her muscles until she's once again lax and hungry in her hands. "You're still way hot."
Brittany grins and this time it's all shiny teeth and shimmering eyes, braid tickling Santana's face with an expression that makes her want to sit and watch for hours. Santana licks her way down her neck and trails her face against the thin shirt, pushing the fabric to bathe her chiseled stomach. Upon closer inspection everything about Brittany is defined - her muscles are cut seemingly from stone when she flexes in anticipation. Lithe fingers cup the still growing bulge and the vibration of her moan goes straight to her center.
"That must hurt."
"Like a bitch."
She hooks around the compression shorts and tugs slowly, revealing inch upon inch of creamy skin. Santana rubs at the angry red scores along her waistline but smirks as a narrow strip of blond peeks out from underneath. A final yank and Brittany's appendage is exposed to the open air; her sharp intake of breath drowned by the relieved hiss from above.
Santana isn't any good at math, but when her hand hesitantly reaches out to circle the flushed cock, she reasons it must only look so large because of how Brittany's body is cut. It twitches against her stomach and the soft almost-whimpers from her coach make her swallow, eyes dipping into utmost darkness. Her thumb glides over the weeping head, sticky and gleaming from precum, and when she dips into the slit there's a positively filthy moan that has her thighs slamming together.
The blonde watches her, legs spread and mouth open, a flush working its way through her fair cheeks. Santana pushes one hand up her shirt to trail seeking fingers along her ribs, plucking her strings until she cups a small breast from under her bra.
(Her dreams come back to her. The weight of another woman in her palms, finding for the first time the salty tang of their flesh. It's of the sweetest poisons and addicting to the point where she never wants to let go.)
"God, you're so hot." Santana mumbles as she starts to slide her fist up and down the shaft. Brittany's hips twitch in rhythm as she leans further back, allowing Santana's fingers to shift her bra aside and take hold of a hard nipple. She clumsily swipes the pad of her thumb along the small nub, fingers splaying out over the side of her chest even as her left hand moves with much more finesse. Brittany's head tilts back to trace patterns in the ceiling with Santana's coaxing hands burning away all of her previous thoughts.
The blonde is warm in her hand - she can feel her heartbeat pulse through her dick as she strokes it long and firm. Every time she reaches the top she twists at the head, earning breathless groans from the form above. Constant streams of sticky liquid ensures no halting, but Santana wants more. The slap of her fist against the base of Brittany's pelvis makes her own warmth leak down her thighs, begging her to do something. While her coach is distracted, she tentatively leans forward and brushes her tongue against the tip of her cock.
The effect is instantaneous and desirable. Brittany jumps and snaps her head down to look, one hand reaching out to bury her fingers in sweaty locks. Santana peers up at her through her lashes, a sly smile when her lips pop open to take in the leaking head in her mouth. She's bathed in attention from the darker girl's skillful tongue and the quiet sounds leaving her mouth have them both aching for more.
Perhaps it's the forbidden aspect of the situation, doing things shunned by society, but when Santana slides down a few more inches on her shaft she feels herself swell like never before. The way she has to snap her mouth open simply to take in all of her sends shudders running from the root of her head down to the base of her spine, tingling, setting every nerve into flame. It's like the rush she gets when she's dancing only ten times as strong, a tango they both know how to dance. Strings of saliva run down her length and get lost in the wispy hairs of her pelvis - Santana's hand goes to cup her from underneath but pauses in confusion.
"Where are your balls?" She asks, mouth unsealing with an obscene pop. Brittany yanks her into another filthy kiss, groaning at the mix of both of them lingering inside her mouth. They clash and battle - Santana sucks Brittany's lower lip into her mouth and scrapes seeking teeth along the sensitive inside.
"In here." She grunts, syllables turning into a hiss as the head of black hair dips down to take her into her mouth again. Her hand finds Santana's to press against her abdomen, a pair of testicles hidden inside. The younger girl hums in acknowledgement and the resulting shockwave has the blonde jerking into her mouth.
"If you keep d-doing that I'm gonna cum," she warns, eyes rolling back with the sensation of a velvet tongue dragging along the underside of her cock. Santana looks positively wicked from her position, lips curving into a smile around Brittany's throbbing dick. Her face shines and both thighs are messy with fluids as she takes her almost to the hilt, the head of her cock pressing uncomfortably against her throat. Determined, she worms her hands around thin hips and tries to relax, inching forward and hollowing her cheeks. Above her Brittany groans, fisting her hair and urging her onwards.
She catches a glimpse of them in the mirror - her buried between a pair of denim-clad thighs, bobbing up and down as there's a repeated glimpse of a swollen cock before it disappears into her pursed lips. Brittany's mouth is wide open, hips jumping into her hot mouth every time she pulls away. She's completely lost herself in the sensations, each rise and fall of her chest growing more and more erratic the closer she steps towards the edge. Santana watches, mesmerized, starting a low hum from the center of her chest that explodes outwards into her throat that Brittany feels down to her very bones.
There's a trembling she feels against the tight muscles that cause her to slow her motions, lips firmly sealed even as the first spurt hits her tongue. Salty and quietly bitter, her thumbs draw soothing patterns as her coach cries out and pumps forward. Her eyes are scrunched closed and Santana thinks beautiful before she's able to stop it, frame shuddering as the streams slowly coat her throat and die off. Here, hazy blue peeking out from long, blonde lashes, she's struck with a sort of contentment that never happens until she's the one relishing her post orgasmic bliss.
Brittany smiles and pulls her in for a lazy kiss, tongue wicking away the rivulets of white that had escaped the corners of Santana's mouth. She crawls into her lap, ignoring the damp, softening cock brushing her inner thigh and wonders absently why she doesn't feel the need to take a shower. Usually she feels dirty after blowjobs - the sweaty hands grabbing her hair, the overpowering scent of bodyspray suffocating her nose. But Brittany smells of sweat and vanilla and makes her feel filthy for another thrilling reason.
They separate after a few moments and her coach brushes back a lock of her hair. Her flush is beginning to recede, colour bleeding out of those rusty cheeks even as her lips quirk up into an impish grin. "I think you've had enough practice before I came along."
Santana laughs and the sound is full and rich, spilling from her wet lips before she can stop it. "It's always better to be on the top of your game. Think you'll let me work some more?"
"Wouldn't have it any other way."