Warning: Some lesbian sex, yo.
A/N: Hiiii there! So this story came about because Jelly was watching some football a while back and thought of a thing, and since we're best bros, I gave her a prompt in return, pestered my other author pals, and now this story is born. Her story should be up soon, as well as one from J and Gambit later in the week, so keep your eye out for those, or you can check any of our tumblrs! :D
I did a lot of research for this story to make everything as accurate as possible, but I'm not perfect nor am I an expert in any kind of sport, so if you are, and you see that I fucked up some football type shit, please, send me a very hateful message telling me what a fucking idiot I am, obvs.
This takes place in an AU setting where I made the world pretty fictional too, because there's not really college football solely for women out there, at least, not at the ~revered level men's football is, because let's face it, 'Murica just sucks sometimes. But in this world, IT IS. So SUCK IT.
This story is dedicated, of course, to the greatest jelly of all time, jellymankelly, for being awesome and prompting it! And special shout-out to my bes' fran J (ishIheard2day) for actually being a football champion. You're awesome as well! :D
As always, enjoy~
"Sev-en-ty-two… RED, sev-en-ty-two…"
She digs her left cleat into the grass, preparing herself as the quarterback calls the next play. Her whole body vibrates with energy, with anticipation, and the grass beneath her gloved hand is soft and slightly damp with the early morning as she crouches, ready to spring into action at a second's notice. Her muscles tense, her senses heighten, she holds her breath, waiting for-
The players around her are a blur of black motion as the ball lands in the quarterback's hands, but Santana's already lunging forward, tearing across the field, focusing hard on gaining yardage. The sounds of plastic colliding, of bodies hitting each other and the ground, fill her ears. The smell of fresh earth, torn up from her cleats, and early morning invade her senses as she sucks in air, taking deep, steady breaths as she runs, pushing herself, pushing her muscles. When she's far enough up field, her lungs stinging from the cool morning air, she turns, preparing herself to do her job- to receive.
The ball spirals through the air toward her- another perfect throw by Fabray- and sails into her open arms. Without breaking stride, she snatches it out of the air, tucks it carefully in the crook of her arm, and bolts faster, leaving her guard in the dust. When she crosses the endzone, she smirks. Another touchdown. Another flawless execution of a play.
She smiles wider. She's going to beat the shit out of her opponents.
She's not worried – she's young to be on the team, but she earned her place. She was a first round draft pick from her high school and she has a full scholarship to play for West University, a women's college- not that she's complaining. Normally, Freshmen don't get to be starters on the team, but her skill sets her well ahead of most of her peers and besides, she's proven herself time and time again in the games leading up to this one- the Classic.
The Classic is a yearly rivalry against the only other women's college in their region, and both colleges take it very seriously. Special events start a month prior, leading up to the game. The marching bands battle, there's parades and, most importantly, bragging rights for the rest of the year to the college who wins. It's her first one, but she's going to make her name legendary.
She's trained hard. She's ready. Nothing is going to stand in her way.
It's game night, and Santana's in the locker room, finishing up her war paint. She smears the last of her eye black beneath her eyes, smirking at her reflection in the mirror situated in her lap. She wipes her fingers on a rag beside her, taking a deep breath. She's nervous, of course. All the games leading up to this one- while important for their season record- hadn't had such high stakes. This game is for more than just a season record. This game, as silly as it seems, is for the honor of her entire college and team. It's a duel, a tradition going back for years-
"You're still wearing that ratty old thing?"
Quinn's voice snaps her out of the pregame focus she'd been lost in. She turns to look up at her, noting that Quinn's already applied her war paint, and subconsciously touches her left forearm as Quinn shoves a towel in her borrowed locker and slams the metal door closed. Tonight they are the away team, even though the stadium doesn't belong to either college, so they're in white jerseys and black pants. She has to admit, the locker room is pretty nice, though.
"It's lucky," Santana protests, petting the sweatband on her forearm possessively. "I've worn it to every game- except the one against East. You remember what happened-"
"Yes," Quinn huffs, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I remember. I got sacked and we lost."
"The only game this season," Santana reminds her. "So, I'll be keeping it." Quinn scoffs at her, but she ignores it as she pats the dark crimson sweatband on her left forearm. The music outside the locker room picks up in intensity, signaling the game is about to start, and Santana feels her nerves hit her. She takes a deep, calming breath.
"You ready?" Quinn asks with a raised eyebrow.
With one last glance at the mirror in her lap, Santana sets her jaw and stands, picking her black helmet up from the bench beside her. She tucks it under her arm and nods, shooting Quinn a fierce grin. "Let's do this."
The boom of the announcer's voice greets her as she makes her way up the ramp to the edge of the field, waiting on her introduction. The bright lights are blinding and dazzling, and she feels the buzzing energy of the crowd vibrate through her, making her edgy and excited all at once. Her stomach flips with nervousness as the crowd cheers and screams, but she smiles as she realizes the stands are packed with fans that drove an hour to see them play.
To see her play.
"The number one, starting quarterback…. Quinn…. Fabraaayyy!"
The crowd cheers, the band plays a couple bars of a song, and Santana shifts from foot to foot in anticipation, waiting, waiting, waiting-
"And the position of wide receiver… num-berrrrrr eighty-seven... Santana Lopez!"
She grins, jogging out into the bright lights and waving. A blast of horns and screams go up, the band plays a few bars of Marvin & Chardonnay- her official game song- and Santana spreads her arms in the air, jumping and pumping her fists as she crosses the field. Her fans twirl black towels at her, the crowd roars, people dance to the band music, and then the announcer introduces the next player as she moves to take her place beside her teammates.
A cheerleader- she thinks her name is Danielle?- smiles at her as she passes, waving her black-and-silver pom-poms at her enthusiastically. She smiles back politely- Danielle is cute, but definitely not her type, though maybe if she-
"No, don't worry, you didn't overdo it," Quinn jokes as she reaches her, shoving her shoulder playfully. Santana only grins.
"What can I say? They love me, Q."
"And now, from Northeastern University for Women…"
More wild screams from the people who'd spent the entire day getting drunk and tailgating erupt from the crowd, and Santana rolls her eyes, but respectfully focuses her attention on the incoming "home" team. Several players jog out, dressed in bright cobalt blue with dark gray pants, and Santana sizes them up as they enter.
"Starting quarterback, number eeee-lev-en... the MACK!"
More screams. More stomping. More horns play. Quinn crosses her arms. "I'm unimpressed. We're gonna crush them."
"Number nineteen, wide receiver... Miss! Rachel! Berry!"
"Obviously," Santana agrees, fiddling with her sweatband. She flashes it at Quinn, who grins behind her black helmet and shoves her again.
They wait, feeling confident, as the offense finishes, and then the announcer starts on the defense, which draws their interest- after all, these are the players they'll actually be facing on the field. A few opponents come out, but nothing that intimidates them, and then the sound of cheering intensifies, and they struggle to see around the people lining the field as the announcer calls out,
"Number fifty-one... Brittany... PIERCE!"
Air horns blast, keys jingle, the opposing band rises in the stands and plays Beyonce's Run the World. All around them, people lose their shit, and Santana's all at once angry and intimidated and maybe a little jealous of the girl's introduction.
She's heard of Pierce before, and encountered her on the field during the preseason games, though they hadn't spoken or interacted. She's seen interviews of her, and of course she'd done her research to see who she'd be up against in this game. The Pierce girl is gorgeous, and a damn good linebacker, too. In fact, she's also a Freshman who'd gone to Northeastern on scholarship, and it makes Santana envious that they share a backstory. She's supposed to be special, damn it- yet there Pierce stands, smiling a smile so dazzling it rivals the stadium lights as she waves to her fans.
Pierce will be tough opposition, but Santana is nothing but confident in her own abilities, and her team's- they have an excellent record, and they've worked hard. They deserve to be here- they deserve to win- and she's not going to let a girl- no matter how fucking gorgeous she is- stop them.
The game starts off like normal and the other team wins the coin toss. Santana spends time on the bench watching NUW advance down the field while she anxiously bounces her knee.
"Don't worry," Quinn tells her, standing beside her bench and sipping from a Styrofoam cup. "Even if they score, so will we. We're ready."
A whistle blasts, and the booming voice of the announcer tells her that NUW has opted to punt, confirming that the score is still tied at zero- but not for long. As the players swap out for the kick return and set up for the punt, Quinn chuckles. "See? Told you. We stopped their drive. We got this." She gives a parting pat to her shoulder before throwing her cup away and jogging over to Shelby, their coach.
Following Quinn's lead, she stands, sliding her helmet on over her head, which is encased in a bright red bandana to secure her hair. The opposition punts, and once the play ends, she secures her chin strap as she jogs out to take her position. The fans cheer, and she smirks to herself.
"Ninety-three," Quinn booms in a voice Santana wouldn't ever have guessed the girl could have, "High, Nine-ty-three…"
Santana drowns out every other sound, until she can only hear her own steady breaths, and then the ball snaps and she follows through on the play, tearing across the field to the left and turning. She makes eye contact with Quinn, who's already throwing the ball to her.
No sooner do her gloved hands secure the ball when she's being hit hard from the right and slammed into the grass. She lands hard, thankfully managing to hold onto the ball, and when she looks up, she spots the large white 51 on a dark cobalt jersey before she realizes-
The whistle blows and, glaring, she climbs to her feet. She gained maybe three yards before she was tackled. What the fuck? Her season average is at least twelve. But three? She's going to have to be a lot more careful and observant with Pierce around.
She sets up for the next play, and resolves to be on top of her game, to do better.
And she does- for a bit. But Pierce is fast, and strong, and Santana has a hard time evading her. Every yard she gains is a struggle, is so much harder than any other yard she's gotten in any other game. She now knows how Northeastern has managed to get the record it has; their offense isn't particularly good, but with Pierce leading the defense, they make it damn near impossible for their opponents to score.
As Santana hits the dirt and slides, landing just five yards outside of the endzone on her third down, she clenches her teeth around her mouthguard and releases an impatient huff. She's in for a long, hard, exhausting game.
It's minutes before Halftime and the game is tied 3-3. Santana hasn't managed to break through Pierce's unstoppable defense to actually make it into the endzone for a touchdown, but thankfully, their own defense had shut down Northeastern's offense, as well. They'd just started their drive to the endzone after receiving the ball, and Santana's determined to score this time, no matter what.
"Fifty-three," Quinn calls from behind her, and Santana can hear the irritation in her voice. She's just as frustrated as Santana is, but if anything, it drives her to do better, and maybe take some risks. The play Quinn just called for is a risky one, but-
She springs forward, crossing sharply to the right. She nimbly avoids being tackled by a cornerback as she rips across the field, running as fast as she can. When she hits the fifty-yard line, she turns, already finding the ball sailing towards her. Without thinking, she jumps, snatching the ball out of midair, and lands- perfectly. Almost in disbelief at how amazing her catch just was, she tucks the ball carefully and propels herself down the field.
Sixty yards. Seventy. The end zone is wide open!
She pushes herself harder. Seventy-five-
"Uhf!" She grunts as someone hits her hard, and slim but toned arms wrap around her midsection, dragging her down. She barely catches a flash of 51 before she's hitting the ground, Pierce's body landing roughly on top of hers. She's in complete disbelief- how is Pierce so fast?- as she struggles beneath Pierce's body. The ball breaks loose, bouncing away, and she curses herself, panicking for a second before she realizes she's been knocked out of bounds. The whistle blows, signaling the end of the play, and in the distance, the Northeastern band blasts out Run the World in support of Pierce's tackle. Pierce climbs gracefully to her feet before offering her a hand up.
Furious that her chance at scoring an epic touchdown had been knocked literally out of her grasp, she swats the girl's hand away, choosing to stand by herself.
Pierce glares at her beneath her blue helmet. "What's your problem?"
"You," Santana snarls, crackling with electric energy and anger. She shoves her- hard. Pierce stumbles back one step before shoving her back harder, and Santana grabs a fistful of her blue jersey, ready to reach up and rip the girl's helmet off, before two referees are on them, blowing whistles, yanking and shoving them apart.
"[Touch me like that again, and I'll rip your face off!]" Santana yells at her in Spanish as the referees and one of her own team members push her back and away. Behind her helmet, Pierce's blue eyes flash angrily, and Santana returns her glare, panting, as her teammate escorts her across the field.
Quinn jogs up. "Are you a moron? Do you want to get yourself ejected?" She snaps, beating on her helmet with her fist. Santana clenches her jaw and remains silent. "Get your shit together. We can't win this game without you, and it's not even close to being over."
Santana nods as the whistle blows again, and their special team goes out to try for another field goal. She reluctantly moves to her bench. When she gets there, Shelby shoots her a look that lets her know she's going to get chewed out once she hits the locker room at Halftime.
The second half of the game opens with Santana still angry, but with far more control over it. She's less a raging inferno and more a slow burn. So as the marching bands leave the field and she takes up her field position once again, she pumps herself up. She's ready. She's ready.
The play starts and Quinn tosses the ball to Chang in a short pass, and Santana grins as she moves to block for her. Chang cuts to the left, leaps over someone's sprawled out body on the ground, takes two more steps, and then Santana spies Pierce moving in for the tackle.
She rushes to cut her off, and hits Pierce on the left. Pierce pushes back, attempting to break through, but Chang has already made it through the defensive line. Santana smirks as Pierce catches her gaze, and then she finds herself falling as Pierce takes her down. She wraps arms around the girl to deter her from chasing after Chang, and Pierce stumbles, falling on top of her. In the fall, the back of Santana's hand grazes up the inside of her thigh, and Santana is shocked by the sudden jolt of excitement that goes through her at how warm she is through her pants.
She gulps, finding Pierce's eyes, and she opens her mouth to apologize, but closes it once she sees the girl biting her lip, her blue eyes dark and burning, accented by the color of her jersey and helmet. She swallows her words and instead shifts uncomfortably as the referee's whistle blows.
Santana's heart pounds as she climbs to her feet, and it's an entirely new sensation. She's tackled and been tackled by a ton of women, and none of them have ever made her feel- excited. She sets up for the next play in a daze, remembering the way Pierce's blue eyes burned into hers, and the way it made her stomach tense and her pulse race.
She does some more blocking, but not of Pierce, and they slowly advance up the field, close enough to make another field goal, which their kicker misses. She's not too worried, since they're still leading 6-3, but it's still a little too close for Santana's comfort. She storms off the field to get some water as the ball changes hands, taking her helmet off and setting it on the bench. She looks across the field to see Pierce standing, her helmet also removed, her blonde hair loose and spilling over her shoulders. It's too far for Santana to make eye contact, but she knows that Pierce is staring at her, and it sets her nerves on edge even more than before.
She crushes the paper cup in her fist and throws it away, pacing and waiting for her team to get possession again. It's two more minutes of gameplay before she's snapping her helmet back on and taking her place out on the field. Quinn's strategy to take the pressure off her seems to be working, as their running back seems to be getting the ball up the field, leaving her open to block where needed.
She makes Pierce her primary target, knowing that the girl has sharp eyes when it comes to spotting the ball and swift execution when it comes to tackling. Pierce meets her blocks with enthusiasm, and they struggle for power. It excites her in a weird way, feeling Pierce's hands on her, her arms around her, and putting her hands on her in return. The girl gets more and more handsy each time their bodies collide on the field. On one play, she's pretty certain Pierce blatantly grabs her ass; on the next, she trails a rough hand down her thigh.
The fleeting touches and obvious-but-not groping has her pulse pounding between her legs for the first time ever during a game, and as the ball gets turned over again and she returns to the sidelines, she finds herself pacing, buzzing with energy, eager to get back on the field. Her team is still winning, and that's her ultimate goal- but now, there's a second goal humming beneath her skin. She wants to assert herself over the Pierce girl, to establish herself as dominant in their back-and-forth tackles.
She has to admit- this is probably the most fun she's ever had in a football game.
When she's back on the field again, she gets more aggressive. Her hands slide over Pierce's hip. On the next play, she grazes her inner thigh again, and doesn't miss the ragged gasp the girl emits at her forceful touch. She moves back into position, and as Quinn calls the next play, she realizes she's back to receiving again, and she almost feels disappointed.
The ball snaps and she takes off, but no sooner does she catch the ball when Pierce hits her from behind, taking her down to the ground. The ball comes loose before she hits, bounces once, twice, and she scrambles to take possession of it again. Run the World plays in the background, and she's really beginning to hate that song. She dives onto the ball and turtles up, tucking it into her chest tightly, and feels Pierce practically spooning her, reaching underneath her to try and tug the ball out, only-
Pierce's hands burn across her taut stomach, slide lower, tug at her inner thigh. Her hips bracket hers, putting wildly inappropriate thoughts in Santana's head, and Pierce's hands move higher, rough fingers slide along her bare arm, tugging, searching-
Someone else hits them, and then someone else, and within seconds it's a dogpile, but Santana has the ball secured against her chest, so she's not worried. A whistle finally blows, and she mourns the loss of the warmth of Pierce on top of her, but she emerges victoriously holding the ball, and the referee declares the ball in her possession. She smirks at Pierce, who remains expressionless, her dark blue eyes burning with want, and Santana thinks maybe she might've finally found a way to break through the girl's defenses.
It's the final minute of the game, and Northeastern had managed to score a touchdown on their last play, making the score 10-6. Santana knows she needs to make something happen on this next drive, regardless of how cheesy it seems to her that the whole thing might turn out like Remember the Titans- minus the race war.
Quinn tells them their strategy in a low hush as they huddle up, making use of their final time-out. They break, and Santana flexes her gloved fingers. Pierce looks at her, her expression hard, and she hopes hers is just as hard. This is it. She's going to do this.
She subconsciously touches her lucky wristband, crouches into her position, and then Quinn calls the play.
The ball snaps. She takes off running.
After the game, Santana's in the locker room feeling damn proud of herself. She wipes sweat from her brow with her towel- she can't ever remember working so hard to win a game, but she has to admit, it's more satisfying this way. Her teammates had already packed up and headed out to the after party, but she'd had to stay behind to do some interviews in lieu of her winning touchdown. Quinn had already sent her the address of where the team was heading for dinner, and she hurriedly tugs her shoulder pads off, stripping down to her sports bra and fanning herself.
Standing in just her uniform pants, her cleats, her sports bra, and of course, her lucky wristband, she reaches up to remove the bandana on her head protecting her hair, thankful for the cool air that immediately rushes over her and makes it seem just a few degrees lower than sweltering. She hears footsteps approaching, and, figuring Quinn must be getting impatient waiting for her, she doesn't bother looking up as she calls, "I haven't even showered yet, Fabray."
"That's probably a good thing," Pierce's voice teases back.
Santana looks up, turning to face Pierce, who's standing in her uniform, sans pads and helmet. She raises an eyebrow teasingly. "Oh? Why is that?"
Smiling with a combination of playful and sexy, Pierce tugs her jersey off, revealing a dark blue sports bra and abs so fierce they could probably devour baby seals without feeling any remorse. Santana stares, feeling her mouth go dry at the sinful, hard lines of Pierce's stomach. "Brittany," she introduces, taking a step forward. She doesn't offer her hand, and Santana blatantly ignores her face to continue ogling the incredible body on display before her.
"Santana," she offers back, smirking, her eyes still tracing up Brittany's chest. She licks her lips.
"Mm," Brittany hums- moans- at the sound of Santana's name. "Because I'm gonna get you all dirty."
It takes Santana a second to catch up, but once she does, she swallows, trying to ignore the insistent throb of arousal between her legs. "Oh, yeah?" she challenges instead. "I should've known you couldn't resist."
Brittany grins. "Are you always this cocky?"
"Yes," Santana shoots back, smirking. "But I can be even cockier if you want."
"What if I do?" Brittany purrs, moving even closer. Santana can see the drops of sweat on her collarbones, and she wants to suck them off her skin.
"Well, I'd tell you to get in line. I just won VIP and scored the winning touchdown for the Classic, and-"
With a rough hand on her shoulder, Brittany shoves her back against the locker, halting her sentence; she hits with a sharp, metallic clang, and cool metal touches the bare skin of her back, making her hiss as she's assaulted with Brittany's strong scent- sweat and grass and her skin. "Congratulations," Brittany whispers, her lips brushing hers, and before Santana can protest, Brittany's lips close the distance, kissing her harshly, stealing her breath. Not to be outdone, Santana tilts her head, kissing back harder, clenching her hands into fists by her sides. When Brittany pulls back, she pants, "Shut. Up." Then her lips are back on hers, and Santana isn't sure whether to be pissed or offended or completely turned on. She thinks maybe all three.
Brittany's knee nudges between her legs, forcing them open before she places herself there. They press their bodies together, and Santana groans as their warm, damp skin makes contact. Brittany's firm stomach is hot where it presses against hers, and she can't resist sliding her hands around to her lower back, pulling her even closer. She reaches up, yanking roughly on Brittany's messy ponytail, forcing her head back and exposing her throat. She bites into the skin, making Brittany hiss and squeeze her ass roughly.
Santana's hips buck forward, desperate. She's still irritated at all of the frustration Brittany's caused her on and off the field, still possessed with the need to prove herself superior, and she feels like even this is a competition, albeit a lot more passionate and friendly. Adrenaline surges through her system, her blood races, her heart pounds. She's still riding the high from her victory on the field. Her mouth makes its way up Brittany's neck and across her jaw, biting and sucking at the skin, before she finds her lips again. She bites at Brittany's lower lip, sucking harshly, and Brittany groans, her hands sliding possessively down her thighs, crushing their bodies together tightly.
Brittany's hands smooth over her body, seemingly everywhere. She squeezes at her sports bra-clad breasts, moaning in her ear about how good they feel in her hands and sending shivers down Santana's spine at how sexy everything about the situation she's in is. Brittany squeezes her ass, her thighs, tugs on her nipples through the thin fabric of her bra, and just as Santana gets close to throwing her restraint out the window, Brittany grips her thighs and lifts her, forcing her to wrap legs around her waist before pressing her even harder into the locker.
"God, you're so much hotter when you don't fucking talk," Brittany pants into her neck, and Santana laughs, tangling fingers in Brittany's hair, tugging sharply as the girl bites at the base of her neck.
"In a minute," Brittany chuckles breathlessly. Her left hand slips under Santana's thigh, supporting her, while her right slides around to Santana's stomach and begins desperately fumbling with the laces on the front of her black pants. She tugs at them quickly, and after a moment, is able to peel Santana's pants apart enough to slip her hand inside and beneath her compression shorts.
Their mouths crash back together again as Brittany's hand curves to cup Santana's sex, and they both moan as her fingers rub against her swollen clit. Brittany doesn't tease or hesitate; she drives two fingers into Santana's tight heat, and Santana breaks the kiss and tilts her head back- it hits the locker with a thud as Brittany begins to fuck her vigorously. Santana keeps one hand in Brittany's hair and one hand on Brittany's bare shoulder as the blonde moves inside her, building her up fast and hard. She can already feel her orgasm approaching. She can hear how wet she is on Brittany's fingers, and the soft, dark look in Brittany's blue eyes tell her how much the blonde is enjoying it, which only turns her on further.
"Come on, Eighty-seven, come for me," Brittany says, rough and throaty, and it makes Santana clench tightly around her fingers.
Santana grips the blonde hair at the back of Brittany's neck painfully tight as her muscles tense, as her stomach tightens, gazing down with half-lidded eyes into Brittany's stormy blue ones, her mouth open as she struggles for breath. She digs nails into the bare bicep of Brittany's right arm, feeling it flex as Brittany moves inside her, as her fingers curl deep and stroke hard, and Santana shakes, her thighs tensing, and then-
"Fuck," she groans through gritted teeth, clawing at Brittany's shoulder, her orgasm hitting her in powerful waves. Brittany doesn't break eye contact, and Santana can see the playful smugness in them as she squeezes around Brittany's fingers, which are still pounding into her, carrying her through her release.
Without warning, Santana grips Brittany's jaw and pulls her into another searing kiss, and Brittany's so startled her rhythm falters. Santana uses the momentary distraction to regain her footing before tackling Brittany to the rubber floor. Brittany doesn't go down so easily, though, and they wrestle playfully for a moment, giggling as they cheat by groping each other's breasts or biting each other's earlobes.
After struggling for a few moments, Santana finally ends up on top, straddling Brittany's stomach and pinning her wrists to the floor. She leans down to kiss her, rolling her hips and making Brittany squirm, and then she licks down her jaw, inhaling the smell of her skin, before moving lower, tasting the tangy salt of the sweat drops along her collarbone. She bites there, sucking hard and leaving a dark bruise, and Brittany struggles to remain silent beneath her.
She releases Brittany's wrists and repositions herself, reaching instead to tug at the laces on Brittany's pants; once loosened, she yanks her pants- and underwear- down to mid-thigh before slipping two fingers down to tease at her dripping entrance.
"You're so wet for me," Santana husks against Brittany's pulse point, and she feels Brittany buck her hips in silent response.
"Did you like fucking me?" she demands, stroking over Brittany's hard, throbbing clit. She feels Brittany shake beneath her. "Feeling me come? Tell me."
"Yes," Brittany whimpers.
"Yes," she repeats, louder, and Santana smirks against her neck.
"Of course you did," she husks, then swallows Brittany's moan as she drives her fingers into her, slow and deep and hard. She pulls out, then slams back in, making Brittany's body rock with the force of her movements, making Brittany's body shake with the intensity. Brittany runs fingers through her hair, affectionately, before settling her hands on her shoulders, holding on as Santana fucks her senseless. Her pace gradually picks up speed and she nips back down Brittany's jaw to bite harshly at her neck, sucking, claiming, conquering- but it's different now. It's transformed into something else, though she doesn't know what. Brittany's nails digging into her shoulders feel just like every other girl's that she's fucked this way, but they don't; her whimpers of pleasure sound just like every other girl's, but they don't. There's a passion, a reverence behind her touches that make Santana sense that this isn't just a casual hook-up, that there could be more to this than just sex.
So as she takes Brittany over the edge, she presses kisses over her chin, her lips, her cheeks, slowing her pace back down and letting Brittany coast on the receding ripples of pleasure. She can feel her pulsing around her fingers still buried deep inside her, and she stills, enjoying the rhythmic clenching for a moment, feeling connected to the girl beneath her for a moment, before pulling out.
Brittany kisses her, deep and slow and then fast and biting, and Santana pushes herself up to her feet, realizing she's panting. She's kind of exhausted, actually. She stands over Brittany, who's still sprawled at her feet, tousled and also completely out of breath, and still shivering. She offers her a hand, mirroring their first encounter, but unlike her earlier action, Brittany accepts it with a wry smile and pulls herself to her feet.
They dress in silence, adjusting their clothing quickly, the entire time stealing glances at each other. Santana runs a hand through her hair and pulls it back into a low ponytail before tugging her jersey on and gathering up her duffel bag. She wonders if she should say something; she doesn't want Brittany to go- what if she never sees her again? She's running through a million smooth lines in her head, all of them seeming stupid, when Brittany turns to leave and, in a panic, she grabs her hand.
Brittany looks at her questioningly, waiting for her to say something, and instead, she just pulls her into a long, lingering kiss. When they break apart for air, she wraps arms around her and hugs her tightly, enjoying the way their bodies fit together, and their height difference.
She knows she can't stand there hugging Brittany for the rest of the night, so instead, she kisses beneath her ear and breathes, "Come to my victory party."
Brittany hums thoughtfully, rubbing soothing hands over her lower back. "Why?"
Santana chuckles lowly. "So I can show you how cocky I can be."
She can practically hear Brittany grinning, and then Brittany's nose nudges her cheek, enticing her into another sweet, slow kiss. Then Brittany whispers, "Where?"
Brittany smirks, resting their foreheads together. "That's an exclusive West hangout..."
Brittany pulls her closer. "And I'm from Northeastern."
"Failing to see the point here," Santana breathes against Brittany's lips before pressing another kiss there.
"I only have my jersey with me," Brittany says in explanation, and Santana doesn't hesitate to answer,
"So wear mine."
Inside, Santana panics- is that too soon? How soon is too soon to ask someone to wear your team jersey? Oh, god, she's so stupid, she shouldn't have-
"Yours?" Brittany clarifies. At Santana's careful nod, she smiles slowly.
Brittany laughs. "Okay."
OKAY GOSH I KNOW I'M NOT THAT CREATIVE WITH COLLEGE NAMES SORRY ;-;
Jeez, that was way longer than planned. But meh, what else is new? That's like every story I write, ahaha. Hopefully you guys aren't complaining. ;)
In any case, hope you enjoyed that little story. Look for just a few other football-related submissions this week from Jelly, J, and Gambit! :*
Review if you feel like it- if not, I'll catch you on the next drive! OH HO HO HO.
AND NOW A WORD FROM ~OFFICER SAFETY:
Listen. DON'T HAVE SEX ON THE LOCKER ROOM FLOOR. Not only do people walk on that shit, but it's pretty much an awesome way to FUCKING GET MRSA WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU ARE YOU A MORON YOU DO NOT WANT TO FUCKING GET MRSA THAT SHIT IS INSANE YOU DO NOT NEED NO FUNKY SKIN DISEASES AND ESPECIALLY NOT ON YOUR NO-NO BITS.
So. What have we learned? MRSA sucks. Don't have sex on locker room floors, or any matted/rubber floors or just floors in general, including gymnastics, martial arts, wrestling, prettymuch all sports, restroom, mermaid dancing, or anywhere that public people have access to rub their slimy diseases all over.
PLAY SAFE AND STAY SAFE!
See you next time, pals!
***title comes from the Katy Perry song of the same name, and I know all ya'll lesbians hate her but whatever I don't give no fucks that song is catchy as fuck and I think she's ~sparkle-fabulous