Title: This Very Secret (That You're Trying To Conceal)
Author: somethingsdont / zerodetorres at livejournal
Timeline: 2.01, Audition
Summary: How Brittany finds out about and reacts to Santana's boob job.
Notes: GLEE'S BACK, BITCHES. So yeah, the premiere was awesome and made me love Santana so much more than I already did. But it called for fic, so here you go. Title from Feist's Secret Heart.
Santana's bloodstream is pumping with adrenaline when she nearly tumbles down the stairs and trips over a misplaced slipper on her way to the front door. She grabs the handle and tugs like the secret to life is on the other side.
Brittany jumps into her arms, strong thighs wrapping around her waist, and Santana nearly falls over from the impact. She turns slightly in the doorway, her back hitting the doorframe with a loud thud as her hands grasp at Brittany's thighs, trying to hold Brittany up against her, hold Brittany where she belongs, legs nestled around Santana's hips. Blond hair rains down on her face as Brittany kisses her, lips eager and wanting. Santana breathes in the scent of Brittany's perfume, lightly mingled with the smell of sweat and summer.
Brittany's mouth tastes like popsicles. Cherry popsicles. She opens her mouth to Santana, and their tongues brush together. Santana sighs into Brittany's mouth, relief flooding from her lips like syrup, thick and sticky and sweet. Santana needs this. Needs to feel Brittany pressed against her body. Needs it like she needs oxygen, and she doesn't know how she's managed to make it two months without this girl.
It's two months too long, as far as Santana is concerned.
Brittany's hands are in Santana's hair, against her cheeks, her neck, her shoulders, and Santana suddenly feels the weight of the blonde against her frame. Santana's arms begin to ache, and she slowly lets Brittany's legs slide down the length of her thighs. Brittany's feet hit the ground, but Santana's hand grasps the back of Brittany's neck, holding her there because mashing their lips together like this is the first time she's felt alive in two fucking months.
Brittany moans, the sound caught halfway in her throat, as she pushes forward with her hips, sliding a leg between Santana's thighs. The sudden heat makes Santana's head spin. Her lungs burn, and her heart feels like it's about to explode in her ribcage, so she pulls away slightly, just enough to be able to see Brittany, and the blonde's lips upturn, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath.
"Hi," Brittany greets, all bright smiles and sunshine.
"I fucking missed you," Santana gets out, the words grinding desperately through her teeth.
Brittany laughs as she presses her forehead to Santana's, breath soft and warm against Santana's face. "My kisses are super hot."
Santana shakes her head. "No, Britt, I missed you," she tries again, a rush of adrenaline settling into her limbs. She needs Brittany to get it. "Never go on a two-month long vacation again."
Brittany presses a kiss to Santana's lips. "I thought about you every day," she offers. "Mostly about your legs—" She reaches down and strokes the outside of Santana's thigh. "—or your butt—" Fingertips trail upwards as she palms Santana's ass. "—or your b—"
Brittany looks down, confusion etched across her features. Her hand rests gently against Santana's breast, cupping her. She squeezes lightly, and Santana rolls her eyes.
"Did you grow?" Brittany asks, eyes wide and childlike.
The way Brittany is looking at her makes Santana mildly uncomfortable. "No," she answers. "I got a—do you like them?"
Brittany nods as she pushes her hand against it experimentally. "Yeah, but—why?"
Santana shrugs. "'Cause they make me look hot."
"You were already hot," Brittany points out generously.
Santana shrugs again, her shoulders suddenly heavy. "Now I'm hotter."
Brittany smiles faintly. "The hottest," she agrees, pinning Santana tightly against the doorframe.
Santana arches up, pushing off with her back. "Let's go to my room, okay? I'll show them to you."
Brittany nods and straightens up. Her hand reaches down, and she slides her pinky around Santana's. Brittany gives Santana a gentle tug, and after Santana shuts and locks the door behind them, the two make their way toward the stairs.
There's a feeling at the pit of Santana's stomach that she can't shake as she takes the stairs by twos behind Brittany, their hands linked between their bodies. There's warmth in her bones now that Brittany's here, touching her, smiling at her, but something feels empty in her chest. She can't shake it away, even as Brittany presses her down against her bed and straddles her hips like not a day has passed since the last time, over two months ago.
Two months. That's like, pretty much a lifetime, in Brittany and Santana's world.
Brittany's hands slide easily under the hem of Santana's tank top, but instead of moving higher, she keeps them there, resting lightly against Santana's abdomen. "I missed you." She smiles.
Santana chuckles. "I know."
Brittany leans down and kisses her, then rolls her palms up against Santana's sides, taking the tank top with her. Santana lifts herself just enough to be able to tug it over her head. She reaches behind herself and unceremoniously unclasps her bra, letting that slide off her arms as well.
Her chest feels cold as she waits for Brittany to lavish attention to her breasts, but the blonde doesn't even look any lower than her shoulders.
"Hey," Santana says softly, reaching up to brush her knuckles against Brittany's jaw. "They're for you, you know."
Brittany's eyes immediately widen. "You did this for me?" she squeaks.
"No, I did it for me, but—" Santana frowns. "You can touch them. They're not gonna bite you. They're still boobs."
Brittany's hand moves up Santana's ribcage and brushes the curve of Santana's breast. Santana shuts her eyes, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. Bile rises in her throat, and it takes her a moment to figure out why. Brittany isn't the first to touch her new breasts. There have been others in her absence; careless hands with rougher fingertips, squeezing, kneading, using, and Santana bites back an unexpected wave of nausea.
Brittany's touch isn't like that. It's never been like that. Santana feels inadequate, undeserving, unprepared. She can feel Brittany's thumb along the pink scar that still remains, and she shivers.
The light brush of lips against hers makes Santana's eyes flutter open.
"You okay?" Brittany's eyes are piercing and concerned.
Santana nods against her pillow. "Yeah, B. I'm fine."
Gently, Brittany lowers herself and curls up next to Santana, one leg draped over Santana's hips. Her hand moves again, fingertips brushing Santana's abdomen, up between the valley of Santana's breasts. Brittany's palm presses lightly against curved skin, a nipple catching in the crook between her index and middle fingers. Santana throws back her head lets out a low moan.
Brittany scoots closer, burying her face in the crook of Santana's neck and kissing the skin there as her hand maps out the new contours of Santana's chest. She's slow in her exploration, gentle in her movements, much like the first time, all those years ago, when they'd been younger, when Santana had been less hardened by a high school hierarchy and less starved for attention, for affection that she never got at home.
Brittany kisses Santana's cheek and in the same breath says, "You didn't have to do this, San."
Santana tenses. "Yeah, I did, and—it's not a big deal. It's just a pair of tits, all right? I wanted bigger ones. I didn't do it for you and frankly, I don't give a shit what you think." She spits out the last part like she's convinced it's true.
Brittany doesn't flinch. "I liked your boobs the way they were," she explains, her hand still drawing lazy shapes against Santana's chest. "I mean, I like them now too," she clarifies. "I really like boobs. Did you see Andrea Collins? She has—"
Santana cuts Brittany off with a kiss, her lips pressing hard against the contour of Brittany's mouth. It shuts her up, and when they break apart, Santana's pretty sure Brittany has forgotten her train of thought.
"Let's just have sex, okay?" Santana suggests. "I haven't been inside you in two months and I'm about to self-destruct if I don't get some."
Brittany smiles and nods and slips a hand down Santana's pants. Moments later, fingers buried deep in slick heat, mouth hot and wet against a nipple that still feels every stroke of tongue, Brittany makes Santana forget all her demons, including why she'd felt so compelled to go under the knife at sixteen years old.
Santana has long ago decided that there's nothing more gorgeous than Brittany's naked body in the afterglow of sex. Absolutely nothing. She's known this since the first time she'd woken up next to Brittany and found bare shoulders and a bare back. Smooth skin and warm flesh. In Santana's mind, nothing beats that.
Santana is lying on her side, watching Brittany sleep, when Brittany stirs and reaches out an arm toward Santana. With an incoherent mumble, Brittany sleepily snuggles up to her and opens her eyes.
"You're beautiful," Brittany murmurs like she means it, her voice taking on a hint of awe.
Santana smiles. "Was going to say the same to you."
Laughter bubbles from Brittany's throat, and she lifts herself enough to press a slow, lingering kiss to Santana's lips.
"I love you," Brittany says when they pull apart.
Santana's 'no you don't' claws at her throat, and she has to bite down the impulse. She doesn't understand why. She's hot shit. Of course people fucking love her. At the back of her mind, she thinks of her parents, who'd eagerly forked over the cash and signed any paper she'd pushed under their noses, just so they could hear fewer words leave their daughter's mouth, see fewer flashes of red Cheerios skirt as Santana rounds a corner into another empty room.
"I know," Santana finally replies, her voice hoarse. "I know you do."
Brittany kisses her again. "Do you love you too?"
It takes a moment for Santana to process what Brittany is asking her. When she does, she swallows the lie and answers truthfully, "I don't know."
Brittany frowns. "You can't love other people unless you love yourself."
Santana grimaces to hide the heavy ache in her chest. "Who are you, Buddha?"
"Brittany," the blonde replies with a smile. "You know who I am."
"Yeah," Santana chuckles. "Yeah, B, I do."
Brittany is quiet for a while, content to just run her palms all over Santana's body, from her hipbones, up across the plane of her abdomen, finally to her ribcage, her breasts. She walks her fingertips over the top.
"I like them," Brittany decides.
Santana turns to look at her. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Brittany echoes. "Loving you means loving all of you, even the parts you don't like."
Santana scoffs. "I like my boobs just fine."
"You didn't before," Brittany points out, absentmindedly rolling a nipple between her fingertips.
Santana inhales sharply at the sensation. "Yeah, well," she manages.
Brittany presses a kiss to her collar bone. "Who are you trying to impress, San?"
"No one." Santana shrugs. "It just makes me feel good."
"Does it?" Brittany asks, and Santana resents Brittany a little for verbalizing it. When no reply comes, Brittany looks down at her own chest and continues, "You think my boobs are too small?"
Santana reaches over instinctively and cups a small breast in her palm. "No, Britt. You're perfect."
Brittany is still staring at her breasts. "We were kinda the same size before, I think."
Santana moves a finger down to Brittany's chin and nudges her up. "You're perfect," Santana reiterates. "Don't think about that until you're older, okay?"
Brittany smiles reluctantly. "Then why did you?"
"Because I wanted bigger boobs," Santana replies. "That's all."
Brittany purses her lips. "I shouldn't have gone on vacation."
"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Santana snaps.
"Because I left for two months, and you…" Her hand brushes over curved flesh.
Santana pushes Brittany's hand away. "This wasn't about you, Britt."
"I know," Brittany nods, her hand moving back to cup Santana's breast. "It's about you. But if I'd been here, maybe I would've made you feel beautiful."
Santana's chest hurts, and she finds herself instantly fighting tears. "That's not even what this is—" She trails off and hardens her voice. "Look, B, it's no big deal."
"You're beautiful," Brittany says again, hand reaching to brush affectionately against her forehead. "It's not even fair how beautiful you are. Like if you were in a competition for most beautiful people in the world, you'd win."
The sincerity in Brittany's words cuts Santana deep, and she feels herself running from them.
"I love you," Brittany repeats before Santana has a chance to refute. She climbs over Santana and leans down to trail kisses along Santana's jaw.
Santana tilts her head to look at Brittany. "You really think I can't love someone else until I love myself?"
Brittany's eyes are sincere. "Do you love someone?"
"Yeah." Santana takes a breath. "You."
"Oh," Brittany says slowly, worrying her lip between her teeth. "Are you saying you love me more than you love yourself?"
Santana smiles. "That's basically what I'm saying, yeah."
"Then I guess that's okay," Brittany decides after a moment as she settles against Santana's body and yawns.
There's so much Santana wants to tell Brittany. So much about the way she feels all the time inside – something about inadequacy – and so much about her parents not caring what she does to her body, with her life.
Santana keeps quiet, partly because she's not ready, but mostly because Brittany has been around long enough to know. To understand. The conversation they'd just had proves that beyond a doubt. A rush of affection blossoms in Santana's chest, and she pulls Brittany close, leaning over to pepper kisses across her face.
"Thank you," Santana murmurs against Brittany's cheek. "Don't go away for two months again."
"I won't," Brittany promises.
They lie awake for hours after that, talking about nothing and everything – Brittany's vacation with her family, Santana's misadventures with Puck, Quinn's return to the home and church that had previously banished her – and for the first time in two months, Santana feels comfortable in her own skin.