Title: Until the Night is Over
Written For: The Livejournal gleefemslash exchange
Prompt: Brittany and Santana go out to a club, take ecstasy. Dancing and bathroom sex ensue.
Pairing: Brittany S. Pierce/Santana Lopez
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 for drug use and sex, un beta'd so all mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or its characters or any likeness to its characters, blahhh, blahhh, blahhh…
Summary: She'd do anything to see Brittany take a break from all this work she's stressing over and just kick back and dance and smile the way she used to.
When Puck winks at her and slips a tiny plastic bag into her palm, Santana scoffs.
As soon as she gets home, the tiny bag and the six colorful pills that came in it go right onto the dressing table into the ballerina music box that Britt's mom gave them as a housewarming present and Santana doesn't t even think about them again until two weeks later when she comes home from work to find Brittany spread out on the floor irritably flipping through a Calculus for Dummies reference book.
It's not unusual or anything, coming home to this; in fact, it's the same sight that has been greeting her every day since Brittany decided to go back to school.
Their routine is simple, practiced, worn.
Every morning, Santana goes to work early, does bitch work for the company's two senior lawyers, stays late hammering out the finer details of the minor cases they throw her way and waits patiently—or as patiently as she can— for someone to finally fucking notice that not one of the clients she's been handed—not even shifty Mr. Anderson who confessed twice and burst into tears on the stand when the prosecution questioned him—have been convicted. Brittany's day starts a little bit later with the morning contemporary dance classes she teaches. By noon, she's instructing the beginning dance workout classes over at the gym and by evening, she's back at the dance studio teaching the children's Hip Hop dance classes and then the couples' dance classes immediately after that. In between all that, she takes a couple of classes at the local community college and by the time Santana comes home from work, mad at the world for not realizing her genius, Brittany's already tiredly hunched over books filled with words and numbers and languages that her professors don't care enough about to explain twice.
It breaks Santana a little more each day but she's pretty sure today is her breaking point.
It's not that Santana has anything against Brittany's decision to go back to school or anything. When Brittany had broached the subject, Santana had been mostly confused more than anything because Brittany had really hated the actual school part of high school and for a lawyer fresh out of law school and a dancer with no real formal dance training, they were living pretty comfortably in a one bedroom apartment in Manhattan so money wasn't an issue but Brittany had this whole thought out speech about how she wanted to be a better person and how when they had kids, she wanted to be more than the cool mom, she wanted to be able to help them with their homework and speak to their teachers eloquently at conferences; she wanted to be someone they all could be proud of. Santana, of course, had told her that she was someone to proud of no matter what but Brittany was adamant and Santana had been nothing but supportive after that. She had even been the one to pick up the pamphlet at the local college and she had gone over the list of majors with Brittany until Brittany chose Business Administration which lead to some really hot role-playing with Brittany as the executive of a huge company and Santana as the company lawyer who questions her authority and gets bent right over the desk for it.
It had gone pretty smoothly at first. Brittany refused to give up teaching her dance classes which was ok because the first few college classes were easy, just duplicates of things already learned. Santana had fished out her old notes from her freshman year of college and nighttime soon became study time which usually just became Santana-distracting-Brittany-with-sexy time or if Brittany really did need to study, then it'd be Santana-rewarding-Brittany-with-sexy time but then classes got harder and the pressure for Santana to excel at work kicked in and by the time Santana got home from work, Brittany was usually fast asleep surrounded by scattered papers which soon morphed into Brittany not being asleep because there was always one more assignment or one sentence, and then it was two, and then three and sometimes it was even walking into the living room only to find a crying Brittany lamenting about how useless she is.
Santana just can't stand to see Brittany like this; she can't stand to watch her run herself into the ground with all these delusions that Calculus and Corporate Financial Management will make her any more perfect than she already is.
She just wants her Brittany back; she wants the Brittany who would lose her Chemistry text book in her cat's litter box, the Brittany who would leap into her arms the moment she opened the door and tell her all about how David from her weight loss dance class had lost 3 whole pounds this week or how Christie, the troubled pre-teen from her children's classes, had spent her night perfecting a routine rather than sneaking out and causing trouble.
She'd kill to bring that Brittany back. She'd do anything to see Brittany take a break from all this work she's stressing over and just kick back and dance and smile the way she used to.
It suddenly occurs to her that anything may have been hidden away in a music box on her dresser for approximately two weeks now.
"Britt, get dressed,"
Brittany barely glances up from her book, not even perturbed by her arrival.
"I am dressed, Santana. I haven't hung around here naked since that time you caught Mr. Fillip creeping outside the window,"
"No, I mean, get dressed. I'm taking you out,"
She definitely looks up at that, her eyes wide with surprise and confusion.
"But we never go out anymore. You're always really tired after work and this assignment is due next week and it's so hard, San. Like, really hard. Lord Tubbington was even confused! I read him the question and he didn't even say anything,"
Santana resists the urge to suggest that maybe Lord Tubbsters actually kicked the bucket this time. That or Brittany forgot to dial home again and just mistook the dial tone for his death rattle of a purr.
"I'll help you with this tomorrow," she promises, closing the book in Brittany's hands. "Get dressed,"
Brittany glances between the closed book and Santana, clearly conflicted, but the decision isn't a hard one and she nods.
"What should I wear?"
Santana positively beams.
"Something you can dance in,"
Brittany's eyes light up, sparkling with something Santana hasn't seen in a long time, something akin to happiness and wonder and love, something just so Brittany.
"You're taking me dancing, San?"
Santana smiles, unable to resist the urge to lean down and wrap her arms around her girlfriend so tightly that she can feel Brittany's heartbeat thud against her own chest.
"Yeah, Britt-Britt," she murmurs against her ear, "I'm taking you dancing,"
She stows the bag of pills in the inside pocket of her fitted blazer, careful not to let Brittany see them. Brittany kind of has this thing about drugs and by thing, Santana means she really hates them. There was that one time during Santana's sophomore year in college when a study session with some friends somehow turned into an weed smoking session and when she had gotten home, Brittany had smelled it on her and had been so angry that she yelled at her about ruining her liver—which, well, lungs, but Santana couldn't find it in herself to correct her, not when she was taking the fuzzy blue blanket that Santana always claimed to have hated but secretly loved out to the living room where she slept for four whole days during which Santana showered sixteen times only for Brittany to tell her that she still smelled disgusting. After that, Santana had thought that maybe it was just weed that Brittany hated, maybe it was just the smell she couldn't stand, but then she had gotten sick like a month after that and had kind of overindulged in the flu pills. It's better to feel high out of her mind than sick, she had argued, but Brittany had been so mad that she hadn't even made the infamous Pierce chicken noodle soup; she just threw the nasty stuff from the can into a bowl and didn't even make sure Santana ate it all. Fuck it, she didn't even role-play sexy nurse and sick patient with her once she got better, what she did do was move all the pills in the bathroom medicine cabinet to the cupboard in the kitchen that even she has to tip-toe to reach. Santana only takes herbal stuff when she gets sick now and even then, she takes below the minimum dosage.
This might just turn out to be disastrous.
She figures what she'll do is get Brittany dancing first, get her pumped with adrenaline and elation from doing something she loves so much and then she'll mention the E.
She picks a club that neither she nor Brittany have been to before but the dull thud of a hard bass line bleeds through the walls, even on the outside, and when they get inside, there are bright lights, sweaty bodies and hip hop infused techno beats.
It's kind of perfect.
Brittany attracts attention the moment she's through the metallic double doors. The tank top she's wearing fits snugly against her curves, clearly outlining the perfect swell of breasts and the defined ridges of abs that Santana really wants to get her hands on, but it's clear she's not the only one with those thoughts which is why she stays close, keeping her fingers pressed against the smalls of Brittany's back—right where her jeans dip low and her tank top rides up— even as Brittany's sneaks her way through the crowd.
Santana's dressed a lot more modestly, mainly because her wardrobe nowadays seems to consist only of fitted blazers, dress shirts, pencil skirts and pants suits, but she's wearing Brittany's favorite stilettos and she caught Brittany staring down her dress shirt during the car ride so she obviously approves of her outfit choice.
They find a place on the dance floor just perfect for the two of them and Brittany needs absolutely no invitation to fit her hands against Santana's hips and pull her so close that the rhythm of the up-tempo dance beat flows out of Brittany and right into Santana.
It's undeniably sexy the way Brittany lets the music move her, lets it course through her veins until every spin, drop, thrust of her hips that surges out of her is driven by the pulsating rhythm pouring through the loud speakers. It's clear to anybody with eyes that it's Brittany's drive, Santana's just along for the ride and a hell of a ride it is. Santana thrust her hips when Brittany grinds her ass against her, she rides the rhythm when Brittany presses a thigh between hers and she lets her hands wander when Brittany presents her body for touching. They move together until they're both hot and sweaty and Santana figures she might as well put her plan into action now.
"Let's get a drink," she murmurs, pulling Brittany against her as they make their way to the much quieter area by the bar.
Santana orders a beer and Brittany downs half of it before Santana even gets a sip but that's ok, alcohol will probably better facilitate this conversation anyway.
"What's up?" Brittany asks before Santana can think of a way to ask her girlfriend to get hopped up on some drugs with her.
"You drag me away from my homework, take me dancing even though we both have work tomorrow. I mean, I love it San, I really do, but what's up?"
"I—" There's really no way to say it, so she just pulls the bag from her pocket.
"San, is that—?"
"Look, I know you have this aversion to drugs, which, well why wouldn't you, right? But, you've just been so stressed lately and I've been working so hard and Puck says—"
"You got them from Puck?"
"Yeah, he stopped by my office a couple of weeks ago when he was passing through,"
Brittany's stern and Santana can tell this is heading towards epic fail territory.
"He's not selling is he?"
There's concern etched in the arch of her eyebrows and Santana kind of wants to smooth away the lines of worry but she's not sure if she's in the doghouse here so she keeps her hands to herself.
"No Britt, he's not selling," It's the truth; there are a lot of things that Puck's doing that he probably shouldn't be but selling drugs isn't one of them. "He just—I told him how stressed you've been lately and he just wanted to help. I just want to help, Britt. Even if only for one night, we can just dance and be reckless and be as carefree as we used to be. I think it'll be good for us and then maybe I can call in sick from work tomorrow and you can skip your classes and if you don't want to skip your dance classes then I can just tag along and watch you dance and we'll just be us, Britt,"
Brittany sighs, taking the bag from Santana's fingertips and examining its contents carefully.
"They kinda look like candy,"
"Yeah, they do," Santana agrees.
"They're not laced or anything?"
"Puck says they're the best you can buy,"
Brittany nods, slipping her fingers into the bag and pulling out the bright yellow one. She slides it onto her tongue and swallows it down with a swig of Santana's beer.
"Well," she's looking at Santana expectantly, "What are you waiting for?"
Santana swallows the pill easily and downs the rest of her beer in a quick gulp.
"Now," Brittany slips the bag with the rest of the pills back into Santana's blazer pocket. "I believe you promised me dancing?"
"That I did,"
Santana doesn't really feel any different. Dancing with Brittany always feels amazing so if she moans when Brittany grinds her ass into her, well, that's perfectly normal, and if she almost orgasms on spot when Brittany's breath ghosts across her cheek, well, ok, that's different.
The songs are bleeding into one hard thumping bass line and the lights are blurring into a spectrum of brilliant colors. Brittany's gripping her hips hard, pulling her deliciously into the fucking amazing curve of her thigh.
Ok, so it's definitely starting to feel really fucking good.
She can feel the music pulsing through her, swaying her to the rhythm and pulling her to the beat; she can't help but wonder if that's how Brittany feels all the time; she almost opens her mouth to ask her but Brittany leans her head on her shoulder and her breath curls against her ear and—
"Fuck," Santana pants against the curve of Brittany's neck as Brittany arches into her, pressing their bodies firmly together. "Do you feel that Britt?"
"It feels—" Brittany tries to come up with a word for the pulsing sensation fluttering through her beating chest and spreading throughout her whole body. It's just— "I feel so alive, Santana,"
Santana can feel that; she can see it. There's something in Brittany's eyes, something flickering across the strong lines of her features; she looks wild, uninhibited, free.
"San," Brittany's voice is low and her breath shaky. "I need you now,"
Santana's glad she says that because she's not sure she'd be able to resist the urge to take her right here on the dance floor.
The door to the bathroom stall isn't even fully locked before Santana's pressing her lips against Brittany's.
It's not ideal. The stall is small and the thumping music still penetrates the walls and actually, it could be pretty ideal.
They're kissing chastely but the feeling of Brittany's lips, the rippled smoothness beneath hers is absolutely electric and Santana can't help but kiss her again and again and again until Brittany's mouth is opening beneath hers and she's sliding her tongue in, swallowing the echoes of her moans and tasting the remnants of beer and lip gloss and something so sweet that Santana can't describe it as anything but Brittany.
Brittany's breathing is ragged, harsh, like she can't quite get enough air into her lungs and maybe she can't because she soon has to pull back from Santana's lips.
"Santana," she draws in a shuddering breath, her abs contracting with the intake of air. "I—," she closes her eyes, leaning back against the stall wall and dragging Santana with her so they're still touching, so they never stop touching. "You," She grabs Santana's hands in hers and squeezes hard like she's trying to steel herself. Her eyes fly open and she draws Santana's hands closer to her. "You're shaking, San,"
Well, fuck, she is.
Her body is humming, flowing with so much restless energy that she just doesn't know what to do with herself. She's never been anything but methodical during sex, even during her very first time—she knows how to get someone off, so she does it, clearly and precisely with no preamble— but right now she just wants, she wants so badly that it hurts.
"I just—" she can't explain it. She can't explain the energy running through her, she can't explain the wetness dripping down her thighs, she can't explain how crazy Brittany is driving her. "I just—" There just aren't words for it, "I want all of you, Britt,"
Brittany exhales hard, her breath fluttering against Santana's face. She brings one of Santana's hands to her chest, flattens her palm below her breast so Santana can feel her heartbeat thudding through her palm.
"You have all of me, San," she breaths, her eyes fluttering like Santana's driving her just as crazy as she is driving her. "You have all of me," she repeats, releasing Santana's hands so they can wander.
Wander, they do.
Santana scrunches the soft cotton of Brittany's tank top between her fingers, feeling as the material wrinkles beneath her fingertips. It's wonderful, but it's not enough; she needs more; she needs so much more.
Her knuckles brush against the soft skin of Brittany's abdomen and the hard muscles twitch at the touch and fuck, that's pretty fucking wonderful as well, almost as wonderful as the hum of approval that bubbles from Brittany's throat and shoots Santana right to her core.
Fuck, she wants so fucking badly.
The skin of Brittany's neck is smooth, pale, and Santana drags her tongue across it, tracing the deep lines of greenish veins. She can almost feel the rush of blood as it pumps it way through Brittany's body; she can certainly see the changes, she can see the way her skins flushes so beautifully red that under the light, it almost looks like she burning under Santana's touch.
Brittany palms at Santana's blazer until it slips off of her shoulders and thuds against the cold tile and Brittany's tank top follows it, draping across it like it's made a new friend.
It's pretty frantic, the way Santana slides her palms up Brittany's abdomen and cups her breasts, squeezing them fully in her palms like she has been wanting to do for hours now. She feels as Brittany's nipples stiffen beneath her touch and she's overcome with the urge to feel the pebbled flesh in her mouth, so she does. She kisses her way down Brittany's chest until she's rolling her tongue against an erect bud, feeling as the flesh puckers under the pleasure and Brittany crumbles under it, her knees buckling harshly until she's half slumping back against the wall and half slumping forward against Santana.
"San," her voice is strained, choked almost like she's so turned on that it hurts, "Santana, I really, really need you now,"
Santana understands that, she does, but there's just so much more skin to touch, so much more moans to elicit.
Brittany rocks her hips against Santana's and Santana groans.
"Turn around," she husks against Brittany's ear and Brittany complies, turning around despite the weight of Santana against her.
The moment she's in position, she reaches up, grasping the wood of the top of the stall wall for life. The pressure makes her shoulders clench and Santana can't help but experimentally press her lips to the flesh, then press her tongue against it, and then drag at it with her teeth until there's clear indication of a very Santana-like bite in her skin.
Brittany's ass rocks into her hips and it feels so much like being back out there on the dance floor that Santana rocks her hips back, her wetness spreading over her thighs at the indirect contact.
"Fuck, you turn me on so much, Britt," she murmurs against the shell of her girlfriend's ear, her fingers unzipping Brittany's jeans. "You—" the words die on her lips as she slips her fingertips into Brittany's jeans and already feels the warmth engulfing her fingers. "You're so wet,"
"Yessss," Brittany hisses as Santana's fingertips slip over her clit trace a few tight circles. "Oh God, yess Santana," she groans when Santana slides two fingers into her and curls right away, her palm pressing against her small bundle of nerves and making her tremble.
It feels super amazing being inside Brittany like this. Brittany's so wet that her slick arousal engulfs Santana's fingers and still drips around them, her walls tightening against the intrusion and releasing to accompany them, to let Santana move deeper inside her until she can curl her fingers and press against her inner walls.
Brittany's walls clench every time she rocks her hips and Santana can't help but answer Brittany's needy thrusts with a thrust of her own, using her hips to really drive her fingers hard into Brittany's slick entrance.
Brittany rests her cheek against the wall, eyes closed tightly, lips parted to release shuddering pants of breath as her body trembles against the overwhelming pleasure of Santana exploring her so intimately.
It's almost too much for Brittany to handle.
And then it is too much for Brittany to handle because Santana's warm tongue forges a hot path down her spine and her fingers curl just right and there so many colors that dash behind her eyelids that she almost wants to try and identify them all but then again, she'd much rather sink into the feeling of weightlessness that floats through her as she clenches around skilled fingers that haven't stopped moving inside her.
Skilled fingers that apparently don't intend to stop moving inside her.
"Saaaaan," Brittany drawls out, her lips feeling lazy around the name. "San, I'm—," she gasps, her hips twitching as Santana flicks the tip of her thumb against her clit. "I'm too sensitive, San!" she wriggles away from the touch until Santana's fingers slip out of her and she can finally breathe easy. She'd probably explode if she were to do that again so quickly.
"Sorry, I just don't want to stop touching you," Santana admits, her lips ghosting across the nape of Brittany's neck.
"I have an idea,"
"Well, part A involves you sitting on my face against the leather seats of your car, right now,"
Santana runs slick fingertips up Brittany's back and follows the trail with her lips.
"I like part A," she swipes her tongue across Brittany's earlobe. "Part B?"
"Part B involves you calling in sick from work tomorrow and me skipping class and us kinda just being us which will probably involve you sitting on my face again, a lot, all over the apartment even if Mr. Fillip is creeping outside,"
Santana chuckles deep in her throat, the vibration of the vocalization sending another wave of residual shivers through Brittany's body.
"I like that idea too,"
Fuck, that's probably the best idea Santana has ever heard, way better than Brittany's idea of her going back to school, even better than Puck's idea of loosening Britt up with some E and dancing which turned out pretty fucking fantastic. Even better than plan A, which, well, they should get on right about now.
"So, commence with plan A?" Santana asks, spinning Brittany around so she can have at her lips again.
"Definitely," Brittany agrees.