Title: Satin and Lace (Glitter and Gold)
Pairing(s): Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce
Rating: M. NC-17. NSFW (lol that's not even a rating) but this fic contains secks!
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or the characters of Glee or any likeness to the characters. Not making any money writing this and all that jazz, just really like the idea of Brittany and Santana having secks is all.
Summary: AU. Based on a prompt at the GKM. Brittany is working at Victoria's Secret, Santana is a ridiculously hot customer who flirts a lot.
Word Count: 8,145
A/N: Un beta'd so all mistakes are mine. Also, man, why do I also go like overboard with GKM fills? Like the last GKM fill turned out to be that 30,000 word whopper of Perfect Stranger and now this is over 8,000 words! Can someone tell me what's wrong with me? No? Kay kay, I'll suffer with my affliction. Onto the Brittana!
Brittany hates her job.
Sure, it pays her rent and her bills and her school tuition and she gets a pretty rad employee discount on everything in the store (the cotton boy shorts are both cute and comfortable) but she absolutely hates her job.
It's not even the job itself; the job is pretty easy. All she has to do is put stuff on shelves, make them all pretty, dress the mannequins, ring people up at the cash register sometimes—Blaine mostly does that because numbers confuse her—, smile, and tell people everything looks nice.
It's a pretty easy job with pretty good pay and a pretty rad employee discount rate and she's also pretty great at it but the costumers are also pretty obnoxious. And by pretty, she totally means really obnoxious. It's like all the most annoying people in the history of New York choose to frequent her specific Victoria's Secret. If it's not the pre-teens who really don't even have boobs yet or their mothers who think they can squeeze themselves into whatever is on the front of the catalogue then it's the guys who always hit on her while their girlfriends are changing.
And when she doesn't have to deal with all that, then it's early on a school day and the store is like a desolate lacy wasteland—like now.
She probably hates this most.
Blaine has even found something to do in the back which means she's stuck "manning the floor" or womaning the floor since she's totally not a man or whatever.
She has already color coded the Unforgettable stuff and made two really tall, really cool pyramids out of the Very Sexy—both men and women's – fragrances, and now she is trying her hardest not to fall asleep at the register.
For a moment, she actually thinks she's sleeping and deep in dreamland when a customer walks through the door.
It's a woman. A really hot woman who is all flowing locks of dark hair and smooth looking caramel colored skin.
Brittany wonders if maybe the girl is in the wrong place. For one thing, the clothes she's wearing; like if she wears dresses like that often then she clearly has no need for underwear. The material clings so tightly to the curves of her body that Brittany has to wonder if she could fit a finger beneath the fabric let alone a layer of undergarments. Even seamless undergarments! And even then, Brittany's pretty sure that someone like her should be shopping at La Petite Coquette or Catriona MacKechnie or somewhere they can hand stitch lace so it's made perfectly for her perfect body, not at a Victoria's Secret in Manhattan where everything has already been sullied by the eyes and hands of pretentious teens who couldn't even come close to competing with a woman like that.
Besides, they rarely get customers on Monday mornings anyway and when they do get customers at this time, they definitely don't look like they've magically spawned from between the pages of one of their catalogues.
Brittany has to pinch herself to make sure she really is awake and when nothing changes, she quickly digs the catalogue from beneath her elbows to make sure all of the models are still on the front page.
They are, which kind of sucks because if the models on the magazine had suddenly began to come to life, she's sure she'd never be bored at work again and that would be super cool.
The customer/woman/maybe-possibly-a-figment-of-her-imagination moves towards the collection of their sleepwear, her fingertips sliding across silk and lace as she surveys their babydolls.
Brittany should say something. She should ask her if she needs help or something—that's like kind of her job, after all—but her mouth feels dry and she's really doesn't want to sound like she's been eating sand or anything. That would be weird, eating sand, and she really doesn't want the hottest chick ever—in dreamland or otherwise—to think she's weird.
She has a bottle of water in her bag!
She just misses hitting her head on the counter as she ducks to grab her bag and she gulps half a bottle of water so quickly she fears she might get the hiccups but her mouth no longer feels dry and when she gets back up, super hot chick is examining a collection of bras.
Boobs are kind of Brittany's forte anyway so she can totally help her if she needs help.
What should she say though? Should she approach her? Or just kind of yell from behind the counter?
She doesn't want to seem like she's been watching her either. That would be weird!
Maybe she should just turn her back. Or just pretend to be doing something! Or, she could pretend like she's just seen her!
That would work!
She was doing something work-like and now she's just seen her so she can ask if she needs help with anything.
"Hey! Welcome to Victoria's Secret! I'm Blaine! Let me know if I can help you with anything!"
It's like he has hot girl spidey senses or something which would be completely unfair and so freakin' useless for him to have since he's gay and all!
"Actually," Apparently-not-really-a-figment-of-her-imagination girl says. Her voice is low, like a hum, but smooth; clearly God didn't want to waste the leftover sexy when he was done molding her perfection so he used the rest of it on her vocal cords. "I could use some help with something,"
No, urghhh! Brittany could very well bang her head against the counter if she wasn't so sure it would hurt really bad.
"Absolutely," Blaine smiles his brilliant, dealing-with-a-customer smile and then Brittany can't really hear much more of their conversation because Blaine moves closer and everything from then on is just an indistinctive drone of sexy and chipper.
It doesn't really stop her from trying to read their lips though. Trying to read incredibly sexy chick's lips does kind of stop her from reading incredibly sexy chick's lips though. It's like an iron or something—like that thing Alanis Morissette sings about— or maybe it's not really like that at all, but the more she tries to read her lips, the more distracted she gets by her lips.
It's just, they look so soft and cushiony, like the most perfect place ever for Brittany to put her own lips—although, there might be a few other more perfect places but that's… … Yeah.
"Here, let me just unlock the dressing room for you,"
Well, she hears that clearly enough, mostly because Blaine is coming towards her, reaching behind the counter for the dressing room keys.
"I really think those will be perfect,"
Brittany can't really see what's in the girl's hand that Blaine thinks will be so perfect but even if it were like a trash bag—a super ugly one— Brittany thinks she'd probably agree.
Everything kind of gets obstructed by the panties wall—she nicknamed it that because that's where they display their massive panty style chart—from then on but when she comes back into view a little bit later, her dress and hair slightly messy from changing, she talks with Blaine a bit more and he smiles a lot and then he heads right back to the backroom and then the woman with sex glazed vocal cords is heading right for her.
Brittany just barely resists the urge to duck back under the counter.
"Hi," the woman smiles dazzlingly, placing a lace and satin demi and brief set on the counter.
Oh God, Brittany feels her mouth getting dry again and she already finished all of her water.
"Hi," she pretty much croaks but she manages a smile—her manager, Quinn, says that smiling is important when working the register. She also gave her a list of things she should say but those are kind of escaping her right now. She remembers something like—
"Is this all for you today?"
"Yes," The even-more-perfect-in-close-range woman says and then her smile kind of curves into something different, something warm but mysterious. "Actually," Oh jeez, she actually leans forward, arms resting on the counter so it's like her lips are talking directly to Brittany's lips. Brittany has never wanted a lip pillow more in her life. "I spoke to your co-worked about this but I think I could use some womanly advice,"
"I'm a woman,"
Jeez, that was a stupid thing to say. She doesn't even know why she said it; it's not like her woman-ness was being called into question or anything; in fact, it was doing the opposite of being called into question so she really doesn't know why her mouth felt the need to justify it.
The girl chuckles softly, leaning in even more like she's sharing the alluring sound. Brittany would be content if she shared it forever!
"Well, I'm really looking for something simple. You know, something sexy but not slutty,"
Brittany almost apologizes to her because if she really is looking for simple, then God already doomed her search by making her so darn perfect; it's like even single colored cotton would look magnificent offset against such smooth shimmery skin. Then again, she can't really imagine this woman wearing anything that would look less than magnificent so she doesn't really see why she's worrying about looking slutty either.
"I—uhmm," she really wants to be helpful though so she at least looks at the set Blaine suggested—a soft ivory satin with intricate black lace from their Miraculous collection— and tries to imagine it on the woman before her. The image is so not helpful to her trying to be helpful and now her mouth really feels like it has been replaced by a desert. "Yes," she rasps dazedly.
"I mean," now she's pretty sure she's turning red and like, not cute red either, but blazing embarrassing red. "I mean, I think this would be super super cute. Not slutty at all,"
Apparently that was the right answer because the woman smiles like Brittany just told her she's hit the lottery jackpot or something of equal importance.
"Fantastic," she slides the set further towards Brittany, "Then this will be all,"
Brittany rings her up and she pays with cash which sucks because Brittany hates making change and well, she didn't even realize it until the disappoint sinks in when the girl hands her some bills but she was totally planning on being kinda creepy and finding out the girl's name if she paid with plastic.
Making change isn't really hard this time; she gives her a five and a quarter and three pennies and the girl smiles some more and throws the money in her clutch while Brittany puts what she bought into a bag.
She hands perfection her bag, pursing her lips and smiling so nothing stupid can come out now since she's made it this far without completely embarrassing herself.
"Thanks a lot," The most perfect woman in all of New York says, fingers clasping around the pink bag handles. She glances down for a moment and Brittany panics thinking she's put her shirt on backwards again or something, but then the girl glances back up, something mischievous swirling in deep brown eyes. "Brittany,"
Brittany swears she dies. At least a little bit. But it's like good dead, like she dies and wakes up in a heaven that looks suspiciously like her store in which she gets to watch the retreating form of the sexiest goddess in the history of all dimensions as she disappears into the haze of the mall.
She's pretty sure that's gonna be the highlight of her week.
She was so close to calling in sick to work this morning.
She's not actually sick though as much as she is like super tired.
She seriously loves her stagecraft class— it's like the best class she's taken since she's been at Julliard so far— but they've just been assigned their final performance for the class and at first she was like super excited because she was partnered with Mike right away and then she was even more excited because she found out that the performance would be recreating choreography from a music video and adapting it for the stage and then she was so excited she could barely contain it because she found out one of the songs that they could be assigned was that Shakira song, "Did it Again" and she so wanted to dance-fight because that would have been awesome. But they totally didn't get that song; instead they got Kate Bush's "Running up that Hill" which is so beyond Brittany's time that she hadn't even seen the video for it so she was kind of sad, at least until she googled the video and then got so super excited about the choreography that she and Mike practiced and practiced and practiced until it was 6 AM and she had work in three hours.
Now, all she wants to do burrow into a pillow of their cotton lingerie and take a nap.
She could probably get away with it too. Blaine's in the back doing inventory and it's a Monday. It's not like they really get any customers on a Monday anyways.
"Santana, I am really not comfortable with this,"
Brittany spins around so quickly that she almost loses her balance.
She is suddenly super glad that she came to work today because currently walking into her store is the same woman from last Monday.
Clearly it wasn't some kind of fluke because even now, running on like a quick nap she took on the subway, this girl is like the most gorgeous person she's ever seen in her life.
She's with a guy this time though—a skinny guy wearing pants that look like something her little sister would wear.
He's really pretty though. Like Peter Pan pretty. Boy band pretty even.
She wonders for a second if he's her boyfriend and then she feels super silly because she's pretty sure he's gay.
"Santana," he whines at the girl.
Santana. That's her name, Brittany figures. It suits her, like it's mysterious and exotic and sexy just like she is.
"Guess I won't need you after all," she says to her friend and then she's moving closer, like coming right at Brittany closer. She's smiling too but not like a happy smile. It's more of a smirk, like she knows something everyone else doesn't and she's not planning on telling what it is either. "I was actually hoping you'd be working today, Brittany,"
Brittany swallows so hard she thinks that Tina can probably hear it from the Hot Topic a few doors down.
"I need your expertise,"
"I-uhmm," she really wishes she had had some coffee or something—anything to get her brain up to not sleep deprived speed. "W-won't your friend get mad?" That would be really mean bringing him all the way here for his advice and then ditching him for her advice instead, even though she really does want to give her her advice, she wants to give her anything she wants!
"Kurt?" The woman—Santana—rolls her eyes. "Please. I brought him just to distract your co-worker so I could steal you,"
Well, that plan apparently worked like a charm because her friend is already talking animatedly with Blaine who must have come out when his hot girl spidey senses started tingling. Or maybe he has hot guy senses too. Maybe he has hot people senses.
That would be so cool.
Man, she wishes she had a superpower.
"Wait. You know Blaine's gay?" Jeez, that's such a weight off of her chest. Most of the girls who blow through her store end up flirting with him like all the time. Quinn thinks it's a good thing though; she says that a lot of chicks dig male opinion and this way she doesn't have to worry about lawsuits on her clock or anything. Brittany doesn't really get that because her opinion is just as g— "Wait," It's like her brain finally catches up with everything. "You wanted to steal me?"
The smile that Santana flashes her is candy levels of sweet.
"Yeah," Santana affirms, her fingertips brushing against Brittany's wrist briefly. Brittany hopes the shiver that runs through her isn't half as violent as it feels. "As I said, I need you expertise,"
"Ok, what can I help you with?" Brittany asks, trying to sound as professional as possible. She thinks she just manages to keep the tremor out of her voice.
"Well, I have this school recital thing coming up," Santana's tone is mischievous—conspiratorial even. "And they're forcing me into this really dull black dress and stockings,"
She doesn't even need to finish, Brittany totally knows where she's going with that statement.
"I just want to, you know, at least feel sexy,"
Brittany knows just the thing.
Lace-top thigh highs, Dream Angels lacyblack demi, matching lace-trim v-string—practically invisible under any dress—and lace front-garter belt.
She's pretty sure she picks them up in all the right sizes and when she presents them to Santana, she gets this kind of weird look on her face, like she's surprised but kinda happy yet still surprised.
"I think something like this work well under a black dress," Brittany says, "and uh—you know," They'd be like super super sexy. She kind of doesn't say that part out loud though.
She has a feeling that Santana understand anyway because she smiles really brightly, taking the items for Brittany's hands.
"You're a genius,"
Brittany's pretty sure she's not, at least no one has ever called her that before, which is probably why blood flushes so quickly to her cheeks, turning her bright red.
Santana smiles even brighter.
"So I guess I should try them on first then, huh?"
"Yeah, totally. I'll—uh—unlock a dressing room,"
The keys are already around her neck so she just leads Santana to the dressing rooms and unlocks the biggest one for her.
Santana catches her wrist before she can leave and start fixing the panty pile she really did unconsciously start building a pillow out of.
"Could you give me your opinion on how it looks after I change?"
Brittany already has a good mental image of how it looks. It's an image that makes her cheeks flush and her body temperature rise like she's forgotten to turn the heat off in her apartment again.
Actual visual might actually kill her. Like, heat her up until she actually combusts type kill her.
It is her job, right?
"Great," Santana smiles dazzlingly before dashing into the dressing room.
Brittany feels about a million levels of awkward, standing outside the dressing room, twiddling her fingers and listening to the soft rustling sounds of Santana changing.
She feels about a thousand more levels of awkward when the sounds brings with it mental images of smooth, very, very naked skin.
She seriously needs to stop thinking.
She forces a cough, trying to clear the sudden lump in her throat as well as the thoughts invading her mind.
"Uh—" she has to think of something to distract her. "So, uhmm, what's your recital about?"
"It's no big deal really; it's just a music recital. I'm singing a piece with the concert jazz band,"
The rustling stops for a moment and Brittany figures she's got her dress completely off.
"That's cool," Like really cool; if she had to guess, she'd guess that Santana has a really pretty singing voice.
"Mmmhmm," Santana agrees. More rustling—maybe the stockings going on. "Yeah, I go to MSM,"
"That sounded like a bad oh,"
"It's not," It kind of is. "I just go to Julliard,"
Santana laughs, and God, even her laugh is sexy. It's like a deep, rich vibration that rolls through Brittany in waves.
She's pretty sure that it isn't lack of sleep making her legs feel suddenly weak.
"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone I'm fraternizing with the enemy if you won't,"
Brittany is about to tell her that it's a deal but the door to the dressing room rattles open and when Brittany sees her, what slips past her lips instead is, "wow,"
Apparently, her mental images do this woman no justice.
She had in her mind's eye the image of full, womanly curves and glorious amounts of golden skin interrupted only by intricate lace and expensive imported nylon. That hardly even accounts for the hard, sharp lines of muscles surfacing on a perfectly flat abdomen or the delicate edges of jutting hip bones. It certainly doesn't account for the flawlessly rounded swell of cleavage bursting forth from the cutoff lace demi cups nor for the smooth stripe of thigh peaking between the edge of her thigh highs (held steady by the thin lacey band of her garter) and the end of her v-string.
Brittany is staring. Probably drooling a little bit too.
"I mean—" she really did mean wow; like that pretty much sums it up. "It's—it's uh— cute,"
Cute; that's a safe word.
Too safe apparently because Santana arches an eyebrow, hands moving to rest on her hips.
No, like hot, sexy, delicious even. Brittany doesn't even know how she's stopping herself from jumping her. She wants to touch so so bad.
"No, like really—uhmmm," There goes that dryness in her mouth again. She licks her lips, desperate to regain some moisture. "I'm sure it accomplishes exactly what you wanted. Like it's—yeah. And I'm sure if you have like a boyfriend, he'd totally love it too,"
She should probably stop talking now; whenever she can't say exactly what she wants to stay, random words just start spewing out and sometimes she feels like she just can't stop the flow of them.
Santana doesn't seem so bothered by it though, instead she's laughing, like something really, really funny just happened kind of laughing.
"What?" Brittany asks, completely clueless.
"Nothing," Santana murmurs between breathy chuckles. "I just don't have a boyfriend is all,"
"Oh," Brittany doesn't know why she assumed she did. Actually, she kind of knows why she assumed she did; hot girls like Santana almost always have boyfriends. It's like the grand rule of the universe or something. "Well, you better watch out, you might get like ten in those stockings,"
Santana grins so widely her dimple sinks hollow into her cheek. It's kind of cute, her one dimple. Brittany kind of wants to press her lips against it; she wants to see if she can feel her happiness with her lips.
"It's too bad I'm not into that then, huh?" Santana says softly and then she kind of does the most unfair thing ever! She dashes right back into the dressing room before Brittany can even question her which isn't even really the unfair part because Brittany could totally still question her through the door, except she doesn't close the door. Not all the way at least.
"So, what are you studying at Julliard?"
The crack in the slightly opened door is just enough. Enough for Santana's voice to travel smooth and uninterrupted to Brittany's ears. Enough for Brittany to count the notches of her spine as she bends to work her stockings down her legs. Enough for her gaze to work over uninterrupted planes of smooth skin and imagine her fingers pressing into those supple thighs or dancing across the blueprint of her back.
It's enough even to make her woozy with the want that flares in the pit of her stomach and runs warm and wet between her thighs.
"Huh?" She swallows hard, half expecting Santana to kindly ask her to stop perving on her.
"Julliard," Santana unclasps the bra easily with one hand, her shoulder blades rippling delicately with the movement. "What are you studying?"
"Oh, uhmm—" Saying words really shouldn't be this hard but even breathing is hard when one of the hottest women in the universe is dragging underwear down her impossibly smooth legs right in Brittany's line of sight, "d-dance,"
"Yeah?" Brittany can't see Santana's smirk, but she can hear it; the slyness practically coats her vocal cords. "What kind of dance?"
"All kinds of dance,"
"Well," she slips easily into her dress, smoothing the downy fabric along the curves of her body. "I might have to take a trip up to Julliard to see you dance sometimes then Miss Brittany,"
Brittany is fairly certain she dies a bit and that's before Santana practically caresses her hand when taking her bag and winks seductively at her before leaving the store with her friend (who is practically Blaine's bestie at this point) in tow.
Brittany can't take it. Monday's are like the worst torture in the history of mankind for her.
She honestly thinks that Santana is conspiring to kill her. Like why else would she be trying on a sheer flyaway apron babydoll right now?
Brittany just barely got through the starry babydoll she bought last week and then there was the red halter babydoll the week before that and the mesh and lace apron a couple of weeks ago. Heck, there was even that black and white halter top and low rise bikini combo one week.
This woman is going to be the death of her.
Seriously, the ache is just gonna keep building and building until eventually, she snaps. Dead. Cause of death: Santana Lopez.
"So, I'm not sure about this one,"
Brittany almost rolls her eyes. If there is anything she has learned about Santana in the past few weeks, it's that she's sexy and she knows it, so of course she's sure about this one. She's just as sure about this one as she was the last one and the one before that. If anything, Brittany's starting to think that the only reason she keeps asking her opinion in the first place is just to see her squirm.
"I guess what I'm asking is," the lock to the dressing room door clicks as it's unlocked. Brittany's not sure if the few seconds—that feel like hours—that the door takes to swing completely open is part of the actual torture of if it's just prolonging the torture. Whatever it is, it makes it feel like her heart twists and turns restlessly in her chest. "Do you think it's too much?"
Too much. It's like the complete opposite of too much! It's barely there.
The straps to the demi bra are thin, almost completely obscured by the waves of black hair that tumble across her shoulders. Even the cups of the demi (silky buttercup yellow satin covered by a layer of intricate fine lace) are cut low (clearly made for titillation, not protection), mounds of rounded smooth flesh spilling out like a goldmine from the material. The cups are strung together in the middle by a tiny black ribbon bow that twines and curls into two satin cords that rests against her bellybutton. The sheer flyaway lace attaches right beneath the cups of her bra, fanning out across her bare abdomen and hips like glimpses of fairy wings that give way to thinnest waistband in the history of underwear. While the whole ensemble is barely there, the panties may as well just not be there. Two symmetrical smudges of satin line the waistband and everything from then on is sheer lace, dark enough to keep up the play of elusive mystery but at the same time, unable to hide the carefully patterned strip of downy hairs that lead to the that one place that Brittany's dreams have very frequently visited as of late.
"I—" she really wishes she'd just learn and have a couple extra bottles of water around just for Mondays—just for moments like this when her whole throat feels like it has been consistently scratched against sandpaper for hours. "I think it looks good,"
"Yeah?" Santana asks, her fingertips skirting across the hem of the flyaway lace. "You don't think it'll be a bit uncomfortable to sleep in though? I mean, feel the material,"
Brittany doesn't need to feel the material. She stocked it, she put it on a mannequin, she prayed to every God she ever heard of that Santana would pick anything but it.
No such luck.
"Santana," the warning edges into her voice because Santana is beckoning her forward and she knows if she gets any closer she may not be able to control her own body.
"I just want your opinion,"
There's a lilt of genuine curiosity to her voice that makes Brittany feel super bad for wanting to say no to her in the first place.
She hates how easy it is for her to give into these things but she gives in easily nonetheless.
She doesn't really know why girls would want to sleep all dolled up in lace and stuff but as far as lace goes, this one isn't even really scratchy.
She catches a bit of the lace between her thumb and forefinger and gently runs her thumb across it.
There. That wasn't so hard.
"I—uh—" Ok, she lied, because when she glances down to track the progress of her fingers, she gets the most glorious view of boobs—like right there, so very, very close—she has ever seen in her life. She doesn't even know when or how she got that close but she does know that if she doesn't look away soon, she won't be able to stop herself from touching.
She meets Santana's eyes instead.
Which turns out to be the best/worst idea ever.
They're so just dark, mysterious even, like they're just pulling Brittany right in and seriously, it's just not fair because her boobs already made Brittany super vulnerable to the haul, now she just can't look away from her eyes.
She wants to tell Santana that the fabric is just fine, that no itchiness will disrupt her night's sleep. She opens her mouth to say it too but what comes out instead is a breathy apology.
For a moment, she doesn't even recognize her own voice and when she does, she really has no idea what she's apologizing for. It takes what feels like years for her mind and her body to collide and when they do, she realizes that her body has already gotten her into another collision—like a collision with Santana.
She has Santana pretty much trapped against the wall sectioning two dressing room, her own hand trapped awkwardly between their stomachs.
She can feel Santana quiver. Her ab muscles clench and her chest pushes forward and she exhales a shaky breath that blows warm across Brittany's jaw.
Brittany's a goner.
She risks a glance down just in time to see a glimpse of tongue as it dashes across Santana's lips, making them shiny and even more tempting than usual.
It's the last straw.
"I am so, so sorry," she whispers for the last time.
Santana's lips taste like fruity lip gloss but not like regular fruit flavored lips gloss, like the special limited time only flavors with the funny names—something like mango-pineapple-wild berry splash or passion fruit-pomegranate parade.
She figures that if Santana was going to push her away, she would have done it already, so she doesn't even really feel bad about it when she fits their lips firmer, dulling the sheen of her lip gloss.
It tingles, the soft pressure of lips against lips, and then, as Santana parts her lips to her, it ignites. It's like an explosion of every good feeling in the world. Goosebumps rise against Brittany's skin and her blood races and her head spins. She feels like her brain is just purging information, sending it deep within her unconscious mind until the only thing that she can remember to do is kiss Santana harder.
She does. She kisses hard and relentless, tongues brushing and lips meshing until they're both breathless—the best kind of breathless too, like when they play ten good songs in a row club dancing breathless except even better because this is kissing the girl of her dreams until they're both breathless breathless.
She's starting to think that maybe Santana's not gonna push her away. In fact, Santana's kind of encouraging it, her fingers tangling in Brittany's hair, fingernails scratching gently at her scalp and across the nape of her neck.
It feels super good. So good that Brittany can't stop the little helpless whimper that leaves her lips and gets absorbed by Santana's really, really amazing mouth.
She has a feeling there will be a lot more of those sounds that she can't hold in. She thinks for a moment that they should probably at very least go into the dressing room where there's a door and a lock and maybe a tiny bit more sound protection. Santana's kind of tugs on her bottom lip with her teeth though and that pretty much coaxes all rational thought away from her.
It's a Monday anyway, Blaine's in the backroom and they're pretty much shielded by the panty wall which is all the rationale she needs to keep going. In fact, it could probably be a Saturday evening, when she works with Quinn and the store is usually packed, out in the open against the cash register counter, and even then, Santana would probably be all the rationale she'd need to keep going.
It's like, she can't stop even if she tried. Everything about Santana just feels amazing. Her lips, her tongue, her hair, her skin; Brittany's so busy trying to touch—feel—everything that she doesn't even realize that she's pivoting her hips in slow circles against Santana until specks of pleasure bubble and spread low in her stomach.
She pushes her hips forward harder and Santana gasps, pulling away from her lips to suck in a shuddering breath of air.
She looks wild like this, gaze half-lidded with her lips kiss-bruised, sticky and parted, and her skin flushed, tinted with just the tiniest hue of red.
Brittany guesses that she looks similar; she guesses that's why Santana's fingertips move from her hair to caress her neck, her jaw, her cheek—she was so about to do the same thing.
When Santana's thumb brushes against the side of her lips, she presses her tongue against the satiny pad and when Santana's breath hitches, she takes the digit between her lips, sucking on the smooth flesh.
When they meet for another kiss, it's all wet pressure and ragged breaths, not at all helped by how their hips keep thrusting towards each other, drawing out sparks of pleasure and then retreating just as quickly.
"God," Santana breathes against her lips. Her voice is shaky and grainy, so sexy that Brittany can't help but kiss her again so when she talks this time, she's talking right into Brittany's mouth. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this,"
Oh, Brittany definitely has an idea. She has an idea because—Wait.
"You wanted me to do this," It all clicks into place. The outfits, the flirty glances, the leaving the dressing room door open, she's practically been inviting Brittany to have sex with her!
"For so fucking long," Santana admits, lips pressing against Brittany's chin, then her jaw, then the side of her neck.
Brittany doesn't let her get any lower because something surges inside of her, something deep and primal. It's like the sum of all the frustration she has been through in the past weeks, all of it just surges and flares, because Santana knew what she was doing; she did it all on purpose.
"I don't think you even realize how crazy you drove me," She drives Santana further into the wall, nipping hard at the flesh of her neck. She can feel Santana's pulse quicken, she wants it to race so fast it's dizzying.
"I even took extra-long lunch breaks on Mondays just to touch myself," she swipes her tongue across Santana's collarbone, loving the way her skin shimmers with the slickness. "because of you," she admits in a husky growl. "Because I couldn't stop thinking about ripping these clothes off of you,"
She bites into the swell of flesh right where the cup of her bra begins and Santana hisses.
Brittany's pretty sure the cups of the bra are cut so low that she can coax all of her flesh out without even having to remove the garment, but she really, really wants to see all of her so she unclasps it easily and lets her lips follow the path of the bra straps as she urges the bra off of Santana's body.
The sight doesn't disappoint. It's like, she doesn't even need maximum-lift because they're so perky already. They're just so round and soft, it's like they just swallow Brittany's fingers up when she squeezes them, sinking her fingers into supple gold.
She really can't help herself; boobs are like her favourite things ever.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," she quotes Santana's words, pressing her lips softly to one of Santana's already hard nipples. She flicks her tongue against the darkened, rippled flesh, rolling over the nub until it's coated in her appreciation and then she wraps her lips around it.
She glances up to see as Santana's head tips back against the wall, her eyelids creased under the pressure of how tightly they're closed.
Brittany hollows her cheeks and sucks hard, taking a swell of warm flesh into her mouth and then releasing it with a wet pop. The way Santana moans her name at the action makes Brittany gush so much that her inner thighs feel sticky with her arousal. She clamps her thighs tight, trying to ease the throbbing ache as she takes Santana's thus far neglected nipple between her lips and pulls on the bud. She kind of reverses her actions this time, first she sucks, then she licks and when she bites down, it feels like Santana's whole body shivers, like it's reaching out to her.
Brittany flattens her palms on Santana's hips and tugs her closer to her mouth, her nose nuzzling against the space between Santana's boobs as she kisses along her flesh.
She kisses lower, brushing her lips across Santana's abs and darting her tongue between the sharp lines of surfacing muscles until she's on her knees in front of her and Santana's tangling her fingers in her hair again, her breath stilted and then sporadic as she murmurs a plea for Brittany to touch her. Like really touch her.
Brittany wants to so bad but at the same time, she wants to draw this out; she wants to get her mouth on as much flesh within her reach as she can so she nips at each of Santana's jutting hipbones, she rolls her tongue across the jagged cuts defined muscles make in smooth skin, she tongues along the lace waistband of the thong, she kisses along the smooth stretch of each thigh and when she finally presses a kiss gently on the inside of Santana's right thigh, Santana moans her name in this deep, rumbling keen of pleasure.
Brittany wasn't sure she could hold off any longer anyway, now she's definitely sure doesn't want to.
Santana smells really good. Like, not that she didn't smell really good before, because she did—her body wash or perfume has this intoxicating exotic breezy smell (like being on vacation where the sun is that right kind of hot and the sand is like warm little beads of golden paradise) —but this is different, like she smells really good different.
Brittany drags her nose across the seam of her underwear, taking in the dizzying heady scent and Santana's hips buck, her fingers quick to recapture any stray strands of Brittany's hair that she let fall from her grasp.
Brittany was gonna do it anyway, even if she didn't beg, but the wispy, almost whiny, grain of her voice is such a turn on, it just makes Brittany want to taste her even more.
She tongues low across the slit of her underwear and wow, like it really is super good lace, not really scratchy at all. Or maybe that's cause it's wet, super wet—clinging to Santana's skin type wet.
"Jesus," she hums against slick lace sheathed flesh, because seriously, Jesus—Santana's that wet. She almost hopes that Santana doesn't buy this set because she really wants to buy it and keep it and remember forever just how hot and wet Santana was against her tongue.
She flicks her tongue hard against her again, secure in the fact that she can really go as hard as she wants with the lace buffer between them.
She can taste the tangy sweet droplets of flavors that stick to her tongue and she rolls her tongue flat against the length of her sex, desperate for more of it.
Santana's thighs are quivering, small tremors rocking through her, making her shake against Brittany's mouth and hands. She presses harder, with both mouth and hands, so Santana's pinned completely against the wall, legs wide and back arched.
Her arched back makes it easy for Brittany to slide the thong off of her hips and she carefully drags the soaked lace down shuddering thighs, helping Santana step out of them easily even though she's standing on unsteady legs.
The scent is even stronger now, wrapping tight around Brittany and locking her in this intense sensory overload.
Santana's so flushed and slick and soft and swollen, opened before her like a spring flower in bloom. Brittany reaches out to touch, running her middle and forefinger gently down her slit. She thinks it's probably like what touching a cloud feels like—impossibly soft, silky, slick; she sinks her fingertips harder into flesh and Santana keens, fingers tightening in Brittany's hair.
"God. So good," she murmurs, her hips moving into Brittany's movements.
Brittany uses her mouth again, lips getting lost in warm folds as she explores her with her tongue. She's so wet already but Brittany's mouth makes her wetter so it's almost like diving into a cloud now—diving into a cloud that's warm and slick and smells so delicious that Brittany can't stop tasting it.
She swirls her tongue and licks until she feels Santana's clit swell prominent against the flat her tongue and when she wraps her lips around it, Santana shudders so hard, Brittany almost thinks she might fall.
She presses her palm tighter against her hip just in case and sucks harder.
"Oh God," Santana's voice sounds super far away even though she's close, so close that Brittany can feel her throbbing beneath her tongue. "Please don't stop," she rocks her hips hard, moving against the flicking of her tongue and the suction of her lips. "So close. Please don't fucking stop,"
Brittany's not going to. She cups Santana's hips, taking responsibility of keeping her upright, and pulls her harder into her so she's practically riding her mouth.
"Fuck. So, so close,"
Santana's pulling tight like an elastic band, Brittany can feel the tension prickling in her thighs. She looks up, desperate to see her face when she peaks and surprisingly, she doesn't have her head tipped back and her eyes creased tightly shut, instead, she's looking right at her, cheeks flushed, forehead creased in concentration and lips parted softly.
Brittany kind of wants to kiss her, but she's already kind of kissing her and she knows she can't do both so she concentrates on what she's doing instead, watching closely as Santana snaps against her, back rigid for a moment before her whole body tremors in pleasure, slinking against the wall like her bones don't work anymore.
Now Brittany gets to kiss her, so she does, moving up her body quickly to pin her upright against the wall, as she presses her lips to hers.
It's hardly even a kiss as much as it's just pressing her lips around Santana's because she's still so breathless, still panting and shivering beneath her.
She's still so hot down there too; Brittany can feel it from where her hand is wrapped around her thigh.
She really can't help but touch again—carefully though because the moment she makes contact, Santana jerks against her.
She's gentle, like a painter caressing his or her masterpiece after it's dry.
Santana's softer, even slicker than before.
Brittany marvels in the silky wetness that clings to her fingertips, drawing tight circles into the pooling slickness. She pushes upwards a bit, drawing right into the source.
Santana's whole body hums against her.
"Oh my God," Santana murmurs, voice crackling and shaky like she's talking in the middle of a huge earthquake or something. She wraps her arms around Brittany's neck, clinging tightly, like maybe she is in the middle of an earthquake; her body is shaking enough to mimic one.
Brittany holds onto her tight, wrapping an arm around her and resting it low on the smalls of her back while she pushes her middle finger further into her.
Santana hisses right into her ear and she can't really tell if it's she who tremors of if it's Santana against her.
She's knuckle deep and wow, if it was like a cloud before, she's not even sure how to describe this—maybe like the inside of a summer raindrop before it falls.
It's like warm silk being wrapped around her finger.
She pulls out a bit and pushes back in and Santana clenches around her finger, like she's trying to pull her in even more. She pushes as deep as she can possibly go and she can feel the strain blaze anew in Santana's body. Her back clenches against her palm and her hips jerk and her forehead falls to Brittany's collarbone and stays there, creased in concentration.
"Fuck, yes," Santana moans, hips bucking against Brittany's finger. "More,"
Brittany slides another finger inside her and she stretches and clenches around her two fingers almost instantly. She's so tight, but not like overbearing tight, like finding a pair of jeans that fit just right kind of tight. It's like all kind of amazing.
"OhmyGodBrittany," Santana's words are jumbled, more breath than voice as they absorb right into Brittany's skin because Santana's pressing so close it's like she's trying to get inside her. "Harder please,"
Brittany pushes even harder. She kind of wants to rub her clit too but she figures it must be super sensitive because every time her thumb brushes by it, Santana jerks and clenches so she just brushes by it every so often and concentrates on using her upper arm strength to push her fingers in harder and deeper.
She just barely curls her fingers inside Santana when she feels her tumble over the edge, clamping hard down on her fingers and biting hard right next to her pulse point until her body falls into a series of softer convulsions.
Brittany waits until her head tips back against the wall to pull her fingers out and when she does, Santana opens her eyes. They're hazy and still half-lidded and she's smiling just a little bit, like a really soft, lazy smile.
Brittany kisses the corner of her lips, loving the way they curl into a real smile beneath hers.
Brittany just now notices, when she presses her forehead into the crook of Santana's neck, how Santana's skin is glimmering a bit with sweat.
It's like super sexy.
"You should not wear clothes ever," She decides, running her still slick fingertips over Santana's hips and feeling as goose bumps rise against the path she sets.
Santana chuckles; it's kind of weak and throaty but Brittany knows it's a real laugh because she can feel her abs clench.
"You're not really selling your products here,"
Yeah, that's true. She grins against Santana's cheek, placing a kiss there.
"You should wear all the clothes ever then," she says instead. Her grin is probably so goofy at this point but she just made the girl of her dreams orgasm twice against a wall at work and didn't get caught; she thinks that warrants a happy dance or something. "You should wear al the clothes ever and then I could take them off of you,"
Best idea ever! Maybe she is really a genius.
"I like that plan," Santana chuckles softly against her neck.
In fact, she must really like that plan because when she comes into the store next Monday, she tries on a whole outfit and Brittany revels in taking each item off, piece by piece.
And then they date and get married and have gorgeous scarily talented kids! Isn't that how all Brittana fic should end, right? Lol
Review pretty please. With Sugar on top. See, what I did there?
You can also hit me up here: downlikeyourinternet (dot) tumblr (dot) com where I really just reblog like a boss but I also take prompt suggestions in my ask because sometimes I really don't feel like working on my WIPs and writing something else helps.