Title: Sometimes It's Gonna Rain
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 17.4k
Summary: She's never liked going to sleep when Brittany's mad at her.

Notes: It's been 84 years... okay, maybe not, but it's still been a freaking long ass time since I updated this. I do apologize, but if you follow my stories, you might have noticed I've been working on another G!P fic which apparently has become quite popular and so I haven't really focused on anything else. But per request of my beta and a few readers, I decided to update this before the last update for NKIN. So hope you enjoy, and as always, if you have any prompts that you'd like to be fulfilled for this universe, send me a PM or head straight to my Tumblr (my pen name and the usual Tumblr URL) and drop it in the ask box :) Thanks guys!



Santana looks up from the gossip mag in hand, eying her wife from the sofa. "Yeah?"

Brittany wanders in from the kitchen, clutching a plate full of cut up sandwiches and Santana just watches her, bare feet padding over the floor and baggy gray sweatpants hanging low on her hips and honestly, she'll never tire of this sight. She thinks it might be one of her top five best things about being married; having someone—no, having Brittany—just look so damn comfortable in a place they can call their own. It may even reach the top three best things, actually.

She's still staring at the doorway to the kitchen when the sofa dips beside her, a warm body pressing against her side and she shakes herself out of it, glancing down at the plate of triangle sandwiches being set on her lap and knows it's Elijah's lunch leftovers. The sandwiches are filled with peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter, jelly and Fluff too, by the looks of it and she almost rolls her eyes lovingly but then Brittany tilts her head back and presses a kiss to the underside of her jaw and she forgets to do it.

"You're not busy next Saturday," Brittany starts, taking a mouthful of sandwich. "Are you?"

Too distracted by the blue eyes staring straight at her, Santana takes a long moment before replying. "Not that I know of. Why?"

"Some guys came by the studio earlier," her wife explains, body shifting so her back is pressed against Santana's side as her eyes goes to the TV. "And we're having a really big, important meeting next week about possibly setting up another studio in Chicago or LA or somewhere. I want you to come."

A soft smile plays at Santana's lips as her arm winds around Brittany's waist and hand dips beneath her shirt, fingertips gliding over smooth skin. Brittany shudders beneath the touch and leans back further into her.

"Of course I'll be there," she says, dropping a kiss to a head of blonde hair. "Who's going?"

Brittany swallows her mouthful. "Well," she starts and Santana gets the feeling she's not going to like what's coming. "I mean, technically it's just supposed to be me and Mike."

Yep. She doesn't like it. And Brittany must get this because she grabs the plate of Santana's lap and sets it on the coffee table before turning around and throwing a leg over Santana's thighs until her knees are bracketing Santana's hips. Hands cup her cheeks and her own ones instantly drop to run up Brittany's thighs, suddenly hating these sweatpants that a moment ago she was admiring.

"But I want to bring you because I loveyou," Brittany continues, her eyes flickering between Santana's. "And I know that in spite of Mike and Tina being together, and you and me being madly in love and have a son—who, by the way, snores like a monster truck—you still get a little touchy over me and Mike being together."

Santana laughs a little, rolls her eyes playfully and sits up, letting her hands slide around to Brittany's ass, pulling them closer together. "Firstly, Eli does not snore like a monster truck," she tries to correct even though she's heard their son and yeah, he may be coming up for two but he sounds like a motocross bike when he's asleep. "And secondly, he still stares a little too long despite having a girlfriend. I'm pretty sure Tina would be pissed if he caught her looking."

"Well that doesn't matter," Brittany lifts both eyebrows pointedly. "Because I only have eyes for one person."

Santana smiles bashfully, dipping her head a little. Somehow she still manages to get all embarrassed when her wife look at her like this; like she's the only thing in the room. "Yeah?" She asks quietly. Brittany giggles and nods.

"Yeah," she says. "Because, you know... this person is..." she trails off, her eyes drifting upwards to think. "She's pretty amazing," she finally lands on, meeting brown eyes once more.

Santana smirks. "Oh, yeah?" She questions, leaning up and pressing her lips to the underside of Brittany's jaw several times. "How so?"

Brittany shivers beneath the kisses, tilting her head to the side as her hands grab at Santana's shoulders. "Well, um..." her voice trails off and Santana smirks wider against the skin of her neck, already feeling herself press against the inside of her boxers as she pulls Brittany's hips down at the same time she pushes up with her own. "The person I have... eyes for is... she's gorgeous... and, um... funny and... she's caring and..." Her voice is a little shaky and it just drives Santana on as her hands slide up and dip beneath the waistband of her sweatpants and panties, fingers grasping at the flesh of her ass and massaging gently as appreciative moans and gasps come from Brittany. "Everything I want... and she's the love of... she's the love of my..."

Her voice trails off, and Santana can imagine the dazed little look Brittany has in her eyes as they flutter, the fight going on inside her head of whether she should continue talking or just shut up and give in to the inevitable. So deciding to tease, Santana lets her tongue slide up the muscle in Brittany's neck once before she pulls back and allows herself to listen, enjoying the way Brittany pouts instantly at the loss of contact.

"She's the what, Britt Britt?" Santana asks innocently since the way their hips are rocking together isn't giving the same vibe.

Brittany's back buckles a bit when Santana pushes the sweatpants down as far as they'll go and dips her fingers between her legs, running over her folds but not dipping in. Her wife grinds down a little, and she smirks when Brittany makes a low whining sound because Santana's clearly not doing what she wants. But she likes teasing Brittany. She likes knowing that even though they're married and have a kid, they're still crazy about each other and still want each other the way they did when they first got together. Emotionally and sexually.

She just likes the reassurance, despite not needing it, and as she looks up at Brittany now, her own eyes growing dark as heat spreads across her skin, and watches blue eyes flutter shut, a pink lip being bitten between perfect, white teeth and the crinkle appear in Brittany's eyebrow that tells her Brittany needs more, Santana realizes that she's never going to stop wanting this woman. Never.

"San..." Brittany groans impatiently, and Santana manages to shake her thoughts as she presses a little harder, but still refusing to dip in.

"Weren't you saying something?" She teases and Brittany grinds down again, forcing the fingers against her a little harder but then a wicked idea comes to mind and Santana retracts her hand swiftly, letting it sit beside her. Blue eyes snap open, glaring down at her with a heavily aroused but slightly pissed off and surprised flash behind them, though Santana just grins, knowing exactly what she's doing and lifts both eyebrows, pretending like she doesn't.

"What'd you do that for?" Brittany basically hisses, her arms folding over her chest.

Santana smirks. "I was distracting you, so I thought if I stopped, you'd be able to finish your sentence."

Pink lips drop open in disbelief, but then Brittany's face blanks out into a very unamused expression and Santana finds it so damn funny she just begins chuckling to herself, knowing exactly how sexually frustrated her wife is now just by the way she's glaring and still rocking her hips a little, like she's subtly trying to gain as much friction as she can.

"Well I can't now because the love of my life," Brittany enunciates. "Wouldn't blue ball me."

Santana grins even wider, and she doesn't really know why she finds an angry, pouting Brittany so cute and funny, but she just does. She guesses it's part of the whole being in love thing, though.

"You can't even get blue balled, Britt," she replies, still laughing a little. "But it was nice to hear you finish your sentence," she sets her hands on Brittany's thighs, stroking up and down them, squeezing gently. Though it really seems her wife's pissed off because she just stares, and after a few moments of silence, Santana starts feeling a little bad and puts on a pout of her own, glancing up through her eyelashes. "Are you really mad?" She asks, quietly. She didn't mean to really piss her off, she was just teasing.

Brittany keeps up the silent treatment, her eyes trying to stay away from brown ones as she glances around the apartment but Santana doesn't miss the way her wife keeps looking back, her eyes flickering to her then away, and she knows that no, Brittany's not actually pissed at her. Well, maybe a little but not enough to cause an argument, thank God. They have a clean track record with that and have managed to surpass any major arguments. Obviously they've gotten mad at each other and that crap, but they've never really got into a situation where they physically can't look at each other.

She hopes they never do.

"No," Brittany finally sighs, dropping her hands on top of tanned ones and stroking her thumbs up nimble fingers, her eyes locked on to the movement. "But you better make it up to me," she suggests, her voice unable to hide the lust dripping from it.

So Santana grins and acts quickly, sliding her hands beneath Brittany's thighs, grips and pushes up, twisting around until they're lying lengthways on the sofa, her hips fitting between her wife's and her bulge pressing down in the right spot. The blonde lets out a yelp, her arms flinging out and wrapping around her back and Santana smirks and giggles as she lowers her lips to Brittany's, kissing her deeply, but softly, one hand coming up to cup her cheek; and it takes the blonde a few seconds to kiss back, clearly still shocked from the sudden switch in position but when she does, her tongue dips into Santana's mouth and well, Santana all about dies from how hard her heart hammers against her ribcage.

Even after three years and a half years of being together, marriage and dating included, Brittany still can take Santana's breath away with a single kiss.

"You're such an ass," Brittany mumbles against Santana's mouth, her hands combing through dark hair, nails scratching at her scalp, but there's an underlying tone of amusement and affection and

Santana giggles, because yeah, she totally is.

But the sound is quickly lost against her wife's mouth as Brittany kisses her harder, her hand trailing down to grip at her through her boxers.


The only thing Santana dislikes about her job is that the hours fluctuate so often and she rarely knows whether she'll be home on time or later or earlier.

It's pretty hard to keep up with, seeing as she now has three artists on her label, but she still loves it and it's not like it's all the time; but it's still often enough to piss her off because when she gets home, there's a Tupperware box with a post-it note on it and her son and her wife are both fast asleep and she loves her family. She wants to spend time with them.

But shit happens, and tonight just happens to be one of those nights.

She gets caught up in a meeting with several Japanese businessmen and Quinn, and the damn translator doesn't turn up which leaves them unable to understand each other. Luckily, they find another translator but he's all the way across town and by the time he gets there, they've already overrun their meeting by two hours and since they're returning to Japan, this is Santana and Quinn's only chance to give them a good enough reason to support them financially.

And they manage to do it. So after the long ass meeting, they pack up their stuff, grab their coats and head out the studio, locking it behind them.

Santana pulls on the lapels of her jacket, trying to hide the chill that creeps down her spine from the wind and cracks her neck from side to side. She could really do with a massage or a hot bath, right now.

"Well," Quinn starts, stepping up beside her and tying up the front of her trench coat. "I reckon we deserve a beer."

For a second, Santana continues just heading home, getting into the bath and then getting into bed. For a second, she considers just heading back home, kissing her son and dropping into her wife's arms, but then that second passes and suddenly she's craving the feel of ice cold beer tipping down her throat and can't resist. So she shrugs, gives one final tug to the lapels of her jacket to cover her neck and looks to her friend.

"I could do with a beer," she agrees and Quinn shoots her a smile before they both head off down the street to Barney's.


She sits in the booth while Quinn heads up to the bar to order their drinks.

There's a part of her that just wants to go home and be with Brittany and Elijah, but she knows she does deserve a few drinks and so why the hell not? It's not like she has any other plans and she just wants to chill with her best friend in a non-work environment for a bit. Nowadays, either she's at home, dropping off at the table covered with paperwork, or she's at the studio with Quinn, going over songs or sitting in ridiculous meetings with foreign investors.

And hell, now it's Friday and she's got the weekend off, so it's not like she has to split the time between her family and her friends because right now, is friend time. The rest of the weekend is for her family.

God, she really does love her family.

The booth creaks slightly as someone slides into it, and Santana tilts her head back down from where she was leaning it against the back of the seat to look to her friend. Quinn gives her a smile and slides a glass, of what she suspects to be a decent scotch, over to her. She offers a nod back, a silent thank you, and they both raise their glasses in the air, tipping the sides of them together and meeting eyes.

"To the weekend off," Quinn announces with a grin.

"And what a great weekend it'll be," Santana adds on and they both laugh before downing their scotch in one and signaling Barney for another two.


It's quarter to eleven by the time Quinn's phone rings.

Santana barely even notices as she's standing at the bar, chatting with Barney about the latest Lakers game, but she hears the sound of it and peers over her shoulder, throwing a brief look to find her friend sitting in the booth, arm thrown across the top of it with the other tucked by her chest, hand holding the phone to her ear. She laughs a little, immediately knowing it's Rachel by the stupid smile on Quinn's face, and so she doesn't pay much attention and instead finishes up her conversation, grabs the glasses of scotch on the bar and gives Barney a wink as he heads off to a cute redhead down the other end of the bar.

She slides into the booth and pushes one scotch across to her friend before bringing her own to her lips and taking a sip. Her eyes roam around the bar as she tries not to listen to the blonde chatter on to her wife, because she doesn't feel like vomiting across the table at their revolting declarations of love (they're still the same as when they first met), but when Quinn goes quiet she returns her vision and glances back to her, cocking a brow.

Quinn's just looking at her, eyes growing wide and mouth parting, and Santana gets this strange discomfort in her stomach as her friend just kind of... observes her.

"Uh, yeah, she's here with me," the blonde utters, her voice distant.

Santana cocks her head to the side, her nose scrunching a little because she's sure her friend's talking about her, but she doesn't know why.

"No, we, erm—" Quinn pauses and scratches her eyebrow, her face suddenly twisting and turning apologetic. "We forgot, babe."

Still, Santana remains confused by the lack of information, and by the coldness in her stomach.

"Yeah... I'll—I'll tell her. Okay, bye," Quinn finally hangs up the phone and in a calm manner, sets it down on the table and sucks in her lips as she looks to Santana. "That was Rachel."

A perfectly shaped eyebrow lifts. "I guessed," she replies, sarcastically. "What did she want?"

After clearing her throat, the blonde shifts in her seat, hazel eyes dropping to the table as she pushes her glass around the top of it, and Santana feels the irritation grow inside of her at the silence that stretches between them. So much so that after a whole minute of not replying, she reaches across, puts her hand on top of Quinn's scotch glass and lowers her head until the blonde lifts hers and stares apologetically into her eyes.

"Spill," she demands and the apology on Quinn's face grows as her expression twists.

"Okay..." the blonde drags out the word and leans forward, forearms pressed to the table and tongue poking out to wet her lips. "So... that was Rachel." Santana nods because yeah, they already established that. "And, erm..." She pauses and scrunches up her face, almost in a wince as she continues with, "She has Eli."

The first thought that pops into Santana's head is why the hell her son is with someone smaller than him, and her face screws up, confusion etching into her features.

But then she thinks about it—like, really thinks about it—and she swears she actually stops breathing when she remembers—

"The meal with Brittany," she gasps, her mouth dropping open and throat drying. Shit, she can't believe she fucking forgot it!

Quinn slowly bobs her head, agreeing and Santana can tell by the way she's leaning back that she's cared she's going to leap across the table and strangle her considering going for drinks with her idea, but Santana's way too preoccupied with clutching to the table dramatically and thinking about how freaking pissed off her wife's going to be with her next time they see each other. She honestly couldn't give two shits if Quinn's worried about getting a slap because Santana's fucking terrified that she's upset Brittany.

In all her life, the one thing she's hated doing is letting Brittany down. She's done it before, because she's only human and humans make mistakes, but one of her vows when they got married was that she'd never do it again. She vowed that she'd never let her wife down again because she hated making Brittany feel like that, and consequentially hated herself for it.

Yet here she is, sitting in a damn bar while her wife's probably pissed as hell somewhere else.

Why the hell isn't she going?

"Santana, you need to go!" Quinn finally yells and kicks Santana's focus from her thoughts to the present.

Brown eyes flicker to the jacket the blonde flings toward her and she manages to grab it before it hits her in the face. Then she slides out the booth and stumbles over her own feet as she sprints out the bar, heading home with a dangerously high heart beat.


She has absolute no concept of what time it is as she runs home.

Her legs are burning, her throat is yearning for water, and she's pretty damn sure when the adrenaline stops, she's actually going to pass out.

It's not like she's unfit or anything, but with the combination of this sudden sprint and the fear gripping her chest of how angry Brittany's going to be at her, she's pretty much dying.

Still, she pushes back all her thoughts just so she can solely focus on getting home, because at this moment, she's not sure whether her wife's even back or not, and if she isn't, she has a fighting chance of Brittany letting her off if she pretends to pass out on the couch or something.

But if she's back already... well, Santana's pretty much screwed.


The second she bursts in through the front door, she's whipping her head from side to side, ignoring her heavy breath and heaving chest and instead searching for something.

And then she finds it, and her heart almost stops beating because fuck, Brittany's home.

Her boots are strewn across the living room floor, her bag haphazardly placed on the corner of the kitchen table and her coat is dangling off the back of the sofa, and Santana's been best friends and married long enough to Brittany to know that this means she is pissed.

She's wincing at the argument she knows is going to come almost immediately, and she wonders for a second whether she could just go back out. Maybe head back to Barney's, or even drop by Quinn's and stay there. Though she acknowledges the flaws in that, and knows it's probably better to just face the fucking music now because if she goes out again, there's no doubt she's going to receive double the shit tomorrow morning for not coming home at all.

So taking in a deep breath, she heads through the apartment with her head hanging down and presses her palm flat to the bedroom door when she gets there, cautiously opening it, revealing more and more of the bedroom until—

"I know you're there," Brittany's voice flows out through the crack, her voice monotone. "I heard you come through the front door."

Santana closes her eyes and exhales loudly as she pushes the door the rest of the way open to find her wife sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard with her legs covered by the comforter and her arms crossed over her chest. Like Santana expected, Brittany looks pissed as hell, especially seeing as she's wearing her glasses which she never wears (as she doesn't really need to) and she only ever wears them when they've got some role play going on before sexy times, or when Brittany's angry.

She takes in a shaky breath and lowers her gaze, slowly stepping inside the room and closing the door behind her.

Damn – how Santana wishes it wasn't the latter.


There's not a whole lot of shouting.

In fact, there's not a whole lot of talking.

The second Santana perches gingerly on the edge of the bed by Brittany's hip, and reaches for her wife's arm, the blonde scoots and leans away, shaking her head. Santana ducks her chin to her chest immediately, feeling like a child that's just had her teddy bear taken away from her and slowly pulls her hand back into her lap, her shoulders lowering and body deflating. She fucking hates it when she does something wrong and when she pisses Brittany off. Her wife has a way about her that somehow manages to make her feel three times as bad as she probably should... though she doesn't feel bad for doing anything wrong to anyone but Brittany, so maybe this is just what guilt is for her.

But still, it doesn't mean she likes it any more.

That's not what she's going to say though because she just wants to make up with her wife and apologize for missing the meeting. She just wants to get past this because she hates fighting with Brittany. She hated it the first (proper) time they fought all those years ago when Brittany thought she was staring at the pregnant women in the supermarket, when in reality Santana was imagining starting a family with her, and she still hates it now.

"Britt, I—"

"Don't, Santana," Brittany hisses, her voice low and serious.

Santana winces and furrows her brow. "Britt, I didn't meanto miss it," she tries but the blonde doesn't even meet her searching eyes. "I just had such a busy day and then Quinn said we should go out for a celebratory drink as we got the Japanese guys to back up our funds," she pauses for a second to see if Brittany gives her a smile or even reacts to the good news but nope. Nothing. She's not actually that surprised. "And I just went and completely forgot," she says and lets her hand creep along the comforter, fingers stretching out and the pads of them fluttering over the comforter covering Brittany's thigh but the blonde doesn't even move, just keeps staring ahead with a hard expression.

In reaction, Santana's bottom lip pokes out into a pout and she shrinks away again, rejection pouring through her veins. She doesn't know what else to say and she really does feel like shit.

"I didn't mean to," she adds, her face twisting with guilt, but her wife still stays silent. "Britt," she calls softly but still, nothing.Nada. "Baby, please," she murmurs, her voice breaking because shit, Brittany certainly knows how to make a girl feel like crap. "I really—"

"You knew how important this meeting was to me," Brittany finally speaks, though her voice is monotone, her tone almost dead and Santana winces because she never hears it like this. "You knew, and the least you could've done was set a reminder, or an alarm, or something." Blue eyes flicker to brown ones quickly. "You could've done anything to make sure you remembered, Santana."

With the use of her full name, Santana leans back and straightens up because she already knows trying to apologize is a lost cause. She knows there's no way in hell that she's going to be able to make it up to her wife now, not while Brittany's thispissed off, and she doesn't want to leave. She doesn't want to get into bed and sleep next to her wife because she just wants to stay awake and talk it out, apologize and maybe get to kiss her wife goodnight the same way she has done for a number of years. She just wants Brittany not to be mad at her.

But there's a part of her that knows that's not going to happen.


"I know, baby. I know I should've—"

"If you didn't want to come," Brittany interjects and stares at her for longer than a second now, holding her gaze with fiery blue eyes. "You could've just said."

Santana freezes at the words, her eyebrows knitting together and head tilting slightly. That's not why she didn't go. She did want to go to the meeting because she knew how important it was to her wife. She wanted to be there to listen to her success, to be a part of it, and to celebrate with her... and she thought Brittany knew that. But apparently the blonde doesn't and Santana isn't sure whether to be offended that Brittany thought she'd lie to her, or whether she should just focus on trying to apologize.

The latter seems like the better option.

"Britt, I di—"

"Don't," the blonde cuts in and Santana clenches her jaw because Brittany knows how much people cutting her off mid-sentence pisses her off. Though Santana supposes that she knows how much Brittany hates people canceling plans or not turning up so maybe this is fair. "Just..." Brittany lets her eyes fall shut and breathes out heavily through her nostrils, the skin around her jaw tightening, her features contorting with anger. "I'm tired," she finally lands on and lifts an arm, stretching out a finger and pointing it toward the other side of the room.

Santana follows to where her wife's pointing and stops short, her breath catching when she finds two pillows and the spare duvet sitting on top of the dresser. She slowly turns back to her wife, eyes narrowing into a squint of disbelief and tries to figure out any other alternative motive for putting out additional sleeping stuff, but she can't come up with any.

Which leads her to say, "Are you seriously making me sleep on the couch?" Because that's the only reason Brittany would've put that crap there.

But the blonde doesn't respond. She doesn't even change her expression, just wets her lips, sucks them into her mouth and nods a little before scooting further down the bed, moving into a lying position and reaching over to switch off the bedside lamp, leaving the room to fall into darkness. Santana doesn't really know what to do as she sits there, and she kind of gets irritated and frankly, a little pissed off too, because Brittany could at least fucking speak to her if she's kicking her out the bedroom.

Except she already knew trying to talk it out was a lost cause, and as much as she doesn't want to go to sleep with Brittany mad at her, she knows she's going to have to.

So with a shake of her head at herself, she reaches up to squeeze Brittany's hip carefully—receiving no reaction whatsoever—and then stands from the bed, exhaling loudly through her nose as she grabs the sleeping stuff and a tank top from the dresser. Then she heads out the bedroom, but not before casting one longing stare back to the shape of her wife in their bed, on the right side, before she closes the door and moves to the sofa for an uncomfortable night's sleep.

Just great.


The early hours of the morning pass and before she knows it she's staring at the clock on the DVD player across the living room and watching the minutes tick by until 3am comes.

She's never been able to sleep without Brittany beside her.

She remembers back when she first moved out of Brittany's apartment after Sophie moved to California, and managed to spend a total of six hours there before she ran back to Brittany's, then subsequently moved in the very next day. She's always sucked at going without it; without that warmth, without knowing that Brittany's there, without the feel of Brittany's weight dipping in the space beside her.

She's just no good at it and she really wishes she wasn't lying on a cold, hard sofa, staring at the ceiling and wondering why she didn't have the foresight to set a freaking reminder on her phone or whatever.

Two minutes after sparing a glance at the clock, Santana hears rustling, the creak of a door and then the sound of soft, graceful footsteps making their way down the hallway. She sits up, ready to face Brittany, to see what she's doing but then the footsteps pause for five long seconds, then start again and then there's the sound of a door shutting again. Which is weird because she's lived here for so long that she knows that was the same door opening and closing, and now she's wondering why Brittany got out of bed.

With curiosity running through her veins, and the classic need-to-know-everything way that she always manages to maintain, she throws the blanket off her legs and stands, rubbing the back of her neck as she heads toward the hallway. When she gets there, she pauses and peers down it, only coming up with darkness and the outlines of the doors connecting to bedrooms and the bathroom. Though she notices as she takes a step forward, that there's a line of light casting across the hardwood floors, coming from the gap between the base of her and Brittany's bedroom door and the floor, which can only mean one thing.

Brittany's awake.

She smiles a little to herself, knowing exactly why her wife's not asleep because it's the same reason she's not asleep, and makes her way down the hallway to her bedroom. For the past few hours she's been tossing and turning, and she knows that Brittany's been doing it to, but due to their current silence and ongoing argument (she thinks ongoing anyway), Brittany's probably being too stubborn and not bothering to call Santana back into bed and enable herself to finally get to sleep, because the cold hard truth is that she can't sleep without Santana and Santana can't sleep without her.

Except Santana knows that, hence why she's currently smirking to herself as she places her palm against the door and pushes it open slightly.

The second it opens even a little, the damn hinges—that she always forgets to oil even though Brittany's asked her a million times—creaks, and she freezes, knowing that she's made Brittany aware of her presence. And just as she expects, the light flickers off and Santana's surrounded in darkness again, hand on the doorknob and door slightly open.

She lets out a long sigh, ignoring the fact that Brittany's now pretending that she wasn't awake and is now making light snoring sounds that are actually freakishly good, and pushes on the door, stepping inside and closing it behind her. Then she stays silent, just listening to the sound of her wife trying to breathe out slowly and on a certain pattern, trying to match the one she usually has even though that possesses no logic—how could Brittany know her breathing pattern when she's asleep if she's asleep?—and after a few moments, she just ends up shaking her head again and speaking.

"I know you're awake," she calls out softly and the blonde in the bed shows no sign of acknowledging her words or even her presence. So Santana shakes her head again and steps forward, making her way incredibly slowly toward the bed until she steps on the floorboard that creaks on her side, the left one, before she stops to continue. "I can't sleep," her voice is breathless, pained, too, and Brittany's still not responding.

It's not like Santana Lopez to just give up though, not without a damn fight, so she stands there for a long moment, just watching her wife carry on ignoring her and holds her breath. She knows she could get irritated, she could get pissed because she's triedto apologize, she's tried to make up with Brittany because it's not like she freaking meant to miss that meeting — she just forgot — and Brittany should fucking know that Santana would never intentionally do something to piss her off, to disappoint her or to hurt her, so why the hell isn't she just forgiving her?

Except it probably wouldn't be the best idea to get irritated because she has a tendency to say things she doesn't mean when she's angry. Plus her anger would totally be irrational, and it would only create more problems.

So instead she just stays put and waits it out, hoping that Brittany might forgive her some time in the near future.

Though it doesn't happen.

Exactly eight minutes later and Brittany's still pretending like Santana hasn't been talking to her and like she's still awake and Santana knows this is pointless.

Don't get her wrong, she really wants to make up with Brittany, and not just for the incredible make-up sex afterward. She just wants to sleep with her in her arms for tonight. She just wants to have some peace and she just wants calmness between them because when the world has been crazy, when her day has been shit, Brittany's always the one that can make the worst of days feel like the best because at the end of the day, Santana gets Brittany and that's all that really matters.

She doesn't want her wife to stay mad at her, she loves her and just wants normality restored.

But as she stands here, she realizes that tonight, that isn't going to happen.

And even though she's clinging on to the last shred of hope as she exhales heavily, slumps her shoulders and back and drags her feet as she heads back toward the door, she knows that it's useless.

Brittany's not going to forgive her tonight.

No matter what.


The first time she hears it, she thinks she's dreaming.

She thinks that she must have fallen asleep on the walk from her side of the bed to the bedroom door because she was so sure Brittany wasn't even going to acknowledge her existence.

Still, she pauses, hand reaching for the door knob and twists her neck slowly, glancing over her shoulder at the bundled form in the bed and is confused to find the lack of blue eyes staring back at her.

Did she dream it?

"What?" She says, but it's low and she doesn't actually know if she heard it, let alone her wife.

For a second, for a split fucking second, she actually thinks she's going crazy because she was so sure she just heard Brittany ask her why she couldn't sleep, but now the blonde's deciding to stay completely silent once again, if Santana did in fact hear that, and so Santana decides to sigh again and reach for the door knob.

This time though, she definitely doesn't mistake herself for hearing it.

"I asked why you can't sleep," comes a little voice, muffled by a pillow or a comforter and Santana feels a smile threatening to pull at her lips because she knows Brittany's already debating whether or not to forgive her.

She doesn't show that though and instead goes for broke, deciding that there's no point in pretending like there's another reason why she can't sleep because there is only one reason. And that reason is lying in her bed, or rather their bed.

"Because I can't sleep without you next to me," she lets out through a long exhale and bites down on her bottom lip, nervously awaiting her reply, which doesn't actually come for a while.

It doesn't come for exactly three hundred and two seconds, and Santana does debate whether choosing to leave again but knowing her track record, the second she moves to leave, Brittany will say something and reel her back in. And that's exactly what happens because the second she even moves her foot, she hears the rustling movement and then she's watching Brittany shift in the bed, roll onto her back and then prop herself up on her elbows, head tilting down, chin tucking to her chest so she can look at Santana.

They just stay in their places, gazing for a little while, and Santana actually finds herself having a hard time reading her wife. That like... never happens, and so she's a little confused and worried, though she does put it down to the lack of light because it's all in Brittany's eyes and she can't really see them right now.

(Well, that's what she's telling herself.)

(She's actually terrified she's really pissed her wife off now. Like more than ever before.)

"Neither can I," breaks her out of her thoughts and she whips her head up, unaware of when she ducked it and dropped her eyes to the floor. Brittany's staring at her now, and Santana can't really see her eyes any more so than before, but she's imagining them brighter now because Brittany's voice isn't low and angered like before. She takes a step forward at the same time her wife continues talking, "Come here."

There's a flutter of movement and then Brittany's peeling back the made-up side of the bed, the sheets, and welcoming Santana in, and Santana damn near jumps onto the bed to be closer to her wife, but chooses to keep her cool and her head down as she walks toward her side of the bed, sliding in and rolling onto her side to face her wife. Brittany doesn't face her though; in fact, she rolls onto her own side, purposely facing away from Santana and it hits Santana where it hurts because she thought this, as in sharing a bed despite being mad, at least meant she wouldn't be ignored.

But apparently not.


After five minutes of staring at the back of her wife's head, she lets out a long, over exaggerated exhale and begins to turn over, because she knows her body will automatically gravitate toward Brittany's if she doesn't.

Except she doesn't get far because when she shifts to move onto her back, long fingers wrap around her wrist and then she's being pulled forward, her body scooting across the mattress until her front's pressed against Brittany's back. Shock surges through her, and confusion, too, because she was so sure Brittany was mad at her. But she's not an idiot, she knows if she comments on it then Brittany will probably push her away and so she doesn't argue—she doesn't want to argue—and instead clamps her mouth shut and settles in comfortably, her hand pressing palm down against her wife's stomach and a breathy sigh leaving her mouth when Brittany's fingers smooth down her forearm, over the back of her hand and then fall into place between the gaps in her own tanned fingers.

"I'm still mad at you," Brittany grumbles into the pillow, words muffled a little.

Santana pinches her lips up at the side but nods because, yeah, she totally knew that, and presses her lips down onto her wife's uncovered shoulder as she holds her close.

"I know, baby," she whispers, her hips fitting perfectly against the curve of Brittany's ass.

Brittany just hums in response, and within the next couple of minutes, they both fall asleep with ease.


When she wakes in the morning, it's to the cold side of a bed.

She reels back instantly, wincing at the cold sheet pressing against her cheek when she rolls over instinctively to find Brittany, and sits up immediately, eyes searching the room as she questions why Brittany's out of bed so early. That never happens, and especially not on weekends—


The night before comes rushing back to her and she slumps back down onto the bed, feeling like she could throw a tantrum with the way she feels right now. She feels shitty, like really fucking shitty, and she knows she's not being a good wife which just makes her feel angry at herself.

She doesn't want to fight with Brittany, and she knows when she steps out the bedroom, she's not going to be greeted with a bright smile and a soft, good morning kiss that usually leads to a few more and then Brittany up on the counter with Santana standing between her legs as they delve into a good morning make-out session that usually ends with Eli calling for one of them from his bedroom.

She's not going to get to feel the love, warmth and affection seep through her chest, and she's not going to feel her heart swoon when Brittany looks at her like she's the best thing in the world.

She's just not going to have a reason to smile this morning.

And this just fucking sucks.


After deciding it wouldn't help at all if she just stayed in bed and threw a strop like a freaking child, she decided to kick her ass into gear and go and shower.

She washed her hair, ignored the emptiness she felt when minutes into her shower because she didn't feel the cool rush of air and then Brittany's body press against her and a kiss drop to her shoulder (that usually happens with her morning showers) and got it over and done with. Her hair took half an hour, and after Brittany hadn't come to see her at all during the time she was getting dressed and doing her hair, she figured she should probably go out there and make the first move.

It was her to fuck up, anyway.

Brittany's in the kitchen when Santana finally emerges from the bedroom, but she doesn't choose to go to her immediately as she finds Eli sitting on the couch, munching on grapes and watching some weird ass cartoon on television. She heads on over to him and drops a kiss to his forehead, her hand stroking over his skull and fingers gliding over his thick, dark locks of hair, but he barely pays attention and focuses on whatever is playing instead, so she decides that this is probably the time to stop making up excuses not to talk to Brittany and just do it.

She walks into the kitchen and finds her wife packing Eli's backpack. Though she's surprised when she doesn't find Brittany's hips wiggling subconsciously to the low hum of the radio playing over the corner, and even more surprised when Brittany twists her head and Santana finds a deep frown etched into a pale forehead and pink lips pressed tightly together.

Apparently Brittany didn't get over it magically in the night.

Santana doesn't need to talk to know that Brittany's already aware of her presence, especially seeing as Brittany's entire body visibly stiffened the second she got in here, and she hates it, choosing to frown herself and fold her arms over her chest as she leans against the doorway, preparing herself to speak.

"Britt," she starts, but her wife just finishes packing their son's backpack with a few stuffed toys before tugging on the zip a little too hard and shutting the back with a forced noise.

"Eli and I are going to the studio for the day," Brittany replies, her voice cold and hard and Santana closes her eyes and clenches her jaw against it. She's said she's sorry, what else is she supposed to do?

Damn. The least Brittany could do is show some type of willingness to discuss their argument, and then maybe they could get over it.

"So we're not even going to talk about last night?" She blurts out, her voice more angered than intended.

She winces herself, knowing doing this will only make things worse; but to Brittany's credit, she basically ignores her, the classic Santana Lopez-Pierce defense mechanism (more like bitch switch) and grabs the backpack, swinging it over her shoulder and not even bothering to look Santana in the eye as she brushes past her and into the living room.

Obediently, Santana follows, huffing out a little and watches as her wife and son interact as Brittany hands Eli the backpack and tells him they're about to leave so he needs to get his shoes on. He does as he's told, and Santana gets this weird fluttering in her stomach as she watches her family do the simplest of tasks because despite their simplicity, they seem to fascinate her.

(Sometimes she's still convinced that this is all a dream.)

(Because there's no way Santana freaking Lopez could've got this lucky to have the most perfect family in the world.)

Soon enough, Brittany's telling Eli to hug his mami goodbye as they're leaving, and Santana stagger back a bit as a force hits her legs and small arms wind around her legs. She crouches down immediately, wrapping her son up in an embrace, his tiny chin digging into her shoulder and tells him to have a good day before he's whipping out her arms and running for the front door, scrabbling against it and making strained noises as he tries and fails to reach for the door latch.

A soft smiles etches its way across Santana's lips, and even though she feels bad for her son right now, he's just so damn cute that she has to leave him be for a few seconds so she can take this in. One day he's going to have to reach down for the latch, and so she's going to treasure these moments while she can.

Except it doesn't last for long because then Brittany's stepping forward, interrupting the moment and reaching for it, but it's totally worth it when he shoots a sharp glance at her, a fierce pout and frown on his face and tells her, "No, I do it," with his small arms folding over his chest and his whole demeanor not looking at allscary as he's wearing a Superman backpack and, oh yeah, is two years old.

(Santana can totally see herself in him when he does things like this.)

"I'll do it."

"I'll do it."

Both Santana and Brittany speak at the same time, and her heart fills with affection when eyes slide to her, a soft love and adoration blooming through the blueness gazing in her direction because they always have these little moments where they speak at the same time to correct their son and it brings them together in this weird bubble. It's like they're both realizing all over again how they have a family together and that their lives are perfect and it's just... it really is fucking magical.

Or rather, that usually happens.

Not this time though, because the longer those blue eyes stare at her, the quicker the emotions behind them switch from love to anger, and Santana gulps as guilt pangs through her for what feels like the millionth time. She barely has time to register that look because then Brittany's whirling away, grabbing the door, pulling it open wider and stepping out without a goodbye kiss, and Santana realizes as she watches her wife take a step out the apartment that that's never happened before.

And that's what makes her body propel forward and hand snap out to grab her wife's wrist, because she doesn't want Brittany to leave mad at her. She had to endure Brittany going to sleep mad at her and right now, if she's honest, she feels like she's fucking dying here.

She just hates this.

"Britt," she pants, suddenly out of breath, her heart racing a mile a minute.

But Brittany spins around, looks her dead in the eye with a stony glare and all words just seep away from Santana's tongue so she's left there just staring, open-mouthed and wordless. And it makes Brittany scoff, makes her face fill with disappointment and anger as she tears her wrist away, shaking her head because Santana's never been good at saying things at the right time and apparently never will be.

"We'll be back later," she says, her voice cold.

And Santana can only gulp as she watches her wife turn away and head out their building with Eli in hand, helping him climb into the car before she does so herself and then drives away, leaving Santana to kick the door shut and growl to herself.

She really is a fucking idiot sometimes.


Brittany pretty much ignores her for the entire day.

She doesn't text back to the texts Santana sends, she doesn't pick up her phone when Santana calls and Santana considers going down to the studio to confront her, but then she supposes she's trying to get Brittany less pissed at her, so making her argue in front of her colleagues and possibly students wouldn't be the best way to go about it.

Still, she tries to call and text her, but Brittany only sends one vague, short text back saying that Eli's okay and that she's not sure when they'll be back, and Santana has a hard time finding the strength to not be pissed off because it's not like she fucking meant to miss Brittany's meeting. She's already done everything she can to show Brittany that; she's explained it and yet Brittany's still pissed as hell, despite knowing that Santana would never ever purposely disappoint or screw up with Brittany because she just loves her too damn much.

So when she receives a text from Quinn telling her that Brittany's just dropped by their apartment—despite telling Santana that she'd be at the studio all day—Santana's fuse blows and she texts her friend telling her to go into another room because she's going to ring her.

"Brittany's really pissed off," is the first thing Quinn says when she picks up the phone.

Santana rolls her eyes because fucking yeah, she knows that. "Yeah, I am fucking aware of that, Quinn," she hisses back. "I don't have to be Sherlock fucking Holmes to realize that."

"Alright, Lopez, don't take your shit out on me because you fucked up."

She narrows her eyes fiercely and grinds her teeth together. "Oh, fuck off, Fabray. This is all your fault."

"My fault!?"Quinn almost screeches as she repeats the words. "How the fuck is it my fault!?"

Bringing a hand up to her head, Santana pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes hard, trying to release the tension she can feel building up within her skull. "You and your fucking drinks," she retorts. "I wouldn't have missed Britt's meeting if you hadn't suggested that."

"Oh, please," her friend drags out the last word. "This is all your fault. You could've said no, you forgot, so don't be a bitch and try and blame me because I didn't do this. Youdid."

Sure, it isn't entirely true because she wouldn't be in this situation if she'd just gone home and if Quinn hadn't suggested they go for celebratory drinks, but she just doesn't have the strength to argue with Quinn. She's already argued enough with someone she loves for the time being so she just shakes her head, lets her eyes fall shut and takes in a long, deep breath through her nose, filling her lungs with oxygen.

"Whatever," she lets out. "All I know is she's pissed and I've tried to explain but she won't listen."

"Well you're gonna have to do something. Try one more time and if not, me and you can go out for drinks and discuss it."

She can't help but scoff because going out for drinks is what got her into this situation in the first place. But seeing as she's been sitting on her ass all day, frustrated and alone, it seems like a better option if Brittany's planning on avoiding her for the entire night as well as the entire day.

"Sure," she bobs her head in acceptance, despite her friend not being able to see. "Text you in a bit."

"Sure, S. Talk soon."

Santana hangs up and drops the phone to her lap, staring at it for a long five minutes before she picks it back up again and begins typing.


Barely even ten minutes later, she's storming through the house, fists clenched and comical steam blowing from her ears as she heads for the bedroom.

She text Brittany, she tried to be nice about everything and calm, too, and yet Brittany just threw it back in her face and was unnecessarily rude. And okay, Santana loves the girl, loves her with everything she has, but right now Brittany's just really fucking her off. There's only so many times a girl can try and explain and apologize, and it's just getting tedious and highly irritating now because Santana can't do anything more than she already has.

She's really been fucking trying.

And to top it all off, about a minute after she sent the freaking text, there was a knock on the front door and she opened it to find fucking Rachel standing there, looking sheepish and apologetic as she ushered Eli into the house. Which means not only is Brittany pretty much fucking ignoring her the entire day, but she's also senttheir son back to the house; and worst of fucking all, she didn't even do it herself.

Of all fucking people, she got Rachel-fucking-Berry to droptheir son off because Brittany can't stand to see Santana that much, and honestly? That doesn't sit well with Santana.

In fact, it doesn't sit well with Santana that muchthat she can't actually be in this house anymore. She can't just sit here with her son, feeling guilty about missing one fucking meeting after trying to explain it to Brittany countless times, and so she decides to go out for those drinks with Quinn. And maybe she's not even going to talk about how to apologize to Brittany. Ha. Fucking take that.

(Irresponsible considering her two year old son is in the other room with his other mother God knows where, but Santana's not really in the mindset to think about that.)

Throwing the closet doors open, she chooses an outfit, something simple but sexy, and dresses herself before she re-does her make-up and sends Quinn a text telling her to meet at Barney's in 30. Quinn confirms with a single text back, and Santana dolls herself up a little more before making a quick call and then heads back through the house toward the living room to find Eli and Rachel sitting on the sofa, playing with a few of his toys.

Rachel glances up after hearing her footsteps, and excuses herself from Eli, patting his head before she makes her way over to her, biting her lip like she's not sure how Santana's feeling.

(Santana doesn't really know.)

"Are you going out?" Rachel asks, her eyes trailing over Santana's outfit, lingering a little too long for comfort at her cleavage.

Santana, being the irritated, angered bitch she is, lifts both eyebrows and challenges her with a glare. "Is that a problem?"

The other girl doesn't even have to speak to let Santana know the answer to that as she twists her neck, peers over her shoulder at Eli on the sofa, and then looks back, but Santana just continues to stare because really, what she does is none of Rachel's business.

(Actually, is kind of is. They've become really good friends in the last year or two, but Santana still likes to pretend like Rachel isn't really family.)

"No," the shorter brunette replies, ducking her head. "But I don't think you should leave your two-year old son alone," she adds on as quietly as possible.

Santana chortles loudly, throwing her head back a little as a pang of hurt slices through her because wow, she can't actually believe Rachel thought she'd do such a thing. She tilts her head back down after laughing for a good minute and folds her arms across her chest, cocking her hip out slightly as she shifts her weight on her legs and looks at her friend.

"You really think I'd do that?" She questions, but both of them know it's rhetorical which is why Rachel just stares blankly. "I rang my mom while I was getting changed," she elaborates. "She's coming over in five minutes."

Rachel stares at her for a long moment before finally nodding, and Santana almost lashes out and asks why the fuck she was glaring like she didn't believe her because Santana's done a lot of things, but one of those things will never be leaving her two-year old son home alone without supervision. And she's actually pretty fucking offended that Rachel would even accuse her of doing that, but she decides she's pissed off enough without listening to hobbits and closes her eyes, inhales deeply through her nose and tells herself to chill out.

"Mami! Mami!"

The sound of her son calling makes the burning anger in her chest falter a little, but wanting to be safe, she looks away from her friend before opening her eyes to glance at her son. "Yeah, baby?"

She didn't register the tone of Eli's voice when he called for her, so when she finds him staring at her with a furrowed brow and a pouted lip—the exact same way Brittany looks at her when she's concerned, upset or worried—her heart damn near breaks. Her legs are leading her over to the sofa before she can make a decision to do so, and she perches on the cushion at the same time Eli clambers over to her and plops himself down on her lap, burying his face into her collarbone, his small hands clutching at her clothing like he never wants to let go.

Hand stroking over the back of his head, she leans down to his ear and begins rocking him slowly. "Whoa, Eli... ssshhh," she coos and presses a kiss to his warm head. "What's happened?"

Eli muffles something against her skin, but she doesn't hear it clearly and urges him back until he's staring up at her, the exact same expression on his face but now with a deep frown etched into his forehead.

"What did you say?"

He ducks his chin further into his chest and Santana hesitates for a split second before remembering Rachel's randomly standing behind her, and that Eli did get the guarded side of Santana, whereas he got all his positive traits like brain, smile, sense of humor and eye color from Brittany; which means he's not going to want to tell Santana what's wrong while Rachel's still in the room. So to resolve that issue, she twists her neck and peers back at her friend, lifting an eyebrow.

"You can go now," she says and okay, maybe that was a little unnecessary and rude, but right now she couldn't give a fuck if she's offended Rachel. The girl just assumed she'd leave her goddamn son so fuck Rachel.

Brown eyes widen, but otherwise the shorter brunette nods and sheepishly makes her way out the door, muttering a quiet farewell to Eli who shoots her a wary smile before the door clicks and she's gone.

Santana turns back to her son. "So tell me," she murmurs, fingers toying with his short, black hair.

For exactly twenty-eight seconds, Eli doesn't speak. He just sits there, toying with her necklace and never looking her in the eye, but after that time is up, he lifts his head gingerly and his big, blue eyes, shaded with concern and worry gaze at her. And fuck, she knew she screwed up with Brittany and felt bad about that, but now with her son staring her at like this, she feels like complete shit. Like straight up, one hundred percent shit.

It's those fucking blue eyes. She knows it.

"Where's momma?" He asks, quietly.

Santana wasn't quite expecting that, but she replies anyway. "She's out, baby," she strokes over his head. "Why?"

Small fingers tug lightly on her necklace. "You look sad," Eli whispers, his eyes boring into hers. "And momma not here."

Her son really is a freaking genius, just like his other mother, and usually that isn't a bad thing but right now it feels like a curse.

She can't show that though. She can't tell her son that his parents are arguing and that she is sad, because then it'll start affecting him, too, and she doesn't want that. The idea that she's fighting with Brittany is hard enough for her to accept, and it's making her worry and feel like shit so God knows what it'll do to Eli.

So instead, she musters a fake smile, printing it on her face with a strength she didn't know she had and shakes her head.

"No, baby," she says, curving her lips up further and ignoring the way her face wants to reject the movement. She doesn't want to smile. "I'm not sad and momma's just gone out. She'll be back later, but I'm going out with Aunt Quinn, tonight." She pauses and looks at her son. "Is that okay?"

Eli's face immediately lights up and he bounces on her lap. "Aunt Quinny!" He claps his hands, his mouth splitting into a grin to reveal two dimples. "Can she come here?"

It's such a switch of emotion that Santana can't help but chuckle. "No," she tells him and his face drops. "We're going out, so Abuela's coming to look after you."

At the mention of abuela, Eli's face brightens like a spark again and he jumps up from her lap to the floor, jigging up and down with excitement. He really does love his abuela.

"Yay!" He celebrates and Santana holds her stomach, palm pressed against the tight fabric as she laughs. He's so cute. "Abuela!"

"Yeah, sweetie, Abuela's coming," she coos and holds out her hands. Tiny ones slip into her palms and she curls her fingers around warm, tanned skin, tugging him forward until he's staring up at her. "But if she sees your toys all over the floor, she isn't going to be happy, is she?"

Those blue eyes widen considerably so and Eli shakes his head vigorously, probably remembering the time abuela came over and took away his teddy bear, Humphrey, for a day because he hadn't put his toys away. Admittedly, it probably was a little harsh, and Santana would've never done that as she spoils her son rotten, but then again it did get him to clear up the mess (or rather chuck his toys in the chest at the end of his bed) and so it worked.

(Which is why she may be using it to her advantage now.)

Eli squeals when she raises an eyebrow, backing up her question about how unhappy his abuela will be if she comes here to find a messy room, and he scurries off down the hall to clear up, leaving Santana to lean back on the sofa, let out a long sigh and rub a hand over her face as she thinks of the night ahead.

It just doesn't seem that fun if she's not with Brittany.


So, in the moment, when she was angry and storming through the house, wanting nothing more to get out of it and go and get drunk and forget that the love of her life is really pissed at her, calling her mom seemed like a good idea. Calling Maria to come and look after her two-year old son seemed like the best idea in the world, because it meant she wouldn't have to worry about a strange babysitter looking after Eli and Maria wouldn't mind because she loves spending time with Eli and the same goes for Eli.

Except now Maria's here...

And now she's firing questions at Santana like they're going out of fashion...

And now Santana's wondering why she ever called the woman at all because she's about to tear her own face off and cover her ears with it just so she doesn't have to listen to her mom.

"So are you and Brittany fighting?" The older woman asks for the eleventh time, leaning against the doorway to Santana and Brittany's bedroom.

Taking in a deep breath, Santana tries to think of another answer that isn't filled with curses as her son's only a room away and will probably hear them and repeat them to Brittany, or someone, at a later date, and get Santana in shit again, and instead focuses on putting on her earrings.

"I don't wanna talk about it, ma."

Maria lets out a long, disappointed and slightly frustrated sigh. "So that's a yes, then," she concludes and pushes off the door, coming up behind Santana. "Santana, you really—"

"Mom," she cuts in, dropping her arms to her side and staring at the woman with a hardened glare through the mirror. "Please, just drop it. I don't want to talk about it."

She ends her sentence by walking back and around Maria, grabbing her clutch bag from the bed and tucking it beneath her arm. Maria just stares at her thought, her lips parted like she doesn't quite know how to approach the subject now, and Santana really kind of fucking wishes that it wasn't a subject that has to be approached. After all, it's hers and Brittany's lives, they've done well for years without fighting and just because now they're having one major one doesn't mean every fucking family member, including the non-blood related ones such as Quinn and Rachel, can interject with their fucking opinions.

They'll sort it out; they just need to get over the initial anger.

"Santana, I know you can be difficul—"

"Just stay out of this!" She half-yells, making her way out the bedroom with her mom hot on her heels. She runs her hands through her hair, trying to ignore the heat flaring up over her skin. "Seriously, we're grown ups, we're big girls. We can sort this out by ourselves and I don't want to talk to you or anyone else about it."

It feels like she's going round in fucking circles, because even though she's quite clearly putting her point across that she has no interest in discussing her personal matters with anyone that isn't Brittany, Maria still stays adamant, still stays close and still keeps chipping at her, poking the angered beast, which really, is stupid with anyone... but with Santana Lopez-Pierce? It's fucking idiotic.

"I would stay out of this, but I just really think you two should make up—"

Like she said, to poke the angered beast that is Santana Lopez-Pierce is pretty fucking idiotic, but when it's coming from her mom, who basically fucked off and left her alone for at least twenty years of her damn life, that's just plain insanity. The woman must be plain unhinged to do it, like off—the—fucking—door—frame—and—lying—on—the—floor unhinged, and combine the poking with a jibe that infers that Maria actually knows a fucking thing about Santana, and Santana's relationship... well, it just makes her snap.

"Oh, like you can have an opinion!" She starts, twirling around to glare at Maria in the hallway. Startled, the older woman stops and stares, wide-eyed. "You know nothing about me and Brittany," she spits and she knows she's about to go for a low blow, but she's like the freaking hulk when she gets pissed off: she just can't stop. "And you've been a part of this family for less than a year, and if you want to keep being a part of it then I'd highly advise you keep your mouth shut."

For a split second, it feels good because it renders Maria completely speechless; but then she sees the gloss covering faded, brown eyes and sees the hurt and regret flesh across them, too and suddenly her words don't seem like such a good thing anymore.

And in the back of her mind, she can just hear that little 'Brittany' voice that tells her that that probably wasn't necessary. That spelling out the truth like that, or some version of the truth, was probably a little harsh because okay, Maria made a lot of mistakes, but she's trying to make up for them, and she's just trying to make sure that Santana and Brittany don't wind up with a pathetic divorce like she did with the waste of space she once called a husband.

Which is why, with a sigh, a shake of her head and a lick of her lips, Santana Lopez-Pierce... the one fierce and feared woman of the Record Company world... apologizes.

"Look, I'm sorry," she says and tries to ignore the slight widening of faded brown eyes as she heads into the living room. Even though sure, she's a little surprised she just apologized without Brittany poking her in the back physically to do so, too. "But please, ma," she bends down to kiss Eli on the head and makes her way to the front door, grabbing her coat and hooking it over her arm before turning to the other woman. "Just leave it to me and Britt. We're adults, and we can sort it out."

There must be something in her tone, something soft and exhausted, because Maria doesn't argue anymore and instead bobs her head, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Okay," she says and there's no fight left in her voice.

Santana turns and opens the door, blowing Eli a kiss before stepping outside, only pausing when she hears her mom call her name again.

"But be careful, Santana," she continues and perfectly shaped eyebrows pinch together when Santana looks over her shoulder to Maria leaning against the door with a knowing smile. "You mean a lot to a lot of people."

She feels like her mom says something else, but she doesn't want to know.

Instead she offers her mom a weak smile before twisting back around and heading down the stoop, ready to meet Quinn.


Just as she's approaching Barney's, she feels her phone vibrate inside her bra and picks it out, not even bothering to look at the name on screen because it's probably Quinn and she can just say that she's outside and about to walk in.

Except when she picks up, before she can even greet the person on the other end, they're pretty much yelling at her and well, safe to say it's definitely not Quinn.

"Where are you and why is your mom here?"

Santana takes in a deep breath, pointedly ignoring the way her heart flutters at the sound of Brittany's voice after more than twelve hours without it.

"Good evening to you, too, darling," she drawls sarcastically and hears the deadening silence down the phone which tells her her wife's not best pleased. She laughs a little into the cold night sky. "And I'm going out with Quinn. Since you and I apparently don't seem to talk anymore, I thought I'd arrange someone to look after Eli just in case you decided not to come home tonight."

"Don't do that, Santana," Brittany replies within a second, and Santana can hear her not biting the sarcastic bait. "Don't turn it around and make me look like the bad guy."

In the middle of the side walk, Santana just stops. "The bad guy?" She repeats, her tone dripping with disbelief. "So I'm being the bad guy?" She screeches, her hand curling into a fist by her thigh.

There's no way she can actually be the bad guy here?

Fuck, how can there even be a bad guy!?

"Are you being serious right now?"

Yes, she fucking is, and Santana knows that Brittany knows that which is why she doesn't even give her the satisfaction of a scathing comment back. Instead, she clenches her jaw, grinds her teeth together and tries to keep it together.

But, as always, she fails. It's the Snix, just coming out of her like hot lava and she can't stop it. Not even with Brittany.

"I didn't mean to miss your fucking meeting, Brittany," she growls, her fingers tightening around her phone. "I already told you that, so fucking stop trying to make me feel guilty."

She knows it was the wrong thing to say the second it leaves her mouth. She knows it, yet she still doesn't blurt out an apology in the long, four seconds of deafening silence that follows afterward. And really, she should've said it, and it's only after hearing a rough exhale then a long beep when Brittany hangs up, that she realizes that because she doesn't mean to be a super bitch all the time and she really didn't mean to miss Brittany's meeting and she was just saying.

But because she's stubborn, because she's Santana Lopez-Pierce and she doesn't apologize to anyone, her mind decides to switch from feeling guilty to feeling fucking angry and within three seconds of Brittany hanging up, she's debating whether or not to throw her fucking phone against the wall and scream fuck you in the top of her voice to the city skyline because she's told Brittany she didn't mean to miss it and she genuinely meant it, and if Brittany can't see that, then that's her problem.

Except at the very last moment, just before she's about to say goodbye to her phone and wrack up a bill of five hundred dollars to buy a new one and cover the pavement in pieces of cell phone, a rational, calming piece of her mind somehow settles in and tells her that realistically, she's already pissed Brittany off enough, and if Brittany wants to contact her later, wants to forgive her, then destroying the only way of talking to her probably isn't best.

So instead, she just stuffs her phone back in her pocket and reaches for the door to Barney's.


Quinn's totally dealt with Santana in a shockingly bad mood before, but this... well, this is really something.

Even Santana can tell herself.

"Why hasn't she forgiven you then?"

The second Santana walked into the bar, and after she'd gruffly ordered Ketel One and a Jack Daniels on the rocks as a shooter and Will behind the bar had raised his eyebrows and nodded, looking terrified for his own life, Quinn had called her name, brought her over to the table and slid her a packet of cigarettes, telling her that she needed to calm down as she talked it out with her. Obviously, at first, Santana had pretty much told her to do one and that she didn't want to talk about it, but the whole reason she was there was to freaking talk about it, so after much protesting and five cigarettes, she opened her mouth and it all poured out.

And now she's here, Quinn staring at her with one of her patented you're an idiot expressions that apparently, are only reserved for Santana.


"I don't fucking know," she hisses back, taking a long sip of her drink before picking up a new cigarette and placing it between her lips. "Why don't you ask her?" She mumbles around the white stick, reaching for the lighter and testing it until there's a flame. She lights the cigarette and tips her head back as she inhales, feeling the toxic gas infect her lungs. "I explained and she's just pissed at me for nothing," she shrugs, bringing her vision back down to her friend.

Quinn stares at her for a long moment, and by long moment, she means like, at least three minutes, completely silent. It's a little irritating, but Santana can see the cogs working in the blondes mind and knows that if anyone's going to tell her anything straight, or tell her she's a complete idiot and needs to do something about it, then it'll be Quinn.

"Did you even say sorry?"

Santana lifts an eyebrow in her friends direction, bringing the glass to her lips. "She knows I'm sorry," she replies with a slight shrug, taking a sip.

Hazel eyes roll and the blonde leans forward, elbows against the table and hands clasped around her beer bottle. "That's not what I asked," she says and Santana almost rolls her eyes herself. "I asked if you said sorry. I asked if you actually said the words I'm sorry."

It's such a simple question, and Santana's mouth opens to bark out a chortle, to throw her head back and laugh at Quinn because of course she's apologized, when she stops short. Her mind goes back over the events, back over the heated conversations between her and Brittany and she realizes that actually, no, she didn't actively apologize to Brittany. She told her she didn't mean to miss the meeting, but she never said those specific words and by the time she realizes this, she's staring blankly, mouth open like a damn fish.

"Shit," she gasps, the realization setting in as she lowers her glass to the table.

A smirk comes across Quinn's lips and she leans back into the booth, giving Santana that knowinglook that really gets underneath her skin. Her arms fold over her chest and she watches Santana for a long moment, watches her take note of how fucking dumb she is and honestly, Santana doesn't blame her. There aren't many situations where Santana will admit to being wrong, or will stand to be corrected, and if Santana were in Quinn's position, she'd be watching it, too.

"Exactly," the blonde finally says. "So go back and apologize to Brittany. Go back and apologize properly with flowers, or candy, or some shit, and rejoin your wife and your son, and just be fucking happy," she bobs her head along to her words and Santana just looks at her. "Because you become unbearably miserable when you're like this, and I don't have time to listen and deal for your bullshit all the damn time because you're too stubborn to say you're sorry. I have a lady at home, which means I have responsibilities and funnily enough, Lopez," she leans forward even further and lifts both eyebrows, the you know I'm right expression already on her face. "You have responsibilities, too. So throw a tantrum, do what you need to do, but then grow up and go home to apologize."

Quinn stands from the table, saying nothing more and gives Santana one final knowing smirk before slapping down a few dollars on the table and picking her coat up from the booth beside her. She doesn't even put the coat on, just throws it over her shoulders and flicks up the lapels around her neck, then taps the table once, twice with her knuckles, right beside Santana's elbow and walks out the bar.

And all Santana can do is just stare as her friend leaves. Because Quinn was right. She does have responsibilities, and she shouldn't be here, at a freaking bar, drinking away her problems like she's twenty-four again. She can't just give her son—her freaking sonto her mom and ask her to look after her because that's not what a responsible parent would do. That's something her mom would've done back when she was a shitty excuse of a parent.

Santana's not going to become that.

And she's certainly not going to lose Brittany just because she's too fucking stubborn to apologize for something she did wrong.

Without another word, she tips back the rest of her drink, whisks out the booth, jacket in hand and heads on home.


The apartment's dark when she steps inside, and she's about to flick on the light, call out Brittany's name to see if she's still up, when she sees movement in the corner of her eye.

She sets down her keys, clutch and the grocery bag containing flowers and packets of Dots, and kicks off her shoes, then heads on over to the sofa where she finds her wife sleeping, legs curled up near her body and hands buried beneath her face in lieu of a pillow, her face scrunched despite her sleeping state. And she decides, as she glances down at Brittany, that she's never going to piss her off or have an argument with her like this again, because she hates how she can quite obviously see dried tear tracks on her cheeks and how there are lines on her forehead from frustration just because she's been an asshole.

Letting out a long sigh, she moves down into a crouch beside the sofa, her knees pressing into the hardwood floor and rests her arms on the space in front of Brittany on the couch, just so she can stare at her.

Sometimes she really does hate how beautiful Brittany is. It makes her feel a hundred times worse than she would with anyone else just by looking at her.

"S'nt'a," Brittany grumbles, wriggling around in her sleep, her face burying into the pillow. "S'nt'a, pl'se."

It doesn't make much sense, but Santana doesn't care. She reaches out and strokes her fingertips along the creases in her wife's brow, trying to smooth them out, and the second she touches Brittany, the blonde begins to stir, her eyelashes fluttering until dark brown stares into bright blue.

"Santana?" Brittany croaks, her eyes readjusting as she stretches out her arms, bones audibly cracking.

"I'm here, baby," Santana mutters, her voice a hushed whisper and touch light and repetitive. She moves it down to Brittany's neck, then back up to her jaw where her hand frames the hinge of her jaw. "I'm here and I'm sorry."

Previous to her words, Brittany seemed a little confused by the sudden appearance and waking up, but now she looks straight up, one hundred percent confused, and Santana's not sure whether that's because she's suddenly appeared here, whether that's because Brittany's just woken up and is in a daze, or whether that's because Brittany's just fucking confused as to why Santana's apologizing after being such a stubborn ass for the past day or two.

Whichever way it is though, Santana doesn't even give her wife a chance to explain the confusion before she's just blurting out her apology.

"I'm sorry," she repeats and fair eyebrows knit together, so she elaborates further. "I never apologized, and I should've done, and I'm sorry that I missed your meeting," she breathes out in one long sentence, wetting her lips to pause her sentence. "There's nothing I can do now but apologize, unless you want me to ring up those rich guys and do it all over again, and I'll do that if it'll make you happy and if it'll make you believe me that I'm genuinely sorry because I am." She sucks her lips into her mouth and strokes her thumb over the soft skin of her wife's cheek, waiting for her to say something but she doesn't. "'I'll even fly you to Tokyo or Beijing, or wherever the hell they are, and we can take them out and go over the entire meeting again, just so I can be there to support you," she pauses and takes in a deep breath. "Because I love you, Britt, and I don't want to fight, and I'm sorry for being such a gigantic asshole and for missing your meeting. I really am."

There's a stretch of silence after she speaks, which is barely filled by the sound of them breathing. But after a few long moments of blue eyes narrowing at Santana, and of Brittany taking in Santana's words and debating whether or not to forgive her, Brittany finally lets out a long exhale, turns the corners of her lips up and rolls her eyes a little as she shakes her head.

"Don't do that," she says, and it's entirely not what Santana was expecting that she jerks her head back a little, eyes flicking off quizzically.

"Don't do what, B?"

A pale hand comes up to slide up a tanned forearm, smoothing over the groove of her elbow before long fingers wrap around Santana's bicep and tug. At first she's a little confused, but then she gets that Brittany's trying to get her to lie down next to her and she smiles to herself, knowing that the worst is over as she shifts and maneuvers her body so she's pressed against her wife, lying on her side with their noses bumping together.

"Don't go to Tokyo or Beijing," the blonde finally says after a long while, sighing against Santana's mouth as she gets so close their lips almost touch. "I don't want you going away."

A slight grin etches its way across Santana's face. "You don't?"

"No," her wife answers, reaching up to stroke a hand over her cheek, pushing back a few stray hairs. "I want you to stay here with me," she whispers and lets her eyes drop from Santana's hairline to her eyes. "Even if you are a gigantic asshole sometimes."

Santana chuckles before she leans in, stroking her nose against a pale cheek once before she completely closes the distance and brings their mouths together in a slow kiss.


She's done this so many times, and she'll do it so many times more, but this, with Brittany's thighs pressed against her cheeks, her perfect body squirming beneath Santana's tongue and fingers, arching against the mattress and pushing her core harder against her mouth... it's just the hottest thing Santana's ever seen.

It neverfails in making her all hot around the collar. It never fails in making her sohard, making that pressure form in the base of her back sohigh that she has to buck her hips against the mattress to release some of the tension because there's no way in hell she's going to go all thirteen-year-old-boy and blow her load before she's even inside her wife.

It's just that hot, that even when Brittany cries out, her body quaking violently, Santana doesn't stop.

She doesn't stop when fingernails scratch against her scalp as her wife gets worked up again, and she doesn't stop when Brittany squeals at the lips wrapping around her clit and sucking expertly, causing her to fall over the edge for the second time.

She just doesn't stop lapping eagerly at Brittany until she's counted the fourth orgasm and Brittany's cries are now whimpers and she's tugging on Santana's hair, chanting, "Please, I can't, stop," over and over again. But even then, she just brings her wife down from her fourth high, strokes her tongue over her one last time before she kisses her way up her body and settles her hips between her thighs, pressing their lips together in a sloppy kiss.

Because it's just so hot being with Brittany—it always is—and she really doesn't know how after all this time, after all the times they've slept together, or even just done stuff like a hormonal teenage couple, that the craving, the need, the want and the intensity, is still there.

But she's not going to question it. She just loves it, and that's the bottom line.

"Ugh, baby," is mumbled against her mouth and she pulls her lips back, propping herself on one elbow as she glances down at her wife, her hand stroking through her hair and the other making a path down the left side of her ribs.

"Yeah?" She hushes, her voice hoarse and husky.

Hands come up to her face, framing it, and she closes her eyes at the feel of Brittany pulling her down to press their lips together again softly. It's a silent request for what she wants, what she needs, and Santana lets her body swirl in the emotions, the shared emotions, as she kisses her wife and reaches down between them, wrapping her fist around herself and shifting until she's pressing against Brittany's entrance.

But a second before she sheathes herself inside her, she takes a second to pull back, to take a deep breaths to steady herself because she knows the second she's inside her wife, she'll feel her clenching, she'll feel Brittany squirming and she'll feel Brittany tighten her grip around the nape of her neck as she throws her head back against the pillow and by then, she'll want nothing more than to just make love to her wife for as long as possible.

Right now, though, she wants a moment because she wants to memorize everything about Brittany, and it's strange, because she spends so much of her time watching her wife, learning her and appreciating her, but it never really feels like enough. It never makes her feel like it's any more real. It never makes her truly believe that she actually did get this lucky, that she actually got the girl, and made her her wife. It never makes her believe that her happy ending really is true, because it still feels too good to true.

So she takes that moment.

She takes a moment and admires the woman beneath her. She admires those pink lips, that creamy skin, those blue eyes. She admires that dusting of freckles over the bridge of Brittany's nose and those high cheekbones. She admires everything about her, including the way she feels, warm beneath Santana's body, and breathes her in, knowing that she's truly hers because there's still a part of her that's scared that she'll wake up one day, roll over to an empty bed and her life, the last four years of it, will have all just been a dream.

But the best part about not really believing that this is her life, is that whenever she has one of these doubful moments, whenever she closes her eyes and wonders how someone like her got so lucky, when she opens her eyes, Brittany's right there before her, and she realizes that no, she's not dreaming. This is real and God, she really is the luckiest woman on the planet.

The back of Brittany's hand brushing over her cheek brings her back, and she looks into her wife's eyes, her breath catching at the sparkling blue before her.

"Baby," the blonde starts, whispering the words through slightly swollen lips. "What is it?"

Santana pauses for a second, and the answer just comes so easy. "I just really love you," she replies, her lips curving up into a smile.

Brittany just beams a grin at her before one hand slides around her neck and pulls her down into a deep kiss, and the other presses against the small of her back and urges her inside her wife. She slides in, pushing through slick heat, and moans tumble from both their mouths, merging into one loud sound as they connect as much as physically possible. The feel of Brittany clenching around her causes heat to blossom all over her skin, and she breaks the kiss, moving to bury her face into a pale neck as she feels her wife stretch to accommodate her and fuck, it just feels so good.

Once she inhales deeply once or twice, she lifts her head and nudges her nose against Brittany's face until her wife stares up at her through dark, wanting eyes, and then she begins to move. Their mouths come back together automatically, and Santana's tongue licks into the blonde's mouth as she pulls out slowly, waiting until only the very tip of her cock is inside before she pushes back in again, bottoming out and groaning out the arousal that sparks and fizzles through her very being.

And she knows she could lose it right here and now, just being inside Brittany, but this isn't about her. This is about making Brittany feel good because she deserves it. This is about Santana apologizing to Brittany because really, Santana knows that Brittany could do much better than her, yet for some reason—for some fucking reason that Santana will never know—this angel, this perfection, this angel in a humans body, chose her... and she'll be damned if she messes it up.

Legs wind around her waist in the midst of her thoughts, and she breaks their kiss, their lips parting with a smack as ankles cross at her lower back and heels dig into her. Brown eyes meet blue, and Santana gazes down at her wife through the hazel of arousal as she pulls out again, pushing back in a little faster, a little harder, watching the pleasure flicker across Brittany's face.

"Santana..." The blonde moans, teeth tugging at her own bottom lip. "Oh, Santana..."

"Feel good, baby?" Santana husks back, smiling to herself when the only reply Brittany can manage is a drawn out moan.

The vocal sounds coming from beneath her spur her on, and she glides her palms over smooth skin, curving around Brittany's sides until she brushes over her wife's breasts, fingers rolling her nipples and pinching lightly, causing hips to buck up into hers. She moves slowly, gradually, her touch soft and gentle, despite her thrusts being a little less of that, and she finds herself wanting to kiss every inch of Brittany's face and so she does just that, letting her lips brush over her nose, her cheekbones, her eyelids... everything she was worshiping and admiring just a moment ago.

Pressure builds at the back of her spine as she continues moving inside Brittany, and nails scratch at her back — a sure sign that her wife wants more of her — and so she shifts to the side, moving her lips back to Brittany's to kiss her as she leans on one forearm and lets the other glide between their bodies until she's rubbing tight circles over Brittany's clit with her thumb. The gesture makes Brittany's hips jerk and move erratically against her own, and she gasps as the thighs around her hips tighten and pull her deeper inside Brittany until she's tapping that spot and adding pressure to the tip of her own cock, quickly pulling her to her own edge.

"Jesus, Britt," she groans against Brittany's mouth, finding it hard to keep up with kissing as the pace increases. She rests her forehead against her wife's and uses the arm she's leaning on to brush away the strands of hair sticking to pale, sweaty skin. Then she just lets her eyes bore into Brittany's, lets her lips hover Brittany's and lets her breath kiss Brittany's as she can't kiss her herself.

It only takes a few more well-aimed thrusts and switch of circles from wide and slow, to tight and fast, around her clit before Brittany's squeaking and throwing her head back, her hands grasping desperately at Santana's tanned shoulders as she spasms hard beneath her, clenching and coming hard in sudden waves.

"Oh my god, babe!" She almost screams, nails digging into her wife's skin.

Then her teeth bite down hard on her bottom lip, and Santana almost stops moving herself because this really is a thing of beauty, watching her wife shatter like glass due to what she's doing, but she keeps her movements up, bringing her wife down and simultaneously bringing herself closer.

And it's only ten seconds later that she's falling over the edge, shocks of white hot pleasure jolting through her being, and she holds herself still, deep inside Brittany, as she groans her name and spills into her. Mid-way through her orgasm, she feels Brittany stiffen beneath her again and peels open her eyes to find her face scrunching up, her legs tightening once more around Santana's hips as a second orgasm hits her.

It's unexpected, but so welcoming, and she can't help but smile to herself as she leans down and presses her lips against Brittany's, her tongue delving into her mouth as they ride out their highs together.


Moments later, when they're still kissing lazily, their tongues stroking against one another, Santana lifts her hips and slowly pulls out from her wife. Their lips break and Brittany whimpers from a double loss, but nudges Santana off her until Santana's lying on her back and Brittany's curling into her, a hand gripping her bicep, a leg thrown over hers and slipping in between and she's pressing a delicate kiss to the underside of her jaw.

Reaching up to the back of the sofa, Santana grabs the blanket slung over it and pulls it around their bodies, wrapping them up, because they may have just had quite possibly the best sex of their lives and are still breathing heavily and recovering from their intense orgasms, but they've still got a son and God knows they don't want him to suddenly wonder in and see a little too much of his parents.

Once that's done, once they're settled down, they lie there in the most comfortable of silence for a few seconds until Santana feels the need to kiss her wife one more time and uses the tip of her finger beneath Brittany's chin to tilt her head up so she can lean down and bring their mouths together once more, softly, before she settles down again and winds her arm around Brittany's back, her hand stroking up and down smooth, slightly damp skin.

"So," she starts, clearing her throat when the rasp causes her sentence to break up. Brittany chuckles lightly before she continues. "Does this mean I'm forgiven?" She ponders, sucking her lips into her mouth as she thinks of their argument. "I mean... Do I have to go to Japan?" She asks, tucking her chin to her chest and lowering her eyes as Brittany glances up at her.

The blonde grins, rolls her eyes and then shakes her head, and Santana finds herself grinning at the look on her wife's face because she knows it means you're ridiculous.

"You could," Brittany replies, shifting until she's propped up on her elbow, leaning over Santana slightly, her hair hanging down over her right shoulder and tickling a tanned upper arm. "But it'd be pointless considering they're English," she giggles, the hand she has pressed against Santana's abdomen moving up through the valley of her breasts to her neck, cupping it.

And Santana can't really resist as she cranes her neck and kisses her wife again, slowly and softly, her mouth shifting until she's sucking on Brittany's top lip, because she kind of just wants to kiss Brittany all the damn time. They kiss like that for a little while, too, nothing more than just lips against lips, brushing over each other delicately, and hands grazing over tanned and cream skin, but then Santana seems to clear her mind for a split second to remember the reason why they're kissing anyway, and she can't hold back because she needs to know if she's still in trouble 'cause if she is, that means she's going to have to try and figure out a way to make it up to Brittany even more and God knows what she's going to do.

"Britt," she mumbles against her wife's mouth, trying to stop kissing but failing because, well, it's Brittany. "Britt," she repeats, whining a little and the lips on her own curve up into a large smile, causing them to part. "You still haven't answered my question," she pouts, staring up at her wife.

Brittany just eyes her though, lifts an eyebrow and smirks. "I totally did," she argues and winks, referring to moments before.

Santana tilts her head to the side with a less than amused expression on her face, realizing where this is going. "Are wereallygoing to argue about this?"

The blonde lets out a small chuckle as she leans down and pecks Santana's nose, before pulling back and settling down, arm slinging low around her waist and head resting on her shoulder. "No, baby," she utters, nuzzling into her skin. "We're done arguing."

"Can that be forever?" Santana questions, tucking her chin to her chest and blinking down at her wife. She knows she sounds like a child, but she doesn't care. She hates arguing with Brittany. "'Cause I hate it."

"Mhmm," the blonde hums, tipping her head back to kiss Santana once softly before she settles down for good, clinging to her like she never wants to let go. "As long as you're not an ass."

"I'm always an ass."

"But you're my ass."

Santana grins to herself as she kisses blonde hair, feeling the sleep tug at her eyelids and hearing the slight drone in Brittany's voice that tells her she's about to fall asleep, too. She knows they probably shouldn't fall asleep here because Eli could come out any moment and see them, but she can't really find it in herself to care because she's warm, she's comfortable, she's loved and she's got the love of her life in her arms. She's good.

So instead, she yawns loudly and pulls Brittany further into her. "Yeah, baby," she gets out, sleepily, settling down for the night and closing her eyes. "I'm yours."


That was a hell of a lot longer than I intended, but I hope you enjoyed! Leave a review if you feel like I deserve one! Thank you :)