ehekic requested: Brittana, “What I’m Trying To Say” by Stars: “The heat is turned all the way full, so don’t pretend that you don’t feel the pull / I am trying to say what I want to say without having to say I love you.”
They barely make it off the field before they lose it. Truthfully, Santana’s a little surprised no one noticed; with the indecent way Brittany was pressing against her during practice, it all felt too real. Too heady. The sense of Brittany’s curves melding with her own during the routine, the stroke of Brittany’s breath down her collar when they paused for new instructions, the heat of Brittany’s palm against the small of her back as Sylvester whistled for them to hit the showers…
This happens a lot these days, seemingly more and more often. She doesn’t know if Brittany just stands closer now than she used to, or if there’s something in the water ratcheting their combined sex drive off the charts, but either way…it could be a problem. If anyone catches them. If anyone notices what those lingering touches in the hallway mean. If anyone notices what those lingering glances in the shower stalls mean.
If anyone notices that Santana is unfortunately, unhappily, deeply embittered by love for her best friend.
It could be a problem.
They barely make it off the field and into Santana’s car, and from there, it’s predictable. Will Brittany’s hand find its way into her own? Yes. Will those long fingertips draw lazy circles on the inside of her wrist? Until goosebumps spring up. Will those fingers proceed down, down, disappearing under a skirt that needs washing, yes, really needs washing now, until Santana’s spine goes stiff against the driver’s seat? Absolutely, dangerously, with ever-deadly accuracy.
Will Santana open her mouth and let the words she’s been choking on for months tumble forth?
They stumble up the walkway and through the garage, skipping the pleasantries of her mother’s welcome in favor of Santana’s bedroom, and it’s a goddamn miracle they don’t snap right there on the stairs. Brittany’s hands brush her waist as they make their way down, her breath quick and hopeful in Santana’s ears, and it’s all she can do not to swivel on the second-to-last step and blurt it all out. She hasn’t been this close to losing control in weeks, not since swearing up and down that this isn’t what it is, that sex does not equalize itself to anything more.
She hasn’t been close, because she’s had a reason to hold back. Because Brittany went weeks without touching her. But now…now that they are slowly resuming old habits, now that Brittany’s fingertips find her knees under classroom tables, now that Brittany’s whispered giggles echo in her head as she pushes Santana against the auditorium wall…
Her hands fumble against Brittany’s uniform as they fall into bed, her mouth claiming Brittany’s before words can come. She kisses like she’s dying, like Brittany is the nearest thing to an oxygen tank she deserves, her lips battling for dominance Brittany doesn’t allow her to wrest anymore. They struggle together, rolling, discarding clothing this way and that until her room looks like a warzone. Brittany’s teeth collide with hers once and bounce away again, her tongue immediately writing apologies along her lips. Santana growls, forcing a knee between Brittany’s legs, ripping a groan from Brittany’s throat.
Say it, the voice in her head chants, the one that hasn’t shut up since the afternoon she left Brittany alone. Say it, it screams, and she pushes it away like she always has. Drowns it out with the kisses she leaves on Brittany’s skin, the marks she purposefully makes against Brittany’s breasts, neck, collarbone. She’ll see it later on Brittany’s face, that confused regret as she pats down each tiny red bruise with cover up, but for now, they’re on the same page. For now, Brittany is biting back, her fingers leaving indents on Santana’s hips. Her nails drag down Santana’s legs, taking her underwear along for the ride, and then it’s Santana on her back, Santana accepting defeat as Brittany stretches out above her.
When Brittany’s in control, it gets dangerous. When it’s Santana pinning Brittany down, her fingers digging through blonde hair to rake across a tender scalp, her teeth and tongue sending sharp waves through nipples and earlobes, she can convince herself it’s all okay. When Santana is straddling Brittany, grinding against her thigh, or reaching to strike that perfect glory note deep inside—when it’s Santana’s mouth owning Brittany, drinking her in, inhaling and twisting and slipping until Brittany forgets there has ever been another name on her lips—when it’s Santana calling the shots, and Brittany taking everything she gets with her whole body straining for me—
It’s sex, when Santana’s in control. Pure, beautiful, simple sex. Always.
But when it’s Brittany calling the shots, Brittany pressing her back into the pillows, Brittany’s fingers pressing inside without a hint of hesitation…when Brittany’s naked body blankets her own, her curves supple against Santana’s, her kisses slower and with deeper purpose…when Brittany’s tongue strokes and curls inside her mouth, her fingers following each movement, step for step, rhythm for rhythm…
She can feel it bubbling under the flames, that dangerous, deadly secret that wants so fiercely to come out once and for all. As Brittany’s arm thrusts, her lips enveloping Santana’s with a soft, strong determination, like she knows what Santana has gone to such lengths to prevent her ever finding out—
Her hips are rocking faster, her nails digging tracks into Brittany’s shoulder blades, and she can hear her voice reaching, stretching as far as it can to reach those words. She can hear fuck, and oh, oh God, and Britt—Britt—Brittany, fuck, baby, and all of that is well and good, but when it comes, oh, when it comes, she needs…she has to…
Brittany tilts her head back, eyes rolling shut as she lets each moan and whimper spur her to move faster, harder, reach deeper. She can hear everything, Santana knows, every syllable of her undoing as she angles toward the edge and prepares to go sailing to the other side. She can hear every word, and Santana won’t say it, doesn’t want to say it, can’t let it come free—
She reaches up, clawing for Brittany’s face, dragging her back down just in time. She snapping, a cord strung far too tight, but Brittany’s mouth is covering hers once again, swallowing every ounce of evidence that the secret might wrench free. She kisses Brittany with everything she has left, and she hears it bounce between them, inaudible—I love you, fuck, I love you—but Brittany doesn’t. Brittany can’t hear a thing.
Santana can’t let that change. Especially now, with Artie in the picture, with Brittany giving up on whatever they might have been. They’re just sex now. That’s all they’ve ever been allowed to be. All Santana has ever accepted.
This has to be enough, and no matter how badly the secret wants to launch itself up amongst the stars, Santana’s going to keep it silent. Trapped in her head, a tiny, mad voice with no right to destroy the one beautiful thing she’s got going for her.
In the choice between hope or heat where Brittany is concerned, Santana will choose heat any day. At least heat never lets her down.