fic: Here I Am, There You Are.
TITLE 
Here I Am, There You Are.
CHARACTERS: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce.
WORDS: 1.2k
RATING: Hard R.
DISCLAIMER: I don't owns the Glee.
SUMMARY: On Sundays, though, there’s nothing to worry about at all. She can wake when she wants, leave on the sweats and stretched out tee she wore to bed, not touch her hair and sit on the couch eating Trix with Brittany as they watch the most boring TV Sunday has to offer.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I owe Erin birthday fic. It's so late, but I had a Brittana dry spell. So, this is for her. Title from Aaliyah's "Age Ain't Nothing But A Number".
Sundays are her favorite. There are no responsibilities. No work or class or cleaning to do because they have a schedule. Together. She and Brittany have things figured out. And, yeah, the week is always busy and rife with something that pisses her off: a professor, a customer at the bookstore or an idiot classmate who wants her notes. But at the end of the day there’s always a warm bed and a kiss from Brittany waiting for her, long arms, familiar and versed in soothing her with just a squeeze there to welcome her home.
Honestly? This is the life she’d dreamed of and it always blows her mind a little to know that it’s hers now. That there are no barriers keeping her from doing what she wants to do, being who she wants to be. No fears to keep her from loving who she loves.
On Sundays, though, there’s nothing to worry about at all. She can wake when she wants, leave on the sweats and stretched out tee she wore to bed, not touch her hair and sit on the couch eating Trix with Brittany as they watch the most boring TV Sunday has to offer.
It’s comforting. It’s home. It feels like love.
Some Sundays they watch Guy Fieri travel the country eating like there’s no bottom to his stomach. Other Sundays involve watching terrible movies that make her cry on the Hallmark channel. This Sunday is no different except there really isn’t anything at all interesting on the screen and she’s drained her bowl of cereal.
“Huh,” Brittany says, reaching for the bowl. The spoon clanks a little loudly against the inside of the bowl but Brittany ignores it and presses a kiss to Santana’s temple before stacking it with her own and heading for the kitchen in their tiny apartment.
“Thanks, baby,” she mumbles before stretching out on the couch. It’s the best part of the little place aside from the California king she got her dad to splurge on. It’s comfortable and she’s spent many a study session slipping into a nap because she just seems to sink in. She folds her hands behind her head and tries to focus on whatever it is happening on the television but she can’t and her eyes flutter closed to the sound of Brittany rinsing bowls and dropping silverware in the kitchen.
She rolls her shoulder when she feels the familiar weight of Brittany’s body pressing down on her. Her eyes stay closed but she parts her legs slightly to allow Brittany some comfort and kisses back when Brittany’s lips press down onto hers.
“Sleepy,” she mumbles against lips that taste like sweet milk and honey gloss.
“Me too,” Britt says into her neck but she doesn’t feel sleepy with the way her hands are dancing over the warm flesh of Santana’s sides beneath her shirt. Her palms are cool and soft and Santana’s body twitches against the temperature. “I love you,” Brittany says softly.
“I love you too, baby.”
“Like?”
“The robin loves to sing.”
“Mmm.” Santana feels it more than she hears it, warm over the flesh of her collarbone. “What else?”
“Like Beauty loves the Beast.”
“You calling me the Beast?”
Santana laughs soundlessly against Brittany’s hair as her fingers stroke the long line of Brittany’s spine. “Yep. You snore like one.”
“Shut up,” Brittany mutters softly, nose moving along the column of Santana’s neck. “You’re lucky you smell so good.”
“Really lucky, huh?”
“Shhh,” Brittany says. “I’ll show you.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth as Brittany’s body snakes up and her head dips down to press their lips together. The kisses are soft and slow, teasing and sweet like only Brittany’s kisses have ever been. She feels warmer already with Brittany suckling her bottom lip and rubbing soft circles against her hipbones.
“Super lucky,” Brittany says before sliding her tongue across Santana’s bottom lip and stroking into her mouth with the precise laziness of Sunday morning. Santana moans her approval, bunching the fabric of Brittany’s tank into her right hand and sliding her hand over the warm thigh between her own with the left.
“The luckiest.”
“I know,” Brittany says, pressing her finger to Santana’s lips and moving her kisses down Santana’s jaw until she’s sucking her pulse point gentle and carefree. Her hands push Santana’s shirt up her chest and she dips her head dropping lazy kisses onto the skin of the skin there before her tongue draws one slow circle around a nipple. Santana sighs, back arching, fingers digging into the tank, other hand gently squeezing Brittany’s ass. Brittany’s pace doesn’t quicken, she’s still moving slow, tongue teasing the neglected nipple while her hand slides up to squeeze the other breast.
“Hey,” Brittany says lifting her head, eyes sparkling.
“Hi,” Santana whispers back.
“You’re my Beast, okay?”
“Okay, babe,” Santana says. Brittany kisses her again, without urgency, hand snaking over the plane of Santana’s stomach and dipping into the sweats hanging off her hips.
“Wet,” Brittany muses, cupping her over her panties.
“Happens,” Santana grins. Brittany doesn’t say anything else just kisses over her chest and abdomen and dips her hand into Santana’s panties; fingers sliding through wet heat slow and deliberate. She’s not really doing anything of note yet but it feels nice and Santana rolls her hips against the pressure.
Brittany’s fingers slide up and back down until she presses in, pushing and pulling long, slow strokes. Santana bites down on her bottom lip, eyes squeezed shut and just lets herself feel, her own hand tangled softly in Brittany’s hair.
Brittany’s lips are back on hers again, sliding slowly, tongue dipping out to taste Santana’s mouth as her fingers stroke with certainty.
It’s best like this. No rush, no worries, just the two of them together, warm and panting softly, sharing the same sweet air and soft kisses.
“C’mon,” Brittany says softly, fingers pushing deeper but not faster. She laughs a little but she can feel the telltale build and knows that Brittany can too. She just kisses her again, rolls her hips. Brittany presses her thumb up and then in slow circles against her nerves, whispering quiet I love yous into Santana’s neck until the pressures enough and Santana shatters around her, teeth sinking into her shoulder.
She puts her hands on Brittany’s cheeks when her head drops back against the throw pillow behind her, still panting lightly, sweat beading on her forehead. She kisses her soundly and sighs. She can feel Brittany smile against her, wet fingers dragging over her hip.
“Love you.”
“I know.”
Sundays are her favorite.
Here I Am, There You Are.
CHARACTERS: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce.
WORDS: 1.2k
RATING: Hard R.
DISCLAIMER: I don't owns the Glee.
SUMMARY: On Sundays, though, there’s nothing to worry about at all. She can wake when she wants, leave on the sweats and stretched out tee she wore to bed, not touch her hair and sit on the couch eating Trix with Brittany as they watch the most boring TV Sunday has to offer.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I owe Erin birthday fic. It's so late, but I had a Brittana dry spell. So, this is for her. Title from Aaliyah's "Age Ain't Nothing But A Number".
Sundays are her favorite. There are no responsibilities. No work or class or cleaning to do because they have a schedule. Together. She and Brittany have things figured out. And, yeah, the week is always busy and rife with something that pisses her off: a professor, a customer at the bookstore or an idiot classmate who wants her notes. But at the end of the day there’s always a warm bed and a kiss from Brittany waiting for her, long arms, familiar and versed in soothing her with just a squeeze there to welcome her home.
Honestly? This is the life she’d dreamed of and it always blows her mind a little to know that it’s hers now. That there are no barriers keeping her from doing what she wants to do, being who she wants to be. No fears to keep her from loving who she loves.
On Sundays, though, there’s nothing to worry about at all. She can wake when she wants, leave on the sweats and stretched out tee she wore to bed, not touch her hair and sit on the couch eating Trix with Brittany as they watch the most boring TV Sunday has to offer.
It’s comforting. It’s home. It feels like love.
Some Sundays they watch Guy Fieri travel the country eating like there’s no bottom to his stomach. Other Sundays involve watching terrible movies that make her cry on the Hallmark channel. This Sunday is no different except there really isn’t anything at all interesting on the screen and she’s drained her bowl of cereal.
“Huh,” Brittany says, reaching for the bowl. The spoon clanks a little loudly against the inside of the bowl but Brittany ignores it and presses a kiss to Santana’s temple before stacking it with her own and heading for the kitchen in their tiny apartment.
“Thanks, baby,” she mumbles before stretching out on the couch. It’s the best part of the little place aside from the California king she got her dad to splurge on. It’s comfortable and she’s spent many a study session slipping into a nap because she just seems to sink in. She folds her hands behind her head and tries to focus on whatever it is happening on the television but she can’t and her eyes flutter closed to the sound of Brittany rinsing bowls and dropping silverware in the kitchen.
She rolls her shoulder when she feels the familiar weight of Brittany’s body pressing down on her. Her eyes stay closed but she parts her legs slightly to allow Brittany some comfort and kisses back when Brittany’s lips press down onto hers.
“Sleepy,” she mumbles against lips that taste like sweet milk and honey gloss.
“Me too,” Britt says into her neck but she doesn’t feel sleepy with the way her hands are dancing over the warm flesh of Santana’s sides beneath her shirt. Her palms are cool and soft and Santana’s body twitches against the temperature. “I love you,” Brittany says softly.
“I love you too, baby.”
“Like?”
“The robin loves to sing.”
“Mmm.” Santana feels it more than she hears it, warm over the flesh of her collarbone. “What else?”
“Like Beauty loves the Beast.”
“You calling me the Beast?”
Santana laughs soundlessly against Brittany’s hair as her fingers stroke the long line of Brittany’s spine. “Yep. You snore like one.”
“Shut up,” Brittany mutters softly, nose moving along the column of Santana’s neck. “You’re lucky you smell so good.”
“Really lucky, huh?”
“Shhh,” Brittany says. “I’ll show you.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth as Brittany’s body snakes up and her head dips down to press their lips together. The kisses are soft and slow, teasing and sweet like only Brittany’s kisses have ever been. She feels warmer already with Brittany suckling her bottom lip and rubbing soft circles against her hipbones.
“Super lucky,” Brittany says before sliding her tongue across Santana’s bottom lip and stroking into her mouth with the precise laziness of Sunday morning. Santana moans her approval, bunching the fabric of Brittany’s tank into her right hand and sliding her hand over the warm thigh between her own with the left.
“The luckiest.”
“I know,” Brittany says, pressing her finger to Santana’s lips and moving her kisses down Santana’s jaw until she’s sucking her pulse point gentle and carefree. Her hands push Santana’s shirt up her chest and she dips her head dropping lazy kisses onto the skin of the skin there before her tongue draws one slow circle around a nipple. Santana sighs, back arching, fingers digging into the tank, other hand gently squeezing Brittany’s ass. Brittany’s pace doesn’t quicken, she’s still moving slow, tongue teasing the neglected nipple while her hand slides up to squeeze the other breast.
“Hey,” Brittany says lifting her head, eyes sparkling.
“Hi,” Santana whispers back.
“You’re my Beast, okay?”
“Okay, babe,” Santana says. Brittany kisses her again, without urgency, hand snaking over the plane of Santana’s stomach and dipping into the sweats hanging off her hips.
“Wet,” Brittany muses, cupping her over her panties.
“Happens,” Santana grins. Brittany doesn’t say anything else just kisses over her chest and abdomen and dips her hand into Santana’s panties; fingers sliding through wet heat slow and deliberate. She’s not really doing anything of note yet but it feels nice and Santana rolls her hips against the pressure.
Brittany’s fingers slide up and back down until she presses in, pushing and pulling long, slow strokes. Santana bites down on her bottom lip, eyes squeezed shut and just lets herself feel, her own hand tangled softly in Brittany’s hair.
Brittany’s lips are back on hers again, sliding slowly, tongue dipping out to taste Santana’s mouth as her fingers stroke with certainty.
It’s best like this. No rush, no worries, just the two of them together, warm and panting softly, sharing the same sweet air and soft kisses.
“C’mon,” Brittany says softly, fingers pushing deeper but not faster. She laughs a little but she can feel the telltale build and knows that Brittany can too. She just kisses her again, rolls her hips. Brittany presses her thumb up and then in slow circles against her nerves, whispering quiet I love yous into Santana’s neck until the pressures enough and Santana shatters around her, teeth sinking into her shoulder.
She puts her hands on Brittany’s cheeks when her head drops back against the throw pillow behind her, still panting lightly, sweat beading on her forehead. She kisses her soundly and sighs. She can feel Brittany smile against her, wet fingers dragging over her hip.
“Love you.”
“I know.”
Sundays are her favorite.