Title: My Deathless Death
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce (Glee)
Rating: MA for coarse language and sexual situations
Summary: "She would live devoted at the altar of this woman's everything for the rest of her life, given half a chance." One-shot, canon compliant.
Disclaimer: Glee and all related characters are owned by Fox Networks. No profit has been made through the publishing of this work of fiction; it was created for entertainment purposes only.
Santana is sad. Not the kind of sad where she calls people names and makes references from TV shows no one remembers anymore, but the kind of that makes her seem small and terrified like when Tubbs was a kitten and she found him backed into a corner by the neighbors' Doberman. Afraid and helpless, but not able to give up even so.
Brittany can always tell when Santana's this kind of sad because her shoulders pull back tense, tense, tense, and her jaw clenches tight, tight, tight, but her eyes are soft and wet and confused, like she doesn't understand why she has to feel this way.
Brittany, for all her genius, doesn't understand why either.
Why would Santana's abuela pick mean, hurtful, useless ideas over going to her own granddaughter's wedding?
Why does she keep saying these awful things that make Santana feel like she's doing something wrong, even after her brave, sweet words about weddings and true love and family?
It makes Brittany sad too, but even more, it makes Brittany angry. Angry in a way that feels dangerous and too big for her own skin. Everything feels too big. Or maybe she feels too small, she can't really tell. Maybe she's a helpless little kitten too. Her hands clench wrinkles into the quilt beneath her and her heart races like the it had after the final number of her first solo dance recital.
She had been angry that day too. Santana had promised to come, to watch her dance, but then the recital had been moved to a Sunday and Abuela wouldn't hear of Santana skipping dinner with the priest even though she had gone to every single dinner before that and promised to go to every one after.
Santana had railed for hours in the privacy of Brittany's room, pacing like wild jungle cat caught in a cage, full of directionless fury. Until suddenly she'd stopped pacing, stopped ranting, stopped breathing almost, and it had been all Brittany could do to catch her before she'd collapsed to the floor in tears.
"He's so awful, Britt-Britt. He's nasty and rude to everyone who doesn't believe exactly what he believes, and Abuela just nods the whole time like she actually agrees with him or something! I hate it. I hate going to church anymore. Everyone is so self-righteous all the time, even though Jesus said everything about love and nothing about birth control or girl priests or-or ga-"
She remembers how Santana had choked on her words, as if even saying them was too much, too hard, too dangerous. And Brittany had ached for her.
All the way up to her recital, Brittany had thought about Santana. How pretty she must've looked in her Sunday best, even though her face would be nothing but sad and serious instead of happy and dimply the way Brittany liked it best. She'd thought about how the old priest's angry words were probably poking into Santana's heart, that sweet, kind, sensitive heart that no one else ever bothered to see. She'd thought about Abuela, too busy buttering up that priest to notice how her own granddaughter was probably shrinking right before her eyes, the way Santana always does when she feels like everyone is telling her she's wrong or bad or not enough.
And Brittany had been angry. Her body had shaken with the force of it, until finally she'd had no choice but to put everything into the dance, all of the frustration, sadness, confusion, everything. She'd danced more passionately that night than ever before, every fiber of her being surging with the storm trapped inside. There had been no room for faltering steps or overthinking. Just the dance.
Her instructor had insisted it was common, that true artists always thrive under the pressure of weighted performance, but Brittany knew better. She had danced the best she'd ever managed because she hadn't been dancing just for herself, but for Santana too-
Brittany's head snaps up as her mind starts whirring with ideas and plans and song lyrics and adagios and eight counts until she's almost dizzy from it all. She grabs a few things from her room and races down the stairs, suddenly desperate to get everything ready before Santana arrives. She doesn't even know if her plan will work, if her fiancée will understand what she's about to do, if it will even come together right. She can see everything mapped out in her head, as easy and yet simultaneously complex as Euclid's proof of the infinitude of primes - beautiful and altogether incomprehensible in the way that only infinite things can be.
She smiles softly to herself, peaceful for a second as she recalls another infinitude, and feels her body quicken at the memory.
She knows what to do now.
She knocks gently, the furrow creased between her eyebrows deepening when she gets no response. She opens the door slowly, wincing when the groan of hinges shatters the silence.
"Britt-Britt?" she calls softly, her shoulders drooping in disappointment when she opens the door the rest of the way and sees the glaring lack of Brittany within.
While she hadn't minded splitting from Brittany's company for a short while (lie; she'd hated every second of it) in order to stop home and grab a few more changes of clothes, she was really looking forward to a good long cuddle with her fiancée after such an emotionally draining day. There just wasn't anything in the world quite like the gentle brush of Brittany's fingers across her skin, the warmth of her body pressed flush all along Santana's, or the familiar, steady thump of a heart Santana knew belonged only to her.
She jumps when the unexpected tinny exclamation of "¡Queso por dos!" sounds in the quiet of the hallway, and scrambles to drag her phone out her jacket pocket. Rolling her eyes at Brittany's sneaky phone jacking skills, she flips open her messages to find a new one from Brittany herself.
The studio.
Sent 5:14pm
Glowering at the cryptic text, Santana stashes her phone and makes her way out to the Pierces' backyard where Brittany's practice studio resides. Originally a guest house, the single room building had been stripped bare of most furniture and replaced with a wall of mirrors, one mounted barre and a second free standing one, an old couch, and a couple folding chairs (a remnant of a certain Glee performance that still held a treasured place in Santana's heart, despite its less than welcome reception).
Making sure the back door is firmly shut behind her to keep the four-legged denizens of the Pierce household from making a break for it, Santana quickly crosses the few yards to the studio, kicking off her heels against the doorjamb in deference to the 'no hard-heeled shoes' rule that helped keep the hardwood floors polished and smooth.
A plain white envelope is taped to the door of the studio. Peeling it free, Santana opens it to find an iHome remote control with a post it note stuck to it that reads only, "Come in, sit down, press play."
Growing more curious by the second, she opens the door and steps in, immediately searching for Brittany. She freezes for a second when she finds the other girl kneeling the center of the room, arms around her waist and body curled tight against itself so that her forehead was nearly touching the floor.
Santana wars with her instinctive need to go to Brittany and her wish to comply with the blonde's written instructions. Finally her body unlocks and she glances around to find the beat up couch the Pierces had bought second hand specifically for the studio pushed against the nearby wall. Padding softly on bare feet. she crosses the space and takes a seat, pressing play on the little remote before setting it and the envelope on the cushion next to her.
The silence remains for a few agonizing seconds, and Santana briefly considers reaching for the remote again, wanting so badly not to screw up whatever Brittany has planned when a soft guitar strum and rolling cymbal sound into the studio, making her startle nearly out of her skin. A sultry voice joins the music and Santana gasps in recognition as the familiar lyrics are sung by a an unfamiliar female voice.
She focuses on Brittany just in time to see her lift slightly from her crouch as if pulled by some invisible string attached between her shoulder blades. Her body pulses upwards in waves, echoing the steady guitar strums, opening to match the brighter sound of a new singer with a brassy timbre belting the second verse. When Brittany's torso is fully upright, her legs spread at the knees and her arms lift to tangle in her hair as she continues to roll and sway in time to growing sound, telegraphing anguish and frustration that makes Santana's fists clench in sympathy.
It feels like a swift kick to the gut when Santana realizes for the first time - Brittany is completely nude.
The dancers lurches to her feet suddenly, her arms shooting into the air, her head flung back to frame the singers words about absolution with an exaggerated caricature of supplication. Her left arm snaps back down to cover her breasts, while her right hand drags slowly down her face, her neck, her chest, her belly, to nestle between her clenched thighs. She holds this pose, still swaying, and catches Santana's gaze for the first time, eyes hooded and dark with so much passion it steals Santana's breath from her lungs. The singer sings of heaven, and Santana can feel her body heat at the implication of the lyrics and Brittany's unyielding stare.
We were born sick, but I love it. Command me to be well.
Blue eyes slip closed, freeing Santana from their hold, but she stays mesmerized, watching the way Brittany's body explodes into motion as the chorus begins, her limbs flying in all directions as she begins to dance in a way that is at the same time graceful and disjointed, like her body can't quite decide between the graceful sweeping motions of ballet or jerky, aggressive pops and swings.
A tiny part of Santana's mind pauses to wince in sympathy for the weight of the dancer's breasts pulling at her chest with the swing of each movement, but she's quickly distracted by the ineffable beauty that is her Brittany.
Offer me that deathless death. Oh good god, let me give you my life.
The dancer slows and relaxes with the heavy rasp of yet another singer's voice. This third voice is pure sex, purring with a raw sexuality that makes Santana shiver and wonder if this is what people hear when she things. Brittany's body replicates the sensual sound perfectly with long-reaching twists and turns, and Santana's mind soon turns blank again.
Santana watches in wide-eyed awe as Brittany leaps, her powerful legs lifting her high into the air to hang there for a moment, arms outstretched, body gleaming in the late evening glow that shines in from the windows. She drops hard, falling flat onto her back on the floor, making Santana lurch forward in her seat, anxious for Brittany's well-being. She stays leaning forward, eyes catching on the lift of Brittany's chest as her back arches, as if offering herself as the sacrifice the voice sings of. Santana stares transfixed at the way Brittany's legs tremble, folding to brace under her backside, opening herself for Santana to see. Her ribs expand and her breasts lift over the heft of her breathing, and Santana can't decide which sight moves her more. She holds the pose for a moment, and it's so familiar that Santana's mouth begins to water automatically, a Pavlovian response to the ringing call of Brittany's body to hers.
A fourth voice picks up the verse and it's almost jarring, the difference between the two. Brittany's body transitions from carnal to ethereal in response, and it makes Santana's chest feel tight, like her heart is suddenly too big for the space it occupies. Despite the persistent hum of the guitar surrounding them, the smooth echo of song seems to settle over the dancer like a blanket, stilling her body for a moment.
That looks tasty. That looks plenty. This is hungry work.
She is starving, too.
The spell is broken when the dancer springs forward, catching herself on one strong arm as her body follows through the momentum until the flat of her outstretched palm is the only thing touching the floor. She spins as she drops back to the hardwood beneath her.
Her face is a marvel of emotion - a rarity that few people have seen, and Santana is reminded for the millionth time how hard Brittany works to process the world around her, the struggle she seems to constantly fight just to feel what she feels. Her heart breaks all over again for Brittany's sake in perfect time with the wailing chorus. She would live devoted at the altar of this woman's everything for the rest of her life, given half a chance.
In the moments where Brittany looks at her and only her, she knows the blonde feels the same.
One knee props up until a steady foot plants solidly, then the other, all timed perfectly with the keening vowels of the bridge, until Brittany is standing again, facing Santana, her hands raking across her own belly and chest to mime the lyrics of hunger and need. Angry red lines bloom instantly against milky skin, and Santana's fingers twitch with the barely restrained urge to touch. To take. To worship until heaven is achieved.
There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.
Brittany bursts once more into that strange combination of fluidity and violence as the chorus drops a third time, stealing Santana's breath again with the sheer force of her body's expression. She never pauses, switching from short, convulsing thrusts to high reaching leaps and spins that seem to defy gravity and physics altogether.
So caught up in the passion of Brittany's body, Santana fails to notice the song quickly drawing to an close until suddenly Brittany runs from the opposite corner of the room to soar into a rolling tumble that ends nearly at Santana's feet, with the dancer kneeling, hands clasped at her breasts and head bowed in as though in a reverent entreaty that is heartbreakingly familiar to Santana just as the song fades into silence.
Both women stay where they are for a moment, Santana too shocked to even think, much less speak, and Brittany sweating and naked, breathing heavily as she slowly sinks to rest her backside against her heels.
Brittany takes a moment to collect herself, her heart still pounding with the exertion of putting everything she was feeling into motion. Her hands drop to rest on her thighs, fingers spreading against the sticky skin of her legs.
When she finally looks up at Santana, her stomach swoops and drops, and she feels her whole body seize.
"Baby…" she whispers, shocked by the tear tracks soaking her fiancée's cheeks. She checks Santana's body, confused when she sees it's loose, loose, loose, and quiet.
Not sad, then, but still crying…?
Santana gives a watery laugh and sniffles, reaching up to rub at her cheeks sheepishly. "I didn't even realize I was…" She stops and stares at Brittany, her eyes going soft and warm in that special way that makes Brittany feel like someone is toasting marshmallows in her belly.
"Brittany," she starts again, and Brittany can't help but lift up and lean in, closing the distance between her chest and Santana's knees. "Britt, that was…" She stops, bites her lip, reconsiders. "Was that for me?"
Brittany flushes a little at the husk in Santana's voice, and plays with the soft, tan skin of her thighs to stall for time. She feels her sex clench when Santana's knees open automatically to make room for Brittany in between.
She shuffles closer, hands sliding up to play at the hem of Santana's skirt.
"Sort of?" Her head tilts as her brain tries to verbalize what her body just knows. "It was kind of for both of us. Like…" She trails off, shrugging when her mind comes up blank. Numbers she knows, and dancing is kind of like math for the body, all counts and angles and degrees. Words are Santana's thing.
A soft hand cups at her jaw, and draws her up and forward into a soft kiss that says I understand and you're beautiful and thank you and a million other things that Brittany doesn't even know how she knows. She just...does. Words are Santana's thing, even when she doesn't say anything at all.
Thoughtlessly, her fingers slip under Santana's tight skirt, pressing white fingerprints into brown skin, whimpering when Santana just as thoughtlessly hitches her hips forward, spreading her thighs even further. She pulls away from Brittany's mouth panting, and Brittany can feel the hot breaths slide over her face, warm and wet like kisses.
A blessing, she thinks idly, from her goddess.
Suddenly, kneeling in front of Santana, staring up at her, hears the lyrics from before echo through her head.
She dips her head to kiss at smooth skin, smiling against the muscles that bunch and jump under her lips.
"Did you know," she whispers low and gentle, "did you know that the French have a saying for orgasms?"
Santana chuckles, shaking her head and Brittany's impish tone or creeping fingers, she's not sure which. Her hands work the skirt up Santana's legs until it catches at her pelvis. She looks up to meet Santana's eyes for permission to continue, offering another grateful kiss when Santana nods a breathless affirmative.
"The French would," she rasps, and Brittany's stomach bottoms out. She finds herself fighting the urge to clench her thighs, to relieve that growing ache between.
"They call it le petite mort." Her fingertips curl around the band of Santana's panties, playing with the elastic, teasing the skin underneath with feathery brushes of nail against belly.
Santana whines and lifts her hips, dark eyes staring down at Brittany with the kind of intensity that could start fires and heal souls. Brittany, ever faithful to her goddess' demands, obediently slides the lacy material down Santana's legs, leaning back only long enough to pull the panties down and off before she's back in position.
She hooks her fingers behind Santana's knees, pulling them forward and apart so that Santana is forced to slump down and spread open for Brittany. She slides her hands back up toned thighs, and begins to lean in, when a hand on her shoulder stops her.
"Britt wait, your knees. You just danced, sweetie. I don't want you to hurt them." Her eyes are heavy and heated, but soft with concern, and it makes Brittany just want to melt right into like ice cream on a hot day. She rubs soothing circles with her thumbs and jerks her chin, asking silently for a kiss.
Grunting a little with the effort of leaning forward, Santana obliges, kissing her slow and lazy and then fast and wanting, until Brittany's sure she's forgotten all about her concern. Gently she pushes Santana back, letting her settle against the couch.
She starts with kisses, soft and loving and mild, reveling in the way Santana quivers against her. The first time she uses her tongue, it draws a high keening noise from the woman above her, and the sound almost drives Brittany into a frenzy.
Santana shakes and moans and swears, and a part of Brittany's mind thinks this is the first time "fuck" has ever sounded more like a benediction than a curse, and her body surges with pride and desire at the knowledge that it's only for her.
Santana curls her hands into Brittany's hair at the crown of her head, neither pulling nor pushing, just holding. It's one of Brittany's favorite things about eating Santana out, how even in the heat of the moment, she still has the presence of mind to be so gentle and caring with Brittany.
She thinks of how a priest had laid a hand on Santana's head when she was younger, blessing her while Brittany sat in the pew, confused and a little impressed by the ceremony of it all. She wonders if this counts, if her worshiping Santana like this merits a blessing. Santana grunts and bucks against Brittany's face, and the thought is lost as she redoubles her effort to bring Santana to the very height of pleasure.
"Oh God, Brittany!"
If her mouth weren't otherwise occupied, she'd smile at the high, tight scream. It's not often that Santana comes hard enough to lose control and yell like that, so Brittany can't help but feel a little smug whenever she does. She watches as Santana's eyes roll back into her head, her bottom lip nearly turning white under the pressure of her teeth biting down on it. It never fails to take Brittany's breath away, the sight of her girl like this. Mindless and floating in a cloud of pleasure, trusting Brittany to care for her until she can come back down to herself. It's the best kind of gift.
She stays where she is after, licking and kissing and nuzzling against her love, content even despite the dull ache in her knees and the cramps starting to form in her hamstrings and in the small of her back.
She looks up at Santana from where she's tucked and something in her eyes must betray her need, because it makes Santana whimper and quake with aftershocks.
"God, don't look at me like that, you'll make me come again," Santana mumbles, smiling sheepishly. She rolls her eyes when Brittany can only grin, entirely pleased with herself. "C'mere, you. You're gonna be sore as fuck."
Groaning a little, Brittany rises, stretching out the kinks in her back and legs. Or at least she tries to, until wandering hands start to tickle and tease at her thighs, her hips, her belly.
"Santana, ugh, don't te-ah! Don't tease!" She drops heavily onto Santana's lap, straddling her hips and grinding down in revenge. They both moan at the wetness of each other, centers meeting almost perfectly in a mess of slippery, heated flesh.
Santana's hands come around to grip at Brittany's hips, and Brittany leans forward, forehead pressing into Santana's as she rides her slowly, dragging out the experience.
"Tell me about the French thing," Santana rasps, breath squeaking out when a particularly rough thrust grinds herself into Brittany. She drags one hand down over Brittany's hip slip between them, immediately filling her with two twisting fingers while her palm crushes Brittany's clit. Brittany's head swims for a moment, too lost to understand Santana's words, until finally a thread of understanding pops loose.
"They- they call it," she pants, "le petite m-m-mort," stuttering on the last word as Santana abandons fucking her fingers in and out of Brittany in favor of rubbing them against that spot inside that makes her feel like her whole body is just going to shake apart.
Santana, nods against her forehead, scowling in concentration, though Brittany can't tell if it's over her words or the way she's slowly driving Brittany to madness with her fingers. "What's it mean, Britt-Britt."
Brittany moans, clinging to Santana's shoulders like she fly to pieces if she doesn't. She struggles to string the words together, almost too far gone to get them out. She's so close. "It mmm-eans li-" she gasps as Santana begins fucking and rubbing at the same time.
"C'mon, Britt. You can do it," she taunts.
Brittany growls, riding Santana even harder. "Little death!" she pants. "It means little death because it feels like dying godpleaseSANTANA!" She comes with a squeal and three fingers inside of her, her vision going fuzzy as she bucks and shakes in Santana's hold.
She collapses against the smaller woman when her body finally stops convulsing, too spent to support herself for the moment.
When she finally peels herself away, she looks down to see Santana grinning up at her hugely with water eyes and dimples showing.
"What?" she chuckles breathlessly.
"It just makes sense, now, that's all."
Brittany narrows her eyes, confused but happy that Santana is happy.
Santana only shakes her head, still grinning, and starts to sing low and deep.
"Offer me that deathless death.
Oh good god, let me give you my life."
A/N: Song referenced in the fic is "Take Me To Church" by Hozier, as covered by Neon Jungle. Brittany's dance was inspired in part by the video Sergei Polunin, directed by David LaChapelle. Both are veiwable on YouTube.
.