Song: "I'll stand by you", by The Pretenders
Rating: T
Length: +4K
Notes: This is a very dear story for me. It's loosely based on something I've lived with one of my best friends and I remember telling her one of the verses from the title song. I hope you guys like it.
Also, I feel like I should put a TRIGGER WARNING here. It's nothing major, but I'd rather be safe. As to not spoil the storyline, if you have any triggers, please check out my AN at the end of the story.
The first time Santana and Brittany have sex they are too drunk on alcohol and adrenaline and each other to take notice of much. After almost a year of flirting and terrible timing, they finally found themselves single at the same club. They met each other in the middle of the dance floor and both women could feel the energy between them growing and crackling in the air around them. Brittany didn't need to use words to get Santana back to her apartment. And they didn't need any lights to find each other's bodies.
The second time they sleep together happens only after the fifth date and the night is so filled with emotions and feelings that they don't seem to be able to look anywhere else but the pair of eyes in front of them. After that first morning, Brittany told Santana that she didn't want to be friends with benefits with the brunette. She was ready for a relationship and she had a feeling she could fall for the brunette girl, they just needed time to see what was there. That idea scared Santana – she had always run from commitment – but she agreed to try. She couldn't deny that there was something different between them.
So they went on dates, they talked about themselves, about their families, their lives. They laughed and they exchanged sweet, chaste kisses goodnight and Santana felt herself feeling things she had never felt before. She had had girlfriends before, but none of them had been capable to make her heart beat so fast with just a smile or make her feel so safe. And when, for their fifth date, she said she wanted to cook Brittany dinner, they both knew how the night would end. But even so (or because of it), they didn't rush it. They had all night. And later, feeling so much of their naked skin touch, it felt a lot like coming home.
The third time changes everything.
It happens on a late Saturday afternoon. The rain is pouring outside and Brittany's trying to control her urge to call Santana. The other woman had to deal with something work related that morning – thwarting their brunch plans – but she had promised to make it up to Brittany later that day. The blonde was finding it very hard to wait.
With her free hours, Brittany vacuumed her place, did a load of laundry, tidied up her room and did the dishes that were starting to overflow in the sink – the dishwasher had decided to take vacations early that week. It isn't that she's a neat freak or anything; she just hates waiting around with nothing to do. Especially when she's waiting for a gorgeous girl.
Just as she's about to turn the TV on to not watch it, Brittany hears the doorbell ring. She considers ignoring it. Since Santana hasn't buzzed from downstairs, she suspects it might be her annoying neighbor again, but something pulls Brittany towards the door. It could be Santana and that's enough to make her want to open it.
"Hi," she breathes when she sees the soaking wet girl in the hallway.
"Your neighbor was just leaving when I got here." Santana offers the information and steps forward to kiss pink, thin lips. "I'm sorry I didn't buzz."
"It's okay, silly. Now, get in here before you catch a cold."
Without realizing it, Brittany holds onto Santana's wrist all the way to her bedroom. After an entire day of longing and waiting, she's not ready to not be touching the other woman. But it has to be done if she wants to find her something dry to wear and Brittany is quick to find her some cotton shorts and a hoodie. Everything is old and worn and soft and she can't wait to see Santana in her clothes.
"Wait here and I'll go grab you a towel."
Santana smiles softly at Brittany's fussing. She can't remember the last time someone took care of her like that, just because. She knows she's partially guilty for that, she's just never trusted most people enough to let her walls down and be vulnerable. It has always been so hard for her to be anything other than perfect.
"Here you…go." Brittany's voice interrupts her train of thought and she turns around to find the blonde standing at the door, wide-eyed, her jaw slightly hanging and the towel limp in her hand. Santana looks down on herself and chuckles as she notices that Brittany is definitely not staring at her face, but at her bra covered breasts.
"Is everything okay, B?" Santana asks, a look of pure innocence on her face, as she takes a steps towards the other girl. If possible, blue eyes grow even wider. "My shirt was too wet, so I thought I should take it off. Hope you don't mind."
"Oh, I most definitely don't." Brittany is still having her private stare contest with Santana's boobs as she advances. "In fact, I think I changed my mind. I don't want you to borrow my hoodie. You should stay like this."
"Oh, really?" For the brief moment Brittany looks up to Santana's face, she notices the other woman's smirk and raised eyebrow. It sets her body on fire. "You know, I don't know why you're reacting like this. It's not like you haven't seen them before."
"Not in this much light, I haven't."
The response makes Santana want to fold in on herself and shelter her body from further scrutiny. That old voice that whispers she's not good enough showing its ugly head again – not that it ever really went away.
"Is it better?" She forces herself to maintain her arms loose beside her body and keep her voice airy and sultry (maybe it will mask the way it quivers just a bit). Because, as much as she fears the answer, she wants to know. She needs to know. She needs to know her monsters are right.
"Much better."
Before Santana has the time to say anything back, Brittany's already holding her by her bare waist, one hand tangled in dark hair, their fronts deliciously meshed. Santana's plump, opened lips feel like an invite and the blonde dives in, kissing that mouth for all that she's worth. It almost feels like it's their first kiss all over again, the hunger just boiling over through their pores.
And Santana allows herself to be devoured, allows her body to be pliant and her lips to follow Brittany's dance. She's dizzy in a way she's never felt before and, yet, she's never felt so tethered to someone else.
"God, you're sexy," Brittany half whispers, half moans in Santana's ear when her lips start exploring her jaw and the side of her neck. The other woman's voice is lost somewhere between her rapid heart and the fire in her belly and she only hums in response.
The piece of fabric between their bodies annoys Santana – she wants to feel Brittany's skin against hers – and she starts tugging and bunching the shirt until Brittany gets the message and detaches her mouth from Santana's neck for a second to take it off and throw it somewhere behind her. Santana can't even appreciate the lithe body in front of her, because as soon as Brittany's shirt is off, she's back at attacking the girl's neck and collarbone.
Brittany's fingers dig into Santana's lower back and she uses the hand she still has buried in black tresses to manipulate the other woman's head and expose more of that delicious skin to her tongue. She can't get enough and she knows there's a lot more for her to explore.
Santana´s feet move with the force Brittany's applying to her body and, before long, she's falling sited on the bed. She can feel herself bouncing a little on the mattress, but the start of laugh the bubbles up in her throat dies down the moment she looks up and finds Brittany popping the buttons from her jean shorts and pushing the material down her long legs. The vision is hypnotizing. Brittany is just standing there, in all her comfortable underwear glory, and Santana can't help but agree with her. Everything looks so much better when there's that amount of light flooding the room.
Fingertips trace up a thigh muscle and Santana can see the way the fine hairs in Brittany's upper leg stand on edge. It makes her feel powerful, that she can make the other woman react like that to an almost not-there touch, but the feeling is short lived. Soon, Brittany is stalking forward, kneeling on the bed – each of her legs bracketing Santana's body – and crawling towards her. There's a predatory glint behind blue eyes that dries up Santana's throat and she doesn't make the conscious choice to slink away from Brittany until she hits the mountain of pillows by the headboard. It's just her body reacting.
The predatory glint turns into a wolfish smirk and Brittany sinks down on Santana's body the same time she devours her plump lips. It's sensation overload for the brunette. She can feel the entire length of those long limbs around her and Brittany's tongue is doing unspeakable things inside her mouth. Santana can't remember being with Brittany feeling like this those other times, so overwhelming and maddening. It's heaven and hell at the same time.
Maybe everything does change under the sun light.
Brittany thrives on Santana's little moans of pleasure, on her blunt fingernails trying to scratch at the skin on her back, on her back slightly arching off the bed, on her legs moving and writhing, like she doesn't know what to do with herself. But Brittany wants more. She needs to feel tan, warm skin under her fingers and under her body. She needs to feel all of Santana.
When their mouths detach, Santana gulps in a big, shuddering breath. It almost feels like she just broke the surface after a lifetime under water. But the relief is short lived, because soon Brittany's lips are sucking at the hollow of her throat and her teeth are nipping at her collarbone. A pink tongue dances in the valley between her breasts at the same time fingertips seem to count her ribs.
Brittany continues her downward path, making Santana dizzy with want. The fact that her heart is probably faster than a hummingbird's definitely doesn't help. The creature on top of her – because at that point, Santana doubts Brittany could be human – kisses the plane of her stomach at uses the tip of her tongue to trace the faint lines of her abs. Santana's never felt so cherished and worshiped at the same time in her life. Many people have called her hot and sexy and smoking, but Brittany is making her feel like she's the only woman to have ever existed.
This state of pure bliss lasts until Brittany's fingers dip under the waistband of her pants, searching for the button holding it together. That feeling, that tiny, little touch makes Santana's world come crumbling down. In just one second, she remembers why she's never let anyone touch her like this, why she's always in charge, always on top. Why there's never much light involved. She remembers everything and she hates herself for what she's about to do. Because she knows Brittany and she knows the blonde will ask questions she's not sure she's ready to answer.
Shaky fingers wrap themselves around Brittany's hands and blue eyes snap up, searching for the brown ones she likes so much. But they aren't there. Santana has her head twisted to the side, eyes scrunched shut and a frown marring her smooth skin.
Something dies and decays inside Brittany's chest at the sight. The other woman looks like she's holding herself together by sheer willpower and any sudden movement could send her spiraling out of the window like a dandelion.
"San?" Brittany whispers her call, too afraid to startle or upset Santana, but they don't seem to be in the same room. Santana's lost in something inside her head and Brittany's lost on the outside. "Santana, what's wrong?"
The fingers around her hands go lax as Santana turns back to look at her. There's now a void in her beautiful eyes that Brittany can't understand. It wasn't there a minute ago and she wonders what she did wrong.
"I-I…" Santana's lips open and close, but she's not able to articulate any words, her voice now lost somewhere in the lump inside her throat. Not that she knows what she would say if she could.
"We don't have to do anything if you don't want to. I-I'm sorry if I pushed you."
"No, no, it' not that." Santana hurries to reassure Brittany. Despite everything that she's feeling, she can't stand seeing guilt on the blonde's face. "I want to. I just…"
How do you explain something that you don't quite understand yourself? How do you say the words you have banished from your dictionary, because they were too painful? How do you reveal your imperfections and shortcomings?
The pressure on the top of her legs loosens and Santana opens her eyes to see Brittany crawling up the bed to lie beside her. Automatically, as if there's a higher force guiding her movements, Santana turns on her side, so they're face to face, sad eyes to sad eyes.
"What's going on, San?" Brittany cups Santana's cheek and the brunette can feel tears burning the back of her eyes. "You can talk to me, honey."
A sad, small smile blooms in full lips as Santana notices the term of endearment. It's the first time Brittany has called her anything that isn't directly related to her name and she just wishes the memory could be a better one.
"I just…I-I didn't want you to see me."
"What? Why? You're beautiful. The most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are." Brittany's voice doesn't leave space to arguments and Santana looks away, still not ready to believe those words. Not yet. "But why don't you want me to see you now?"
"There's too much light and I didn't want you to look."
"Look where?"
"My thighs."
They're talking in whispers, but Santana's last sentence hits Brittany like a freight train. She doesn't know why Santana doesn't want her to see her thighs, but she can recognize the self-loathing in her voice and she vulnerability in her posture. Brittany can feel that this isn't something Santana is used to talking about, so she just lies there. She doesn't press, she doesn't push, she simply slides her hand to the back of Santana's head and threads her fingers with midnight hair. And she waits. She'll always wait.
"When I was in high school, I was under a lot of pressure." Santana's voice sounds raw, as if unused for years. "I was head cheerleader, soloist of the Glee club, I was in a lot of AP classes and my parents were never satisfied with anything below an A."
The air between them feels heavy and thick, pregnant with all the words Santana still haven't said. It's hard for Brittany to watch the woman in front of her fall apart like this – defeated voice and tears soaking the pillow case – but she knows it's not her moment to speak.
"On top of all that, I was completely lost in the closet." There's no mirth in Santana's chuckle. "And it felt like the whole school, the whole town even, was just watching and waiting for me to fail. Many people resented my parents for being successful Latinos and every other student thought I had it so easy, just because I lived in a big house and had a great car."
It is hard for her to put word after word to form coherent sentences. She's never spoken them before. She's never spoken about this before. In fact, no one really knows about what she's hiding. Over the years, she's become a master of lies and disguises and no one's cared enough to ask the questions she's always avoided. Until now.
"I'm not sure how it started or why I thought it would help that first time, but I started cutting." Brittany tries not to react outwardly, but she can't mask her sharp intake of breath. Santana looks up and their eyes meet for a moment. Despite all the pain and confusion she can see behind those blue canvases, there's something else in Brittany's eyes that keeps Santana telling her story. "It felt good, you know? To actually feel something, to allow myself to not be so perfect all the damn time. Because that's what everyone seemed to expect of me and it was killing me.
"At first, I would do it once every two or three weeks, when the pressure would build until it was too much. But, by the time senior year started, I was doing it twice a week, just to get by. And it was so hard to hide, with my short cheerleading skirts and the locker room. So, I had to it on my upper thighs, cut over cut. I stopped by the time I left Ohio for college, but the marks never went away. They're faded now, but they're still there. And I didn't want you to see them and be disgusted with me."
Brittany swallows hard. There are so many things she wants to say, so many things she wants to reassure Santana of, but she's never been good with words. She's always had better luck with using her body to express how she's feeling, but she thinks this might be one of those moments she needs to dig deep and find the right words to say. She thinks Santana needs to hear the right words.
"Okay, first of all, I could never be disgusted by you." Santana frowns and open her lips to rebut Brittany's statement, but the blonde doesn't let her. She keeps on talking, trying to explain what's happening on the inside. "And second, can I show you something?"
Santana nods and lets Brittany take her hand. When her fingertips touch bare skin, Santana looks down and, only then, does she remember that the other woman is wearing nothing but a bra and panties. She also remembers that she doesn't have a top on. It seems kind of silly to be having such a heavy conversation in so little clothes, but she doesn't feel naked in front of Brittany. She feels seen.
"What are you doing, B?"
"Just trust me." Brittany keeps a smile on her face as she plants one of her feet on the bed, bending her leg at the knee. With the same soft expression, she guides Santana's fingers to the skin on her inner thighs and guides her through touching it. "Can you feel it?"
There's a frown on Santana's face as she lets herself touch Brittany in such an intimate place. But there's nothing sexual about it. This isn't what this moment is about. It's about baring their pasts and their scars and their souls to one another.
"I think I feel something," Santana says when she touches a patch of skin that doesn't feel as smooth as the rest. "What is it?"
"It's a stretch mark. I've got some on my hips, too."
"A stretch mark? How? I don't understand, Britt. You're so skinny."
"I know. But, like you, I've lost myself once, too."
Brittany threads their fingers together and kisses each of Santana's knuckles, before resting their intertwined hands between them. Now, it's Santana's moment to wait in silence. She can see so many emotions running behind the eyes that are staring sightlessly at her, that all she wants to do is gather Brittany in her arms and tell her that she doesn't have to share her story. But some selfish part in her wants to hear, wants to be reassured that she isn't the only one that has suffered and been lost.
She needs to hear that Brittany's not perfect either. And that they can be imperfect together.
"I've always loved to dance, it used to be my greatest passion. And it was my mom's favorite thing to watch." Brittany keeps her voice soft and low. Her eyes study the map of veins on the back of Santana's hand, tracing each one with her fingertip. "She would always stay and watch my classes and she would take me to every recital there was. It was our thing."
Santana wonders how this ordinary Saturday turned out to be a day of deep conversations and strong feelings, but she likes it. She knows she's falling for the blonde in front of her and she likes the idea of falling for someone who knows her and whom she knows back.
"When she got sick and couldn't come with me, she made sure my dad recorded all of my presentations. We would watch them together at the hospital and my mom would praise me just as she did on the ride back home.
"By the time she slipped into a coma, I made sure to maintain my dance schedule the same. I wanted my mom to be able to watch everything when she woke up. But she never did."
Santana's eyes snap back to Brittany's face when she says that. They had spoken about their families before, but not once has the blonde mentioned that her mother had passed. Santana turns all of their conversations in her head, trying to find any clues that she might have missed. The sniffle she hears demands her attention back and she shuffles closer to the blonde, squeezing the hand that's holding on to hers.
"After she died, I couldn't dance anymore. I couldn't do it and know she wouldn't be there to watch it. So, I just gave in. All I would do was go to school and eat. And the more I didn't understand my teachers, the more I ate. I've always used food to deal with my problems, but I used to have dance to work it off. Now that I wasn't dancing, I started to put on weight. I'm not sure how much I gained, but I pretty much lost my entire wardrobe. I didn't actually mind, all I would wear were sweats and hoodies, anyway.
"This lasted for almost a year. The summer after I failed my first attempt at senior year, my dad was cleaning the garage and he found a diary my mom used to keep. She stopped writing when she was admitted at the hospital, but she had numerous entries saying how proud she was of me, of my dedication, my passion. She said she could see how happy dancing made me and that that's all she ever wanted for me."
The blonde is so lost in memories of words she read so long ago that she doesn't notice the smile that's curving her lips. It's one of the most beautiful sights Santana has ever seen, how it's born behind her eyes, lighting the blue, until it makes its way to her lips, smoothing out her face along the day.
"That very summer I resumed dancing, because it was what made me the happiest. I lost the weight, I graduated high school and I got accepted into college. My mom's alma mater, actually. But some marks, they never went away. And I think I prefer it that way."
"You don't hate them?"
"I did, for a while." Brittany looks up and it's like they're seeing each other for the first time. "They remind me of a very painful period of my life, but they mean that I have survived it. I mean, yes, I suffered and I got lost, but I found myself and I did something with my life. And every time I look at them, they're a reminder of how easy it is to let yourself slip and of everything I have to live for."
Santana doesn't want to be, but she is openly and silently crying, now; her tears soaking the pillow case and painting a track on her face. With the softest of smiles, Brittany dries her face and kisses the tender skin beneath her eyes.
"And I think it could be the same with your scars, San. They can be a reminder of a dark moment in your life or they can be a reminder that you won. They're scars, now. They're healed, they can't hurt you anymore. Unless you let them."
With the hand that's dancing on Santana's back, Brittany gathers the brunette in her arms and lets her sob into her chest. It's been an emotional afternoon and, if she knows Santana at all, she knows she has never talked about it with anyone before. It makes her feel kind of special and she's content to just let the woman cry her emotions away. She, herself, has done plenty of that in the past.
When the sobs subside to sniffles and those to a very steady breathing, Brittany is sure that Santana must be asleep. Carefully, she retrieves the remote control from her night stand and turns on the TV, hoping to be able to put it on mute before waking Santana up.
"Whatch'ya doing?" No such luck. Her voice is slurred like she has been pulled from the brink of slumber and Brittany finds her so cute she can't help but to plant a kiss on the crown of her head.
"Nothing. I'm just turning on the TV."
"But, I thought…" Santana looks down at their naked skin touching and their intimate embrace with a frown. "You don't wanna…anymore?"
"I thought you wouldn't want to. I mean, you were practically asleep."
"God, I completely ruined the mood, didn't I?"
"No, you didn't." Santana raises a challenging eyebrow. "You didn't because there's no mood to ruin. I don't need a certain mood to want you, honey. I want you all the time. And our conversation hasn't changed it."
"But then-"
"But also," Brittany continues as if Santana didn't just try to interrupt her. "I very much want to cuddle with my girlfriend and watch a movie."
"Your girlfriend, huh?"
Santana adores that sly smirk that's placed on Brittany's lips. And Brittany loves the bashful little grin Santana's trying to hide.
"Yeah, I mean… After today, anything else just doesn't make sense, does it?"
"No, it doesn't, baby."
Santana curls herself around Brittany's body while the blonde pulls the covers to throw over them. It's comfortable and for the first time in a very long time, she feels completely safe in her own skin and in someone else's arms.
A/N: For those who came here because of the trigger warning, there are mentions of past cutting. It doesn't happen during the story and it's not graphic. But, if anyone has any questions, feel free to PM me.
Also, for those who are reading Story Teller, don't worry. I've got the next chapter outlined already. I just needed to get this done first.