Your knees jiggle, a little, for the rest of the car ride back. You're not nervous, really. You're just. You're mentally preparing yourself. Every day, you emerge a little bit more from with your hard, safe shell. You're like a turtle sometimes, you think. But Santana. She's not a jaguar, or a leopard. She doesn't come at you quickly, and startle you back inside, just as you're poking your head out. She waits patiently. She strokes your shell, sometimes, maybe, too. She gives you a reason to come out. She loves you. She loves you, she loves you. And sometimes. When you scare yourself. She tells you it's okay to hide away for a little bit. She'll still be here. You love her. You love her so much. You can't believe it.
She's the sweetest thing when you get back to your house. It's not even anything she says or does really. She just is. Her presence. It just. It does something to you. She's windswept and sandy, and she tries to get as much as she can off her calves before she comes inside. You tell her it's okay. You take clothes out from your drawer. Sweatpants and a tank top. You walk on your toes a little. You're not sure why. You show her to your bathroom. You know she's been in there a hundred times. At least. But. This feels different. This is different. Santana thanks you with a kiss. It's a tiny little kiss, but it makes your toes curl. It makes your toes curl, because maybe, maybe.
Otis needs to go out. Or maybe. Maybe Otis knows that you could probably use a few minutes. So you write her a note. Just in case she comes out while you're gone. And you walk to Walnut Street, Otis, purposely, maybe, taking his time. The farmer's market is just closing, when you reach it. And you think. You think that you didn't think. Not about dinner. You frown a little, because. Santana's spending the night with you, and. You want dinner and wine. You have wine. But. You don't want to call for takeout. You want to cook, because you love that crinkly-eyed smile she gives you. You want to cook, because it makes you so happy to make her happy. You never want to stop doing that. So you think. You think as fast as your mind will allow you to, to come up with something. And you find Carlo, the nice old man who sells vegetables and cheese. He knows you can't hear, and he doesn't care. He lets you rifle through his things, and he takes your money. You understand each other. You always have.
When you get back home, tomatoes and garlic chives and pea mozzarella in a paper bag, Santana is sitting on your couch. She's sitting on your couch, wearing your clothes, her hair pulled up messy, even the tiny hint of makeup she'd worn to the beach washed away. She looks natural. And beautiful. More, more beautiful than you've ever seen. You want to fall into her arms. You want to kiss her senseless. You just want. Your whole self aches with it. And your heart. It's more than racing now. Seeing her. In your house, like she's always belonged there. Your heart has moved on to full-fledged marathons. And you think. You think, and you look away, because if you don't, you might have a heart attack.
Your hands fidget. You cut the tomatoes, and the garlic chives. And you want to roast them, it will give you some time to shower. Because you're salty and sandy. And Santana. She's clean and soft and you know. You know she smells like your shampoo. And. Maybe the sensation will overwhelm you less, if you smell the same. Or maybe not. Maybe it's impossible for you to ever not be overwhelmed by her. She's something. Something, something. And when you sign to her that you're taking a shower, she just smiles and nods. She sees that you might crawl into your shell, just for a little bit. So she's careful. She's so, so careful. And you love her more.
It smells good in here. She tells you, when you re-emerge, sleep shorts and a t-shirt on. You dug through your drawers trying to figure out what to wear. You just. You don't know. You want to look good. But. You want to look natural too. So you settled on this. And her eyes, when they roam over your body— she's not subtle, though she tries— you think you made a good choice. Otis and I, we snuck a peek. I hope you don't mind.
"Not at all." You smile. You're picturing it. You wish you'd seen. The two of them, peeking into the oven. Your heart. It really can't handle her. "Do you want some wine?"
Only if you let me pour. When you pull a face, she shakes her head. You're cooking, Britt. Let me do something.
"Okay. But then. You sit."
You're spoiling me, Brittany Pierce. I don't know what to do with you. She tucks her head a little, that blushy thing she does. And you just, you have to bend down to kiss her.
"Let me." You make a circular motion with your hand over your chest. She stands up, she takes both of your hands and she just. She swings them a little between your bodies.
Okay.
You have your back to her while you're at the stove, boiling the water for the orecchiette. You appreciate the irony of that. The pasta. Not the facing away from her. Once you pull the tomatoes out of the oven, you can turn to her again, sitting at the counter, and you watch her bring her glass to her lips. Watching her, watching you. You have to lift your own glass. Your throat is dry from the burn of her eyes, and you hope. You hope maybe, the wine will make it easier for you to swallow. It doesn't, really, but you savor the taste, anyway. You savor the everything. You want to keep this night, this whole day, really, forever and ever.
When dinner is ready, you bring the dishes to the table and she takes her seat. You love that. Her seat. It's another way. Another way she fits into your life. Whenever you're here, she sits there, and you sit across from her. She likes to practice her signs while you eat. You're not sure if she knows that she's allowed to sign left-handed, but she doesn't. She signs with her right, and you don't want to correct her. Because she, she's put so much effort in, and it's all just still so wonderful to you. You think maybe, maybe, she can see how your heart finds its way into your eyes when she drops her fork to use two hands. She signs perfect. About the food, she means. But. It's true for a lot of things.
She clears the dishes. She rinses them. Rinses them so they're basically clean, because that's how you load them in the dishwasher. You feed Otis, and when you're done, you come up behind her at the sink. You have this urge to just, wrap your arms around her waist and rest your chin on her shoulder, so you do. The closeness you want with her. It's so different than anything you've ever experienced. You like your space. You like your bubble, your turtle shell. But. She's an exception to your everything. The sink still runs, but she stops her rinsing. She stops, and she leans back into you. You smell your shampoo in her hair. And you were right. It's not less overwhelming after your shower. It's more, maybe. You don't know.
H-i. She writes on your palm with her finger, and you're surprised you can understand it. You're surprised, because she tilts her head and kisses your neck, and, you feel some sort of noise vibrate low in your throat. It's hard to breathe, let alone spell.
"Leave the dishes." You tell her. You feel her body tense. In a good way. You think. Then she turns in your arms, and she kisses you. She kisses you slow. Deep. Her tongue, mapping the inside of your mouth. And you bring three fingers to her neck. You like to feel the way her heart pulses when she kisses you. "Hi, Santana."
The way she feels, pressed against you, it's. It's everything. You want her. You want her so badly. It's been building, building, building. For weeks. She's so careful with you. So gentle. So full of love, even before you called it love. But. Even when she's careful and gentle, you both still feel it. You both still have hands that wander when you lie on the couch, kissing until you can't breathe. And you. You want her in your space. You want her everywhere. You want everything with her, and you know she knows it. You feel it in the way her heartbeat pounds in her neck. You see it in the way, when she opens her eyes, they're black, black, black. You want her. And she wants you. And you're ready. So ready.
For a moment, you stop touching her. You need to communicate with words. Words in both languages. You bring your palm to your cheek, and then brush it against the back of your other hand, opening them up before you. You look to the open door on the other side of the room, and you kiss her again, speaking the syllables against her lips. Bedroom. That's where you want to be. That's where you want her. In your bed. With less clothing on. Or no clothing on. Yes. That second one. It's better. You want her. It burns beneath your skin the way you do. It burns through your veins. It burns in your heart. So much that it might burst from the heat.
Brittany. She pulls back, and she looks at you. You read your name on her lips. You watch the way she searches your face. And you nod.
"I want you." You tell her. "I want all of you."
I want you too. The burning in your heart. You see it in her black eyes. They flicker, and the flames, they lick at you. They overwhelm you. They make your knees weak.
Santana feels the way you tremble. She feels that slight buckle, and she holds you up. She holds you around your waist, and you love her more. She doesn't question your desire. She doesn't question your certainty. But she holds you. She holds you until you're ready. And you suck in as much air as you can. This. What's about to happen. It's going to steal all your breath. So you need to save as much as you can. Store it up inside of you. Hope. Hope that you'll manage to keep from drowning entirely in her. She signs that she loves you, and you think her hands shake too. You think, you think, that maybe you overwhelm her too.
You take her hand. When you think you won't fall down on your gelatin knees, you take it, and you lead her. It's your innermost sanctuary, your bedroom. You don't have anyone, really, in your home anyway, but your bedroom, it's still your place. It's your place, and you're inviting her in. You're inviting her to love you, in every way. You're inviting her to love you, with her body, too, since she's already done so with her soul. And you're asking her. You're asking her to let you love her just the same. You close your door behind you both. And it's just the two of you, wrapped in each other.
Both of you, you know what's coming, but there isn't a rush. She's staying the night. The first of many, you hope, you hope. And you've fantasized about this. In the shower, after she's left you at night. In this very bedroom. But now, now she's here. Now this isn't a fantasy. You're leaving your shell off to the side, and you're giving yourself to her, vulnerable, open. Because she's her. She's Santana. She's like no one else you've ever met. She doesn't look through you. She sees you. She sees all of you. She loves you. She wants you. And you trust her. You trust her with all your heart.
"I love you." You speak into her hair. Her hair that smells like your shampoo, surrounding you. You can't see her face, but on your stomach, where your shirt has begun to rise up, she draws hearts, hearts, hearts, while she sucks the sensitive skin just below your ear.
Santana is on top of you. You're both fully clothed still, but your hands are under the tank top of yours she wears. Her skin. It's soft and warm. Her breath on your neck, when she releases the pressure, comes out in spurts. Her eyes keep finding yours, and you love her more for that. You're trying not to drown, because already, already, it feels too good. Already, it's different, although nothing you're doing is new. Already it's different, because you know, you know, it will be soon.
Can I? She kneels up so her face is fully in your view, and her fingers play at the hem of your shirt. You nod, because you don't think you can speak. You nod, because yes, yes of course she can. And you shiver as you lift your arms for her. You shiver, as her fingers graze your sides, ridding your body of the garment. You shiver, as the cool air hits your bare skin. You shiver, most of all, as she looks at you. Eyes full of adoration. Eyes full of want. Eyes full of everything you thought you'd never have. Everything you never even thought you wanted. If you want me to stop—
"I don't." You wonder, you wonder, what your voice sounds like. You're sure it's cracking. You're sure it's different. But she looks at you, with all that love, and you don't care about anything but that. "I'm yours."
And I am yours. But, if you—
"I know. And I will." You promise her. "But I trust you. I trust you with all of me, Santana."
It's what she needs to hear, you think, before she can continue. But once you say it. Once she feels it, the love, the trust, the everything that pours from your eyes into hers. She just. Kisses you. Kisses you in a way she never has before. And when she pulls back again, she lifts her own shirt from her body, and she reveals herself to you. Beautiful. Naked. Absolutely everything. You're unsure even what to do. You want to touch her everywhere, you want her to touch you everywhere. And before, before you can even process your thoughts, she lowers her head to your chest, and her mouth is on you.
Your heart. Your heart. It races. It races because the heat that shoots down between your legs from the way her tongue traces your nipple. It races, because Santana. Santana. Santana. She's everywhere. She's everything. And she doesn't break eye contact with you. She understands. You don't even know how. But she understands what you need, without you speaking the words. You need her to keep looking at you. You need her eyes. You trust her eyes. You love her eyes. And without them, you think you'll drown in this glorious sensation.
I'm going to… She lifts her mouth from you, just when you think you're about to explode, and she hooks her thumbs into your shorts. Okay?
"Okay." You're not sure it's even a word, so you sign it too. And then, and then, her lips are back on yours, just where you need them most, as she helps you slide your shorts down long legs. She knows again, she knows what else you want, and she removes her own, letting bare legs tangle with bare legs, making you shiver. Again, again, again. "Santana."
I love you, I love you. She lifts her head up to tell you one more time, and then you feel her fingers, tickling your inner thighs. Making you squirm. Making you want. Making you ache.
The way your hips cant up, it's not something you can control. And you feel her smile against your mouth. You know you do, and she moves higher, higher, until she's just about touching you where you need her most. You think, you think the word please escapes your lips, but you can't be sure. All you can comprehend is Santana. And even that's a struggle. She's here, she's here, she's in your space in the most intimate way imaginable, and you want her even closer. She stops kissing you. She has to, you think. She knows. She knows you'll stop breathing, and instead, she rests her forehead on yours. Eyes level, her fingers brush you, and you're sensitive, swollen, needy.
You're in ecstasy. It's the only way to describe the way you feel as she touches you. She's gentle, so gentle. But she's deliberate. She checks in with you, over and over with her eyes. She never breaks the contact. She stays with you. She stays with you, and you love her more. Because the way she touches you, without seeing her face, you know it'll be too much. You feel the noises you make. You feel them, and you see the way she reacts to them written in her eyes. She's doing this to you, and she knows, she knows how perfect it is. You feel yourself coiling, coiling, coiling. And then, then you have to kiss her. You need to, you need your lips on hers when she makes you fall apart.
When you shatter, she holds you. She keeps kissing you. And it's just. It's beyond anything you've imagined. It's beyond anything you've ever done to yourself. It's her. You love her, and that love, it amplifies every physical sensation. You think you've stopped breathing. But she holds you still. It's not until she slowly, carefully, pulls her fingers from where they're buried inside of you that you can manage to close your eyes. The sensation won't overcome you then. She's close, she's kissing your face, but you won't get lost. You just need a minute, a minute, to get yourself together. And then. Then you want to make her feel what she made you.
"Santana." You squirm a little beneath her, and you watch, you watch how she smiles, you feel how her fingers draw those love hearts on your body again. "I want to."
You don't have to. She's so earnest, so full of love, and you shake your head.
"I know. But."
She understands. And she lets you push her down on her back. She lets you take your place on top of her. She lets you fumble a little, as you try to figure out how best to touch her. Again, you want to touch all of her at once. And again, you also want to sit back and stare at her beautiful body. But. Neither will work, and instead, instead, you mirror what she did to you. She guides your hand down sooner than you would have gone, but you realize. You realize from the sensations you're getting just touching her, that what she did to you, it has her more than ready for you. You touch her, your fingers slipping through with ease. And you suck in as much air as you can. Because this. Feeling her. Making her feel good. It's the greatest thing you've ever felt. Better even than the feeling of her deep inside of you.
What happens next. It shocks you. What happens next. It's everything. Everything. She finds your other hand. She finds it, and she kisses the fingertips, before she brings them to her throat. Not to where her pulse is, but, better. To her voice box. You know her heart. You know how it beats and races. You feel it all the time. But this. She wants you to feel her moans and squeaks. She wants you to know. To know what you do to her, even if you can't hear it. You want to cry, almost. Because she, she thinks of everything. But you won't. You're too entranced by the vibrations, matching them up with her parted lips, with the curl of your fingers inside of her. It's beautiful, she's beautiful, and when you push her over the edge, her sex tightens against one hand, and her throat against the other. And you think, you think this might be what heaven feels like.
Brittany. She lies limp beside you, minutes or hours, maybe, later. When you've both come down, when you're both just, basking. In this feeling. In each other. In so much. Brittany, Brittany.
"Santana." You say back, and you tuck her bed messed hair behind her ear, holding her cheek with your hand. You're naked, against her. You're naked, and yet, yet, you don't feel afraid. You don't feel like you're searching for your shell. Not with her. Not right now. "Santana. Santana."