Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Santana cups Courtney’s chin with the utmost care and mops pale foundation over the little girl’s brow with a makeup sponge. Both girls are focused on the work, and Susan finds herself impressed that her youngest has managed to stand still for a full minute. She’d honestly been expecting one or both of the girls seated on the living room couch to lose patience with each other, and had bought a set of cheap white face paint that Courtney could slap on herself in preparation. She loves to be wrong though. While Courtney’s knee jolts periodically and her nose wrinkles from time to time, Santana’s admonition about not ruining the hard work seems to have gotten through.

Susan checks her watch and sees that it’s half past five. She’s about to lose patience herself when her husband comes bounding down the steps, his costume armor rattling heavily. He drops to the landing with a thump that shakes the paintings on the walls, but in this house everything has been anchored to withstand a hurricane. Pete stares at her expectantly, grinning wide and obviously impressed with himself.

“Score of 7. You touched four steps on the way down.”

His face falls like a kicked puppy before resolving itself. He makes to race back up the stairs and try again before his wife grabs his upper arm and hauls him backwards, nearly toppling his 6ft aught frame to the ground like a sycamore. They crash into each other in a din of clattering shoulderplates and chestguards, and then he kisses her before she can get mad.

Santana watches the technical adults play wrestle in the foyer and grins. The Pierces are like a family of barely domesticated wolves; all friendly rough housing interspersed with communal dinners. The elder Pierces’ tussle continues past the large living room entryway and back towards the stairs and out of sight. There’s more scuffle noises before the sound of one or both of them bouncing off the wall and heavy, kettle drum laughing. Pyotr emerges back into the doorway, nearly breathless from his hysterical laughter, and leans on the wall for support. Susan launches onto his back like a cat - unwieldy costume and all - and he catches her behind the knees to support her weight before she takes them both to the ground.

“Mooooooooooom. Stop it. You guys are gonna be late.”

Brittany trots down the stairs, hopping over her struggling parents and to her girlfriend. Her girlfriend who follows her approach like a sunflower follows the sun, grinning like a loon. Even going so far to tip her face back as far as she can when Brittany plops onto the couch behind her just to keep her in sight. Brittany reaches up to cradle the jack-o-lantern formerly known as Santana Lopez’s head in her hands, pressing a loving kiss to her forehead. Nudging her girlfriend to face forward again, Brittany rests her chin on her shoulder and turns a critical gaze on her sister’s makeup.

She’s still a little sour that they got saddled with taking a bunch of kids trick or treating, but at least Courtney had the good grace to compromise by letting Santana wrangle her to fit their couple’s costume. Santana was really excited by the prospect, which is as good as gold as far as she is concerned. And Santana’s done a really good job of blending foundations until Courtney’s ruddy, freckled face is pale and wane. So at least she won’t bring down the median awesome of their matching costumes with a half-assed crap one.

Santana turns to gauge her reaction out of the corner of her eye, and Brittany pretends to still be considering. Her little sister fidgets nervously, like everything hinges on Brittany’s approval. It doesn’t, but she likes idea. And she really can’t fault Santana’s work. She even added subtle highlights to give Courtney the impression of severe cheekbones under all her babyfat.

Her parents wander over while she’s hemming and hawing, and they fall into matching poses of mocking concentration; holding their elbows and resting their chins on their fists. They tip their heads this way and that, playing at judgemental. Embarrassed, Brittany swats at them and pushes on her dad’s solid frame, barely budging him.

“Stop goofing off, you’re going to miss your parties. The ones that you haaaaaaaaad to go to so we haaaaaaad to watch Courtney,” Brittany whines, ignoring the pout on her little sister’s face, but unable to miss the look on Santana’s. Her mouth is turned down at the corners just the littlest bit and it makes Brittany feel so guilty.

Absently scratching his beard, her dad nods as if her words are profound philosophy he has to puzzle out. Her mother just gives her The Look.

“Rules are: you stay with your sister the whole evening. I find out you ditched her, you’re grounded. Both of you. You know where the pizza money is. Do not let her eat all of that candy tonight. Do not eat all of her candy.” Susan sounds every inch the soldier she looks like with her usual spiky crop slicked back and her already muscular welder’s frame bulked up by what is surely handmade costume body armor. The circumstances almost make Brittany want to sulk more out of spite, but she doesn’t want to ruin everyone’s fun just because she’s cranky that she can’t get Santana sloppy drunk and lap dancing tonight.

Even though she has been looking forward to it ALL YEAR. Because Halloween, like St Paddy’s Day, holds a dear place in Brittany’s heart. When they were sexing but not dating, those were the two holidays where everyone was letting their inhibitions down enough that Santana could too. And Santana was adamant that Brittany also lose her inhibitions. And her pants.

Good times.

Good times that would have been a billion times better now that they were sexing AND dating.

Brittany feels another sulk coming on and pitches herself backwards on the couch, groaning obnoxiously.

“We’ll make sure she has a really good time Mrs. P,” Santana assures Susan. Pyotr pets her head with a heavy hand and Santana smiles, shy but pleased.

“I’m trusting you, Santana. Don’t lose my girls,” Susan says, before looking at her watch again. “Shit. I’ll grab the helmets Sunshine, go start the car.”

Mr. Pierce nods at his wife’s brisk tone, smiling serenely even as she starts feeling the time crunch.

“So what are you guys supposed to be anyway? Army?” Santana asks, finally voicing the question that’s been bothering her all day. The costumes are really specifically detailed, but she just doesn’t recognize them.

Slipping easily into the thick Russian accent he spent years trying to get rid of, he grins at Santana and pats her head again. “We are the venerable Aleksis and Sasha Kaidonovsky, pilots of Cherno Alpha.” When she stares at him blankly, he tries again. “Pacific Rim?”

Nothing.

Brittany takes pity. “It’s from that movie with the giant robots.”

Santana nods in recognition. “Oh, Megan Fox.”

Mr. Pierce almost looks offended. Brittany laughs out loud. “That’s Transfomers. This is the one where the giant robots fight giant monsters, not other robots.”

Santana’s face blanks. Brittany can see her dad winding up for a long, boring, geeky explanation that Santana will quietly suffer through because she’s adorable like that, but she spares them both. “It’s not her kind of movie dad. You better go start the car before mom comes out, or she’ll make you ride in the trunk.”

There’s a 50/50 chance that is an actual possibility. Her parents are weird.

Pyotr jumps to attention, quickstepping to the front door. He waves at them before racing out, scant seconds before Susan comes into the foyer from the basement with two big space helmets tucked under her arms. “PETE!”

“He’s in the car mom!” Courtney yells, making Santana jump from the suddenness and proximity. Brittany scowls at her and she sticks her tongue out in return.

“Numbers are on the fridge. Be good girls.”

Santana nods avidly. “We’ll be fine Mrs. P. Have fun!” Susan waggles her fingers from their fixed positions at her waist and jogs out the door, letting it slam shut behind her. The younger girls watch through the living room window as the family car peels out of the driveway. Santana heaves a huge sigh as the silence of the house settles in now that the older Pierces are gone, and Brittany strokes up and down her arms comfortingly. Her parents can be kind of a whirlwind sometimes.

“So is Courtney’s make-up done?” Brittany wants to get the trick or treating portion of the evening out of the way, and the sooner the better. Maybe their night can be salvaged with some junk food, horror movies, and cuddling. And if she’s really lucky, some sticky, hands-under-the-blankets snuggling in the den.

Santana turns her own critical gaze onto her work. Courtney stays remarkably still, considering some days it’s all her parents can do to get her to sit on the couch instead of using it as a springboard. Santana grasps the girl’s chin between two delicate fingers, twisting her head to assess all the angles. Brittany kind of loves how seriously she’s taking this. Courtney’ll probably forget about it and end up with pizza sauce covering her face in two hours anyway, but Santana is still striving for perfection.

“I think I’m gonna draw her eyebrows on and add some dark bags under her eyes. Then we can put on costumes.”

Brittany rolls her own eyes where Santana can’t see and tries her hardest not to count the seconds until this portion of the evening is over.

----

While Santana finishes her work, Brittany gets ready. In the guest room. Santana claimed the long mirror in Brittany’s bedroom for herself. When she heard her girlfriend come up the stairs, she’d tried to sneak in for a little private time, only to find the door locked. She should maybe find it galling that she was being kept out of her own room, but she can’t even be mad. Santana knows her better than anyone. If they started something, they were definitely going to miss the two hour trick or treating window.

That left Brittany with no other option but to behave and get dressed. The suit Santana bribed Kurt to make is cut to flatter, even if she said the thick stripe pattern Brittany picked was painful to look at. She adjusts her plaid bowtie carefully - another source of contention with Santana. Santana wanted her to wear a tie like in the original tv show, but Brittany’s always been a bigger fan of the movie reboots.

Gomez was way more stylish in the movies.

Gathering her hair into as severe a ponytail as she can stand, she slathers the top with product to make it glossy and twists back and forth appraisingly in the mirror. She was going to do pincurls and a dark wig, but Courtney had presented Santana with a compelling list of reasons why wearing stupid itchy wigs was terrible and she shouldn’t have to do it early on in the planning process, and Santana had agreed. Which meant that, blessedly, Brittany didn’t have to suffer through it either. In fact, Santana had told her she couldn’t wear the wig or they’d all look mismatched, and then she sweetened the demand with scarves and sexy tickle time.

Brittany took Courtney’s entire soccer team out for ice cream after that.

Her slacks hang in a loose fit, the soft pack in her shorts giving it the proper dimension. That was also not part of the Santana approved costume, but if Brittany was going to get into character as Gomez Addams, simultaneous Lothario and ardently devoted husband, she definitely needs the extra layer of realism. She rotates her shoulders and breathes in deep, stretching the boundaries of her binder and making sure everything is settled as comfortably as possible. She’s already sweating a little bit under the tight fabric, but she looks awesome. So.

The finishing touch is the iconic pencil mustache. Her costume complete, Brittany feels like a total panty dropper. Like, she’s kind of turning her own self on. She wiggles her hips and then slows them way down, trying to get into the feel of the form she’s trying on. She walks the length of her room, trying different paces and cadences until it feels right. It’s a smooth glide, a quick step that always feels like the first notes of a samba.

Santana is gonna want all up on this, for sure.

When she goes downstairs, her sister is sitting slumped on the couch, tugging at her peter pan collar. Her pigtails are sloppy, which is not going to cut it.

“Don’t be a butt C, your hair looks terrible. Redo it.”

Courtney glares at her with as mean a look as she can muster, kicking her feet petulantly. When she does, Brittany can see she isn’t wearing the tights Santana included in her outfit. And, sure, Brittany isn’t innocent of tweaking Santana’s vision, but her little addition is barely noticeable. Whereas Santana went to four different Halloween Cities to find one that had knit tights with black on black skulls for Courtney’s outfit. You couldn’t even see the detail if you were more than two feet away, but it was like the lace for her Lady Gaga outfit all over again. Santana takes her costumes very seriously, and Santana’s version of Wednesday Addams’ costume included knit tights with skulls.

And Santana is going to get her perfect group costume. Courtney is going to wear those perfect tights. They are going to have a perfect first official halloween together if she has to drag Courtney uphill both ways in the snow to do it.

Unfortunately, Santana chooses to emerge from the bedroom right before Brittany can put into motion her plan to hold Courtney upside down by her ankles until she does what she’s told. But when she sees Santana float down the stairs she’s struck a little dumb, and Courtney’s annoying need to ruin everything stops mattering very much to her.

Santana’s dress is all black black black, deep and shimmery. Brittany has no idea what it’s made of, but it looks like skinny dipping at midnight in unlit pools. Bottomless and dangerous and exciting. It goes all the way to the floor, dragging the hardwood, and it looks so good Brittany doesn’t even bother contemplating the logistics of walking the blocks with it. She’ll carry Santana bridal style the whole night if that’s what it takes. When Santana raises a regal hand to shoulder height, the bulk of the cobweb hem rises with it, artfully attached to her middle finger. Big, gaudy costume jewelry shaped like spiders and gem encrusted sugar skulls adorn her hands, at counterpoints to the delicate cameo around her throat. Her hair is long, with just the slightest bit of wave, and it washes over her shoulders to cover her plunging neckline like the most immodest modesty curtain ever conceived. It’s a perfect and unholy combination of ostentatious reservation, all topped off with blood red nails and scarlet lips.

It’s barely an act at all when she nearly falls over herself to take Santana’s hand and help her down the stairs, ushering her like a queen. She’s pretty sure she will never identify with a fictional character more than she does with Gomez at this moment. And that’s including her favorite cartoon where the dog marries a unicorn. Santana looks at her demurely from under her lovely, spidery eyelashes, and she nearly swoons. Using their clasped hands to draw Santana to her side, she presses a flurry of kisses from fingertip to elbow. Santana’s arm curled smoothly as she progressed until those sharp, kitten claws dig gently behind her ear.

So hot.

Courtney chooses that moment to make herself known, launching off the couch to clasp her hands under her chin like the first time she saw the Alice character at Disney World. Santana tugs Brittany’s wandering hand back up to her hip.

“You look so pretty.” And shit, how did Brittany get beaten to that particular punch? Courtney has stars in her eyes for Santana, enthralled by her flawless costume and presence. Brittany knows that feel. And Santana is soaking their adulation up, dimples on full display. Brittany loves those dimples.

“I gotta step my game up to keep pace with you Pierces. Look at you; I could just eat you up.” The little girl does a twirl that kicks up the skirt of her old fashioned dress, all trace of her former bad temper gone. “It’s going to get cold outside soon. Go get your tights and I’ll help you put them on.”

Just like that, Courtney is thundering up the stairs, not even a hint of resistance. Santana is amazing like that. And when she turns her amazingness on Brittany as soon as the younger Pierce is out of sight, Brittany just can’t help herself. Cupping her face, Brittany kisses her full on, eagerly spearing through Santana’s lips and fully intent on ruining her carefully colored mouth. The feeling of her girlfriend purring into the kiss makes her heart sing like a struck bell.

They manage to part - well, Santana twists her head away and smacks Brittany’s shoulder when she just turns her attention to the sensitive curve of her throat- at the sound of Courtney thumping back down to them. Courtney brings a brush as well, and asks please please will you braid my hair?; Brittany tries not to glower. She’d love for Santana to comb her hair. Preferably in the bathtub. After orgasms.

It’s hard for her to maintain a good pout when Santana smiles like that though. Even if it’s at her gross little sister. The two of them perch on the edge of the couch with Brittany plopping down on the edge of the coffee table to watch Santana work. Her girlfriend runs the bristles through Courtney’s hair carefully, smoothing white blonde until it almost gleams before making the clean, even part. She plaits each side with a deftness born of many hours of practice; long sleepovers where they tested the boundaries of innocent touch. Brittany shivers at the memory of phantom fingers scratching gently at her scalp as she drifts to sleep.

Her eyes fall to Santana’s mouth - as they tend to do - and she’s impressed by her lip stain skills. On a purely technical level, it’s an amazing job. The combination of stain and gloss and skilled blending makes it look just like rich red lipstick, but with way less mess. Which is not usually a good thing as far as Brittany is concerned - Santana leaving lip prints like mile markers is, like, a top ten favorite thing - but it’ll work out tonight. No worry about smears means illicit smooches are go.

After that, Courtney wants her nails painted. Brittany wants to strangle her. Instead she gets the newspaper that Santana asks for to cover the throw pillow she uses as a workspace. Then it’s lipstick. Then it’s the god forsaken tights, and that is a harrowing experience for Brittany’s soul. Santana rolls up each leg and helps Courtney step into them, which is totally unnecessary because her sister is eight and can dress herself if she wasn’t so bent on being a pain. Except now she also has wet nails, so when Santana has to hunch down to drag the tights up her legs, Courtney has to brace herself on something to keep from stumbling over. Something turns out to be Santana’s shoulder blades. Her sister keeps her hands bent so sharply that only the barest fraction of her palms touches Santana though, which is her saving grace. Santana tugs the tights over her narrow hips and smooths everything out after, and neither of them seem to notice the way Brittany is quietly struggling.

It just seems wrong that Santana is wasting all this awesome on a bunch of little kids instead of, like, some swanky Lima Heights costume party where she can win first place and incite sex riots. But somehow Santana doesn’t look like she minds at all. She looks like she’s exactly where she wants to be, smiling wide and more excited than even Courtney about it.

When Courtney runs off to call her little friends and tell them they’re coming to pick them up soon, Santana turns that smile on Brittany again. It’s a little more sly than the one before, and Brittany smirks to match when she goes all bedroom eyes and slips her fingers under Brittany’s lapel. She invades Brittany’s space and suddenly she can smell the light scent of some perfume, heavy with woodsy and musky top notes but tempered by the warmth of Santana’s bare skin. Her tongue feels thick and weighty, and it’s all she can do to keep it in her mouth. Santana plays the coquette, flush with the obviousness of her effect on Brittany. She loves the power she has over Brittany, and Brittany has never tried to hide her weakness. She doubts she even could.

With a sultry little smile, Santana tugs on her lapel. “I never got to tell you how very handsome you look, darling.”

The compliment makes her knees go a little weak. The dress up was one thing, but Santana playing in character too? She’s going to have a heart attack.

Santana hums, taking in the sharp figure Brittany cuts, running her fingers over her suit jacket to work out invisible wrinkles and tease out any imperfections. Her hands return to the lapel, and suddenly she seems to notice the features missing from the topography. The backs of her hands run a little firmer over Brittany’s chest, face turned more curious than anything else. Brittany doesn’t bother to explain. Instead she coaxes one of Santana’s finely boned hands into her own, raising it to her lips and dropping a dashing kiss to it. Santana blushes so prettily, it’s almost too much. The only thing that keeps her from whisking Santana back up to the bedroom is Courtney clomping over in those perfect little leather ankle boots.

Santana’s got her feeling so good, she doesn’t even mind tying Courtney’s laces for her.

---

There are four kids crammed into the backseat and none of them know what Inside Voices are. They’re all losing their minds over Courtney’s face paint, over Brittany’s suit, over Santana’s plan to take them to Lima Heights - where the real swag is - and over just about everything else. Princess Iron Man is especially loud. Brittany can respect her costume game, but she needs to take it down about twelve notches.

She tries to ignore them, mostly. Santana holds her hand over the armrest, and she amuses herself by playing with their combined fingers: weaving and unweaving their hands together, playing Santana’s knuckles like piano keys. She tucks her head comfortably on her girlfriend’s shoulder and just basks in her shine. When Santana sneaks a kiss at a red light, Brittany couldn’t be more pleased if she had a pillowcase full of gruyere and Sauvignon blanc. The squeals in the back hit dog whistle pitches. She’s about ready to shut it all down when Santana squeezes her hand hard.

“I know it’s ‘cause they’re eight, not because we’re girls. Don’t get upset, baby.”

Brittany slumps back down as discreetly as she can, pretending like she wasn’t about to make some little kids cry. That was kind of exactly what she was worried Santana would worry about. Courtney’s friends are good kids, but this day is important to Santana and the last thing Brittany is going to do is let these little kids make her feel bad. Especially not for sweet lady kisses. Santana squeezes her hand again, much gentler now, and then lifts it to her mouth to press a kiss to the back without taking her eyes off the road. Brittany loves her more than anything else in the entire world.

The Lopez estate is situated on one of the gentle hills that give The Heights its moniker. It’s one of about a half dozen houses set away and above the rest of Lima Heights, beyond wrought iron and solid stone gates, at the end of long, gently winding driveways. The kids in the back press their noses to the windows as Santana pulls up to the front gate.

Her dad has a pair of comfy padded deck chairs set up outside by the intercom. He’s wearing his lab coat - the same “costume” he’s worn for as long as Brittany can remember - and there’s three huge boutique bags filled with smaller bags around him. When he hears the car he looks up from his e-reader, grinning at his daughter as soon as he recognizes her. She rolls down the window when he approaches.

“Trick or treat!” Santana leans out the window and puckers her lips, clearly expecting a treat. Dr. Lopez laughs, giving her a quick peck with an exaggerated mwah. He leans against the top of the car, taking in the other occupants. Brittany gets a wink once he sees the costume, and then he fakes surprise at the kids in the back.

“Wait a minute, your mother will kill me if the little monsters go up without something in their buckets.” He goes back to his bags o’ bags, digging through and picking out four bulging sacks of goodies. The kids get squirmy in the back, pulling out their candy bags - provided by Santana, as all the kids other than Courtney were woefully underprepared for the largesse of the competitive Heights Halloween scene - and excited to already be getting a sizable haul. Brittany’s a little worried they’ll forget their manners, but Courtney snags her bag first - going so far as to reach over Steampunk Barbie who was closest to the window - and chirps a perfect “Thank you Mr. Lopez” that the others dutifully repeat on their turns.

He starts to wave them on but Brittany has never been able to pass up a chance to make Dr. Lopez blush, so she leans over Santana and puckers her lips too. He stutter stops, torn between impropriety and leaving her hanging. Seeing as she’s the only one in the car who hasn’t gotten a “treat”, he heaves a heavy sigh and kisses her nose, blushing on cue and calling her a brat under his breath. Santana belly laughs as he punches in the entrance code to open the gate, and Brittany drapes over her lap to holler an “I love you Dad!” as they drive past.

Santana parks in the middle of the circular drive in front of the house instead of going all the way to the garages. Even though Brittany jumps out as soon as the car slows to a stop, Courtney and two of the kids make it up the stairs before she even gets to the other side of the car. There’s a little witch that waits until Brittany gallantly helps Santana out of the car to get out herself, hovering close but too shy to get near. She’s Courtney’s newest friend, still bashful and nervous around Brittany and her parents. She’s never even met Santana before tonight.

Santana doesn’t notice right away, and Brittany watches her look expectantly towards the front door and come up short in a head count before jerking around in a panic. The girl is right behind her, head tipped down and hands clasped in front of her. Her discomfort is obvious, torn between following the only person she really knows into the house and entering a house she doesn’t know. There’s a moment where Santana looks painfully confused, unsure how to deal with the awkwardness. Brittany’s about to suggest bribing her with candy when Santana bends over, leaning down to the kid’s level.

The view is too good to pass up. Bless that dress. Brittany leans back and bites her lip, relishing the way the fabric pulls tight over Santana’s ass.

She’s pulled out of her perving by the soft tone of Santana’s voice. “Hey honey,” she says in this sweet, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth voice. “I’m Santana. What’s your name?”

The kid pushes her glasses up her nose and side-eyes Santana. “My brother says your name is Satan and you’re super mean.” The words come out in a burbled rush.

Brittany thinks her brother is a moron, and she’ll definitely be researching the school conduct bylaws tomorrow. If talking that kind of smack about the First Lady isn’t treason, it will be when she gets through with it. Retroactively.

Santana’s thrown off her track a little. “Well, I mean, sometimes I am. But there’s at least a 50/50 chance your brother deserved it. But I’m not mean to kids. Usually. I’ve been pretty nice so far, right?” She tries, with a tinge of desperation.

Mini!witch shrugs, chewing on her hair. “M’ name’s ‘lisbeth.”

Taking the olive branch and cutting her losses, Santana holds her hand out and Elisabeth takes it, letting herself be led inside.

“I really gotta reconsider my stance on slapping fools just for living,” Santana mutters out of the side of her mouth. Brittany kisses the corner of her lip and rests a hand on the small of her back, rubbing as much comfort as she can into the tight muscles.

“Whatever makes you happy, baby. I’m sure someone else will pick up your legacy if you decide to take a break from spitting the truth. I support you either way.”

“There’s a few promising cheerleaders you know. Maybe we should do a ceremony. Make them chug a Master Cleanse or something to prove they are worthy to shoulder the burden of telling people about themselves. Do it up official.”

“I like hazing,” Brittany agrees cheerfully. She drops a step behind Santana as they reach the stairs, ostensibly acting like a safety net in case she trips over the hem of her dress, but mostly so she has an excuse to cup her butt. In a supportive way. She’s the most supportive girlfriend ever. There’s a lot of joy and pride to be had in a calling like that. Santana gives her a Don’t Push Your Luck look, and Brittany just grins back shamelessly. Elizabeth doesn’t notice a thing, tuning them out like all kids tune out adult white noise.

When they reach the top, Brittany gives a firm squeeze, dodging Santana’s retaliation with a laugh as she jogs ahead to open the anterior door. She bows deeply, so deep she’s staring at the ground when Santana swishes by. Santana gives her a gentle hip bump to the top of her head as she leads Elisabeth inside.

Mrs. Lopez is waiting for them, a tray of glossy, black candy apples in hand. The other three kids are digging in like they haven’t eaten all day, dripping juice down their faces and onto their costumes. Courtney is at least making an attempt to stay clean, although her lipstick is almost entirely gone. Brittany doesn’t see any koolaid smile-type remnants around her mouth though. Mrs Lopez probably had her wipe it off to prevent a disaster.

Santana pulls Elisabeth closer to the rest of the kids and her mom. The little girl hides behind Santana, apparently over her stranger danger feelings toward her now that she has a new target for them. Which is completely crazy, because Mrs Lopez is an angel - literally, with big feathered wings and everything - and the second sweetest person Brittany has ever met. She doesn’t seem put off though, merely leaning in to kiss Santana before giving her an apple to hand to Elisabeth.

Elisabeth takes it in both hands, saying thank you to the floor, and scampers over to her friends. Courtney immediately starts doing that high pitched squealing and Elisabeth is once more assimilated into the hive.

Mama Lopez makes the two of them pose for pictures while the small people eat in exchange for the giant Halloween baskets she made special for them. Brittany would have done it even without the promise of a dozen boxes of Dots, because it’s the perfect excuse for her to cop a feel under the guise of sweeping Santana back into a dip or leading her in a waltz.

Mrs Lopez gives Brittany a rose out of the hallway centerpiece to kneel and offer Santana for one particular shot, and Brittany’s pretty sure there are tears in Santana’s eyes when she tucks it carefully into the breast pocket of her suit after. Santana tips her head back discreetly, blinking slow to keep what Brittany now knows is definitely tears from ruining her mascara. The kisses she presses to Santana’s upwardly tilted jaw don’t really help the pooling, and Brittany wipes away the trickles with her thumbs as she cups her cheeks.

Santana rolls her eyes at herself, reaching up to brusquely rub the tears away. Brittany brushes her hands to the side, carefully preserving as much of Santana’s carefully applied eye art as she can. “‘M sorry. I’m just really happy,” she mumbles between Brittany’s palms.

Brittany will fight anyone who says Santana isn’t the dearest thing in this whole entire world.

Santana’s mom coos at them, handing Brittany a tissue before stepping out of the room to check on the kids and let them collect themselves. Dabbing gently at the thin skin around her eyes, Brittany dries Santana’s tears. She smiles at Santana’s embarrassment, clutching her close when she tries to pull away.

“I’m happy too, cara mia,” Brittany says through a grin. Santana jerks on her belt loop, like she can’t decide whether to hug her or give her a kidney shot for being ridiculous right now. A disarming kiss decides for her. Brittany finds the pleased noise Santana makes when she bites at her lips very life-affirming.

Santana pulls away with a little sigh. “Are you though?” she asks with a nervous tug on Brittany’s waistband. “You’ve been kind of jumpy all night.”

The guilty twist of her mouth gives her away. Santana’s face falls, and Brittany rushes over herself to make that look go away. “I’m happy, I promise. I just… would be happier if you didn’t have to drag my sister around and we were making out and drinking pumpkin spice jello shots.”

Santana wrinkles her nose. “First of all: pumpkin spice jello shots are not a thing. If they are a thing, they should not be a thing, because that is disgusting. And second of all: I don’t have to do this. I love spending time with you and Courtney. It’s like practice, but it doesn’t involve wind sprints or vomiting.”

Brittany grins, mirroring Santana’s arms around her waist. “Practice for what?” She totally knows what, because suddenly a lot of the weird stuff makes total sense. Her whole thing about Brittany and Courtney’s hair matching and why Brittany couldn’t wear her wig if Courtney didn’t. Why Courtney was even a part of their couple costume in the first place instead of dressing like a peanut or something. Santana’s face goes russet as she realizes what she said.

“We should go save my mom. Courtney’s probably all hyped up on sugar already.” Brittany’s locked arms keeps her from pulling away, and she looks everywhere but at Brittany’s face. Swaying them from side to side, Brittany beams.

“Are we practicing for a ladybaby? Is it dressed up like a pumpkin?”

Santana has her face mashed into where Brittany’s boobs would be if they weren’t also mashed flat. All Brittany can make out of her answer is, “- never ‘um’kins.”

Brittany is going to have a heart attack and die any second now. “Whatever you want, honey.”

Santana can dress their ladybabies in little tracksuits every day of the week if that’s what she wants. Brittany drops kisses all over the crown of Santana’s head, holding tighter when she tries to wiggle away in a fake grump until she can get at her precious round cheeks and precious nose and generally precious face.

“Stop teasing me,” Santana grumbles. Brittany kisses her full on the lips, grinning wide enough to split her face right in half.

“I’m not teasing you even a little bit. If we have ladybabies I promise we won’t dress them like food,” Brittany mumbles back. She’s not willing to give up the taste of Santana’s mouth just yet. In fact, she’s starting to wonder if she can get Santana up the stairs to her bedroom without anyone else in the house noticing, including Santana. At least until they’re behind a locked door. She’s pretty sure she can be distracting enough to get Santana to forget about their charges once she gets her pants off.

A camera flash interrupts her plans. Mama Lopez doesn’t even act a little bit embarrassed to have caught Brittany spelunking her daughter’s tonsils. Brittany’s always been pretty sure she’s seen worse, although Santana is convinced they managed to get under the covers fast enough that one time. The kids are making little kid noises at the sight of them wrapped up in each other, but Brittany finds it doesn’t bother her as much as it did before.

“Come on you two. You’ve got houses to hit before you’re done for the night, and your minions are getting antsy.” Mrs. Lopez smirks at them, exactly like Santana does when she catches a second string Cheerio! eating at McDonald’s.

If their ladybaby inherits that smirk, she’s totally talking Santana into dressing it like a little devil. It would be a moral imperative.

Courtney glares at her, looking about ready to start stomping her feet. Brittany pets her on the head as she leads Santana to the door with a hand around her waist, feeling like the sinking sun has taken up residence in her chest.

------

The trick or treating starts out uneventful. Santana drills politeness into them before they start out, and not one of them forgets to say trick or treat and thank you. The old people in Lima Heights apparently eat that up with a spoon because half an hour in their bags are already half full.

Brittany has to claim one of Santana’s hands for herself, because Courtney and Elisabeth keep attaching themselves to her any chance they get. They’re practically trading off every other house. Princess Iron Man gets tired of moving her mask around to eat her candy as they walk, so she becomes Princess Tony Stark. Brittany gets stuck holding the mask so it doesn’t get lost.

“I want SweeTarts!” Courtney whines. She’s got her arm in her bag up to the elbow, but she’s not even close to the bottom.

“Here, Baby Girl, let me,” Santana offers. Courtney hands over her bag and Santana dredges the depths. She comes up with half a dozen rolls of multicolored candy tablets. Squinting in a streetlight, she picks out two packages of duplicitous Smarties and discards them back in the bag. Then she hands the bag back, but keeps the candy.

“Hey!”

Santana purses her lips as she picks at one end of a roll, peeling it back to reveal the first piece. “Wait a minute. I have to check it for poison and razorblades.”

Courtney lunges at Santana, jumping and practically trying to climb her when Santana lifts the fistful of candy far above her head. “You can’t put razorblades in SweeTarts! They’re too small! Gimme them!”

Shaking her head sadly, Santana clicks her tongue. “That just goes to show you the limits of your imagination. I can fit razorblades in anything. And I am responsible for keeping you safe. You should thank me for my selfless sacrifice.”

The other girls are in a clutch nearby, picking through their own stashes and looking a little grateful for the chance to sit down. Brittany sidles up to Santana’s side, stretching an arm up to fidget two sweeties out of Santana’s grasp. Pasting on a solemn look, she puts on her best Shakespeare in the Park voice and makes an expansive gesture with her occupied hand.

“To live without you, only that would be torture.” She follows that up by popping a candy into her mouth, then holds the other between two fingers and hovers near Santana’s lips expectantly. Courtney is already rolling her eyes at her antics. It’s a struggle to keep her serious face on while Santana trains hers to match. Santana leans closer, bracing her palms against Brittany’s chest. Their eyes meet, and Brittany can see the smile in dark brown.

“A day alone, only that would be death.” She parts her lips and lets Brittany feed her the other candy. It looks totally innocent, but Santana’s lips on her fingers feel like sin. A handful of parents with their own kids glare at them as they are forced into the street to get around their tableau. They ignore them, because art is happening.

They lock eyes. They drift together slowly, as if for a kiss. The girls watch like it’s a made for tv movie, candy forgotten halfway to their mouths. Just as their lips brush, Brittany gives Santana an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle and then clutches her heart. The girls gasp in unison like it was stage directed; a single unified, audible intake of breath. Courtney scowls with all her might, but Brittany can still see the intrigue. She staggers a few steps away from the group, into one of the many perfectly groomed tree lawns, groaning in anguish.

Santana abruptly starts gagging, clutching at her throat. The look on Courtney’s face is priceless, and she would definitely be beet red if it weren’t for all the pale foundation. “Oh my god, you guys! STOP IT. You’re being ridiculous!”

Brittany collapses to the grass artlessly, limbs sprawled. She releases an obnoxiously loud and long death rattle, drawing as much attention as possible to extend Courtney’s mortification. She knows they definitely are drawing an audience, but it’s totally worth it. Santana plays along with Brittany’s lead, drooping to the ground next to her much slower for her dress. Brittany watches through her lowered eyelashes. Santana has amazing stage presence.

“You guys are so embarrassing!”

Santana ignores the complaints from the peanut gallery. Instead, she clutches Brittany’s face between her hands, kissing her briefly. With that she drapes herself on Brittany’s torso, succumbing to her own “poison”.

For several seconds there’s no noise at all, not even Courtney’s complaining. But then there’s a smattering of applause and laughter, from adults and little kids alike. Brittany makes no attempts to move, so Santana stays limp as well, though Brittany can see a half smile emerging from where Santana’s face is pressed into her dress shirt. They lay there until Courtney marches over and starts tugging on Santana’s arm, finally giving up pulling her to her feet herself and instead digging the candy that started it all out of her clenched fist. Brittany decides they’ve laid in the dirt for an awkwardly long enough time at that point.

Getting Santana semi-upright is a bit of a struggle, but she manages to roll onto her hip long enough for Brittany to slide out carefully from beneath her and get to her own feet. She bows briefly to the onlookers before helping Santana up. It’s a bit of a chore - the dress is so tight - and Santana ends up gripping tightly to her biceps while Brittany holds her under her arms and hauls her up bodily. Santana’s face flushes lightly, and Brittany knows exactly why.

All the Cheerios! thought it was weird that Brittany never tried to get higher than a base position, but she had her priorities in order. A successful single base basket toss is better than diamonds for getting into Santana’s pants.

They bow to the remains of their audience. More than a few parents stop and congratulate them for going above and beyond, while pointedly eyeing Courtney’s minor conniption at their antics. One woman in a bunny suit that looks more suited for Easter stops over and says she’d have to try something like that next year.

“The best thing about having kids is getting to humiliate them in public,” she laughs, bouncing her son in her arms. He’s dressed like a carrot, and probably too young to be embarrassed yet. “I’m taking a bunch of pictures to show his girlfriend - or boyfriend! - when he's older." Santana makes soft noises at him, flexing her index finger and mouthing nonsense. He grabs at her with his awkward, fat, baby hands. When he has a hold of her, he tugs her finger towards his mouth. His mother smiles indulgently as Santana bends her nails away from his delicate baby face and lets him gnaw on her second knuckle. It basically turns Santana into a puddle.

Brittany’s content to stand around and let her fall into a baby induced coma, but Courtney looks like she’s going to incite a four girl riot. The lady wishes them a Happy Hallows Eve, which is so painfully suburban that Brittany almost rolls her eyes. She doesn’t though, because she is filled with goodwill and charity thanks to the lady’s drool machine and the effect it’s having on Santana’s dimples. Her girlfriend is enamored and continues waving at the baby for as long as he looks at her, which is a long time because Santana is the best thing to look at.

“You still sure about the pumpkin thing?”

The girls chatter with each other and Courtney pointedly ignores her sister and future sister in law. Like, she even peeks at them to make sure they’re looking at how she’s totally not looking at them at all. That lasts until Santana jogs up behind her and reaches down to hold her hand. She promptly breaks like a guilty conscience. Brittany has the exact same problem. She tries to stay mad sometimes, but Santana is just so hot. Why be angry when you can be making out? That’s her motto.

Some of the neighbors hold them up as they continue down the block, wanting to get a closer look at their costumes. Brittany’s pretty sure half of them can’t figure out if she’s a boy or a girl from more than a few yards away, and the other half wanna see Santana’s boobs. They leave bemused old ladies and guilty husbands in their wake. It’s pretty awesome.

At one house there’s a lady handing out candy; she’s middle aged with a boring haircut. She’s got on a witch hat and a sweater that looks like it literally escaped from Rachel Berry’s closet. Santana stops on the sidewalk instead of going to the door with the girls like she usually does.

“Shit. Don’t make eye contact,” she hisses, turning to face the street. As far as Brittany’s concerned, hiding her face is a lost cause. Her ass is one of her top defining physical features. Brittany could pick Santana’s ass out of a police line up. In fact, she could do it blindfolded with her hands tied behind her back. Basically, Brittany is intimately familiar with Santana’s ass, and does not pass up this opportunity to ogle it.

She also kind of wants to try the blindfolded and tied up thing now, too.

“Santana? Santana-Banana, is that you?”

Santana’s face screws up in agony. Brittany repeats the nickname silently, and even the shape of her mouth around the syllables is enough to make Santana bare her teeth. “I swear to baby Jesus, if you ever - ever - repeat that to me I will destroy your life. I will build your life up and I will burn it to the ground. Beyonce and Taylor Swift will write a song together about how broken up we will be. KFed will call you up and be like, ‘Damn, what did you do?’”

“Shit, Santana.” Brittany finds herself wondering if it’s wrong that as much as Snix is scaring her right now, she’s really turned on. All that anger, all the passion - it’s scarousing. Fright-citing.

Santana turns to the house like she’s only just realized the woman is there, grinning like she really means it. She grips Brittany’s hand like a vice and drags her behind. “She works at the psycho ward at Cleveland Clinic,” she grits out through her toothy smile. “With my dad. She keeps trying to set me up with all these lesbians she met at work. Like, at work. Patients.”

“We don’t judge people by their mental health. It’s tacky.”

Santana yanks her arm sharply. “When did we make that rule?”

“Why is she setting you up with people? I’m a people. I already got you.” Would it be overkill to spin and start a Beyonce routine right now?

It’s too late to make a decision because they’re already at the door. Santana smiles aggressively. “Hello, Mrs. Palmer! This is Brittany, my girlfriend I’ve been telling you about.” She settles a paternal hand on Courtney’s shoulders, tugging her to stand at attention before her. Like a little human shield. “And this is Courtney, her sister. And those three are… Courtney’s friends. We’re taking them trick or treating. Say goodbye to Mrs. Palmer, girls. Got a lot of houses left.”

“You’re Brittany? I’ve heard so much about you! I thought Santana-Banana was fibbing to me; you sounded so perfect. But you look just like she described.” The words sound right, but she’s giving Brittany the stink eye. It’s not as bad as the look Santana’s grandmother gave her when she ran into her at the grocery store holding a bottle of lube that one time though. That glare is the Evil Eye all other Evil Eyes wanna be when they grow up.

“Yeah, I’m Brittany. Everything is true, especially the parts about what a great dancer I am, how hilarious my webshow is, and how I’m her girlfriend and the best thing in her life.” She wraps a possessive arm around Santana’s waist, rubbing over her hip gently while her girlfriend just nods agreeably. Brittany wants to add on that she’s talented and super giving in bed - another trait she really prides herself on - but Santana has already made her feelings clear about her talking up her own sexual prowess.

Plus that’d probably be laying it on a little bit too thick.

Courtney has apparently hit her limit on stalling, even though she’s already gotten way, way, way more candy than she’d have gotten in their own neighborhood by now. She tugs on Santana’s other arm like Quasimodo on the bell tower, nearly pulling Santana off the steps. Brittany slaps at her, maybe a little harder than strictly necessary.

Mrs. Palmer gives her the sort of “did you string those words together by complete accident?” look that she’s depressingly used to.“Well, I was wondering if you could do something for me. I’ve talked to your father about it, but now that you’re here- both of you...”

“You’re supposed to be taking us trick or treating San!” Courtney’s going full on puppy-faced pouting.

“Why don’t you guys… go down four houses? When you’re done, come right back here, and we’ll be ready to go, ok?”

Elisabeth looks a little bit nervous at the idea, but Courtney and Robot Barbie are already bounding down the walk. Princess Tony Stark remembers the buddy system rule and drags Elisabeth after them.

Mrs. Palmer looks fondly at Santana. “I was hoping that I could talk you into visiting at the clinic. You’re going to be going to college soon, and I think you should consider going into the medical field. You’re so smart, and you could do so much good for so many people. Particularly if you go into-” Santana has already tuned her out, it’s clear. Mrs. Palmer doesn’t seem to notice. This is probably at least half her dad’s fault. He was super proud when she would volunteer as a candy striper, and she’s totally charismatic, when she wants to be. Everyone loves her at the hospital. Apparently that goes double for weird old ladies who are overly invested in the lives of other people’s kids.

Brittany starts to feel like she’s slipped sideways into a Peanuts cartoon; all she can hear are trombones.

Suddenly, Santana hits her in the side - hard. “Britt! Go help them!”

She’s confused until she sees Santana pointing down the street. The girls are much further down than they should be, and the four of them have three teenage kids up in their personal space. Brittany leaves Santana to navigate the stairs and her costume, sprinting the half block to the kids. The older kids are trying to wrestle away the little kids’ bags, wrenching right and left to pull them from angry, obstinate little grasps. Two of them start to retreat when they see Brittany coming, but the ringleader sneers and jerks his prize again - playing tug o’ war with Robot girl and a valiant Elisabeth bracing her grip - and they hover near.

Brittany makes to grab him, but Santana’s voice stops her. “Don’t touch him!” His face falls a little when he sees Santana, but he doesn’t let go. And he’s still got that stupid sneer on his face. Santana has her dressed hiked high around her thighs as she jogs over, heels in hand. One of the teenagers whistles.

“Shut your fucking mouth before I put my fucking shoe through your fucking forehead.”

Elisabeth claps her hands over her ears and starts humming. Santana shoves her hand roughly into Brittany’s pocket, which would normally be pretty hot. She comes out with her phone, expertly twisting to center on the teenagers while starting the video app. The ringleader looks at her dumbly for a handful of beats too long before dropping his grip on the bag. Robot Girl falls on her butt.

“Nice, Whitman. Stealing candy from babies and then knocking them over in the sandbox? Let’s see your daddy get you out of this one. Come here babies.” The girls huddle around her without argument. Santana rubs Robot Barbie’s back comfortingly, while she follows the teenagers with the camera.

“So I’ve got you on video for theft, assault, drunk and disorderly, while also catching a prime example of why you will be every one of your wives’ greatest regret. Go home, tell your daddy I said hey, and that Auntie Snix will be sending him a present soon.”

He scoffs, but despite his bravado he still retreats a few steps when Santana advances. “Nobody cares about some kids messing around on Halloween.”

Santana gives him a pitying look. “I don’t know if you watch the news, but current events have been making the Lima Heights Neighborhood Council very tetchy about hate crimes. Some white boy beating up on a little brown girl isn’t going to play so well.”

That seems to ping something in him. The sneer drops off his face. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just fucking around.”

“Mmm-hmm. Go home. I’ll think things over.” She says, dismissing him. The girls crowd around like lost ducklings, and she spreads her arms to shelter them.

The girls unanimously agree to call it a night after that.

At the Lopez house, Mama L has cupcakes. The additional sugar seems to soothe even Elisabeth’s nerves. Doesn’t really help Brittany though; she’s still keyed up to fight but without any follow through. She leans in the kitchen doorway, watching the girls chatter and waiting for Santana to get back from the bathroom.When arms wind around her waist, she lets herself slump against Santana a little bit.

“‘M sorry, baby. I didn’t know it was him when I sent you over. If you’d’ve laid a hand on him, we’d be trying to get you out of jail now. And I’m saving that for the first drinking holiday after we turn 21.” Santana kisses her shoulder in penance, but it’s not even like she did anything wrong. Brittany lays her hands over Santana’s cold, slightly damp ones and tugs her closer.

“Are you going to turn the video over to the police?” Brittany couldn’t follow all the legal jargon, but Santana sounded like she knew what she was doing. Isn’t that, like, 80% of what a lawyer does?

“Pfft, no. The little shit was right, nobody gives a fuck about some dumb, wealthy white kids doing dumb shit in their gated community. Especially if one of the kids is the spawn of a ‘pillar of the community’. But if he gets on my nerves I might send it to his mom. She donates to the cancer wing at Lima General; I was volunteering when she was going through chemo. If I cry I’m pretty sure she’ll let the hospital auction off his sweet sixteen present at a raffle.”

That makes Brittany feel a little better. Enough so that she lets herself finally enjoy the fact that Santana looked super sexy getting her confrontational investigative journalist on. She could totally beat JBI for his position in the Muckraker if there was anyone else in the school worth knowing anything about other than the two of them. And she wouldn’t even have to hide in trashcans to get the scoop. She’d just mindgame it out of her quarry. Wearing a fedora.

Yeah, that’s super sexy.

“Ugh, Mrs. Palmer is texting me. I think I’m gonna ‘lose’ my phone.”

Brittany turns on her quickly, pushing her through the doorway and against the wall where no one in the kitchen can see them. “You’re gonna lose something all right.”

When she kisses Santana it’s like all the kisses she’s been thinking about all evening mooshed into one. She takes control - holding Santana’s face in her hands - and drinks deep. Santana lets out this shivery little moan that tastes like a sugar rush feels. Her body rolls without her even thinking about it against Santana’s and even through all the clothes and the binder it still feels so good. Her leg wants to wedge between Santana’s thighs, fitting them together that much closer, but is thwarted by the gorgeous, totally unnecessary dress. One hand drops to start bunching up the hem, only to be rudely interrupted.

Santana breaks away and let’s out a breathless “Daddy!” which is weirdly hot until a throat clears loudly behind Brittany’s back and she realizes the term of endearment was not directed at her. Awkward.

Doctor Lopez has his glasses in his hand and is rubbing the lenses on his soft tshirt. After a moment of collecting himself, he replaces his glasses and stares Brittany dead in the eyes. “I am not a fool. I know that you are sleeping with my daughter. But I would take it as a personal kindness if you would confine that to places where I will never have to think about you defiling my baby girl.” Santana opens her mouth to argue, but Doctor Lopez cuts her off with a sharp hand gesture. “It’s not because Brittany is a girl. It is because you are my baby, and the thought of someone touching you in a… sexual manner... makes me want to build a twenty story tower without doors and wall you in.”

Brittany nods, and Doctor Lopez nods back in acknowledgement of her acknowledgement. Then he heaves the sigh of a man who has seen too much and trudges into the kitchen. They wait a respectable amount of time before deflating against each other. “You need to stay over at my house so I can defile you without making your dad cry.”

Mrs. Lopez pokes her head around the corner, grinning slyly. “Just checking. Wednesday wants to ask you something.”

Courtney has orange icing on her nose. It’s cute, but the words that come out of her mouth make Brittany’s very frustrated sexy parts let out an anguished wail.

“Can I have a sleepover?”

No.

For once, Santana can’t read her mind. “Ask their parents first and make sure it’s ok with them that it’ll just be us there to watch you guys and not your mom and dad.” Courtney squeals and wedges between the two older girls, hugging tightly around Santana’s waist. Brittany shakes her head rapidly, even throwing in some spirited pantomime to get the message across. Courtney bolts to the telephone, and Mama Lopez retreats to her den of evil after a plan well executed.

Santana sidles close and kisses Brittany’s pout. It doesn’t go away like it usually would. “Just trust me, ma cherie.”

That endearment brings a smile back on Brittany’s face. “I trust you. And I also really want to defile you.”

“I promise I’ll make good. I wanna give you your treat too.”

Who can do anything but believe with a promise like that?

------

Brittany piles blankets from her bedroom bureau in tilting towers on the living room couch. The common area is a whirl of slinky sounds from the stereo speakers and debate as Santana tries to figure out pizza orders. Robot Barbie - Becca, Courtney had indignantly corrected her sister earlier - doesn’t like tomato sauce, Princess Tony Stark is apparently allergic to anything green, and Courtney wants ham and pineapple. Elisabeth doesn’t have any particular food preferences, which makes her Brittany’s favorite. She even agrees to share the gross white pizza Becca wants and Courtney’s hawaiian too, rather than whining about getting her own personal toppings.

Santana huffs exaggeratedly when food gets sorted out, drooping against the mound of bedding taking up most of the couch. She’s starting to look supremely uncomfortable in her impractically tight but impossibly sexy dress. The girls have already started shedding bits of their costumes: Courtney’s tights are balled up and shoved into her cute little boots, Elisabeth’s cloak is hanging from the coat rack, and Becca has long since taken off her cogwheel covered vest. They’re mostly ignoring the older girls, now that they’ve gotten their orders in, and are picking over the blu-ray collection for a proposed movie marathon.

For her part, Brittany just prays all the little kids are struck with sudden, temporary narcolepsy. Doesn’t even have to be temporary, honestly. She’s not that picky.

“Alright girls. Take the blankets down to the den and get set up. Courtney can lend you pajamas.”

The girls comply with a minimum of complaint; each grabbing two blankets and a pillow. Santana quietly holds Princess Tony Stark back from the rest as they tromp to the den. Queen Stark had Santana and Brittany get on the phone when Courtney called earlier to inform them of Princess Tony Stark’s nightly problem. Tony looks embarrassed - deeply so - that Santana knows, but Santana is infinitely sweet and patient as she comforts her.

Brittany had that problem too, for a really really long time. Santana found out about it in the most horrible, awkward way possible. When Brittany had woken up, wet and cold except for where she was curled against Santana, she’d cried so hard. The pretty, popular, funny girl who made waitresses cry for not putting extra breadsticks in her to-go bag was never going to talk to her again after this. But when her sobs finally woke Santana up, she just said it wasn’t her fault and then stripped the bed. That night, when Santana hugged her in the shower and helped her make the bed with four layers of blankets and never said a cross word, Brittany knew that she’d carry Santana’s banner to war. They were friends forever, whether Santana knew it or not.

So Brittany sympathizes with Tony completely. And it makes it even more endearing that Santana is so delicate about the issue, and that she even made sure that it was just the two of them, not even Brittany close enough to overhear, so Tony wouldn’t feel even more embarrassed by an audience. Tony sniffles and rubs her eyes hard, with that frustrated look Brittany was unpleasantly familiar with before her problem resolved itself. Santana rubs her little crossed arms and smiles winningly, charming Tony out of her funk. The girl nods at whatever Santana is saying shyly, and then Santana piles the handful of movies the girls picked out earlier on top of Tony’s bedding - an excuse for her absence to the rest of the girls - and sends her on her way.

“We need to cut off the soda after midnight. Don’t let me forget to make them go to the bathroom before bed,” Santana lists off once all the kids are down the stairs. She’s got her serious face on, like she’s going to forget something important. Kids are like hamsters though; you just gotta feed them and make sure they don’t crawl under the couch and get lost. Santana is definitely overthinking this. But Brittany finds it super cute. Curling her arms around Santana’s waist, she starts them swaying gently to the low soundtrack from the radio. They fit together like lego blocks, her girlfriend’s hips and ass settling over her pelvis. Snug and cozy.

Santana’s hips get an extra beat in them - a jolt as she feels Brittany’s little addition - and she hums when Brittany picks up the new motion, pleased as punch by the lazy rocking. They move in sync; Brittany can practically feel Santana’s mind slowing from its racing pace as she sinks under the metronome of their movements. Santana gets heavier and heavier as she lets Brittany support more of her weight and nothing makes Brittany feel better than knowing her girlfriend trusts her to shore her up.

They stay like that until the girls gallop past on their way upstairs to change. Courtney only hangs around long enough to whine that the older girls are snuggling instead of ordering pizza, and then they’re off like a pack of wild dogs. Brittany figures they’ve got at least five minutes of semi-privacy before the kids get sorted out, so she takes the opportunity presented to palm over her girlfriend’s warm belly. Sonorous purrs reverberate beneath Brittany’s fingertips and Santana folds her arms over the ones around her waist, wrapping them tighter around her middle. Santana coaxes Brittany’s exploring hand to press harder. And higher.

She can’t help but groan out loud. Santana’s dress is so tight and it feels like the dark sheets she uses on her bed with the apparently super expensive thread count. The ones that Brittany thought were silly until the first time Santana ate her out on them and every time she writhed under her girlfriend the sheets caressed her bare skin like water. It felt like swimming, but she was only wet between her legs.

The sound seems to pull Santana out of her head. And it’s not that Brittany doesn’t realize that they were about to get to second base in the middle of the living room with the potential for an underaged audience. She just can’t find it in herself to care very much. Touching Santana is her number two favorite thing - after mutual affirmations, but before melted cheese - and she’s really starting to resent everyone else in the entire world for getting in the way of that. Even Santana herself, a little bit, kinda, because she puts a respectable amount of space between them and tries to straighten the stretched neckline of her costume when all Brittany wants to do is slip her hands inside and luxuriate in the feel of her girlfriend’s amazing breasts against her palms and appreciate her amazing taste in textiles wisping over the back of her hands at the same time.

“Don’t be grumpy, ma cherie. You’ll get your treat soon,” Santana says, a smudge contrite. Brittany tries not to pout, really. It’s just hard, because she really wants to put her hands all over Santana - has wanted to do that all night long - and knowing Santana wants it just as badly feels like the treat is balanced on her nose and nobody will let her eat it yet. Santana gives her a sweet kiss - closed mouth, but firm and lingering - and it mollifies her somewhat. “I’m going to make snacks so they’ll leave us alone until the pizza gets here.”

Brittany definitely likes how that sounds.

She’s watching Santana cut up apples and veggies from her perch on the counter when the girls trample down the stairs in a mishmash of Courtney’s sleep sets. The kids cram themselves into the kitchen, crowding around Santana and basically ignoring Brittany. That is, they ignore her until Santana declares that they bring in their candy so that Brittany can go through it to make sure it’s all wrapped and then mete out their portion for the evening. They unleash a barrage of questions that Santana fields good-naturedly, infinitely patient and placid in the face of their tiny indignation. But she remains firm in the face of shrill, tantruming adversity. Between Coach and Rachel, she’s got a high tolerance for whining. They do as they’re told when Santana turns her serious face on, even though Courtney mumbles that Snopes says poisoned halloween candy is an urban legend as she fetches her bag.

Brittany is not happy to be volunteered for this duty when it turns out to be like getting Lord Tubbington and Charity into their carrying cages for vet trips. Becca and Courtney keep trying to sneak candy in the pockets of their shorts, and Tony keeps trying to make terrible trades for chocolate that make everyone jealously guard their hauls. Even though they’re basically completely identical. The whole kitchen table is covered in candy and little toys, and the girls even ended up with seven bucks in their bags on top of all that. Honestly there’s so much that she was just going to pretend to go through it all until Santana gave her the serious face.

So, with a heavy sigh, she goes around the table, standing behind each girl in turn and picking through the piles. Fortunately, the girls have their candy mostly laid out flat for inventory purposes. Nothing looks hinky. There are a few handmade treats - sealed in saran wrap - that she sets aside for Santana to vet. Elisabeth is last in line, mostly because she was already carefully checking each piece on her own steam. She even has the homemade stuff set aside for Brittany when she comes over. Propping her chin on her fist, Brittany pokes around Elisabeth’s stash half-heartedly. Elisabeth watches her efforts while she nibbles on half a full-sized Milky Way, holding it in both hands like a squirrel.

“What’s your favorite candy, Brittany?” She asks out of the blue. Brittany pauses to mull it over, flicking a pixie stix back and forth in her fingers.

“I like candy that comes in a lot of different colors. But I also like chocolate. So I guess my favorite candy would be rainbow chocolate.”

Elisabeth considers her answer just as carefully as Brittany considered the question. She’s got a pretty good Serious Santana face too. With deliberate consideration Elisabeth picks a bag of M&Ms, a bag of Skittles, and a little box of Dots out of her pile and offers them to Brittany. There’s a quiet “awwww” from the other side of the kitchen, and it makes Elisabeth blush as Brittany accepts the gifts with a sincere thank you. She would be 100% willing to trade Elisabeth for Courtney now, but she doesn’t say that out loud because Santana thinks Courtney is developing a complex. Courtney’s problem is actually that she’s part demon, but Brittany doesn’t say that out loud either.

Courtney, not to be outshined in the eyes of her Lady and Savior, piles on her boxes of Dots - which is not nearly as nice as Elisabeth’s gesture because Brittany knows she hates Dots and she was just going to hide them until they went stale so Brittany couldn’t eat them anyway. She also sets aside a pile of Nerds and Twizzlers and Gobstoppers, clearly for her favored babysitter. All of that pile is stuff she actually loves, but it’s also the stuff that she knows is peanut allergy safe. The other girls don’t seem to notice - or care about - the powerplay Courtney is trying to pull. Elisabeth just smiles blithely up at Brittany before getting overwhelmed with nerves and turning her shy grin onto the kitchen table.

Santana comes over at Courtney’s behest to retrieve her presents, rewarding her with gentle pets on her swelled head. Courtney’s practically preening, gloating even, and it irrationally makes Brittany want to kick her chair leg out from under her. “Alright,” Santana starts in that brisk, commanding tone Brittany enjoys so much - the one that makes JV Cheerios! drop and start doing one-armed pushups before the order is even fully out of her mouth. “Everyone gets six pieces of candy; the rest go in the bags and the bags go by your coats.”

Becca and Courtney complain, but Lima Heights doesn’t believe in funsize bars so they’re still getting enough Snickers to choke a horse. Santana says handing out regular sized candy bars is “so bougie”, but she also says almond milk, Anderson Cooper, and Lexus are bougie; Brittany has no idea what “bougie” even means, and since she has no strong feelings about any of those subjects she doesn’t ask for clarification.

While Santana orders pizza, Brittany herds the girls back down the stairs into the den. Maybe she slams the door a little hard behind them, and maybe Courtney’s aggrieved little “Hey!” makes her grin smugly. But the pizza won’t be here for another half hour at least, and as the kids tussled over who was going to take down what snacks Santana had been giving her serious bedroom eyes. She’s going to collect as much as she can on that before they’re interrupted again. With that in mind, she jogs - ok, runs - to the kitchen. Santana meets her at the door, tugging her around the corner and slamming her against the wall.

This is good.

Her girlfriend attacks her with kisses, and that’s great. That’s fucking awesome. Her mouth tastes like green apple and her perfume has married to her skin so well that it makes Brittany dizzy. And not a “spun in circles and feel like I’m gonna puke” kind of dizzy. The good kind, the kind you get after drinking expensive wine on a full stomach. Santana kisses hard and fast and her hands dig and fight with Brittany’s dress shirt as she yanks it roughly from her pants. Nails scratch over her abs as she dips under and up. It makes her smile into the kisses when Santana gets totally distracted and just keeps running her fingertips over her stomach; feeling every groove in intimate, loving detail. Sometimes she scratches at her sides, because that combination makes Brittany shiver all the way down to her toes.

“Te amo…” Santana whispers into her mouth, licking after the words like she can taste the same heavy honey sweetness that Brittany does.

“‘Tana, that’s not French,” she quips back, goofy and giddy from happiness. Santana bites at her lips in retaliation, taking special pains to scrape her teeth over the freckle on the corner of her mouth that she’s basically obsessed with.

“I’ll show you French,” she mutters throatily. The kisses get deeper and wetter. Brittany’s hands need something to do, so she slides them down to Santana’s thighs and then behind. She wants to lift her up, wrap those strong legs around her waist, but that gorgeous, infuriating dress acts like a fabric chastity belt. Santana reads her intent and pulls away, grabbing her hand to tug her towards the hallway. She reaches down to grab at the skirt, hiking it higher so she can make it up the stairs, but Brittany has a genius idea. Gently touching the back of Santana’s knee in warning, she sweeps her up and into her arms. Santana doesn’t yelp in surprise but she does clutch Brittany around the neck tightly. The grip quickly turns into a caress as she gets her bearings, and then she’s kissing all up and down the side of Brittany’s face.

Overt displays of strength? Totally a panty dropper.

By the time they’ve made it to Brittany’s bedroom, she’s lost her hat and her rose along the way. Could not care less. She deposits Santana on the bed as gently as possible and starts to crawl on top, only to be stopped by Santana slipping her fingers under her bowtie with one hand and around the back of her neck with the other. Her girlfriend drags herself upright and takes control of the kissing again. Which is totally ok.

The angle is awkward because there’s like three feet between their faces when Brittany stands next to the bed, but that resolves itself nicely when Santana quickly starts kissing down her jaw and neck. She skips over the binder, which is kind of sad but also not. Taking it off would waste precious time, and Brittany can’t really feel anything after wearing it so long anyway. Her boobs are still sad though. And sweaty.

Santana makes up for it at her belly button though. She kisses it - once, twice - and it makes Brittany squirm at the ticklish sensation. But then she brings in teeth, nipping at the indent, and then her tongue darts into it. It’s slippery and feels so much dirtier than it probably is. There’s just something about feeling every dimension of Santana’s mouth on her there: soft lips, sharp teeth, and the damp, sucking pressure. Her hands bury themselves in her girlfriend’s thick hair without express permission; cradling her head as she presses her nose against firm abs. The wet noises combine to vibrate right between Brittany’s thighs.

It doesn’t take long for the messy foreplay to do its job. Brittany shifts her thighs, rubbing the packer against herself and releasing the undeniable scent of her own wetness. Santana fumbles blindly at her belt buckle, getting her pants open just enough to slip her hand in. She tangles briefly with the equipment already there before tipping her head back to look Brittany in the eyes. “On or off, baby?”

It’s a really hard decision. On the one hand, watching Santana wrap her lips around Mr. Limpy and getting a sloppy blowjob would be amazing right now after all the sexy tummy kissing. But there’s no way she’d be able to get off that way in the little bit of time they have. It would still be crazy sexy though, and it would feel amazing, and that’s half the fun of sex anyway.

Santana gets tired of waiting for Brittany to work through her options and just plunges her fingers around the straps and under the soft packer. She slicks her fingers in the arousal pooling at Brittany’s entrance, dragging it up until she can paint her clit with it. Before she can play with the exposed portion for more than a brief moment Brittany is jerking away with a hiss. “Too much,” Brittany stutters, fists tightening in Santana’s hair as her insides pulse and squeeze at nothing. Her girlfriend’s fingers obligingly shift focus, moving further up. The new, indirect pressure feels spine-meltingly good and she moans with abandon.

The hand not currently hotboxed in Brittany’s pants tugs her closer to the bed, coaxing her to straddle Santana’s thighs. Mr Limpy’s harness, built for comfort rather than utility, stretches easily around her waist and hips as she spreads wide to give Santana as much access as she can. Santana leans away, creating room to move and counterbalancing at the same time. Her hand angles downward, wrist rubbing against the sensitive skin of Brittany’s belly.

Being able to feel Santana’s hands move without being able to see them puts Brittany’s brain into overdrive. She maps it in her head: the way Santana’s little fingers shine as they gloss between her thighs; how her middle and index finger look as they bracket her clit and stroke the hidden shaft. Like a handjob, but in miniature. The movements are precise and delicate and intensely deliberate - the knowledge that Santana is focusing harder on her clit then even Brittany is makes it throb - and it stokes a heat inside. But it also forces her to stay still to maintain the contact when all she wants to do is rock hard against every part of Santana. She lets frustrated grunts slip out, too far gone to articulate but trusting that Santana will understand anyway.

Of course she does. Santana understands all the things she says and the things she doesn’t. She feels the urgency and insistence in Brittany’s hips. Everything is heady and quickquickquick, but Santana knows pretty much exactly how much Brittany can take and how fast is too fast. The same two fingers working her clit move down to her entrance, sliding in to the first knuckle. She’s careful, not because of the stretch - Brittany can take two fingers, easy - but for the dry friction that can hurt in the bad way right now. She draws out and sinks back in a little further each time, never forcing it; she lets Brittany’s body ease the way, soaking her fingers until they glide home.

Brittany’s hands move; the heels resting on Santana’s cheeks, nails curling into her thick hair and trapping her. She leans down, down, down; holding her gaze and trapping her there too. Santana doesn’t fight her anymore. There’s no love hidden behind anger to keep anyone from looking too close. All those feelings that she feels too much are right there, all laid out on her face. All for Brittany. She’s not ashamed of her love anymore, and she’s not ashamed of how flushed her face gets with a handful of pussy either. Brittany grins at that thought, biting playfully at Santana’s lips. Santana’s eyes crinkle around the edges, amused by Brittany’s amusement. Even if she doesn’t know what’s so funny.

When Santana starts scissoring her fingers, her eyes glaze over as much as Brittany’s does. Brittany totally gets why Santana made dumb rules about fingerbanging before - knowing what she does now. Santana is fucking crazy about pussy. It’s really undeniably gay how much she likes it. Like, Brittany’s pretty sure she doesn’t love Santana’s ass half as much as Santana loves fingering her. And she made a four part series on F42 about that subject. It had half a gig of video just of Santana sunbathing on her stomach.

Santana twists her fingers and rubs all the right spots with the confidence only fanatical practice can bestow. She keeps spreading her fingers, dragging her knuckles against all the inside parts and reaching deep so the wide base of her fingers stretches the sensitive entrance. Brittany lets her do the work for as long as she can, until she feels like she’s going to shiver apart if she doesn’t move her hips right this second.

She moves, and Santana moves with her. Santana wraps her arm around her ribs and keeps her from fucking herself right off Santana’s lap and onto the floor. They’re not even kissing anymore, Brittany just pants hotly into Santana’s face as she chases her pleasure. The fingers inside her find the perfect angle and hold it, letting her work herself against it. Every upward movement drags her belly against Santana’s breasts, every downward thrust ends in a burst of pleasure. A few times it’s too much and her legs go so rubbery that she drops down hard on Santana’s lap. That’s when Santana leads, beckoning her orgasm with firm come-hither gestures.

“Come on, Bijou. You’re so close,” Santana whispers breathlessly, right up against Brittany’s mouth. It’s a combination of the expert little thrumming staccato Santana plays against her g-spot and the sweet little pleading pet name dripping off her girlfriend’s tongue that does her in. Her whole body locks up tighter than a bank vault, knees slamming shut like bear traps around Santana’s thighs. She snaps her hips in short bursts, but it’s the way the fingers inside her push against her pulsing walls that makes her eyes roll back. It’s like Santana doesn’t want her to forget exactly who and what is inside her, and it is super sexy.

Santana holds her until her orgasm is over, or until she thinks it’s over. She’s actually not all that sure, since she can still feel her pulse in literally her entire fucking body. Her ears and lips and fingers and pussy are throbbing in time with her heartbeat. The beat goes into double time when Santana pulls out, but she fights against the urge to close her legs around her girlfriend’s arm and pin her in place.

Gently, Santana tips her sideways to lay across the bed. Brittany watches Santana check the time - something she had long since forgotten existed at all - and then slide carefully to the floor at Brittany’s feet. There’s a gentle tugging on her shoes and then they slip off, thudding quietly as Santana drops them to the side.

“Do you think Morticia and Gomez did stuff like this?” Brittany asks the ceiling. Santana makes a quizzical sound as she pulls off her socks one by one.

“Have sex?”

Brittany sinks deeper into the bed, relaxing even further as Santana reaches up to remove her belt. “Yeah, kinda. But, like… fast sex when they’re, like, too hot to wait until everyone else is in the dungeon or whatever. Do you think Tish ever just gave Gomez a handy in the greenhouse?”

Santana laughs explosively. Her helpless, unrestrained mirth makes Brittany giggle in giddy sympathy. “Fuck yeah she did!” Santana chokes out in between snorts.

Brittany’s still too jittery to hold her own head up, so she rolls her face to the side and looks down her body to try to catch a glimpse of dimples. She doesn’t expect Santana to say anything more about the subject, so she’s kind of surprised when Santana catches her eye with her mouth open like she wants to say something but doesn’t want to say it too. It’s less of a surprise when Santana shifts her head back out of Brittany’s eyeline before she actually does say something. So adorably bashful sometimes.

“When the show first aired,” she starts, trailing her hand around Brittany’s newly bared ankle, “TV shows were just starting to let married couples stop sleeping in separate twin beds again, you know? In all the other shows, the couples were just, like… married, and they lived together and argued and said I loved you, but they never touched each other. ‘Cause that was gauche, and it wasn’t proper or whatever. But the Addams Family were freaks; this family of out of touch weirdos. But they always seem so much happier than, like, the Brady Bunch. Because Tish and Gomez so totally love each other. They showed it all the time. And I think it made them seem more real, you know? And everyone around them thought they were crazy, or idiots. But they were just… happy. Gomez was, like, the worst lawyer ever, but he didn’t care because he had this great family who supported him and everything worked out for him anyway. He had a totally hot wife that wanted to bone him as much as he wanted to bone her, and he had kids and his mom and inlaws and friends who loved him as much as he loved them, and nothing else mattered. They could have been flat broke and that wouldn’t have mattered because they had love.”

She trails off - clearly embarrassed by her rambling - quietly awaiting judgement.

“I am totally going to love you in a Gomez way so hard once my heart stops trying to jump out of my chest,” Brittany says.

Santana slaps her knee gently. “Don’t fucking mock me, Britt Britt,” she says, faux-earnestly. Brittany shakes her head against the bed, with actual earnestness.

“I am so serious. Serious like Ming Ming. This is sewious.” There’s a little barked laugh from her knee area at the lisp she affects for the last line. She taps the bed with her palm, and Santana slinks up to straddle her hips. All Brittany has the strength to do is pet over her girlfriend’s pretty, bare brown legs, and slip under the bunched up dress to stroke soft inner thighs. But she does it very well and with enthusiasm. “I sewiously wuv you.”

Santana punches her in the shoulder for that one. “Say it right, bitch. I just gave you an amazing orgasm.”

Brittany puts on her own serious face, which is not serious at all because she can’t stop smiling at this beautiful girl on her lap. “I love you so much, Santana. And one day I will be your totally hot wife that you can bone all the time.”

That earns her a kiss, which is clearly a much better reward. “I’m gonna be your hot wife,” she mumbles against Brittany’s lips, and that sounds just as good. “I’m gonna be your trophy wife.” Life goals right there.

Santana’s kisses are hungry. When Brittany strokes over the backs of her thighs and over her firm rear, she notices the way her hips are rocking by the stretch in her arms. It’s subtle, but now that she’s looking for it she can feel the heat on her belly. “God, I love you so much,” Brittany mutters against Santana’s sinfully plush lips.

Santana rips her lips away and it feels a lot like a punishment. She’s looking across the room, at the clock. Then she’s slithering back down Brittany’s body. Brittany is really about to just say fuck the pizza and let the girls fend for themselves Lord of the Flies style, until suddenly her pants are gone. Her pants, and her boxers, and her harness and Mr. Limpy too. Santana holds them all in her hands, like a magician performing the sexiest magic trick in the known universe. She looks supremely pleased with herself. And then she’s throwing the lot over her shoulder and crawling back onto the floor, with a very clear destination in mind.

Brittany finds her second wind and quickly props herself up on her arms even though they’re still shaking a little. There is no way she wants to miss this.

Santana spreads her legs, guiding Brittany to prop one foot on the side of the bed and the other on her shoulder. She slips her hands under her bare ass and draws her right to the very edge.

Quinn once said that it was lewd of Brittany to bounce while doing a split. Santana explained that Quinn meant she was being slutty, but that Quinn couldn’t be trusted to judge those sorts of things because she couldn’t resolve her desire for Jesus to spank her. Then they’d gotten into a fight that ended up with Quinn convincing Coach to make Chastity Club mandatory, which sucked for pretty much everyone involved. But even after all that, Brittany still couldn’t figure out what was so lewd about her split.

But this feels pretty fucking lewd. In a good way. She’s spread wide; almost splits wide. And Santana’s face is all up in her business. If this was a better position, she could totally imagine bouncing on Santana’s face. Something to consider later. Right now, all she can focus on is how fucking dirty if feels to be open like this, still wet and shiny all over her thighs from the last orgasm. Santana pushes her legs back just that little bit wider, and then her hands are framing her, and she’s spreading her lower lips open with her thumbs until there’s nothing hidden. Her girlfriend’s heavy lidded brown eyes just about make her cream herself on the spot.

There’s no more build up than that before Santana buries her face between Brittany’s legs. “Fuck, San!”

She drinks up everything. Everything, from bottom to top. And Brittany’s pretty sure that this is the definition of lewd: Santana’s tongue, curled and pushing in as deeply as she can go, slurping like Brittany is a delicious pudding cup and she has to get the last little bit. She doesn’t know which one of them is moaning louder.

It’s clear that Santana is in a hurry though. She licks one broad, strong swath on Brittany’s sticky right thigh and then moves inward once more, turning her full attention on her still flush inner lips and sucking them into her mouth eagerly. It takes no time at all for her to work her way to her clit, and Brittany is already tangling a hand in dark hair and tugging Santana’s mouth exactly where she needs it to be. Santana’s urgency is infectious. She’s wound tight and she’s pretty sure she’ll die if someone interupts them before Santana makes her come.

That will not take very long.

Santana alternates between firm suckling with just her lips, and firmer pressure with her tongue just under Brittany’s clit. It makes her thighs shake.

She pulls lightly on Santana’s hair until her girlfriend gets the hint and turns sleepy, dark eyes upwards. Santana’s moans vibrate directly over her clit, and the totally blissed out look on her face kicks Brittany’s arousal up to eleven. She shifts the hand buried in dark hair around and down to cradle a strong jaw. From there she can feel the way Santana’s jaw clenches as she works her tongue to pleasure Brittany. Periodically she swallows thickly, like she’s taking her first drink after a long practice.

It’s getting close, and her hips are getting jittery again. She confines her movements to gentle circles, not enough to displace Santana but enough to release some of the building tension. Santana slides her hands from inside her thighs to outside and nods up at Brittany, never stopping her mouth’s movements. Gentle pressure encourages her to close her legs around Santana’s head, and from there she can figure out what Santana’s getting at. She rolls her hips in a smooth, slow undulation that Santana mostly follows until the apex, when she just can’t stretch enough. She turns her attention to Brittany’s entrance again until Brittany comes down.

Brittany quickly works out that up and down isn’t the motion for this ocean right now. Instead she rolls into Santana’s mouth, increasing or reducing the pressure as needed to get closer to that peak. Santana follows her lead, squeezing at Brittany’s thighs and encouraging her to grind freely. Her eyes are thin little slits and her incessant groans are smothered between Brittany’s legs.

It’s all Brittany can take. Her head flies back and she ruts thoughtlessly, taking every frisson of pleasure Santana is giving her so ardently. Careful hands hold her tight and a loving tongue draws her out - brings her down. She feels like warm blown glass, like fresh taffy, like the last ringing note of a song. When her orgasm dies down to infrequent shudders Santana crawls up her again, kissing the rippling muscles in Brittany’s stomach, shoulder, arm, neck. Before she curls up next to Brittany, she wipes her face against the bedspread. There’s Brittany all the way back to her ears, but she can wash her face after she gets some well earned cuddles.

Brittany’s skin feels thin and especially conductive. Everywhere Santana’s skin touches it feels like sparks. With a shaking grip, she moves the hand laying limply over her chest and tucks it between her legs. She doesn’t want more sexy touching, necessarily. It just feels really good to have Santana’s hand there, holding her as she finishes coming down. Plus: sparks. Turning her head, Brittany nuzzles Santana’s temple. “That was so good, baby. Thank you.”

Santana makes an acknowledging murmur, nudging back against Brittany’s lips affectionately. That last orgasm was really pushing the time limits, and Brittany knows she has to clean herself up before she can answer the door. She’s just never been able to resist the allure of post coital snuggles.

But Santana doesn’t linger for long. Brittany wants to pout about it, but she knows Santana is worried about the girls opening the door and getting kidnapped by some new Halloween themed axe murderer or something. San worries about every little thing.

When Santana finally pulls herself up, Brittany almost laughs. Her dress is all over the place, wrinkled and lopsided, and she has undeniable sex hair. Plus, her face looks like a glazed donut. She tries to clean herself up in the long mirror on the back of the door, but it doesn’t really help.

“Stop laughing. I go to the door looking like this, the delivery guy is going to think he walked onto the set of a 70s porno.”

That’s not ok. “That’s not ok.”

Santana looks at her over her shoulder, lips pressed into the sweetest little moue. “Go take a shower. I’ll handle the food.”

Brittany considers it for all of a second after Santana leaves. A shower sounds nice. But she’s kind of really concerned that the delivery guy will think he’s walked onto the set of a porno. Santana is all sultry and slinky in her costume, and she has a magical aura that makes Brittany think of sex basically constantly. Right now she’s really not down for some rando sauce jockey entertaining the idea that he could guest star in their show for any amount of time.

Changing completely seems like a waste if she’s not going to shower yet, so Brittany just pulls on a pair of fresh, loose sleep shorts. She’s still wet between her legs, but Santana was very thorough, so it’s not so bad that she has to mop herself up right this second. Her dress shirt is missing a button. And she still has her faded pencil mustache. All in all, she looks kind of schlub-y, but it’s only going to be until she can talk Santana into taking a bath with her. After a moment’s pause, she unbuttons her shirt all the way up to the missing button just below the start of her binder. There’s one bright, red mark over her navel. It’s not a pretty hickey - oblong and awkwardly placed - but she really likes it. She strokes it idly all the way down the stairs.

“Brittany Susan Pierce, you had better be wearing pants,” Santana warns as Brittany turns the corner to the kitchen. She’s washing her arms all the way up to her elbows in the sink, and her face is scrubbed a slightly raw looking red. Brittany sidles up behind her, wrapping her arms around her waist and wiggling suggestively against her backside. Santana catches her hands and drags them under the water, drizzling soap and working up a lather.

“What do I have to wash my hands for? I didn’t even get to touch your pus-” Brittany’s cut off by a sharp elbow jab.

“You wanna eat? You do it with clean hands.”

She can’t really argue with that, so she rests her head on Santana’s shoulder and lets her scrub and dry her hands a lot gentler than she expected. The doorbell rings just as Santana hangs the hand towel back on the cabinet rack. She darts to answer. Brittany follows at a more sedate pace, slipping into her smugly superior Cheerio! face.

It is actually the delivery guy, and he gives Santana the up and down as he hands over the pizza. Brittany saunters over, trying to seem less petulant and more collected. Santana moves to set the pizzas down on the living room table, calling for Brittany to pay for the pizza over her shoulder.

“You had the money, swee- San,” the delivery guy doesn’t even notice her near slip-up over the pet name, and he’s not giving that suspicious look most delivery people get when the food is gone but the money hasn’t shown up yet. Because he’s too busy ogling stuff he’ll never have in his whole entire life. Brittany folds her arms and leans against the doorframe, blocking as much of his view as she can.

“Fuck. Stay there, I’ll get it.”

She can hear Santana digging around in the desk nearby, but she doesn’t take her eyes off the pizza guy. He’s understandably cowed by her even, unwavering stare. The shirt is stretched tight under her crossed arms, and his eyes stop there a lot. With her binder doing its job so well, he seems confused. She is a-ok with this.

“Shit, I can’t find it. Fuck it, I’ll use my card.” Brittany breaks her silent domination to look over her shoulder at Santana. The way Santana uses her bra as a wallet sometimes will never not tickle her. Santana fishes around in there shamelessly for a minute before whipping out a wad of cash. “Oh. There it is.”

Brittany really doesn’t like the look on the pizza guys face when he sees that. She can’t hold her Cheerio! face, and now she knows she’s totally pouting. Santana comes over and kisses her, full on the mouth, and tucks the money into her fist. “You pay, I’m gonna go get plates baby.”

She doesn’t even have to slip into the fake Cheerio smugness now. She’s legit feeling smug. Santana turns away without even acknowledging the guy. His stupid smarmy smile looks frozen on his face, and Brittany smirks. Calculating the 15% - rounded down to even dollars, because even if she doesn’t like his stupid face her mama raised her to not take advantage of the exploitative tipping culture - she presses the bills into his chest and slams the door without so much as a by your leave.

She intercepts Santana halfway from the kitchen, tugging the stack of heavy dishes out of her hands and kissing her warmly. Her answering smile is tiny and shy, still embarrassed by the recent posturing PDA. That just makes Brittany appreciate it so much more. Santana gets glasses and soda and silverware and they work around each other like clockwork to set everything out. Catching Santana by the waist as she goes to get the girls, Brittany spins her around and into a slow waltz. She nuzzles her face; cheek to sweet apple cheek.

“I don’t know why you got so jealous, Britt Britt. Even if he wasn’t a four, tops, you’re still my perfect ten.”

She’s all honey sweet again, and it makes Brittany’s insides flip. “I don’t wanna share you anymore.”

Santana hums. Brittany knows she’s mulling it over, trying to parse it and figure out exactly what she means, but Brittany isn’t even sure she knows herself. She just knows she wants to lock herself in her bedroom with Santana and not come out for a month.

“You’re gonna have to learn, Bijou. One day you’re gonna share me all the time.”

Brittany frowns. “I know we joked about it but I really don’t want any sister wives. And I know that I said I’d make an exception for Quinn that one time, but I was drunk and I don’t think she’s capable of that level of commitment.”

Santana grins shyly, giving Brittany a lingering kiss before slipping away to call the girls from the den. Clearly she is going to let Brittany puzzle this one out on her own.

“You’re not talking about Quinn.”

“I am not talking about Quinn.”

“Courtney can’t move in with us. Are we gonna get a puppy? I could share you with a puppy.”

Santana laughs lightly from the other room, and Brittany is stumped. She’s stumped when the kids come upstairs in a whirlwind of shrieks and demands for particular slices even though they’re all basically personal pizzas anyway, and she’s stumped when she has to fetch chocolates because Santana can’t resist their pleas for just one more piece of candy. She’s stumped while the girls splash water on each other while they wash their hands, and she’s stumped while she mops up the counter with a rag.

And then it hits her, suddenly, while she watches Santana carefully pour cups of pop, topping them off way too high at Courtney’s behest so that the girls can slurp loudly to bring them down to manageable levels. She can practically hear Santana’s voice when she watches Santana smooth her little sister’s hair back from her forehead and kiss it adoringly.

“I love spending time with you and Courtney. It’s like practice...”

“Ladybabies!” She bursts. The girls to a one look at her like she’s lost her mind, but Santana also looks horribly embarrassed. Brittany gives her no quarter. “You meant ladybabies. You meant our ladybabies.”

Courtney twists her face up like she’s tasted something sour. “You guys are too young for babies.”

Princess Tony nods. “And I don’t think two girls can have babies anyway.”

Santana is mortified.

“My aunts have my cousins.” Becca says with a shrug, picking a pineapple piece off a pizza and popping it in her mouth.

Elisabeth looks at Santana’s stricken face and says, very seriously, “It’s ok, you can have babies if you want to. But you should wait until you’re older. My mom says babies are more fun when you can afford an au pair.”

“Oh my god.” Santana covers her face with one hand - abashed and so precious - and Brittany knows that she’ll never love anyone more.