Author's Note:

Come one! Come all!

Witness amazing feats and acrobatics!

Watch as I herald in The Brittana Fandom's Spooktacular Touch-A Touch Me Dirty Fiction Double Feature!

The romance! The intrigue! -gasps-

But first, the formalities!

So a while back, my lovely beta, Swinging Cloud mentioned doing something for Halloween. Something smut filled. And since she's my beta and one of my best friends, of course I had to oblige. This is a little something (lololol 14k is little?) I've been working on ever since she mentioned it.

Before we get started, I'd just like to thank said beta, Mesa (Negative Spaces) and Lyruim (squintyoureyes) because each of these three people had some part to play in helping me craft this thing. Even if they didn't know it.

Also: don't forget to follow the #dubspook tag on Tumblr to get all the latest updates from all of the amazing writers that have put time and effort into this lovely project. And as always, you can follow me (x-roulette-x) or Swinging Cloud (xandylytex) for any information regarding this. But I mean, you can follow me anyway, if you want. Could be exciting. Who knows? :D (Also, also: Strange Fruit chapter 11 will be up next week, sorry for the delay, guys, I know you're basically puking everywhere.)

So without further ado, I present to you: THE BRITTANA FANDOM'S SPOOKTACULAR TOUCH-A TOUCH ME DIRTY FICTION DOUBLE FEATURE!

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. I don't think even I could save it now. .-.

Afterimage

At first there's cotton candy.

There's always cotton candy.

And she sits at a wooden picnic table, the top spread with a white and red checkered cloth, old mustard stains and petrified crumbs crusted along the edges. She picks at the brightly colored candy, blue eyes endless and seeking. The bitter chill of late October sets the hairs on her arms on edge, the crisp dusting pink along her cheeks. Excitement bubbles.

This'll be the eighth year.

It hasn't changed a bit.

The sickening sweet aroma of grease and powdered sugar clings to the air like a fly caught in perpetual motion. It sways with the harsh breeze, mixing with the yellows, reds and fading greens of autumn. On either side of her, booths rise from the ground like growths bathed in sweat-yellowed shirts and beady brown-eyed men. Their flat tops extend into awnings, a Frankenstein of patchwork patterns and dim paper lanterns.

Pounding music and flashing carnival rides swath passersby in gripping greens, radiant reds, pulsing purples and balmy blues. Children, balloons tied securely around wrists, clutch tightly to their little sacks full of treats, smiles on their corn starched stained lips. She counts three witches, seven Iron Mans, two knights, a princess and a Darth Vader. All within the immediate vicinity.

That doesn't count the nineteen zombies she had seen while making her way down the boardwalk.

She loves to dress up, but they agreed to stop, since it was sort of a pointless ritual anyway. Whatever the case may be, she still wore a pumpkin dappled scarf, the thin cashmere feather light against her pink throat. Gingerly she touches it, her smile turning into that of a slight frown before she shakes her head. Best to put things aside and enjoy the moment. Because soon enough, it'll fade and it will all have to wait again until next year.

She's reminded of sugar-frenzied midnight slumber parties and secreted kisses supposing to mean nothing between two nine year old girls. But it means the world. She sees it in the way Darth Vader pulls on his mother's arm, dragging her to another stall, begging her for another five dollars, if only just to win that Adventure Time doll (made in China). There's hesitance in the woman's smile, but finally she nods her head and hands him the money. It's only once a year, after all.

Tearing off another clump of sweet pink candy, the blonde pops it into her mouth, relishing the way it melts along her tongue, coating it in sticky sugar. She certainly missed this. And cider. She likes that, too. She has to remember to make Santana get her some later.

A biting breeze pulls off of the water, peeling everything back in that sweet October way, the fresh sea salt temporarily mixing with ripe pumpkin spice and sour apples. Today is their day, as it is every year, with the moon hanging low on the horizon and clouds splashed with the color of trick-or-treats. And she can already taste dark lips.

She pops more cotton candy in her mouth.

The atmosphere shifts, distinctive cinnamon gripping her throat. A knowing smile, and the blonde leans back, her shoulders rolling forward with the impending contact. She can't keep the smile off of her face. She never can. Hands slip along her sides, snaking around the contours of her ribs before they are clasped along her stomach. Dark hair tickles the side of her face, a chest pressing, with all the tenderness in the world, into her back.

Tension she didn't know that she harbored disperses immediately. And she feels at home. She thinks her heart hammers, but she can't tell. A heated breath warms her flushed ear, lips brushing against her lobe as smoky tones feed into her drunkenness.

"You shouldn't do that, they'll start to stare." It has her squirming, stars bursting behind her eyelids, a static shock jolting her very system. She revels in the way dark hands clasp tighter around her, as if proclaiming to those who watch that she is indeed taken. And she wants to be taken. But only by her. "Then I'd have to cut a bitch, and I just don't think you could live with that guilt, BrittBritt."

"What if I want them to stare? Would that make you jealous?" She attempts to twist in her unseen assailant's grasp, but finds that she cannot. The pout washes over her face before she has a chance to stop it. Not that she really wants to. Santana could never say no.

"It'd make me down right murderous. I'd really rather not go Lima Heights on any skank-ass bitch tonight, though."

Not when I have you.

The words are unspoken, but they ring loud, all the same. Frustration builds, Brittany's pout becoming more prominent as her elusive captor continues to evade her sight. Gripping caramel wrists, she attempts to disengage so that she might turn and look. If only for just a moment. (Because it'll only last so long before…) When hands lock tighter, she lets out a whine.

"San, let me see you."

"But you've seen me dozens of times. It's far better to look at you." The reply is playful and accompanied by a soft kiss to the spot that always had her coming undone. That place just where the jaw meets with the neck and the ear. Where a hammering beat should pulse.

"Well, yeah, I'm hot," she jokes, her smile breaking through her pout.

"We're hot. Bitches be jealous." Lips press against the side of her neck again and she can't hold back the shiver that rips through her. And she knows Santana can feel it travel down her spine because she hears the hitch in her breath.

Taking that moment, the blonde twists suddenly within Santana's arms. Gripping her by the waist, Brittany pulls her shorter captor down, the other girl falling with a yelp into her lap. Awkwardly. The man sitting to their right watches with interest, his lips smacking, beefy fingers secured around a dripping one-pound burger. Grease stains the front of his shirt.

As it does every year.

But neither seem to mind, Santana laughing wildly, a beautiful smile stretched across her full, red lips. It speaks volumes, her chocolate eyes molten within the iris and Brittany thinks she might be able to eat them. But she shouldn't—couldn't—wouldn't. Because they're hers. And it would be gross. Wrinkling her nose a little at the thought, she joins with her own laughter, fighting for dominance upon an old oak bench, cotton candy forgotten upon a white and red checkered table cloth.

Santana peers up into universe eyes and finds herself falling.

Because there's only one way to go with Brittany Pierce, she's found. And it definitely isn't up. (Because up and down, it's all a relative. A variable that can change. But Brittany is the constant. A constant, a day, a time, and cotton candy.)

She lets her win, Brittany knows. It comes as no surprise when Santana finally sighs, her giggles still shaking her chest, eyes rolling as she offers her hands up in surrender. Sitting with her legs straddling the bench, the blonde holds her tighter before relenting. Carefully, Santana drapes her legs over Brittany's so that they sit perpendicular to one another, her arms securing themselves around the blonde's neck.

"What took you so long?" The blonde whines as she splays her hands upon Santana's hip, fingers itching to feel flesh.

"Have you seen the hoard on the boardwalk? It's like Night of The Living Dead meets Revenge of the Nerds." Santana graces over the reference, ignoring the way a hollowed spike reflects in baby blue eyes. Brittany buries her face into Santana's chest, allowing herself the comfort of closeness. "It took me nearly twenty minutes to cross the fucking thing! I was propositioned four times. Four!"

"I could proposition to you, too, and that would make five—I don't have a ring though." Trying the term on her tongue, Brittany squints. It's entirely possible she's using the word wrong, but it sounds close enough and Santana will get what she means anyway. Inhaling deeply, she nestles herself closer, pressing her face against the cool leather of her jacket.

"Unfortunately, 'Till death do us part,' simply isn't long enough, Britt. I'm a demanding woman, I need more than that. Just like Pringles—bitches can't ever get enough Pringles." A smile burns on dark red lips, caramel fingers winding into her hair. Brittany's ears ring and she's not sure if it's because of the pounding music blaring over the loud speakers or because of the sudden rush of blood to her head. Vision swimming, she stifles a small groan, turning her head so that her nose lands in the crook of Santana's arm.

"What if it's not our death, then, but Grandfather's?" Squeezing her eyes tightly closed, Brittany attempts to ground herself. The world around washing and dripping like watercolor and oil. Inky splotches dance behind her eyelids, the faint smell of gasoline mixing with the heavy scent of fryer grease. Her stomach twists, a shudder rushing down her spine. Fingers work meticulously against her scalp, the flesh beneath insistent digits heating immediately.

"Uh, that's a little fucked up, Britt, you should at least pick something with a life longer than a couple years," Santana intones, her voice hesitant. Brittany can't keep from lifting her head, a Cheshire smile playing her lips. With blue eyes made dark, Santana finds her breath hitching in her chest, lips aching to pool against creamy flesh.

"Not Granpi, San. Grandfather." At the blank stare she gets, Brittany's grin widens further. She loves the way chocolate eyes flick to her mouth and the way Santana's pink tongue darts from between her lips to wet them. It's distracting, intoxicating and maddening. "Like time." Inching her way forward, the blonde ignores the constant bells and chimes that shatter the atmosphere like clockwork.

"That's like forever, BrittBritt," Santana replies, her voice already half drunk. She can already taste vanilla and sunshine, the warmth spreading through her like a wildfire. The man with the burger watches, his jowls moving as he chews, little bits of spittle dappling his poorly shaven chin, beady eyes wild with the prospect of excitement. Santana cuts a withering look towards him, annoyance pricking at the base of her skull. This is their night. No one else should be intruding. "Hey curdball—"

"Santana," Brittany sings, palms cupping Santana's cheeks. It's not the time for angry words and heated glares. Stormy eyes draw back to her, the blonde running a thumb beneath Santana's eye. She likes the roundness of her face and the way the carnival lights flicker within the dark iris. The after image of bursting bulbs pop like fireworks and Brittany feels like a child captivated. The buzzing in her lips starts again, breath fanning out across her face.

But chocolate eyes keep cutting away, an insistent twitch creeping at rose colored lips. Jutting her bottom lip out, Brittany cups her hands around Santana's eyes, effectively creating blinders. Annoyance dances along Santana's jaw, the muscles tightening, her throat bobbing up and down with the effort to mind her tongue. To focus on Brittany. Because that's what really matters—Brittany.

The girl with the universe eyes and white gold hair that slips like silk between her caramel fingers. The girl that makes her chest ache and throat tighten, so many words left unspoken falling between them. Santana doesn't have to say anything, because she already knows. She knows and knows and knows, and it's been three hundred and sixty-four days and she hasn't forgotten.

It always starts with cotton candy.

Santana fingers the bright orange scarf, happy little pumpkins with gap toothed grins caught in a state of forever. It's soft to the touch, pooling methodically against the pink of Brittany's neck. She wants to land kisses there, feeling the elegant arc of her neck and fine hairs prickling against her lips. She wants to feel the air pass through Brittany's throat as she lets out a breathy moan, a rare and beautiful thing only to be had by one. Let them be jealous, then.

Let the man with the hamburger watch. And as his onions, grilled and limp, fall from between soggy buns, Santana bridges the gap between them, her sparking lips collecting Brittany's in a breathless kiss. It's startling at first, the way they slip beneath her, fitting together like perfect pieces of a perfect puzzle. A thrill courses through her veins, quick and dangerous, for it leaves her wanting more. Because Santana will always be wanting more.

She will never be satisfied.

Brittany knows that, her thumbs smoothing small arcs upon Santana's cheeks, memorizing every detail, every curve, swoop and angle so that she might have something to keep with her. The tenderness of red lips has adrenaline coursing through her veins, her mind fogging with the haze belonging only to cinnamon and a smoldering hint of smoked apple.

A fire, long ignored, erupts in the pit of Brittany's stomach, desire coiling tightly around her spine, licking wispy tendrils along her flesh. Fingertips blazing, she pushes them through Santana's hair, wary enough to finally draw her lips back. Not here. Not now. But dark eyes bear down at her, the twitch in Santana's lip now a tremble.

Her throat begins to close up, the edges of her eyes misting, a lump working its way up her esophagus, threatening to constrict her breathing. With trembling hands, she grips dark tresses, pulling Santana's head downward so that their foreheads rest against one another. Despite the added weight of her dark lover, Brittany bounces her leg in anticipation and excitement.

"What?" Santana blurts, worry evident. "What did I do?" Because it's always something she says.

"Nothing!" Brittany slowly shakes her head, her smile bright and striking. "I'm just so happy."

"You're sure?" she asks, looking at her long and hard, attempting to fish out the lie. But all she finds is sincerity, unmarked constellations feeding over her face.

"As rain," the blonde replies with an easy smile. Narrowing her eyes, Santana finally relents, believing her—for now.

"Whatever douche bag decided to make crying a happy-sad thing should have saved all us assholes the grief and just picked one," Santana grumbles before disentangling herself from the blonde. Shaking her head, the dark haired woman stretches, her eyes coming to rest upon a distant booth.

Shoving her hands into her pocket, Santana nods over towards it, blue eyes lighting like stars in the sky. "Want some cider?" Brittany bounces up, tears instantly forgotten, her arms coiling loosely around Santana's, her hand sneaking its way also into her pocket. She laces their fingers together, warm in the comfort of the thick lining.

"You aren't an asshole, San," Brittany clucks, pulling them both forward towards the stand. Falling into step next to her, Santana rolls her eyes, snorting out her response as she briefly glances to the right. The blonde's hips sway and knock into her own, the light brushes and soft gyrations picking at the heat deep within her belly. Caramel cheeks flush. "Assholes don't buy ladies cider."

"Who said I was buying?" A coy smirk and Santana feels the fingers around hers tighten. Baby blues glare daggers; the pout developing nearly has her in shambles.

"Then you are an asshole," Brittany answers, her eyebrows raised high, fingers quickly withdrawing from the comfort of Santana's pocket. "But you're still so hot," she mutters under her breath. A caramel hand chases her own, but she darts away before Santana's prize can be sought.

"Okay—okay. It's on me," she relents around her laugh. To Brittany, it's the most brilliant thing she's ever heard. That thing that keeps her going hour to hour, even when she feels like throwing in the gauntlets and giving up. Because behind it is Santana and there's nothing more perfect than that.

She maintains the distance between them, purposefully walking on the opposite sides of the tables, her pout still firmly in place. Pretending to ignore her, Brittany glances at all the children once again, her stomach sinking to her knees. Before she really has a chance to reflect, however, their paths converge, an insistent hand pulling her back into the silky warmth of a pocket.

They stand at the back of a crowd, Santana bouncing on her feet to try and gain a better view. The sweet steam of hot drinks and hotter breath snakes their way up towards the apex of the awnings before dispersing within the cool night air. Brittany stares up at the black expanse above, wondering what it would be like to fall into the sky and why the people in Australia haven't done so already. They are upside-down, after all.

The moon is bright and orange, a swirling vortex pocked by craters and abuse, the bright reflection broken and shattered upon the water's surface. The sky is in the ocean and Brittany feels Santana pulling her forward.

"Damn lard-ass, stanky motherfuckers," growls the dark haired woman, her eyes glinting dangerously. She shoots lasers at a woman wearing a bright pink down jacket and matching earmuffs, her hand knit mittens dangling at her wrists, making her look like some overly large child. "I will cut a bitch, I will fucking cut a bitch if I have to!" The woman whips around, a self righteous frown plastered across her face. Her hands instantly shoot to her hips, her eyelashes fluttering madly.

Brittany considers her sort of adorable, her brown hair long and silken (she must brush it twice a day with fifty strokes each; the price of stardom) and a horrifically tacky corn brooch pinned to the front of her jacket, the little kernels each a different type of stone. Grinning widely at her, the blonde presses herself closer to Santana, hoping the way her breasts push around her elbow will temporarily stun her razor tongue.

"Rude people ought to really follow the simple courtesies afforded by a thriving, self sustaining society, instead of subjecting small children to such brash and harsh language! Think of the way you've altered their lives with such negative and oppressive words. Their minds are at the most vulnerable and easily manipulated stages right now! Did you know that the word skank originates from the word 'ska' in which a person was—" The woman stops midsentence, her eyes suddenly going cold and dead. Grim faced, her jaw set in stone, she stares at Santana, her eyebrows wrinkling.

"I'm sorry, she didn't mean anything by it, she just really wants cider." Unnerved, Brittany tries to draw the woman's focus onto her instead, something telling her that they're stumbling into a dangerous territory. Sort of like No-Man's-Land, except without all of the mustard gas and bullets. Actually less like No-Man's-Land and more like Sunnydale.

"Santana?" The woman finally says. Her jaw comes unhinged, face paling considerably. "Santana Lopez, is that you?"

Chocolate eyes snap out of their stupor, the sound of her name lashing from a foreign tongue harsh and unwelcome. A lump develops in her throat, her face twisting up into a snarl, fingers squeezing Brittany's with a renewed vigor. She worries that she might be crushing them and eases up, but still remains firm. If Santana were to let go now, she's certain she would fall and never get up again.

"Does it look like I know you?" She cranes her neck back, eyebrow raised as high as she is able to get it. The "oh really" face is one of Brittany's favorites, but she knows better than to mention that right now.

"I-I'm certain it—"

"Listen, Countess Von CornPuff, if you want to play crazy, go right ahead, just don't drag me into it. I just wants to gets me some cider for my girl here and gets on with my night. I have important places to be and people to see that don't involve your horrendous tit sweat and stanky-ass dog breath." Though she puts on a brave front, Brittany can feel the clamminess of Santana's palm. The woman's gaze slowly oscillates towards her, finally, her lips twisting down into a deeper frown. A chill runs through the blonde.

"I don't need cider," she whispers softly against the darkness of her hair. To be honest, Brittany just wants to get out of this woman's presence; she gets the impression that what they're doing is something wrong, something bad under the watchful gaze of carnies. They're walking on a wire, the soles of their feet bleeding and scabbed, high above the rest of the world, and they shouldn't care. They shouldn't care.

But Brittany does.

"You want cider, so I'm going to get you cider," Santana hisses back, her cheeks looking sallow and sunken.

"There's always next year—"

"No," Santana snaps.

"E-excuse m-me." The woman, on the verge of tears, pushes by them, her hands clasping around her mouth. She'll probably be sick, but it could be a whole lot worse. Deep fissures crack the woman's skin, heavy black bags around her eyes as she takes on a much older look, her shoulders hunched as she forces her way to the far end of the boardwalk towards the bathrooms.

Both women ease, Santana releasing a long breath, her dark eyes staring a hole in the ground in front of her. Gathering her bottom lip, Brittany watches the side of the dark beauty's face, a brief flash of pain straining against her cheeks. Letting out a long sigh, Brittany presses her chest into Santana's captive arm again, shuddering at the way it casts a part between her breasts, nestling firmly against her sternum.

She presses her lips to caramel cheeks, a spark arcing between their flesh in that moment before contact. Santana jolts, her pupils dilating instantly, a coil winding tighter. With Brittany so close how is she expected to mind her behavior? Out of the corner of her eye, she casts the blonde a pained glance, only to be received with that mischievous grin of hers. Mischievous and knowing.

She leans in closer, her lips gently grazing the lobe of her ear, her nose tickling the curve, hot breath feeding into the fire. "Do you know what you want?" Brittany whispers, her voice low and throaty. Santana immediately forgets about the woman with the pink coat, the throb between her legs forceful and overpowering. Cider be damned.

Searching frantically, Santana tries to spy any sort of secluded area, any place they could be alone. Any place. Any place at all. Teeth catch against her sensitive skin, tugging insistently, a warm, silk soft tongue peeking out to taste. Her eyes list closed, her teeth grinding hard against one another.

"Can I help you?" Pulling her out of her swimming head, the woman standing behind the stand stares pointedly at both of them, her eyebrows raised in boredom. Her voice is high and whiny, her chin held disinterestedly upon the palm of her left hand. A brightly colored Cosmo magazine lays flat against the wooden countertop, claiming 50 Ways to Treat Your Man and 30 New Weight Loss Tips. She flips to the next page, but doesn't stop staring at them.

Brittany pulls back, allowing Santana's earlobe to slip from between her teeth. She feels the shudder pass through, her own excitement beginning to build. Throat dry, the dark haired beauty steps forward, leaning against the side of the booth. Her eyes flick to the woman's nametag, quirking a brow.

"Hey there, Sweet 'N Lo, think you could manage two cups of drink?"

"Be nice," Brittany warns. Really, how hard is it to get cider?

"Oh, how original," the brunette says, rolling her eyes. "Did your baby daddy teach you that one?"

"Does it look like I have a baby daddy," Santana snorts, motioning between herself and Brittany. The brunette shrugs.

"I just thought you were a couple a hos down a pimp, turning a trick to live life fast, hard and incredibly rich—oh wait. Never mind, those shoes are so last season, you basically scream back-alley-hook-up. My mistake," she drawls, flipping another page of her magazine.

"Oh no, you did not just insult the shoes." Santana rolls her shoulders, her finger pointed in that wonderfully sassy manner Brittany finds absolutely adorable. The blonde secrets a smile upon her lips.

"How disrespectful of me, I forgot your people require me to speak slowly. In that case: your—shoes—los zapados—muy—sucko—en areola—"

"Bitch, that ain't even Spanish," Santana snaps. "That ain't even Spanglish. Or anything."

"Can't we just get our cider?" Brittany whines. Chocolate eyes flick to her, the anger written there temporarily subsiding.

"I obviously know more than you, how sad, my words are lost upon the lesser," she sighs, fanning herself.

"Oh yes, a girl named Sugar, you're grade-A, top-class, filthy money hound. How old's your hubby? Ninety-seven?"

"At least you don't see me dry humping in a family friendly place." Startled by her forwardness, Santana's cheeks flush bright red. "Now, bitch, can a homie hook you up, or do I has to cap your ass, too?"

"Look, S, she speaks your language," Brittany teases, gently nudging Santana in the ribs.

"Ah hell no, you think you can threaten me? Slutbag, I was raised in Lima Heights, don't make me throw down the hurt." She leans in close her nose nearly touching Sugar's. Brittany withdraws her hand, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Apparently, cider is an impossibility this year. Apparently.

"Hooker, I'm a carnie, you think I ain't packing? I could work you like a stripper works a pole."

Already wound so close to the breaking point, Santana grips the side of the booth as hard as she can, her knuckles white. She stares hard into disinterested eyes, hoping to eviscerate whatever parts of the girl's soul that she can. This night. Seriously. A long moment of silence stretches between them, Brittany bouncing impatiently from foot to foot.

"Can I have two ciders, please?" the blonde finally asks, holding up two fingers to get her point across. She doesn't let her smile fall as bored eyes flick over to her. Sugar returns her grin as she pushes herself up from her leaning position.

"Certainly, would you like a sleeve?" the brunette asks grabbing a white paper cup.

"Bitch, we ain't done!" Santana barks.

"Oh, can it, la crepa, can't you see ladies are speaking?" She motions between herself and Brittany with the cup.

"I already have sleeves," Brittany replies, tugging on her cuffs to accent her point. Wrinkling her eyebrows, she helplessly stares at Santana.

"Did you just call me pancake?"

"Oh my God, stop putting words in my mouth—sleeve yes or no?" She jiggles the cup quickly back and forth.

"But I already told you, I have sleeves." Brittany extends her arms further. "It's sweet of you to care, though." Sugar gives her a blank stare before turning to Santana.

"Don't you be insulting me in my mother's tongue and then turn around an—"

"Christ on a hand truck being delivered to fucking Antarctica, just give me three dollars," Sugar growls, proceeding to fill up the cup with the steaming, liquid gold. Brittany's tongue already burns, the sweet, tangy apple cinnamon staining the inside of her mouth. She's reminded of dark kisses, excitement still bubbling through her.

Narrowing her eyes, Santana plunges her fist into her pocket, withdrawing a little wad of neatly folded bills, the corners curled and cracked with age. Carefully, she peels out three dollars, slapping them on the counter top at the same time Sugar places the first cup down. The second quickly follows, the bills collected by the asinine woman.

"Ew, what the fuck, did you pull these out of Ruby's g-string, because they damp as hell." Holding the bills by the extreme corners, Sugar deposits them within the little steel box containing the rest of the money. "And when were these printed? 1802? I mean, I've heard of old money, but Christ! The lettering is so dark I can hardly make out Georgey-boy's face!"

"Shut up and take it," Santana growls. Brittany holds her breath. Sighing dramatically, Sugar slams the lid, then reaches down beneath the counter grabbing at something.

Holding two coffee sleeves, she slowly slides them across the top towards the drinks, speaking slowly and deliberately. "These—are—sleeves. They—go—around—the—cup."

"They don't fit on your arms at all," Brittany grumbles, looking down at the little cardboard pieces. Scowling, Santana retrieves both of them and easily slides them onto their respective cups, handing the blonde her own before turning back to Sugar.

"Hope you choke on come!" she says with mock enthusiasm. Pleased with herself, Santana offers her arm to Brittany, who instantly pulls it in tight to her.

"You can't choke what you're made to guzzle!"

Santana's step falters, her cheeks growing crimson at the thought. "Who says that? Like, who literally says that?" She makes to turn towards the woman again, but Brittany tightens her grasp, forcefully directing them in the direction of piercing bells and electronic bullets.

"If you loved me, you'd win me something." Brittany coyly smirks, bringing the piping hot drink to her lips. With painstaking movements, she eases the liquid into her mouth, the tip of her tongue recoiling at the temperature of the drink. But it's so good. She pulls it back, impatiently blowing on the lid, hoping that somehow it will cool faster that way.

"Oh, so now, I have to keep your love by giving you things?" Santana jokes, rolling her eyes.

"I'm very demanding, Santana. I need things to keep me company when you aren't there." The words tumble before she can stop them, Brittany's breath stilled in her chest as she waits for Santana's response. Her cheeks, already pink from the cold, begin to burn.

"I'll get you anything you want, BrittBritt." The strain in her voice doesn't go unnoticed by the blonde, but she lets it slide.

"Anything I want?"

"Mm," Santana hums her response.

Tossing this idea over in her head, she reattempts to sip at her drink, relishing the sweet burn as it travels down her throat, soothing a rawness she didn't know was still present. A comfortable silence falls between them as they amble aimlessly through the brightly colored stalls—kids, teenagers and parents milling about, eyes tired with the waking of the moon.

Blue eyes dance along the edges of the orange expanse, thousands of stars littering the scape like shards of broken glass. Midnight clouds rip through the canvas of the night, slashing a reminder to all below who really owns the stars. Chocolate eyes stare at her, Santana attempting to be surreptitious about it, but failing miserably. A knowing smirk tugs at her and Brittany can't help but pull herself closer to her dark haired love.

"Com'on up, test yer strength, got enough in ya ta win a prize fer th' lady?"

"Shoot right, shoot straight, win the heart—"

"—of the best teller in Bermuda—"

"Are you a match—"

"Take on the incredible—"

Pitches blend and fade together, the bright lights and artificial sound effects twisting the atmosphere into a wonderland of plastic guns and dull-tipped darts. Dolls hang, lifeless smiles and distant eyes watching children who sit upon stools, tongues stuck out, one eye closed in concentration.

There's only one thing Brittany wants and it isn't any doll.

Her face falls for just a split second before a giant stuffed narwhale comes into sight, the horn easily counting two feet in length. A childish excitement fills her and she nods her head, Santana's lips slowly twisting into a frown. An older man, stout and wearing a fraying brown suit, leans against the counter picking at something deep within his ear. Santana gives Brittany a pleading look.

"I've already named him," the blonde states matter-of-factly, closing the book on the argument before it even has time to start. Letting out a long sigh, Santana follows the pretty blonde on her arm until she stands close enough to call out to the attendant.

"Hey," she grumbles, motioning towards the stuffed animal. "How much?"

That earns a sharp jab to her ribs, Brittany hissing in her ear. "No, Santana, that's not how it works. You have to win it for me."

"But I fucking suck at this game, Britt," she whines. Chocolate eyes cut away back towards the game, the three bottles stacked on top of each other mocking her in their infinite glory. Her eye twitches as the man shakes his head at her. "It's rigged and all they want is the money anyway."

"If I wanted you to buy me things, then we'd be at the mall right now. You said you would win something—anything—for me." Her pout spreads wide, striking the anvil of Santana's soul. The dark haired Latina groans, her head rolling back. Why did Brittany have to be so fucking perfect?

"An' wouldn' it be sweeter if ya win it fer the little miss?"

"Cork it, Budweiser." Santana glares at the man who simply shrugs his shoulders and goes back to picking at his ear.

"You said," the pout deepens and she caves to her white gold beauty.

"Fine, fine, alright." Grouchy at being played again (because she can never say 'no' to Brittany), Santana approaches the counter and carefully pulls out her little bundle of money. "But if this is rigged, I swear to Elvis or Tupac or whatever other sham you believe in, that I will cut you." She jabs her finger towards the man before carefully peeling a five dollar bill from the middle.

Brittany pales before bringing her cup to her lips again.

"Ya get t'ree balls. Knock 'em all over 'n ya get a prize. Need t'ree little prizes fer the biggun," the man drawls, dropping three softballs onto the counter top. Santana rotates her shoulder staring hard at the little pyramid set about ten feet away from her. Never was much for slinging balls. Of any kind.

She picks one of them up, old stitching pressing into her palm. It smells of sweat, leather and grass, of metal beatings and years of hard play. She hefts it once in her hand, getting used to the weight. How is she going to do this? She'll end up spending all of the money she has in order to win the damn thing. Catching sight of endless blue eyes, her resolve hardens. Sadness creeps. "Fucking hell," she whispers to herself. After all, there isn't such a thing as tears without pain.

Squaring herself up, Santana takes a deep breath, attempting to drown out all of the major distractions playing all around her. The blaring music, probably produced in the 1970s, crackles over the loudspeaker, flashing lights casting her shadow against the far side of the wall in a backdrop of blue, purple, gold, red, one right after the other. On the exhale of her breath, her vision suddenly narrows, becoming much crisper, her arm launching itself at the little stacked pyramid.

It smacks into the top bottle, the heavy container falling with a sharp clatter upon the concrete below. She narrows her eyes, glaring at the carnie as he clucks and resets the toss. He steps back and motions towards the set up again, a smug grin on his face. Santana can already feel her blood beginning to boil. Shaking off the first toss, she tries another.

This time, the ball glances against the bottom right jar, the top still toppling, the second moving only a fraction of an inch. "Fuckin' rigged," she growls, casting a pleading glance back towards Brittany. The pink in her cheeks is gone, her eyes staring hard at Santana's back. Universe eyes are wandering and Santana can feel her own anxiety beginning to crop up.

Quickly, she throws her last ball, not even caring if it hits or not, her focus suddenly upon the blonde. "What's wrong?"

"Miss."

"Nothing," Brittany lies. The constant twirling of her cup says otherwise.

"You weren't watching my ass, were you?" Santana breathes, gently running her fingers up the blonde's arm. She watches as a shudder passes through her, the tension temporarily replaced with tight coils and burning cheeks. Much better.

"Miss."

"I'm a pirate, I have to protect my treasure." Brittany beams at her joke, her grin cracking wide.

"Of course you are," Santana laughs, wrapping her hands around the blonde's waist.

"MISS."

"I think he's calling you." Brittany motions once with her hand. She finds the little man quite hilarious, his face pink, veins popping from beneath the collar of his suit. There are little bits of spittle dancing along his lips as he waves his hand dramatically at Santana.

"What?" she snaps.

"Do ya wantcher prize er no?" He motions his arm towards the smaller prize wall where countless little trinkets (all poorly made, Santana's sure) hang by their plastic nooses. Wait. She actually won something?

Skeptical, she peers over the low counter at the toppled pyramid, her eyebrows raised high in surprise. "Hells yeah I do, Corky!" she exclaims, pulling Brittany forward. "What'll you have, Britt? The downs syndrome Hello Kitty or the mini blow-up doll with the wang for a nose?"

"That's not very nice, Santana," Brittany replies trying her best to suppress her smile. Scanning the wall of prizes, she shrugs her shoulders before motioning towards said Hello Kitty. It's no bigger than the span of her hand and wears a poorly stitched black and purple witch costume. Some of the piping is frayed, but she beams all the same as she pulls it to her chest.

Warmth swells within her chest, the closeness of cinnamon and the sweet smell of cotton candy burning the air has her complete. Because it's like childhood all over again. With a dark eyed girl with rose colored lips, dressed to the nines as a simple ballerina and herself as a robo-cowgirl-greaser-indian and they sing and they dance and the dark haired girl wins her a rubber duck from that fishing game. She treasures that duck until her mom throws it out, accidentally, six years later during the move, effectively making sure she leaves everything from the town with the rose-lipped girl behind.

She clutches the doll tighter.

"Should I go again?" Santana asks. She peers up at the giant narwhale and suddenly he seems smaller. He's sad and lonely and all the things that she doesn't want to think about. All the things and less important. Brittany shakes her head.

"He doesn't want to come home with me, anyway," she says. "There's a lady narwhale waiting for him somewhere else, I'm afraid." The man gives her a long look, eyebrows twisted up in confusion. He shakes his head, through with puzzling out the enigma that is Brittany Pierce. Should he try, he very well might confuse himself into an early grave.

Because there's only one person who can ever understand her. And Brittany smiles brightly down at her.

"Let's do something magical." A bell chimes in the distance.

Tilt-o-Whirl. The Hurricane. La Niña. The Gyrinator.

Brittany is particularly confused by the last name. What do gyrinators have to do with rides? She doesn't want to ask Santana, but the need to know begins to crop up. Positioning herself closer to the shorter woman, she silently contemplates her question further. Did they go into its mouth? Maybe they were in its belly. She always did wonder what it would be like to be inside of another creature.

More than just Santana.

The thought is sudden, quick and has her curiosity strangled. Color bursts along her cheeks, her chest aching madly, head feeling as if it's swimming within a roiling squall. Her knees buckle just a little bit, causing her to stumble. Dark eyes dart over her way and it's a wonder to her after so many years that she can still have this effect.

No. She will never need more than Santana.

Santana screws her eyebrows up in confusion, hoisting Brittany before she falls. She splays a caramel hand against her tight abdomen, and the blonde finds her stomach clenching tighter. Lips buzzing, she tries to shake the cobwebs that have developed within her mind, the promise of ghosted breaths against her heated flesh enough to make her buckle again.

"Britt?" Santana asks, her voice quiet. She doesn't miss the way she glances at her scarf, or the way her lips flicker into a miniscule frown. Guiding them to a bench, she urges Brittany to sit, and she's almost giddy with the way Santana hasn't noticed. Because she always notices. Santana kneels in front of her, chocolate eyes tilted up to find her own.

The moon hangs high in the sky.

"Too much cider," Brittany offers, Santana staring at her. She notices. Color beats along the ridge of her caramel cheeks and Brittany tips forward, her hand pressing into the heat of her face, her thumb stroking gently beneath her eye.

"There wasn't anything even remotely fun in that damn cider," she replies, her voice shaking. Santana's mouth has been sucked dry. She's falling into midnight pools and her skin begins to prickle madly. She's still pissed at Sugar though. Little bitch.

The crowds have begun to thin, the screams less piercing, but still jarring none the less as they stare at each other, the music playing on a loop and Brittany swears she hears the same song three times before they tear their eyes away. She runs her creamy fingers back through Santana's hair and pulls her closer, her lips resting a millimeter away from a caramel lobe.

Her breath washes over the sensitive skin and she knows what the dark haired woman is thinking. "You mean you didn't like the cider?" she breathes. She ghosts her lips against the skin, refusing to make contact. Santana has stopped breathing.

"Brittany," she warns, her hands falling to rest upon her knees. Dark skin nearly sears through the material of her jeans.

"Oh well!" she exclaims suddenly, pulling herself back and away from Santana's ear so she doesn't hurt it too much with the loudness of her voice. While making sure she doesn't push her dark Latina over, Brittany gathers herself to her feet, a dull throb shaking her muscles to life. It's a lie if she says she doesn't love the way Santana kneels at her feet, her hands bracing themselves against her thighs for stabilization. And she doesn't lie.

She can feel the bursting heat of Santana's breath pushing through her jeans to kiss her chilled skin. A part of her doesn't want to move. But there are people. And with people there are eyes. And with eyes there are watchers. And what she intends doesn't need to have a thousand eyed audience. She allows the coil in the pit of her stomach to tighten before she sidesteps away.

Santana gapes after her, Brittany's sweet scent still fogging the inside of her mind. Almost lost in a stupor, she narrows her eyes, stumbling to her feet to fall into step next to the blonde. Whoever says that she is innocent certainly doesn't know the Brittany she does. Because right now, the girl throwing glances, universe eyes carved into seduction, her lips a Cheshire smirk, she is not innocent.

"You are not playing fair," she growls, sending the blonde a mock glare. Laughter pulls from her throat and Santana is rewarded.

"We're playing a game?"

"Don't deny it," Santana stuffs her hands deep into her pockets. Despite the heat fanning across her face the tips of her fingers have begin to numb. Much like before, Brittany falls into step next to her and slips her own hand into her pocket, threading their fingers together. She fails to hold back her smile.

"Don't be a grumpy-gus, San, just because you're losing."

"You weren't even aware we were playing a game five seconds ago!"

"So? I'm still winning. The gentleman always lets the lady win."

"Why am I always the gentleman?" she grumbles, shuffling the collar of her coat up higher with the movement of her shoulders. It proves harder to do than she had initially anticipated.

"Because I shared a bed with a Lord, therefore, I can't be the gentleman. That would make Tubbs gay, and I'm pretty sure he got FeeFee from next door pregnant, so that would make him definitely not gay."

"Plenty of gay dudes get bitches preggers!"

"Ah, the classic conspiracy bait-and-switch." Brittany nods her head, eyebrows high upon her head. Santana narrows her eyes.

"What?"

"You're trying to throw me off my game, but you can't stop the bull, Santana. You mess with the bull you get the hooves." Dark eyes don't even bother watching where they're going, the countless amounts of rides whizzing by in a blur. She stares hard at Brittany, eyebrow raised.

It's so perfectly ridiculous that she doesn't even know what to say, dark laughter bubbling up instead. She loves this side of Brittany. The absolutely goofy, charming, enigmatic, dorky, clever side of this girl. Her tactics are wonderful. Who would argue with a statement like that?

And it's in this moment where both of them simultaneously realize that Brittany has won and Santana has definitely lost. (Because she would rather drink bong water than make Brittany sad.)

Brittany's smile widens. "Let me ride you?"

"W-w-what?" Santana stammers. She can practically feel her pupils dilate, static shocks rolling across her flesh.

"I mean—" She can't tell if the slip was intentional or not, because Brittany's eyes still scream seduction. "Let's go for some rides?"

Grunting her approval, Santana snakes her way through the winding pathways and little pockets of quickly diminishing people, the bright lights nearly drowning out the stars. Brittany points over towards one of the mechanical contraptions, about ten or eleven compartments dangling from long, metal arms. The motor and power supply is housed within a round shell in the middle, with big white eyes and a happy little grin painted upon the side.

The Arachnidopoloticus.

If Santana squints, she can kind of see a spider. She supposes. Who the fuck thinks up these things? She halfway expects to see a ride called The Vag-ocalypse in the form of a giant vulva. Man, that would be a great ride. She snorts at the idea.

Brittany tugs on her arm, propelling them forward before she stops at the attendant, staring a hole in Santana's face. Because she has all of the money (another reason why she's the gentleman). A short, squat woman sits upon a stool, her face painted green, a poorly drawn scar smeared across her cheek. She's probably Frankenstein. Or she has a skin condition.

The blonde narrows her eyes, about ready to draw her finger down the woman's cheek before Santana pulls out the cash and hands a dollar to the woman. Much like Sugar before, she wrinkles her nose at the bill and carefully places it with the others. Santana feels her stomach sink, warmth pooling along her ribs.

"Oh, don't be a pussy about it, it's just money," she snaps impatiently.

"But what's this dye all over it?"

"Christ, can't a girl spill nail polish without the world coming to an end?" she exclaims. The woman stares at her, squinting. Santana holds up her hand, the maroon polish glaring within the dancing lights. "Would you like to check to see what size bra I wear, too?"

"Say weren't you he—"

"What is this, twenty questions?"

Brittany shifts uncomfortably, her grip upon Santana's arm tightening. Pursing her lips, the woman shakes her head, muttering something under her breath and the blonde is thankful that Santana has decided to ignore it or didn't hear it. Either way, the attendant swings the gate open for them and motions towards the compartments.

They pick their seat, Santana sitting next to the blonde, the harsh chill radiating from the metal of the seat nearly freezing straight through them. Brittany lets out a long exhale before securing the bar down in front of them, making sure it's latched into place before she smiles at Santana. How can anything be so perfect? The wisping tendrils of heated breaths steam into the sky, the dead grass beneath them already starting to frost over. She snuggles up close to Santana, resting her head upon her shoulder, her eyes closing in contentment.

Because everything is going to be okay.

Clasping her hand tightly, Santana rests her head on top of Brittany's.

Everything is going to be okay.

A bright grin conquers her face. And the world starts spinning.

They ride everything they possibly can and sometimes things twice, if Brittany really wants to. With each minute passing by, more and more people leave. Tired eyed children strung out on candy cling to their parents, their little sacks of treats clutched loosely within their palms. She isn't sure what time it is, but it doesn't matter. Because Santana is leading her by her littlest finger off of their latest adventure, The Tower of Screams, and glancing at her with chocolate eyes dark.

She's bursting with laughter and stumbling under the watchful gaze of an orange moon. It smells of salt and sea and gasoline. A metallic taste begins to develop in the back of her throat and Brittany squeezes Santana's hand tighter.

"Where to next?" she asks.

Blue eyes dart towards the one place they haven't been yet. People pass by, all heading towards the parking lot, a couple still aimlessly wandering like them, though most of them are drunk. Or homeless. Which she finds a little sad, but she doesn't dwell on it too long. They're interesting people and most of them don't want pity. Only the pennies in her pocket.

"What about there?" Brittany asks motioning towards the building. Santana follows her gaze, her eyebrow quirking. It's like she's looking at a Dr. Seuss book, the black roof tilted at a sharp angle, the front decked out with two different sized white columns supporting the eves of an overhang. Large glass doors stand beneath the darkened supports, like a portal to another world. There are no windows, the siding painted black and white in swirled patterns, the steps leading up to the trailer metal grates. Santana thinks that they should be more refined, more classy, however, the dark contrast to the bizarre outside seems fitting.

Oddly fitting.

"What, you want to go to Narnia? Britt, I just clawed my way out of the closet," she whines.

"That's not a closet, silly," she chuckles. Dragging them forward, Santana reluctantly follows. Anything for Brittany, though. Anything. As much as she pitches and whines, the blonde knows she secretly enjoys it. She just likes to put on a brave front. Can't lose any street cred, after all.

A sign previously unreadable, scrawls across the front of the overhang, the swooping letters outlined in a thin gold sheen haunted by shadows and creeping age. Santana stands upon the bottom step, craning her head up, an eyebrow quirked. Drawing her lips into a thin line, she glances back towards Brittany.

"The Manor of Mirrors?" she groans skeptically.

"It'll be fun—maybe we'll meet the Goblin King." Childish excitement glimmers in baby blues and Santana melts. Choosing not to say anything, she falls into step, climbing the stairs until they reach the landing. A stool sits to the left of the door, but it is otherwise unoccupied. Glancing around, Santana tries to spy an attendant taking a wayward break, but is met with the empty pathway behind them instead.

Not a soul in sight.

"Do you think it's closed?" Brittany asks cautiously, a pout forming upon her lips. The distant sound of games being played cast an eerie backdrop to the long shadows afforded by the pulsating lights. Nervousness hitches within Santana's stomach. She tries the door, but finds resistance. Definitely locked.

"I think so."

"Oh," the blonde sighs, her shoulders dropping. She begins chewing on her lip, the both of them standing before a large glass door, neither of them moving. Neither of them speaking. The disappointment, no matter how small, rings through blue eyes and she can't handle it. A wicked idea, one curved and carved along the edges, sticks like a barb in the back of her mind.

And Brittany watches that mischievous smirk spread. "Santana, what are you planning?" she firmly asks, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Follow me," she laughs, her voice dark with smoke. Brittany knows what that means, and it makes the color flood to her face, slashing along her cheeks in a fierce red. Santana pulls her forward and all she can do is follow.

"Where are we going?" Sincere curiosity gets the better of her.

"It's a surprise, BrittBritt. You'll just has ta trust me," Santana teases, winking at her. Chocolate eyes are black under the poor lighting and she feels that coil in her stomach again. This time, she worries that it very well might just break her in half. A shiver works its way up her spine, her sigh soft. Nearly inaudible. But she knows Santana heard it.

They circle around to the back of the building, a plain door two feet off the ground calling to the dark haired Latina like a shining beacon of hope. She grins as she reaches for the door knob and twists. It's locked. Obviously. Narrowing her eyes, she shakes her head, looking around, the grounds still just as deserted as they were seconds before, if not more so. If that's at all possible.

"Give me your nail file," she demands, her palm outstretched.

"What?"

"I know you have it, Britt. Please?" Narrowing her eyes, the blonde digs deep into her own jacket, withdrawing the item in question.

"We came around back here for you to file your nails?" she asks, eyebrows crinkling. Santana doesn't answer before she jimmies the file between the threshold of the door and the old knob. With a little wrestling, she manages to guide the latch assembly inwards, tugging on the door so that it swings open.

With a small flourish, she hands the item back to Brittany, grinning widely. The blonde purses her lips, trying her best to look as displeased as possible, her arms crossed in front of her chest. "What?" Santana feigns innocence. "You wanted to go, so," she motions towards the open door, "we gonna go."

"That's illegal," Brittany argues, but can't stop the smile forming upon her lips. Insides warm, a giddiness urging her to hop up into the open doorway, her body vaulting with practiced ease. "But I find crook Santana to be hot. Just don't kill any ponies." She offers her hand to the dark haired beauty, caramel fingers gliding down her palm to clasp around her wrist. Brittany pulls Santana up, their bodies careening together as the shorter woman stumbles into the little back room.

It's like hot explosions, when oil meets water, an iron brand upon skin. Peering down into darkened eyes, she finds her breath robbed, a rawness aching within her throat. Her skin crackles with Santana, her head a swimming mass of blunt static. She longs to press their lips together. To taste the smoked cinnamon. To feel the vibrations of her sighs.

But the moment is shattered when Santana reaches behind her and flips on a light switch. Dust particles twist and dance within the pooling yellow, the shelves of the room poorly stocked with a roll of paper towels and Windex. A broom stands as a lonely sentinel in the corner, broken cob webs splintered from the ceiling. Santana closes the door with the lurch of her hip.

Black curls, pulled to the side of her neck, and Brittany aches deeply and all encompassing. It would be okay in here. At least it's warm. And it's not the grass. Not like last time. She's just glad the stains had come out. Creamy fingers spider along the leather of Santana's jacket and dark eyes burn darker.

"Come on," Santana says, her voice low, the quiver of laughter playing along her lips. Disappointment and frustration deflates the blonde's lungs as she moves by her, blue eyes drawn to the curve of her hips and the way they sway oh-so enticingly.

"San," she whines.

Casting a glance over her shoulder, Brittany is rewarded with a dark smile. "Didn't you want to see the mirrors?"

"I can see mirrors any day," she replies with a flippant wave of her hand.

"But this is what you wanted."

"But not what I want now."

Santana replies with a small noise and the shrugging of her shoulders as she approaches a second door, fingers twisting the knob, hinges releasing with the sound of silence as she pulls it inwards. And all at once, Brittany feels like she's staring into Wonderland. This is exactly how Alice felt. With a beautiful woman wreathed in the coalescing halo of reflected light and thousands upon thousands of the same face all staring back at her.

Breathless, she moves by Santana into the room and relishes the way the bright lights heat her flesh. Because there are hundreds—no, thousands of silver-sheen glass panes, all containing the universe and forever. Brittany, staring into one of the many sets of chocolate eyes understands, finally: this is what it means to be infinite. Santana closes the door, stepping further into the realm of only them.

Of Santana and Brittany.

There is nothing else. But walls and walls of mirrors.

And Santana gathers her, her own lips reaching up to seek her own. As if an answer from a dream, Brittany bends to her will, eyes already closed. There's warm breath and fingers clasping around her neck. Then the insistent tug, so familiar yet still so thrilling, pulling at the coil wound within the pit of her stomach. The air buzzes with artificial light.

She tastes like smoked cinnamon, hinted with apple. A soft, velvet tongue swipes at her bottom lip and the blonde feels her knees stutter. She stands strong. How embarrassing would it be for her to submit so easily? How un-fun? Pressing herself closer, she cups dark cheeks, returning the swipe with a nibble, her teeth scraping against plush flesh. Santana groans, the struggle to hold it back evident. But she always loses at this.

The game is already hers.

As if stirred by her own voice, Santana grips the back of Brittany's head, muscles twitching and trembling as they press. She needs to be as close as possible. Nothing will ever satiate her. She parts her lips, seeking to deepen the kiss and the blonde allows it. Following her lead, she wills Santana to think that she holds the power. But she doesn't. She never has. Because when it comes to Brittany, Santana can never say no.

The taste of her beautiful tongue and the sensation of it gently gliding along her own has the fog banks of Brittany's mind flaring. Static shocks leap and arc, the throb that was once dull now an over powering, insistent stab. And she's already slick with arousal. This is not going according to plan. Not at all. Santana pulls a deep seated moan from the blonde's chest when she gently rolls her tongue, bursts of colors popping behind her eyes.

She can taste her breath and feel the way it fans along her face. Blood heats beneath her skin, the scarf at her neck suddenly feeling tight and constricting. Her chest tightens, eyebrows suddenly screwing up tightly. Santana can feel the jolt go through her and pulls back, black eyed and worried.

"What?" she pants. But this has to be perfect. Seizing the opportunity, Brittany ducks Santana's arms and moves closer towards the mirrors.

A coy grin breaks along Brittany's face as she motions towards the center of endlessness. "Silly Santana, always changing her mind." Dark eyes squint at her, lips drawing into a tight line. But she doesn't have enough time to truly dwell on it too much before Brittany is running. Running down a never ending hallway, one hand dragging along the right wall before she seems to melt altogether. And she's laughing.

"Hey!" she chokes out, all too suddenly aware of the game. Santana runs after her, laughter of her own joining the beautiful chorus of Brittany's. And she doesn't think she's heard anything so wonderful and so hers. Rounding the corner, she is once again surrounded by the retreating form (forever going away) of the beautiful blonde before she melts into another wall. But which one?

"Brittany, this isn't fair!" Mind still thoroughly fogged, Santana tries to find her way back towards that inevitable. She picks a direction and runs, her breath fast, the throb between her thighs reminding her. Heat bursts along her ribcage. She doesn't catch the tail end of her blonde lover's back, this time. Instead, she faces herself, her dark eyes pushing at something darker within her stomach. She needs to find Brittany. Now.

Almost like a desperate bull, she picks directions at random, the haze pulled over her eyes like a thick blanket. She can't see anything other than herself. And it's always the same. Alone. In an empty hallway. With nothing. But there's always a promise. A light laugh with the flicker of baby blue eyes and beautiful gold hair. For a second, Santana thinks she can hear the sound of crunching metal.

She doesn't even realize she's standing still until arms wrap around her shoulders and lips press into the base of her neck. And life is full again. Because there she is. The better half of one Santana Lopez, wrapping around her shoulders and dipping her head so her mouth comes hot along her skin. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle. And she forgets about empty hallways.

"I win." The words trigger something inside of her, like the flip of a switch. And defiantly, she twists around in Brittany's arms, hands locking upon her biceps and she pushes the blonde against the wall until reflection meets reality, the chill of glass drinking in the blonde's warmth greedily.

Brittany finds dark lips crushed against her own, insistent fingers beginning to burn trails over her clothing, hesitating slightly just before the dip of her collar bone. But it's not enough contact. She wants to feel the smoothness of caramel skin against her chest, working its way into the very grains of her muscles. For the first time in a long time, the blonde feels herself losing.

Fingers tremble along the expanse of her chest, Santana's lips slipping against her own, teeth nipping and pulling at her tender flesh. The vibrations of her sighs feed into Brittany's own arousal, her muscles tense with anticipation and twitching beneath slowly wandering fingers. She takes her time in exploring, as usual, and Brittany finds it maddening.

The curve of her side, the dip in her hip, the taut plane of her stomach. But nowhere substantial, where her skin prickles most. Groaning in frustration, Santana swallows it, feeding off of the way she writhes. Because Brittany can't help herself with the temptress pressed so close to her, with infinity at her back and at her front. Her eyelids are heavy, laden with lead, and she is suffocating within the fogs of her coiled madness. All she needs is a little friction. Santana is not playing fair.

Lost in her own thoughts, jolts of pleasure spike through her system when a finger trails lightly against her nipple, the sensation dulled because of layers. "Santana," she hisses, biting down hard upon a dark lip. She secretly hopes that it'll bruise just a little. Lips pull away from hers and she can feel her kissing down her neck, sucking harshly at the barrier of her scarf. Her face burns.

Santana was never much for pumpkins. A tongue presses into her flesh and she cranes her head back, her body arching away from the chill of the glass pane, hips grinding heatedly into Santana's. She wraps creamy fingers within the ebony of dark hair, fingernails scraping against the scalp. Just the right amount of pressure, caressing the very tip of Santana's ear and she bucks against her. Her lips release their hold upon her flesh suddenly and with a pop.

She feels the sigh before she hears it. Teeth nip at the mark made upon her flesh. Swallowing harshly, Brittany tries to steady her swimming head and focus. But all she can think about is the hand tugging the zipper of her jacket down and the way it begins to creep up the hem of her shirt. And when fingers finally push around her bra and close in around that sensitive nub, Brittany admits defeat.

A chest rattling gasp grips her, knees collapsing for just a second before the free hand of Santana pulls her back up, pinning her harder to the wall. Brittany can feel the way she smiles as she lavishes kisses along her jaw. Brushing her fingers through the black curls, and resolute to not be outdone, she trails her finger tips along the back of Santana's neck. Goosebumps crop at her touch and she cultivates them, tickling and teasing her way under the collar of her jacket.

"BrittBritt," she murmurs, her fingers tugging and teasing at her hardened nipple. "Would you still consider yourself winning?"

"A-ah, w-well…th-that depends what you m-mean by winning," Brittany whimpers out. Wishing upon whatever stars there may be, she needs Santana's leg between her own. Firmly. Securely wrapping her ankle around Santana's, she tugs, drawing her foot in closer, her chest tightening when she feels a well muscled thigh pressing lightly between her own. She grinds down hard, pleasure ripping through her system.

Craning her head back, she pushes herself down once more, making sure to keep Santana's leg locked in place. She lets out a moan this time, hot and searing against the inside of her mouth. The source of her much needed friction attempts to withdraw, Santana tugging particularly hard with her fingers, her lips hovering at that strip of flesh beneath her ear. Her spot.

"I don't know, it looks like you're done for," Santana breathes. A millimeter off of her skin and Brittany can feel her muscles tightening. She ruts down hard, gasping with white electric intensity. She drags her hands down Santana's back, the cool leather smoothing against her heated palms.

She doesn't need to say anything.

Because Santana already knows. Fingers retreat from her nipple, drawing a line straight to the button of her pants, fingers, adapt at the buttons, pulling it open. Another zipper and a thousand Santanas watch her. She leans back into the mass of them. Because she's gorgeous, the way dark eyes are consumed by pupil and the way her lips, swollen with desire, linger above her neck. It is everything.

Santana is everything.

North, South, East, West. Which is the real her? Who's she to say she's not ten feet that way, or the one opposite herself. Because they all feel and in a million different worlds, in a million ways, Santana is taking her. And it's with that thought she feels fingers slipping down the front of her panties, seeking to draw her own heat out.

The entire length of Santana's middle finger travels smoothly against her clit and she lets out a series of tight breaths, her stomach in knots. Folds already parted, her entrance waits, throbbing with a greed only Santana can fill. The very tip of a finger teases. Santana stills and Brittany clutches the front of her jacket hard, knuckles white.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four seconds pass and Santana doesn't move. The only telltale reminder of what she is doing is the twitch of her finger and the way her palm moves slightly. The muscle beneath Brittany's eye twitches, another three seconds passing before she glides her own hips against the eager hand. Instant relief and Santana is chuckling softly against her neck. Buried to the first knuckle, she can feel Santana beginning to fill her, even with the restriction of her jeans.

Feeling like her dark tormentor is content with simply just standing there, Brittany reverses her previous movement so that Santana's fingertip is tracing her entrance again. The coil is so tight, she's scared she very well might break in half. All it would take is one thrust. One curl of the finger, pressing heavily into that beautiful spot buried deep inside of her, and she would be done. Throat dry, she swallows, attempting to stay as still as possible.

This time she lasts five seconds before her hips twitch. Santana snickers again after her initial gasp. Because as many times as they've done this, she knows she loves feeling her. Loves the way she fits like a glove, so to speak. Or a ring. Perfect. Grinding her teeth Brittany jerks her hips back, the muscles in her backside tightening as her rough movement causes friction against her clit again.

She collapses her head onto Santana's shoulder stifling another frustrated groan. Hot breath, maddening and like fire, licks against her ear lobe. "Do you give up?" Santana asks, her dark voice smoky with want and desire. They're still playing that game?

"U-ugh," she stammers in reply. "W-we're still—still playing t-that?"

"Mm," Santana hums. And if Brittany wants a proper release, she knows what she has to do. Santana, ever the clever girl.

"You win," she forces out. The last syllable doesn't even die upon her lips before two fingers fill her, plunging in as deep as they can. Santana must have known that was coming. Brittany's knees completely buckle, the strong arms of Santana and with the assistance of the wall has her remaining upright. Her muscles tremble.

Palm hits against her sensitive clit, fingers burn deep within the recesses of her. And a thousand times over, she cranes her neck back, crying out Santana's name, a harsh, loud moan echoing against all of the mirrors to be lost in the eternal tide of love and movement. Dipping deep, Santana finds that spot with practiced ease, and when she begins to tighten around her, lips finally press into that spot on her neck, she feels like a firework, bursting straight from the chest, her throat tight and head spinning madly.

Santana sees her through her blinding orgasm, gently easing her down before she slowly withdraws her hand, pressing those same fingers to her mouth, tasting the sweetness of the girl with universe eyes.

What does the universe taste like? Only Santana will ever know.

"I love you," Santana says. Brittany tightens her arms around her neck, chest beginning to open up again.

"I love you, too."

And she kisses her one more time.

They remain within the maze for hours. Or at least Brittany thinks it's been hours. But it feels timeless. Like everything is standing still and all she needs is Santana and the dark kisses placed upon her time and time again. She feels herself filled with the dark haired woman, in every facet.

They never remove their clothes.

And then an idea strikes. "Britt," Santana breathes, sitting upon the floor, shoulders resting against the glass. She has an arm wrapped around the blonde, Brittany's head upon her shoulder. She loves the way the glass is fogged from their breath and smeared with their handprints. A lasting reminder of what transgressed.

"Mm?" she hums, her breath still coming fast. Her eyes are closed and she's so tired. If only she could just sleep.

"Do you know how to get out?" The way she stiffens in her arms has Santana's stomach sinking. Shit.

"It'll be an adventure!" the blonde hesitantly offers, the chipperness in her voice masking the sense of 'Oh fuck' she's bound to be feeling.

"You mean to tell me we're trapped in this goddamn maze without any clue on how to get outta here?" Santana groans.

"We'll be like Theseus!"

"Except we ain't got no bitch to give us a ball of string," Santana grumbles.

"I can be that."

"What—the string or the bitch?" she playfully jeers. That earns a sharp jab to her ribs, laughter from both parties quickly following. Santana laughs until her sides ache, her lungs burning, tears threatening to fall from her eyes. But she won't let them. It's been eight years and she hasn't let them once. She ain't about ready to start.

Brittany heaves herself from Santana's side and extends her hand. Smile bright, she revels in the way her dark hair is mussed, her lips swollen and red. She looks a picture and the blonde finds herself falling even deeper for her. And she's probably passing straight through hell, straight to the ninth layer and beyond, because what exists deeper than all that strife? Santana.

Caramel fingers clasp her own, Santana groaning as she pulls herself to her feet. Projecting her confidence, Brittany links their littlest fingers and begins walking. Somewhere, she heard you're supposed to trail your hand alongside one of the walls and always turn the same way. Which is confusing, because what if you have to turn the opposite way. Would that mess everything up?

She wants to ask Santana, but doesn't want to give away her doubts. Instead, she keeps walking as if she knows where she's going. She owns this place. This is her kingdom, with a thousand eyes and they all belong to one. And with each wrong turn and each dead end and each time they come to the front of the maze, she shakes her head, Santana not saying a word.

Because eventually she finds that door. It's marked with a little red 'x' up above its mirrored surface. Who put it there, she would never be able to find out, but regardless, they open the door and step out into the real world, leaving a Wonderland behind. Even if they can't return to this maze again next year, it'll always be theirs.

She doesn't relinquish her grasp upon Santana, even as she jumps out of the door, her feet landing with a soft crunch against the sparkling frost. Her breath turns nearly tangible, pouring like puffs of smoke from between her lips. The chill bites through her chest. She almost panics.

The moon is low and washing out. How much time did they spend in there? She strains to hear the music of the carnival, but instead is met with silence. Brittany pretends that she can hear the people snoring, that their collective breath makes up the wisping clouds and rolling fog that swirls lightly around her feet.

Santana presses close to her, breathing in the sweetness of vanilla. She'll never grow tired of it. Swinging their hands between them, Santana begins to walk, Brittany following her without so much as a question.

"We could just run away," Santana suggests. Brittany passes a bitter laugh and she thinks that's something that should never be felt by the blonde. Dark lips pull into a frown.

"There's always next year," she replies.

A silence settles over them and Santana feels like she can't breathe. The closed-up stalls are silent, little scraps of litter dappling the walk. She kicks out at a crumpled Coke can, the ting of aluminum calming her somewhat. The blood in her ear drones like a hollow wind.

Without even thinking, she's leading them away from the dark boardwalk and towards the road, her feet automatically moving. Threading her fingers completely with Brittany's, she grips her hard as if relenting just for a second will see the blonde ripped away. Trees, though sparse, begin to rise alongside of the asphalt road in which Santana walks.

Clenching her teeth, she shakes her head, hoping to clear her mind.

Brittany wets her lips, stuffing her free hand into her pocket. "Santana," she begins. The wind breezes around them and she feels her bones turn to ice.

"Hm?" she grunts. Brittany can see the dark creases along her face. Oddly, she is reminded of a pink jacket and a corn brooch. It would have looked better melted down, Brittany thinks. She wrinkles her nose.

"Did you know that lady?" she finally asks. Her feet pad against the road, the smell of gasoline making her head swim. It's almost overpowering.

"Which?" Santana turns a puzzled stare at her.

"The one with the ugly pin." They come to a bend in the road, Santana walking over to stand by a thick, weather scarred tree. Brittany stands by her, fidgeting quietly with a loose thread in her pocket. Santana begins to chew on her bottom lip, her eyes rolling.

"Oh. Yeah, in High School." Santana snorts.

"What were you like?" Brittany lets her fingers slip from Santana's grasp. She walks around the trunk of the tree, trailing her hand along the way. The sound of crashing waves is distant, but still present. The blonde closes her eyes, leaning against the other side of the tree.

"You know."

"I know, but I like to hear it, anyway."

Santana's throat closes.

"She was one of those losers in glee club. Thought she was hot shit, so I used to knock her down a couple pegs. I was sorta mean, back then."

"You were just sad, I'm sure."

She stares down hard at the dirt, attempting to make out the individual pebbles.

"I was a cheerleader."

"I'd love to see you in that uniform."

Santana laughs.

"You already have."

"Oh, when?"

"Four years ago?" There is a pause and she knows Brittany is thinking.

"Yes, that was hot."

Another silence and Santana takes a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Brittany. I'm so, so sorry."

If she's going to say it, it might as well be now.

"Don't be sorry, Santana," the blonde replies. She makes her way around the tree again, an easy smile upon her face. "There's nothing we can do now." Reaching her creamy hand out, Brittany grasps Santana's wrist and pulls her close, burying her face into the thick of black tresses.

The sky begins to pink, the awakening of the sun casting beams of light down through the skeletal branches of the trees. Leaves swoosh about, the bitterness of the wind doing nothing to reach the heat pooling along Santana's side. Caramel fingers pull at the pumpkin scarf, dark eyes searching.

"It's okay." Brittany stops her movements.

"It's not." All of the doubts rest upon her shoulders.

"It has to be," the blonde laughs. Santana looks up into her eyes, trying to fight back her own smile. Because Brittany is right. She's always right. Letting out a long sigh, she peers up into the sky, letting the scarf slip through her fingers. Pale grey splashed with pink and purple paint the canvas. She thinks that she can still see stars, but Santana isn't too sure it isn't just the burn of Brittany's eyes in the sky.

They stand holding each other like that for what feels like forever, the seconds ticking by at a snail's pace. Shoulders drooping, Brittany catches dark eyes staring and that same old Cheshire grin creeps along her face.

"What?" she sings.

"I'll win you that goddamn narwhale next year."

Brittany laughs. Because why would she want anything different? With the predawn sinking into dawn, the blonde hugs Santana tighter, her grin growing. "You'd better." Lips press against her neck and she shivers. Its meaning is not lost on her.

"I should go," Brittany states. "Curfew."

Bitterly, Santana laughs. "Is that what you call it?"

The blonde smiles before tilting down and pressing her lips against Santana's in a lingering, sweet kiss. She wants to get lost in it, but knows that they can't. Brittany will have to remember mirrors and hand prints instead. She's already memorized the way Santana's lips feel. The way that they taste. Her chest begins aching as she pulls back.

Her breath is shallow as she pulls away, shoving her hand deep into her pocket, wrapping her fingers around her silly Hello Kitty. Smile large, she hugs Santana to her chest one last time, heat beginning to seep along her neck. It bubbles in her throat.

"See you later?" she asks, universe eyes deep. Santana returns her smile, stomach twisting as she begins to pull away. Fingers clasped for as long as she is able to reach, Brittany hesitates before she untwines them.

"See you later," Santana replies. Satisfied, Brittany turns on her heel, dark eyes burning into her back. Santana watches early morning fog swirl about the blonde's feet, creeping up her ankles. Brittany doesn't turn back once.

Santana watches, her eyes beginning to burn because once she lets go, it'll be gone. Balling her fists by her sides, she clenches her jaw. Because it has to be like this. With the blonde getting further and further down the roadway, universe eyes drawn to the lines in the concrete.

The blonde continues to saunter forward, smile pressed permanently. She has Santana and will always have her. Because she is that one thing. Her one thing. Crimson stains the edges of her scarf, dripping down the front of her shirt and she can feel liquid pooling. The smell of gasoline hits her in full force and Brittany holds her breath.

She wants to turn back, she always does. But maybe next year.

Maybe she will next year.

Chocolate eyes snap shut for the briefest of moments and where Brittany once was, there is nothing. Santana lets out a long sigh before she closes her eyes, the warmth in her side consuming down her thigh and trickling past her calf. She holds onto vanilla and promised kisses and loves the way she thinks her heart beats in her chest.

Just once.

A breeze passes through the trees, leaves skittering across beaten asphalt. The crisp air is salted with decay, spindly blades of grass long and bent in a solemn bow. Silence presses like a cacophony, a weathered tree twisted and scarred upon the shoulder of a wicked curve. Somewhere a mirror is fogged and everything starts over again.

A dark stain creeps along the base of the tree. And a lone car passes a deserted highway.

At first there's cotton candy.

There's always cotton candy.

And she sits at a wooden picnic table, the top spread with a white and red checkered cloth, old mustard stains and petrified crumbs crusted along the edges. She picks at the brightly colored candy, blue eyes endless and seeking. The bitter chill of late October sets the hairs on her arms on edge, the crisp dusting pink along her cheeks. Excitement bubbles.

This'll be the ninth year.

It hasn't changed a bit.