It's the late hours of the night when she's felt a sudden craving for glitter. Glitter, sparkles, golds and silvers. The touch of cool luxurious leather against her bare skin, the soft fuzz of pure smooth silk. Santana had cultivated a burning desire low in her stomach and fingertips for the shine, the sparkle, the splendour.
She'd always liked the pretty things, but with the pretty little pistol in her hands, the pistol Santana had created and inlaid with veins of gold, they became possible.
Brittany never has to dream of diamonds, never has to wait with an ache in her belly for something she can't afford. She asks, she tells and she receives.
Santana slams on the brakes, the rear wheels spinning out, and Brittany giggles and holds the silver little bar above her window. The high street, the central hub of Lima's yuppie elite. From nine to five the offices are buzzing with stock markets, mergers and acquisitions. When the sun goes down and Brittany starts biting at Santana's ear, almost nocturnal in their sleeping patterns by this stage, the noise of the sunlit times, the upper-middle-class that revolves around the Berry-dominated impression of Heights Street, seems like a whisper next to the screeching of tyres and shattering glass.
The Prada. Chanel. Tiffany. Eyeliners worth a hundred dollars, tiny and impractical clutch purses with a four digit price tag.
Brittany's pretty sure not a damn dollar in Lima is clean because from what the news says about the terrible economy - (environmentalism <3) - there ain't no one who works on this makeshift Heights Street who could honestly afford a pair of two thousand dollar shoes. And yet, she's seen the silly little twats in their demure pencil skirts and pale blouses, hair tied in a bun, trying to talk on the phone and read papers and drink coffee and walk in a pair of four-digit stilettos on rough concrete.
At least when Santana and Brittany want something, they don't pretend like they don't. They don't lie about saving their spare change, starting a swear jar, guiltily dipping into the youngest kid's college trust fund because they want a new motorbike.
Brittany fingers stroke at a dress of red and white Swarovski crystals, the lower half made of little tendrils of tiny, shiny beads, and she can see them spinning. She can see herself, dancing pirouettes on her toes, the heavy weight flinging back and forth against her thighs. She pulls it off the mannequin, holding it by the delicate straps against her shoulders, swaying her hips back and forth. The crystals move, cool against her skin, and she feels Santana's hand against the small of her back.
"In the backseat, doll," she whispers, and Brittany grips the dress tighter. "Lay it out real nice."
Brittany turns her head to look at the brunette, tiny crystal indents forming on her fingertips. "I wanna dance in it."
Santana lightly kisses her temple, moving further into the store, stepping carefully through the broken glass. "Only if you dance in whatever I find for you too."
Brittany sees the deviant glint in the dark woman's eyes, and bites the inside of her lip as she smirks. Santana slides away towards the lingerie, the women's jewelry. Brittany tiptoes towards the car, broken glass and mannequin parts crunching under her heels. There's watches and perfumes and expensive suits in the open trunk, and she realizes just how long she's been toying with a single dress while Santana collected as much gold, glitter, and beauty as she could.
She sets the dress across the backseat, careful not to let it fold or catch on the seatbelt clips, and feels the rise of want in her lower stomach as she takes off in Santana's wake.
With a dress like that, she's going to have to find something just as beautiful that Santana can tear from her and destroy.
Fin.
An: hello.
