I may or may not have temporarily put my life on hold in order to ship Westana.
I own Glee seasons 1-2 on DVD and a couple of their songs, but nothing else.
Santana Lopez was pissed. Of all the people who could have been sent to spy at Dalton Academy, they had picked Hummel. Hummel, the lady-boy who had probably got so sidetracked by the Gay Hogwarts atmosphere that he'd completely forgotten what he was doing there. He'd tried to disguise himself in their uniform, for God's sake. Whatever had happened, she had not been chosen for the mission, and she was fuming at having missed her chance to sink her teeth into some fresh, private-school boy meat.
Or at least, that's what she let the other members of the Glee club assume.
When she had announced her intentions at their last rehearsal, Man Hands had snorted. Cripples McGee buried his head in his hands. Stretch Marks looked smugly superior. Puckerman waggled his eyebrows obnoxiously. She had just smirked back.
Hummel was only too happy to spill every detail of his adventures, and blackmailing Jewfro into getting her the personal information of their rival Glee club's members had been as easy as threatening to ensure his permanent virginity (really, it's pretty much inevitable, but he seems to be clinging to his delusions).
Finally, after a few nights of pouring over yearbook photos, paying close attention to those likely to be most susceptible to her charms, she was ready.
Now, as she struts boldly down the hallway of Dalton Academy, ignoring the appreciative stares of the students around her, she reflects smugly that Hummel had been so, so wrong in his approach to spying: sometimes in order to blend in, you have to stand out. No-one dares to question her presence in the school, intimidated as they are by the aura of confidence she radiates.. not to mention her appearance.
Santana catches a glimpse of her reflection as she passes a ridiculously ornate mirror set into the polished wooden panelling and can't stop a smirk from spreading across her face. A simple black dress- short and tight, just the way she likes them- paired with a cropped red jacket that highlights her curves and strappy black stilettos that Brit says give her 'sexy giraffe legs'. She looks smoking, and doesn't she know it.
Her hand shoots out suddenly to grab the arm of a boy who has slowed to stare at her as he passes. She drags him into an alcove, scarlet painted talons digging into his bicep, and smiles predatorily as his eyes widen in shock before leaning in and crushing her lips to his. After a moment she pulls away, smirking at the red streak of lipstick staining the boy's mouth as he gapes at her.
"So, Daniel," she purrs. "I heard that you're a Warbler, and I was hoping to see you in-" she pauses to lick her lips slowly, "-action."
Ignoring whatever the boy is babbling on about now that he has finally found his voice, Santana allows him to seize her wrist and lead her through the maze of corridors to what she assumes is the choir room. She takes a few seconds to size him up- a bit on the lanky side, but he pulls off the blazer pretty well. If she had more of a conscience, she might even feel bad for using him so heartlessly.. Then she feels the cold beads of sweat- not her own- sliding over the back of her hand, and has to suppress a shudder. Well, screw that.
She tunes into his spiel in time to hear him announce their arrival at 'Warbler's Hall' (really, could this school get any gayer?). The room is only just starting to fill, and she manages to take a seat in a niche behind a curtain without attracting too much attention. She listens to the Warblers' chatter with half an ear- she is determined to find out something useful, if only to prove to Lady Face that her spying skills are superior- while her fingers trace absent-minded circles on Daniel's palm, making him shiver occasionally.
The sudden sharp banging of wood on wood echoes throughout the room, jolting her abruptly out of her thoughts, but the sound she strains to hear again is not the knocking but the voice which preceded it. Was that- so soon? She scoots forward onto the edge of the windowsill, trying to get a better view of the hall. As she peers out through a gap in the drapes, feeling more ridiculous by the second, she almost immediately spots the voice's owner. The surprise has her toppling back into her seat, catching the curtain as she goes, and Daniel's stifled groan tells her what she already knows. There's no way he will have missed that.
"I hereby call this meeting to order!"
Wes raps his gavel smartly three times before folding his hands and surveying his fellow Warblers imperiously. From his seat between David and Thad at the Council table, he can see everything: Nick and Jeff are whispering over by the piano, and he glares at them until they fall silent; Blaine is missing, leaving an empty seat on the couch next to Trent; and over by the window Daniel is shifting awkwardly, his arm tucked away behind the drapes where-
His eyes narrow as he notices the sudden movement of the curtain and the strange shadow being cast across the room. Beside Wes, David groans softly as he realises what is going on.
"Two spies in one week? You can't be serious.."
With Blaine absent, they'd already had to rearrange their rehearsal plans; with a spy present, their practice schedule is almost entirely derailed. Thad, looking even less pleased than the other Council members at the situation, takes the opportunity to deliver a detailed critique of their last performance that leaves the other Warblers struggling to keep their eyes open.
By the time Wes finally manages to take charge of the practice, the damage has already been done. His Warblers are sullen and argumentative (at least, the ones who are awake enough to manage semi-coherent speech are) and their vocal exercises are punctuated frequently by Thad's criticisms, Wes' calls for order and the hammering of the gavel. After an hour of doggedly persisting with the rehearsal, David's head joins the cacophony as he thumps it rhythmically on the table.
Realising that there isn't much point in continuing any longer, Wes raps his gavel again and brings the meeting to a close. Thad hurries off immediately, evidently having picked up on the mutinous vibes the others are sending his way, and the rest of the Warblers begin to file out of the room after him.
"Daniel, can you stay behind for a minute?" Wes calls over the chatter.
The named boy's eyes widen and he freezes like a deer caught in the headlights. As he makes his way nervously up to the Council table he throws a hasty glance back towards the curtain, effectively giving himself away. Big mistake.
"Daniel," Wes begins carefully. He hates these conversations; usually David and Blaine deal with them, but with one absent and the other slumped motionless on the table, the job has fallen to him. "Is there something you'd like to share with us?"
"I- I don't know what you mean," the other boy stutters, fiddling with the buttons on his blazer uneasily.
David's head snaps up suddenly at the sound of his phone beeping and he swears under his breath as he checks it. "Wes, can you handle this yourself? April's outside, and she hates being kept waiting.."
Wes waves his friend off before turning back to Daniel thoughtfully. After a moment's hesitation, he decides to cut straight to the chase. "We have reason to suspect that you have brought a member of another Glee club to today's rehearsal. A spy," he clarifies.
He almost sighs with relief as the flood-gates are opened and the other boy begins to babble a confession. He is speaking far too quickly for Wes to make out every word, but he catches a few phrases: "couldn't say no – didn't think it'd hurt – said she wanted to see me- us- in action.."
There's something off about Daniel that Wes struggles to identify. When he finally works it out, he starts back in horror. The slightly dazed expression in the younger boy's eyes is one he recognises- from himself. David dubbed the look his 'lovesick fool' impression, but Wes knows it is the inevitable side-effect of direct exposure to a girl.. One very specific girl. His eyes widen and he has to struggle to keep his voice steady as he comes to this realisation.
"I know you didn't mean any harm, so I'll let you off with a warning this time. But I'm going to need to talk to her before she leaves."
Daniel nods fervently, already backing away towards the curtain. With a growing feeling of apprehension that he tries vainly to ignore, Wes flicks through the pages of the leather-bound book of Warbler Minutes, pausing to make a note on his suspicions beneath David's meticulously neat cursive.
The sharp click of stiletto heels echoes suddenly on the floor, and a shadow falls over his papers. A moment later a tanned hand swipes the sheets out from under his nose, sweeping them off the table entirely and slamming his book closed. He finally looks up, briefly taking in the short black dress that clings to curves in a manner that is almost indecent, before wrenching his gaze back to the face of the girl standing before him. Focus, Wes.
"Santana Lopez," he greets her with forced casualness. Her smirk tells him that she has caught him staring, and he thanks his good genetics for tanned Asian skin that barely betrays a blush.
"Wes Hughes," she drawls, bracing her hands on the table and leaning forward so as better to invade his personal space. "Long time, no see."
"Not long enough," he returns smoothly, his voice betraying no sign of resentment. "Seeing you is never a good omen. Remember last time?"
"Hey, I didn't force your girlfriend to break up with you."
"You kissed me in front of her," he points out levelly.
"It was an accident," she replies, her voice full of fake innocence that fools nobody. "I apologised."
"You told her you were sorry she had walked in while you were, and I quote, getting your freak on."
"I apologised," she repeats dismissively, examining her nails. "Don't ask me why she got all hot and bothered about it, it was only one time."
He raises an eyebrow sceptically. "And the five times before that?"
"Alright, prep-school boy," she stares him down, a scowl breaking through her mask of indifference. "Firstly? Not my fault you only date weirdly obsessive, jealous hags. And secondly? It takes two to make out, and you know it."
Wes sighs, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temple distractedly. Santana is not so easily put off however, and hops up onto the Council table itself, twisting around to face him. She crosses her legs in a manner that displays a generous expanse of toned thigh, and watches him critically.
"You've changed," she comments at last, her tone deliberately casual. "You weren't always this uptight. You used to be fun." She stresses the last word in a way that makes her meaning abundantly clear.
"Forgive me if I save my displays of passion for somewhere more appropriate than Warbler meetings," he shoots back drily.
"Oh, I don't know about that," she retorts. "You were getting pretty worked up ordering everyone else around before. Do you get off on that or something?"
"Really, Santana?" He knows she is doing this deliberately to get a rise out of him, and is careful to keep his tone nonchalant. "I thought you of all people would remember my preference for being on top."
She isn't used to not getting a reaction from other people. Usually by this stage her conversational partner is like putty in her hands, without her ever needing to put in a conscious effort. Then again, Wes has always been her exception. She tilts her head and stares at him meditatively, contemplating a different approach.
"Is this one of your control freak things again?" she asks bluntly.
Score. Wes inhales sharply as her words hit home and damnit, how does she always manage to see through him like this?
"I don't know what you're talking about," he replies tersely, but Santana has already picked up on his tension and is going in for the kill.
"Cut the crap, Wes," she orders authoritatively. "I know you. And also? I know you. I've seen you naked. I've watched you come undone," and he ducks his head, surprised that she is speaking so calmly, so frankly about it. Then again, they are rather beyond the stage of forced politeness and awkward small talk by now.
"-so don't think you can fool me with that put-together act, cause there's no way in hell I'm buying it." She pauses for a moment as if to let her words sink in before continuing. "So, I'll ask you again. What's the deal with the control thing?"
He stays silent, because how can he explain this? How can he explain that his whole need for control stems from her, the only one who can just walk in and out of his life on a whim? How can explain that he hates that he can never really say no to her, hates that he compares every other girl he meets to her and none of them ever quite measure up, hates himself for every time he's ever let her worm her way into his life knowing full well that she will only disappear again, leaving a gaping hole that he never quite manages to fill?
How can explain how he hates her for what she does to him?
"You really want to play this game, Santana?" he asks suddenly, his eyes narrowing. "Alright then. What are you doing here?"
With one simple question the tables are turned. He catches the briefest hint of uncertainty flickering across her features before her face settles into a defensive mask again.
"I was sent to check out the competition," she tells him stiffly, and his eyebrows shoot involuntarily upwards at the transparency of her lie.
"Mm," he hums noncommittally. "I can see how pressing that must be to your team when you haven't sent a spy over in, oh, at least three days."
She scowls down at him again and he smiles blandly back, ignoring the roar of the mental cheer squad in his head. One all. Even.
"Fine," she hisses. "I came here to emotionally sabotage your Glee club by strategically sleeping with and crushing the hearts of your teammates. Happy?"
"You must be getting good at that." 1-2. The words are out of his mouth before he knows what he is saying, and when his brain catches up he winces, not even needing to see the flash of hurt in her eyes to know that he has gone too far.
"Bite me, Hughes," she snarls viciously.
"I'm not sure my girlfriend would approve of that, Lopez." His mouth is on autopilot and God, he is such an asshole, why can't he just shut up?
Santana's head snaps up. Her eyes are glinting dangerously and Wes knows that he deserves whatever she is about to throw at him.
"Never stopped you before, did it?"
He stiffens visibly and she has to restrain the sudden ridiculous urge to go over and massage the knots of tension out of his shoulders, even as she chalks up the point on her mental scoreboard. Two all.
His voice is quiet when he eventually speaks again, staring down at his hands. "Really, Santana. Why did you come?"
She desperately wants to turn his question into a crude joke- God knows it would be only too easy- but something stops about his tone is startlingly open, unexpectedly raw, almost vulnerable, and it is her turn to fall silent now as she considers his words. Wes has just about given up hope of getting an answer when she finally answers.
"Hummel told me you were here."
He looks up in surprise, trying to catch her eye, but she is staring fixedly out the window. "Did he?" he prompts.
Santana sighs, not taking the hint. "Yeah, he did."
"And-?"
"And I-"
Really, what was she going to say? I missed you? I wanted to see you? I need you?
It's too much. Her emotions shut down and the defensive shields are back up again, and this is easy, this is instinctive to her. Time to do what Santana does best.
"And I thought I'd come and visit you. Relive the good times." She hoists a smirk onto her face and stares down at him from her perch on the table, bedroom eyes in full force, willing him to give in, to stop making this so hard.
"Santana," he groans, "I have a girlfriend!"
"Really," she murmurs, ignoring the pang in her chest in favour of action. "Well, I'm sure that can be fixed."
He gapes at her and she rolls her eyes exasperatedly, then grabs him by the tie and yanks him forwards, melding their mouths together.
He holds out for an impressive few moments, remaining frozen in place, refusing to react to the torturous sensation of Santana's lips against his. Control, Wes. If he caves now, the game will be lost entirely. But if he can hang on a little longer-
She pulls away after what feels like an eternity, resting her forehead against his and staring at him intently. He can feel himself going cross-eyed but forces himself to hold her gaze, resisting the urge to look away. Her lips are only a fraction of an inch away from his, and a puff of warm air tickles his face as she exhales in a sigh.
"Come on, Wes," she breathes, so close that he can almost feel her speak. "Let it go. Live a little."
He lets out a strangled groan, and suddenly her mouth is on his again and he is kissing her back softly, lightly, his movements almost agonizingly slow. His hand moves up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear before settling on her cheek, caressing it gently. His touch is feather-light and Santana sighs into it because sure, she fools around with guys all the time, but this- being kissed like she's actually worth something, like she's more than just an easy lay-
Her eyelids flutter closed, her mouth curving into a genuine smile, and just like that, she's home.
Wes is no stranger to kissing girls but Santana leaves them all behind. Every moment with her blows the previous one clean out of the water, leaving him with an insatiable hunger for more, and doesn't she know it. He can feel her lips twist into a smirk under his and he almost growls, nipping at her bottom lip in reproval.
She moans softly, her tongue darting out to trace the contours of his lip languidly, almost shyly. Her fingers are tracing his jaw and threading through his hair, angling his head so as to kiss him better. She nibbles at his lip, teasing it with her teeth, and takes advantage of his quiet gasp to slip her tongue into his mouth.
She tastes of caramel and honey, with just the faintest trace of cherry liqueur and a hint of spice that shouldn't work but somehow does because this is Santana. The sensation is as heady, as intoxicating, as their first time, and Wes wonders vaguely why he ever tried to resist this. He can feel the blood spiralling away from his brain, leaving him giddy and deliciously light-headed. His hands are roaming her body, his fingers tangling in her hair, skimming down her back, tightening around her waist and pulling her closer.
Somewhere along the way he has left his chair; he now stands positioned between her legs, pulling her body flush against his, the official Warbler Minutes lying forgotten on the floor beneath them. Her hands slip inside his blazer, circling around to his back and tracing patterns through the thin material of his shirt before darting down to tug the fabric free, needing to feel bare skin beneath her fingers.
They are so caught up in the moment that they don't hear the creak of the door opening, or the shocked gasps, or notice the intruders at all, until-
"Wesley!"
They break apart abruptly at the girl's indignant screech, and turn to face the source of the noise. Bad move. Wes' eyes are slightly out of focus, giving him that all-too-familiar dazed look; half his hair is standing on end, and his uniform is thoroughly rumpled. Santana is breathing heavily through slightly swollen lips, and the satisfied smirk on her face leaves no doubt as to what they have been up to.
Ellie is glaring viciously at them from the doorway with an expression of utter rage. Behind her, April is clutching the back of the couch for support, looking horrified. David stands a few paces back at the threshold, watching the scene with an odd mix of amusement, apprehension and morbid fascination.
"What's she doing here?" Ellie demands furiously.
Santana raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, staring coolly back at her. "I thought that would have been obvious."
The blood rushes suddenly back to his head, and Wes realises that his arms are still wrapped around Santana's waist. He snatches them back immediately as if burned, taking a few shaky steps away from the table and turning to face his girlfriend.
"Ellie, I- it's not what it look's like-"
"No," Santana interrupts him as she slides off the table, landing with catlike grace on the carpet. "It was much, much more. Because I doubt your piggy little eyes could tell from over there, but he was getting all up on this-"
She sashays over to him and makes an elaborate show of straightening his blazer and tie (he's pretty sure she would have tucked in his shirt if she thought she could get away with it) before turning to face Ellie again. Wes notes vaguely that her hand is resting possessively on his chest, but can't muster the willpower to shake it off.
"-and he totally slipped me the tongue."
He drops his gaze to the carpet, unwilling to see the horrified expression that inevitably follows these sorts of pronouncements. Knowing Santana- and oh, does he know Santana- the proverbial shit is about to hit the fan, and protesting will only make things worse.
"And can I just say?" She continues, her voice purposefully insinuating. "If he does that with you, I don't blame you for keeping him around."
She pauses, seeming to be thoroughly enjoying the filthy look the other girl is shooting her, and Wes braces himself for the punch line.
"Of course, if you don't want him after this I'd be happy to take him off your hands-"
Ellie's screech shatters the air, destroying any remnants of the room's previous silence, and they all wince simultaneously. April darts forward to grab her friend's arm, stroking it soothingly in an attempt to calm her down that is met with little success. Wes closes his eyes as his girlfriend- ex now, he supposes- continues to shriek at him unintelligibly, feeling oddly detached from the proceedings.
A cool breeze of cool air swirls over his face and neck, notifying him that Santana has moved away from him. Probably admiring her handiwork. In a moment of temporary insanity, he finds himself almost missing the warmth of her touch.
"Look at me, Wesley. Look at me!"
He raises his head wearily to meet Ellie's livid gaze, just wanting this to end.
"We. Are. Over," she snarls, and a weird feeling of relief bubbles up in Wes' stomach. He attributes it to the fact that she has finally stopped screaming. "Don't come near me again."
Ellie turns on her heel and storms out, with April following close behind her. David hovers uncertainly at the doorway, watching the two girls round a corner and disappear before he turns to face Wes and Santana again.
"Sorry about that," he begins awkwardly. "She was looking for you when I went down to get April, and I assumed you'd be done with your, uh.. interrogation." His eyes flicker between the two of them, and Wes catches a hint of amusement in his friend's face before David schools his features into an expression he seems to consider appropriately solemn for the occasion.
Wes shrugs half-heartedly, meaning to tell him it's alright, but the words get lost on the way out. "You should probably go after April," he says instead.
David opens his mouth as if to protest, but then hesitates and closes it again, nodding mutely as he turns to leave. Wes and Santana are left alone, standing motionless in the darkening room, watching as the door clicks shut behind him. He gazes blankly at the door for a few moments longer, lost in thought. Finally he remembers that they can't just stay here forever, and turns to tell Santana so but falters, stopping dead in his tracks mid-turn.
Because Santana is already staring at him intently, and his eyes lock onto hers the moment he looks over. And there is a sudden fire behind them, a haze of raw emotion almost blinding in its intensity, and he couldn't look away even if he wanted to. Because this is a side of her that he has never seen before- that she has never let him see before- and damned if he's going to look the other way and pretend like he hasn't noticed.
He takes a tentative step towards her and she mirrors his action. The expression on her face tells him that his iron mask has crumbled but he doesn't care any more, he doesn't care about self-restraint or control or anything but her right now. They are only a foot away from each other now, eyes still fixed unwaveringly on each other and moving so slowly, so cautiously, as if the scene is a dream they are afraid to wake up from. Wes stretches out a hesitant hand to brush her cheek, and she leans instinctively into his touch.
A car door slams suddenly outside, and the moment is broken. They look away immediately; Wes snatches his hand back again, running it through his mussed-up hair, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Santana fiddling with the hem of her jacket in a manner that is almost nervous.
Ten seconds. Thirty. One minute.
"So," she finally speaks up, breaking the silence. "Now that the harpy is out of the way.." She looks up at him through her lashes and he notices that the fire in her eyes has burned down to an achingly familiar smoulder. His breath catches, and for a second everything disappears and there is nothing else, only her.
The next moment, the world is rushing back and he collapses against the table, suddenly tired- tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of playing this game.
"Damnit Santana," he sighs. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Well," she replies, a wicked smile playing at her lips as she steps forward again, "I'm sure we'll think of something.."
It's my first time writing this sort of thing, so reviews and feedback would be much appreciated. Thanks for reading (: