A/N: Hello, there. If you are reading this, then welcome to my playpen, and thank you for giving me a chance after the epic fail that was Friendship Redefined. For anyone who had read, followed, and/or reviewed that story, please know that it has not been abandoned. I just have extreme writer's block where it's concerned. So I thought that I would try and work through it by reworking this story.

Now, this story was originally planned as an original story with completely made up characters, not a fan fiction. But I couldn't stop seeing these characters in the Glee-verse. So if you frequent Fiction Press or Valent Chamber then you may have come across a little story called Lamia. If you haven't, but are curious to know what this story would look like with a heterosexual couple, then take a look. Also, as some of you know from prior conversations and stories, music makes up a very big part of who I am, and because of this, many of my stories, chapters, etc. have theme songs. The theme song for this entire story is "Waiting Game" by and artist called Banks. If you haven't heard of this, please give it a listen (and pay special attention to the lyrics, as they are what inspired me to continue writing this story). This fiction is also very loosely inspired by one of my favorite movies, Cruel Intentions.

Thank you, so much, to K8Malloy for your involvement in this story. This chapter is my Valentine's gift to you.

Finally, this story contains some heavily controversial themes. If you are an innocent, thin-skinned, easily offended, or conservative in anyway, then you might want to turn back now. This is your one and only general warning.

Disclaimer: If I owned any of these characters or shows involved, I wouldn't be spending my time of Fan fiction. Now, let's get on with it, shall we?

Prologue – Cruel Intentions

"Pursuit and seduction are the essence of sexuality. It's part of the sizzle."

- Camille Paglia


"Then he started grinding on me, you know, like rubbing his…junk…all over mine. So I raised my fist to deck him again, because you know, his life is his life, but I'm not with that dude-on-dude shit. But then…" The man telling the story took a deep breath and tiredly rubbed his hands over his face, finding it difficult to continue with the rest of his story for fear of judgment. In his mind, he couldn't see how they wouldn't judge him; he was certainly judging himself, and really that was all the confirmation he needed to know that the predicament he was in was damned to hell.

The moments when his eyes weren't screwed shut, they shined hazel with unshed tears of confusion and feelings of lust, longing, and repulsion, feelings that he shouldn't have been having. Dr. Lopez, the sex therapist that his girlfriend had taken them to see, found it hilarious.

See, he was one of those perpetual ladies men, the type that kept a collection of used panties in one closet and, well, himself, in the other. He was untamable, untouchable, living fast and free with wild nights, lazy days, and no room for rest in between. When he'd finally settled down with the cute redhead from HR, he'd made sure to keep his bachelor pad in the city instead of moving in with her.

"Just trying to take things slow," he'd told said redhead, "so as not to mess us up." And that would have been all well and good, his newfound devotion to being Mr. Hetero, that is, had Santana's underwear not ended up in that graveyard of past conquests as he was making this vow. But they had, and when it was over she'd gotten the proverbial "See you in your dreams" speech while this red-haired bitch was picking out china patterns. Well now it was his dreams that were being infiltrated night after night. And the best part? He had no idea that Santana's …er…"subliminal messaging" was to blame. Damn, she loved her job.

Said redhead, Amber, or Angela perhaps, rubbed her boyfriend's back gently as he pulled his hands away from his red-rimmed eyes, but neither looked farther up than the shiny, dark wood floor.

Santana smiled evilly to herself as if their dysfunction was the most decadent piece of chocolate that she had ever been presented. He wore a look of anguish that was better than sex, and her discord was Godiva incarnate.

"And then what happened?" Dr. Lopez asked, savoring the tension in the air. Their pain was nearly tangible. She hoped that she could still feel it later, coating her skin like the thin sheen of sweat on his brow.

He visibly swallowed before answering. "It…moved."

There, there. Now was that so difficult to say? Santana thought. She was loving every minute of this but was nothing less than the picture of professionalism as she asked, "I'm sorry, Mr. Karofsky, could you elaborate?"

No he really couldn't. Because he wasn't too sure how they—he and his roommate, that is—had gotten to that point in the first place, the point of dry humping on the couch, bodies close, pressed flush together, separated only by two thin pieces of cotton clothing that had created the most disgusting and devastatingly amazing friction when they'd started off nearly beating each other senseless over a dirty dish that neither would claim. Yes, a dirty dish. Shit had been building for a while.

What made things even worse was that what had happened wasn't something that he could blame entirely on his roommate; their situation had been just as much his fault. It was just that he had wanted it really badly, still did in fact. So much that he often imagined hard sinews and lean muscles just to get the job done in the boudoir when his girlfriend's soft curves should have been more than enough. He didn't understand this at all, given the fact that he had never before shown an interest in the same sex. At least, not outwardly. Not until the day that Santana had seen him and the redhead grocery shopping. Not that he knew that. He didn't even remember her. That was a month ago; he hadn't been back to his apartment since "The Incident" the previous night.

Santana watched the man angrily fist his shaky hands through his hair as he claimed that the man formally known as his douchebag roommate was driving him crazy in the worst way and he wasn't even present. Still, he tried to explain as best he could without vomiting all over the floor.

"I mean, he put his hand on my lap and I froze, but it," the man looked down at his dress pants-covered crotch, "didn't. I got…excited." Frustrated, and growing more than a little pissed off all over again, he looked down after he said this. He and Ashleigh had rushed over to Santana's office as soon as he'd gotten off of work, looking for answers, cures, maybe even a lobotomy to solve his problem. Yet all the good doctor wanted him to do was rehash the happenings of that night.

"I see. So then why did you stop?" she asked, eyes boring into his skull so as to catch every drop of emotion that washed over his face.

He shuddered, and she nearly came, "HWell, the phone rang before we could…um…you… you know, so he leaned over me to answer it, and before you know it, I was dialing Ashleigh and busting a nut into toilet to her voice."

"Dave's not gay," Ashleigh cut in, distress forming lines on her otherwise smooth forehead, "it's just that—and please excuse my language Dr. Lopez, but—his whore of a roommate keeps flaunting his gayness around my boyfriend by walking around their shared living space in nothing but a thin pair of cotton boxer briefs, making things very hard on him."

Santana inwardly smirked at the young woman's wording and looked to the boyfriend. Hmph, I bet I know one thing that's getting harder just thinking about it.

But he was cutting back in, so she stayed quiet. "You gotta help me, Doc. I…all my shit's at my apartment, shit I need for work, shit I need for Senator Donald's campaign party tonight, but…I can't go back there knowing that he'll be there." Dave and Ashley looked at Santana with pleading eyes and fingers entwined. The sex therapist licked her lips hungrily at the hopeful glint in their eyes, belly growing fuller every time one of them blinked.

They were just like all the other couples who came to her for advice, so innocent, so trusting. It was almost worth it to give them bad advice just to watch them self-destruct. Because they were her Fifty Shades, her Magic Mike, the real-life erotic novels that left her wet with anticipation.

"I think that going back is exactly what you need to do," Santana told her client. Ashleigh opened her mouth to protest, but Santana held up her hand to continue, "Avoidance will only make your feelings for this young man grow stronger. You'll start to dream of him, in vague spurts at first, but then they will grow into lucid fantasies. Soon you will crave him in your waking life, until the need to satisfy your obsession reigns above all."

Ashleigh didn't miss the way that Santana's index finger trailed the circular rim of her boyfriend's tea cup in a seemingly absentminded manner as she talked, and she eyed it with disgust. After all, that finger hand just been rubbing the woman's lip.

But Dave, who didn't seem to notice, or maybe he just didn't care, took a huge sip from the cup, swallowed, and nodded his agreement with vigor as the woman reminded them that time was up.

In all actuality, it really wasn't, but she had gotten her fill of them and was ready to call it a day.

The couple walked out, promising each other that they would get the other through this tough time, and Santana walked over to the wet bar by the large window that overlooked the city. "Delusion that perfect just begs to be corrupted," Santana muttered, alluding to her artful tactic of bringing out the man's repressed sexuality while sipping the scotch-laden coffee in her mug.

"And who better to corrupt it than you?" A man's deep baritone sounded somewhere behind her. "But tell me something," he continued, "how does such a self-absorbed, emotionless, she-bitch, like yourself, present such a convincing air of humanity so late into the evening hours?"

Santana looked out at the darkening sky with a smirk playing on her glossy, mauve lips. "The same way she did when she was with her self-obsessed, sociopathic, asshole of an ex-husband," the sides of her lips tilted upward at the further advancement of his Italian loafers on the shiny office floor. "She fakes it."

This was a lie of the worst and filthiest kind.

Of all their problems, sex had never been one. It was all the other things that couldn't be said between sweaty sheets covered thick with the scent of post-coital bliss that had done the twosome in.

The problem with Santana Lopez and Jesse St. James was that, as a couple, they had been a disaster filled with psychological abuse, a couple near murders, and the occasional date rape. And those were just her transgressions. His were, in fact, much viler in nature and are far too many to count, but only in the sense that they facilitated all of hers.

Yet as exes, they were a perfect match, seeking only the friction of the other's vicious nature to set fire to all those who crossed their paths. It worked like this: She kept his business afloat; he quelled her appetite. It was as simple as that, but even still, sometimes their arrangement made Jesse act as though he owned her. And while ownership practices made for good role-playing exercises in the bedroom, they simply would not do elsewhere. Especially here in her office.

"It's been a long day, Jesse ," she took another sip of her drink, cocking her head to the side and looking down slightly behind her so that he would know she was talking to him even though he wasn't looking directly at him, "so if you have no plans of getting me the fuck off, then get the fuck out!"

Jesse chuckled at her obvious yet half-hearted irritation as he walked through the room. Of course she would be up for a round of desktop nookie. Most psychologists' offices were as wooden and bland as the Ivy League lecture halls from which the diplomas lining the walls came and furnished with dark leather and stiff wood that ironically didn't inspire the latter in their male patients, but not Santana's.

Santana's office was all subtle lighting and cozy, plush furniture with rivulets so romantic and warm you dropped your guard immediately. Add a few scented candles and Bach's Air on a G-String (a fabled orgasm enhancer) in the background, and voila! You had an office set to inspire sex in both frisky strangers and unhappy couples alike. Except for Santana and Jesse, of course.

"Be sweet," he scolded her from just a foot away.

"I can be sweet. But if I were sweet to everyone and at all times, how would you ever know that you were special?" Santana mocked; smiling in that sly way that dared not to be deterred by the way he walked up behind her and dipped his mouth low to her ear.

"We would know that we were special when you were especially sweet," he drawled, pulling her earlobe slightly between his teeth before letting go and snaking his arms around her waist. She turned in his arms to face him.

"What do you want, St. James?" she asked with an amused smirk on her face, because there was always something. Even when they had been together they rarely spent time outside of moans and groans to actually hold a conversation with each other, and never without motive or intention. That was the nature of their relationship. Always had been, always would be.

He worried his bottom lip between his teeth and rubbed it way he always did when he had a proposition for her.

This week's proposal? He was throwing a party for Senator Donald's reelection announcement. "And I need a few of your home-cooked party favors."

"What's in it for me?" Santana said to her reflection in Jesse 's light brown eyes—it always had been the only way that she could stomach looking into the man's eyes. Not that he was bad looking. Quite the contrary, in fact. But at six-foot-one with a thirty inch waist and dark brown hair that always looked messily sexy in a way that matched his devil-may-care swagger, he knew he was hot. And that turned her stomach. Heaven forbid someone should be a vain as her.

"The same thing that's always in it for you," he said, lifting one hand from her waist and using it to move her long, dark hair over one café-au-lait brown shoulder. "Ten percent of every happy client."

"Twenty." She swatted his hand away.

"Twelve." He moved it down to her inner thigh.

"Fifteen. Take it or leave it." She lifted her pencil skirt even higher for better access. One sharp eyebrow raised and waited for his decision.

"Fifteen," he agreed quietly after a while, fingers disappearing into the black lace of her underwear only to exit just as quickly with her essence coating his short, manicured nails. She watched with an eye roll as his sucked the fingers into his mouth and pulled them out with a loud pop, sealing their deal at fifteen percent. They could have done so with a kiss—or I don't know, maybe a contract evenbut who had time for that?

Sensing that his job was finished, he extricated himself from her presence and walked toward the door, calling over his shoulder for her to have everything ready by 10pm that night. "Oh, and bring something a little special for the senator. You know what he likes: pale skin, delicate frame, long legs—"

"I have someone," she said simply, raising her glass to her lips so that he would get the hint, open the door, and leave already.

A second later, Jesse St. James did just that, but stopped when he saw that his Vice President of Marketing, David Karofsky, was scheduled for the entire week. He shook his head and puffed out a laugh through his nose. Her tricks were boarding on petty. "He won't admit he's gay, you know?" He directed this statement at Santana.

Santana knew exactly who the man was talking about, and this time, even she could enjoy the topic. "He'll do whatever I make him do," she threw at him. Another chuckle escaped Jesse 's lips once she turned back to the window, and he left. Her lips stretched cruelly as her cold brown eyes narrowed on the cars zooming past on the slick streets far below, "After all, they're all my playthings."


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