Title: you've got some teeth on that stare
Author: timorous-scribe
Length: Part I ~4.5k
Rating: E / M
Pairing(s): Julypez, Julyberrypez, implied Julyberry, Pezberry
Spoilers: up to 4x17 'Guilty Pleasures.'
Summary: Part I: Santana decides to get back at Rachel for kicking her out of the loft by sleeping with her NYADA nemesis, Cassie July. Part II: When she moves back in, Santana doesn't tell Rachel what happened, but they both end up surprised when the truth comes out. Cracky smutty two part one-shot. Title is from Say Anything's By Tonight.
Part I
Stiletto heels click menacingly as Santana struts out of the dance studio, purse slung over her shoulder and her usual swagger further exaggerated for Brody's benefit. Fuck that guy.
"What were you doing in my studio? I haven't approved any adds to my class." The blonde's sharp tone echoes down the corridor ahead of its owner, and Santana just quirks an eyebrow—seriously, what is it with these people—before brazenly trailing her gaze up the woman's legs instead of answering.
They're toned and tanned and they stretch on forever, and though she's obviously not as young as most of the students, she's still completely stunning. Shifting green eyes narrow as the woman tries to pin Santana in place with her glare and Santana just smirks because it's almost cute this bitch thinks she can intimidate.
" That studio is for my students only. " She continues with the chastising as they draw closer to each other in the hallway. "The old dance-hall in the south dorms is for the rest of you to waste your time."
Santana should be able to just ignore this chick and keep walking—she's got nothing on Sue's best day—especially since she really doesn't give a fuck about where students can dance, and it's not like biting back is going to make her any less pissed off.
Except that she's already drained her self-restraint for the day by not punching Brody in his douche-tastic jaw, and she is just not equipped to put up with another self-important NYADA prick telling her where she doesn't belong. The retort is firing off before she even finishes thinking she probably shouldn't.
"Calm down, twinkle-bitch. With that kind of dazzling charm, I can't imagine anyone's trying to ninja their way into your strike zone."
Cassandra blinks in surprise for just a second—it's been awhile since someone has spoken to her like that—before her gaze shifts to flinty and the corners of her mouth turn up in a smile that would shrivel lesser men.
Santana Lopez, however, being neither lesser nor man, just makes a production of rolling her eyes and keeps walking past the blonde, not even slowing her stride until fingers are wrapping around her elbow.
"No, see, what you're not understanding is that this is my 'strike zone' and you've just placed yourself in the unfortunate position of ground zero." Cassie is all cocky slickness, lowering her voice to a patronizing hum as she steps forward into Santana's space without releasing the grip on her arm.
Santana looks at the hand at her elbow for a moment, then drags her gaze up to stare into mossy green questioningly. She raises her brows and gestures for Cassandra to continue before folding her arms across her chest, her fingers tucking against Cassie's grip and surprising Santana when the other woman doesn't pull them away.
"Oh—oh, I'm sorry, was that it?" Mocking exaggeration drips from her voice. "I didn't realize that was all; wow, these theatre kids really are just special, aren't they? That is all it takes to keep them cowering." She tsks and shakes her head, Cassie watching the theatrics with growing amusement.
Even with the drama that comes from teaching the best (and most conceited) performers the world has to offer, she rarely is treated to such unbroken defiance so late in a semester. It's annoying and attractive in a way that irritatingly reminds her of Schwimmer.
They stare at each other in silent assessment for a few beats, neither willing to show the weakness of looking away. Cassandra breaks it with a sudden smile, tugging on Santana's arm still in her grip until the brunette cautiously lets it be pulled forward between them.
"Not a student, even better." Cassie purrs. She circles her fingers around the delicate bones of Santana's wrist before slowly pushing the sleeve of her jacket up to her elbow, exposing the tender skin of her forearm.
Santana just watches, entranced, because this woman has some gigantic brass balls and for some weird reason, it's kind of turning her on.
"Presumptuous much?" She murmurs distractedly, still observing as the blonde turns her arm in pale fingers, stroking a fingertip over the soft skin and clucking her tongue at the goosebumps that spring up.
"Nooo.. just," Cassie sing-songs softly, pausing to dig one hand into Santana's bag where it hangs at her side until, with a victorious smile, she pulls out a pen. "Confident." She taps the pen to Santana's bottom lip before clicking it to write.
"Whatever you gotta tell yourself."
Santana licks her lips (still tingling from that tiny touch) while her attitude tries to recover from the stupor this chick's somehow got her in. She obviously needs to get laid, it's been weeks since Quinn and the not-wedding and she's apparently starting to get brain damage from the lack of sex. She clears her throat what she hopes is discreetly as Cassie presses the pen into the smooth flat of Santana's forearm, just above her wrist.
Santana ignores the spike in her heartbeat at the touch, but then her skin feels so much like it's sizzling under the tiny rounded tip that she actually has to glance down just to check. It's another small victory in the unspoken stand-off they're having, and Cassandra grins predatorily before she starts sliding black swirls and loops onto tan skin, smug in the dynamic they've established.
"Yeah, not that this whole retro thing you're doing with the pen isn't cute," Santana pauses to swallow when that electric gaze looks up and does the pinning in place thing again. The blonde stills and narrows her eyes while she waits for the rest of whatever Santana's going to say. "But here's a pro-tip... put your number in my phone and there's more of a chance I'll actually use it."
Cassandra laughs out loud at the posturing, a full throaty sound that surprises both of them and ripples down Santana's spine to pool in her stomach.
She's so sensitized by now with just the area code written that her mouth has dropped open a little and there's a throb in the growing heat between her legs. Each number feels like it's being traced everywhere and Santana has decided that this woman has got to be some kind of Coven shit or something, because she's actually letting her write on her arm and all Santana's doing about it is staring at the chick's tits and hoping she'll write her name, too.
Cassandra finally lifts the—cursed, enchanted, branding—pen from her skin, but doesn't step away or let go of Santana's limb. Santana tries to be all false bravado and chin thrust forward in defiance , but her chest is heaving unchecked and completely gives away how much this little encounter is getting to her. She'll be irritated with herself later for the lack of game, but then again if she gets a hookup out of it, maybe it's working for her as is.
Santana swallows hard as Cassie caresses down her arm and drags a fingernail under the number she's written, finally moving a step back and out of Santana's bubble after the touch. A thin white line appears immediately in the wake of the sharp sensation and she smirks condescendingly at Santana's fluster. Like a spell lifting, the sounds of the hallway around them seem to fade back into Santana's awareness when Cassie steps away, and she tries to get a hold on her breathing.
"You'll call." Cassie lifts a hand and pats Santana's flushed cheek, the brunette issuing an unconvincing scoff a moment too late to be effective.
Santana walks away from the woman—C, a glance to her arm tells her—with all the nonchalance her still semi-dazed senses can muster. She navigates the stairwell in her stilettos, thinking that leggy blondes seem to be her flavor, but she isn't sure how much she likes this new trend of bitchy they're coming with.
As she awkwardly shifts her hips in damp tights, her body has a loud and clear answer for that one that she'd rather not acknowledge. Brain damage, obviously. Maybe an older berry—sweeter juice is what they say—is just what she's been needing.
— — —
The next evening Santana is sitting in the lobby bar of the hotel where Brody entertains his 'guests,' staring at her phone while she waits for an all-clear text from Finn so she can go back to her room. She's already called Quinn, checked her Twitter feed, and updated her Facebook that "New York is better than evAR!" when the edge of a number showing under her sleeve catches her attention.
C.
Something rattles around under the edge of her consciousness, a nagging sort of annoyance that somehow has Rachel's voice.
Whatever.
She pushes up her sleeve and traces the number with her fingernail, thinking over what she knows about the woman and if now is really a good time to indulge a random hookup.
She's recently single (and not thinking about it), staying in a hotel tonight (fuck you, too, Wonder Twins), doesn't start work at her new job until tomorrow night, and could really use a distraction. She couldn't get any better timing for a one night stand. C definitely wears a cloud of bitch, but there's no arguing she's sexy and since she's a dance teacher, Santana's looking forward to some intensely hot flexibility in bed.
It clicks all at once and an incredulous laugh bursts out of her with the realization, drawing an odd look from the bartender. C, hateful blonde dance instructor at NYADA, called the class Brody was leading her studio. Duh.
Santana's immediately reminded of Rachel thanking her months ago (in that psychotic over-compensating Berry way she has) for the "intensive pre-conditioning" she supplied in high school, since 'Miss July' also preferred insult-heavy mocking.
That memory gives way to just a few nights ago, when Kurt mentioned that Brody and Rachel shared an 'open relationship' only because the dude had slept with Rachel's NYADA nemesis before Rachel could request exclusivity. Rachel had huffed out of the room at the comment, pouting behind her curtain for the rest of the night and having truly obnoxious sex with Brody when he finally slithered in, like she had something to prove with the party favor.
Santana grins into her drink, this was really just a gift the city had handed her. The same night she gets booted from her so-called family's apartment, she's offered free sex with Rachel's nemesis, who just happens to be an exceptionally tasty piece of cheesecake in just the right New York style.
Tapping the number into her phone, Santana saves it as C and hits Call, unable to contain her self-satisfied smirk.
— — —
The apartment's nice—like, really nice—and Santana tells her so before she can think better of it.
"Oh Christ, look, if we're gonna play upper east side pleasantries you can just turn around and show yourself back out." Cassie walks away from Santana down the hall and calls back over her shoulder, "If you want to fuck, let's see it. I'm already half asleep from how long it took you to get here." She then disappears into what Santana assumes is the bedroom.
Santana's pride is a mildly stung by the dismissive chastisement, but it's a feeling she's getting used to with Cassandra. The woman has a nonchalant kind of ownership about her and Santana finds herself falling in line with it, somehow before it even occurs to her to balk.
It's unnerving.
She sets her purse near the door and squares her shoulders before she follows down the hall, finding Cassie sitting in a chair next to her bed with a bored expression. She's wearing a silky robe that looks to have nothing beneath it, her legs crossed elegantly and a tantalizing length of creamy thigh exposed. Cassie crooks a finger at Santana standing uncertainly in the doorway, and the brunette feels an embarrassing flip in her stomach.
Santana enters the room with slow steps, playing at ambivalence and maybe a tiny bit of resistance to order, until Cassandra uncrosses those forever-long legs with a quirk of her brow and a twitch of her lips.
Yeah, okay, enough with the hesitation game, Santana knows how to work this. She pastes on her favorite smirk as she moves into the inviting space between Cassie's knees and braces her hands on the arms of the chair, leaning in and over the blonde.
They gauge each other silently, sharing breaths, Cassie waiting to see what this girl can do and Santana trying to stop herself from grinning moronically.
This chick just like, unsettles her somehow, crawls under her skin and pushes up from beneath with just a look. It reminds her of being with Brittany even though the bitchtastic attitude is very Quinn, and a part of Santana wonders if every blonde she ever knows will be held to those two for comparison.
She leans down for a kiss—halfway just to silence her ghosts of blondes past—and is further derailed when Cassie's touch brushes against her throat. Santana's breath catches as the wandering fingertips walk their way up her chin to rest against her lips, and she flicks her tongue out in a teasing whisper of contact.
"This isn't that kind of rendezvous," Cassandra says quietly with an edge to her voice, and Santana's momentarily bewildered—no kissing, what?
Despite the singular nature of a hookup, her first reaction is that she's nobody's whore and her spine stiffens in protest. But then Cassie's popping the buttons fastened on Santana's shirt, separating them one-by-one until it hangs open and the brunette decides maybe kissing can wait. She tightens her fingers around the arms of the chair until the wood creaks, and concentrates on not moving while Cassandra touches her leisurely.
Santana doesn't know exactly where this unchallenged obedience is coming from, it's like Cassie has tapped the same nerve that always had her falling in line with Sue and Quinn. At least no one that matters can see it, so she figures it's whatever. It's looking like if she strokes Cassie's ego and lets her call the shots, they can both get some orgasms out of it, so really, what's the harm?
Santana chooses to ignore that she's not letting Cassandra July do anything.
The blonde traces her fingertips lightly over the swells of Santana's breasts where they rise and fall in a push-up bra, hungry gaze roving over tanned abdominal muscles that flex slightly with every breath. Her eyes flicker back up to deep brown and she watches carefully for any resistance while she presses a single finger into Santana's sternum, pushing her to kneel on the floor.
Santana feels herself taking shallow breaths as her knees slowly meet the carpet in front of Cassie's chair, such a powerful directive delivered with such a small touch, Santana feels bewitched. The blonde trails her fingers back up to outline the curve of Santana's lower lip with her thumb, staring at it while her tongue peeks out to drag across her own lips.
"Think you can figure out what to do with your mouth, instead?" She spreads her legs on either side of Santana just that extra inch wider, the implication anything but subtle, and arches her eyebrow while she waits for the brunette to make the decision.
Okay, so yeah, a part of Santana wants to snap back—who does this chick think she is?
But there's another part of her that is hypnotized by the scent wafting from between Cassie's thighs, and Santana knows there's already a pounding slickness between her own. She wants to please this woman—make her moan—and she digs her nails into the pale skin of the blonde's inner thigh at the thought.
There's a little intake of breath at the action that seals the deal for Santana. Yeah, this is happening, and like, now.
She runs her hands up over Cassie's thighs and hips, a smile curling the edge of her lips as she grips a handful of each ass cheek and tugs sharply to pull Cassie to the edge of the chair.
"I'm sure I'll think of something."
Santana ducks her head with the comment and takes an exploratory swipe, a little irritated with herself for the whimper that falls out of her at the taste. Her fingers dig into the curve of muscle in each hand and her eyes squeeze closed as she lets her lips and tongue slip around the hot flesh, taking her time to build up the tension.
By the time she is hooking her arms under Cassie's thighs—shifting so she doesn't lose contact with the move—Santana has the random thought that as long as she can do this forever, she'll be happy. The scent, the taste, the feel of a woman's passion pressing desperately into her face, each needy sound she pulls from her partner's throat triggering another spasm from her own hips—it's really the closest Santana's ever felt to being meant to do something.
"God, lesbians are always so much better at this..."
The commentary is groaned up to the ceiling from where Cassie's head is tilted back on the chair, but it brings Santana back to the moment. She forces her eyes open to look up at Cassie, who has one hand tangled at the crown of Santana's head with a firm grip while the other squeezes at her own breast, occasionally twisting the nipple.
Santana feels her body clench when shading green eyes shift into focus to watch her, Cassie's fingers sliding to the back of the brunette's skull in silent guidance.
"You like that?"
Santana's brows lift at the question and she moves to pull back and answer, but Cassandra stops the retreat. "Ah ah ah." An almost evil smile spreads over her face and she tightens her fist in dark hair, lifting her hips to keep contact with Santana's mouth.
Alright, yeah. It's fucking hot, okay? Hot enough that Santana's eyes roll back and she dips her chin to push her tongue inside.
She's decided in this moment that she kind of needs to put Cassie on that desperate edge, and the constant stinging sensation from her scalp is only adding to the impulse. She can always rely on the dependability of lust to feel better about herself in the short term. She pulls her tongue back and flattens it to run a wide figure-eight over Cassie's sex, plunging back in at the blonde's sharp inhale.
"Ungh, yes, use your tongue..." Cassie's voice has lowered into a rasp, and Santana can't help but hope that she'll keep talking. She's always been on the more aurally stimulated side, which incidentally makes her affection for Rachel's voice something she refuses to think about too deeply.
"Is it turning you on, Santana?"
Fuck yes, it's turning her on. She looks up to see Cassandra's eyes have turned dark and glittering while she watches, and Santana's lower abdomen twists violently at the sight. She nods, replacing her tongue with two fingers so she can slide her mouth up, sucking lightly at the swollen bud.
There's a gasp that makes her smile into wet heat, flicking just the tip of her tongue faintly against either side of Cassie's clit. Yeah, Santana's fucking good at this, and she knows it.
"Show me how much it's turning you on."
Santana slows just barely in her task, her brows furrowing in confusion at what Cassandra is asking for. It doesn't escape her notice that she is all-out bottoming for this chick, but whatever. It's hot and Santana is pretty sure it'll be worth her efforts if she just puts the time in.
It's still fucking annoying how wet she gets at the approval in Cassie's gaze.
"Touch yourself, I want to see you," the order is calm and Santana only halfway manages to swallow her moan of relief. Keeping her hold on Santana's hair, Cassie uses her other hand to pull at Santana's arm, pushing it down towards the floor. "But don't come."
Fuck, she's so much closer just from that warning and a part of her wonders what that even means. But her fingers are eagerly popping the button on her denim shorts before sliding into the hot slickness soaking her thong, so the rest of her seems willing to enjoy it without too many questions.
Cassie's starting to pant, her mouth dropped open and both hands gripping Santana's skull to dig her nails in. Her eyes are barely open a sliver and her gaze sloshes almost drunkenly between Santana's face and her flexing arm.
"Jesus—"
A few moments later, Santana's actually pretty surprised that Cassie comes so quickly. It's quiet and intense, with one sharp cry before she jerks her hips up and grinds against the brunette's face. Santana can't do anything but stare and keep her tongue sliding over the throbbing pulse she feels between her lips, she honestly expected to work a little harder before it was her turn. The thought reminds her how very much she wants to come, and her fingers press inside herself while she licks at the remainders of Cassandra's arousal.
Cassie whimpers just a little, the vulnerable noise sounding foreign and off-note for what Santana knows of the woman. She pushes her palm against Santana's forehead abruptly, pulling herself up from the slouch she'd ended up in and putting space between them.
Santana's too worked up to be thinking clearly, which is the only excuse that comes to mind for why her main thought while settling back on her knees and licking her lips is that this bitch better not make her get herself off.
"Strip." The command is sharp, Cassie rising to her feet with the word. "Then get on the bed."
She struts off to the walk-in closet and Santana notices with only a little admiration that she's still wearing her heels. Those forever-long legs disappear into the depths of the closet and Santana snaps to action. She's on her feet with her sparse clothing on the floor in seconds, then awkwardly sits on the edge of the bed and tries to decide if it's anticipation or anxiety twisting in her belly.
"You look like the kinda girl that took a lot of football dick before discovering your sapphic leanings in the locker room." What the hell is that supposed to mean? Santana is bewildered—and maybe at least half offended—by the comment floating out detached from the closet.
"What the hell is th—"
Santana stops mid-word when Cassie comes back through the closet door securing the buckles of a strap-on to her hips. She walks like it's been there since birth, all swagger and confidence, showing none of the sheepish insecurity that Santana has felt the two times she's ever worn one.
"Get on your hands and knees."
Santana swallows roughly when her mouth goes dry and flips over like she's ducking a bomb , popping up to her knees and looking over to Cassie through a curtain of dark hair. She knows it's needy and debasing—and she'd be lying if she said that thought didn't just make it hotter—but fuck, she does needright now, bad enough to not care.
She feels the dip of Cassie climbing onto the bed and a detached part of her brain wonders how someone can manage to be smooth even about shuffling across the bed on their knees. Then she's not thinking much at all because Cassie's tucking herself behind Santana, her thighs pressed against the back of Santana's while she deliberately rubs the tip of the cock between slick lips, the brunette's ass dancing around trying to chase the tiny friction.
"Yessss..." she hisses, just as Cassie's hand lands on her hip and her nails dig into the jut of bone.
"Be a good girl and don't scream, I have neighbors." Cassie says it conversationally, like she's correcting a dance position or commenting on the weather, while the dick is sliding completely into Santana with the sentence. The brunette misses most of the words behind her own ragged groan at the filling sensation, but she does catch the little grunt Cassie isn't able to contain.
Cassie rides her like she's doing it for her own benefit and when she finally slides her hand under Santana's sweat-slicked body to rub over the swollen knot of her clit, Santana cries out sharply, the sound echoing off the walls. She earns a stinging slap to her ass cheek that only serves to pull another hoarse cry from her throat and a rough jerk of her body.
"I told you to be quiet." Cassandra growls into Santana's ear, not letting up on the rhythmic snap of her hips nor the friction of her fingers. "Can't you follow simple instructions?"
Santana nods emphatically, biting her lip to keep the moans at bay. It's a challenge when Cassie is bottoming out with every thrust and her fingers are relentless, but Santana doesn't want to do anything that might make the other woman stop.
"See if you can manage this one," Cassie whispers, sitting upright to get better leverage as she slams into Santana, digging her fingers in at the girl's hips to pull her backwards into each push forward. "Come."
Somewhere beneath rushing blood roaring in her ears and the euphoric waves of release, Santana is smug at the moan she can barely hear over the sound of her own wail.
— — —
Santana wakes up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow that tells her to show herself out and warns that she should "suppress any impulses to steal something" because the apartment is under security surveillance.
She sighs, laying it back on the pillow and climbing out of bed to look for her clothes. Her body is pleasantly weary, and the itchy feeling she always gets under her skin when she goes without sex for too long has calmed. Santana pointedly ignores how the cavernous ache in her chest feels like it might just consume her in some kind of imploding black hole. She reminds herself that she wasn't looking for a deep emotional connection, then snorts out loud at the idea of Cassie being emotionally connected to anything, deeply or otherwise.
There's a text on her phone from Rachel that reads "I know about Brody and Finn. Please call me, Santana. I need to talk to you."
Well, shit.