No real warnings. I had so much fun writing these two, oh god.
"You've been struck by, a smooth criminal."
So they stood there, slightly out of breath, looking into eachothers faces, barely one foot apart. Trying to not be the one to break first. To turn away.
Eventually it was him. He cleared his throat. Stood a little taller.
"Not bad, Lopez."
She scoffed, tipping her hat at an angle. "Please. Take that to the famous," she smirked – "red-wine stained blazer."
He smirked. "I got that out, by the way."
She was picking up her jacket to leave.
Oh, but he didn't want to be a bad sport.
He made shooeing motions to the Warblers standing in the doorway. The ones that were still left anyway. Grumbling, they disappeared.
Sebastian took her jacket from her and held it up for her to slip into.
"Trying to be a gentleman, Smythe?"
She took it back from him, and slipped it on. "Guess what. It's not working."
With them, it was the everlasting cat and mouse game. It would stay one, a game, until one of them let themselves be caught.
He wasn't going to be the first one to be trapped.
Santana walked towards the door. He pouted. But he was having so much fun.
"Wait a second." He called. His voice sounded oddly loud after their singing.
She stopped. Stayed with her back to him.
"I have somewhere to be, you know. I don't spend my time chasing after people like you do. Oh, and I'm not as big an asshole-„" she turned around and smiled angelically. "But, you know. Each to their own." She sighed exasperatedly.
"You don't spend your time chasing after people?" He raised his eyebrow. "Sure you don't?"
Strike one. Her expression flickered. Sebastian 1, Santana 0.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Aha. Her composure was regained. It had only been a second of emotion on her face.
"I think you know."
"Well, enlighten me, Smythe. Now you've made me curious." Sarcastic smile on her face. She sat down on one of the chairs and started inspecting her nails. But her gaze kept wandering to him. "Start talking. We don't have all day."
"Just that I, at least, don't make a fool of myself in front of Blaine. I don't let any deep emotions show." He stepped neatly around the chairs, to stand behind her. He bend down to her. His breath ghosted across her neck. "I've done my research on you."
She turned her head to the side to look over her shoulder and meet his eyes. A fraction of a second passed. He imagined her in her Cheerios uniform with her dark waves in a the classical high pony.
Wait a minute. What was he think-
"You're talking crap. I'm leaving." She stood up abruptly and interrupted his thoughts. How interesting.
She was almost out the door when he thought of something to keep her there.
"Oh yes, I've heard about you. Quite the typical popular cheerleader. Except, of course, there's nothing typical about you. You used to be so proud, didn't you?" Now both of his eyebrows were raised.
She had halted again.
"So proud. Throwing the perfect insults left, right and centre, and then falling in-" he made a noise of digust – „love, from what I've heard, completely head over heels, fairytale and all that shit, love, with your best friend Brittany. Only that she didn't love you back, of course. That was the small side effect."
"Shut it." She whispered. But he heard alright. Bingo. He had known Brittany must be her weak point. Everyone had a weak point. An Achilles heel.
Strike two. Sebastian 2, Santana 0.
"Let's not forget that she was in 'love'" his fingers sketched heavy quotation marks around the word. "With an other guy. A crippled guy, on top of it all. You wondered about that, didn't you, Lopez? You were prettier. Could provide more. With more passion, of course. I don't doubt that." Another smirk.
Santana turned, hair flying.
"And what about you, my friend?" She walked towards him and jabbed him in the chest with a finger. Ow. Pointed nail. "Having a different guy every week, hell, every day, now going after Blaine because he's happy, I guess happy people do this do you, don't they? Make you seeth, make you want what they have. So you are the one wasting your time and chasing after people. I guess it's you, isn't it, Smythe?"
Well, that stung. His heart positively ached. Shit.
He'd give her that one. Sebastian 2, Santana 1. Time to liven it up a bit more.
"You're as much of a bitch as everyone says you are. It's cute."
She was breathing heavily, her hat was at an angle again, and her hair was untidy. She didn't bat an eyelash.
"You're as much of an annoying jerk as everyone says you are. And it's not cute."
He mock-pouted. "What a shame. But I don't know whether to take that as a compliment or as an insult."
"Douche." She stepped towards him.
"Bitch." One step closer to her. He could smell her perfume, something sultry and heavy, like a hot summer's night indoors. Intriguing.
"Bastard." Exactly in front of him.
"Slut." Now that had been a good one. He knew how many guys she'd been with before she fell in ‚love' and met her ‚soulmate'. How awful those words sounded even in hismind.
"Asshole."
His eyes fell on her lips.
"You're scared of me, aren't you?" he asked.
She snorted. "God, your ego is bigger than Mount Everest."
"I hate you."
"I hate you more."
"I hate you more than anyone I've ever known." She was whispering again.
"Good."
His lips crashed down on hers, and he didn't have time to think about it, because her scent was everywhere, and her lips were warm, and her sharp nails were scratching down his back, and clawing at the thin material there, then at his skin, then her fingers were tangling in his hair, and he was tossing her hat off her head and they were entwining. Everything was heat.
When she pulled away, her expression was just a full of annoyance and just a small hint of boredom, the typical Santana-is-pissed face.
But he was beginning to be able to read her. Her eyes had darkened, but there was confusion in them. A lot of it.
He didn't even think about himself. What this meant for him. But he knew what he must look like, his hair tangled from her fingers raking through it, his lips swollen and his uniform messed up. It was strange that he didn't even realise he was in the real world.
Damn, when had he last felt like he was dreaming?
"'Till hopefully never again, Smythe."
She winked, but he knew when she walked out the door with her bag swinging from one shoulder, that she was touching her lips, and frantically searching for something in her mind that would make that – what she just did to him – non-existent. Unreal. It-never-happened.
He thought he heard her sniff. But that was impossible.
She was like him. Not as cocky as she pretended to be. Emotional. A person. The only difference between them was that she showed them sometimes out of own free will. He would never make that mistake. Emotions made everything shit.
Strike three. Game over.