summary: santana loves sebastian, and sebastian loves santana but they are both unsure if they can love anybody more than they love themselves, and ponder if they're ready to commit to each other wholly, with both their fears and their respective glee clubs in the way. santana-centric.
notes: i was bored and, lo this was born unto the world. not overly explicit, rated m to be safe. i'm not entirely happy with it, i'll probably change it later. review, darlings.
disclaimer: i don't own blah blah.
breath me
hurt myself again / and the worst part there is nobody else to blame
Santana Lopez has always been sure of herself. From the moment she learnt how to pronounce her vowels, form words; everybody recognised the fact that she was a natural born pack leader, an alpha female in her own right. Santana Diabla Lopez was born to rule and instruct, to conquer; bowing down to the silly whims of others wasn't at all her style. She was a rebel, naturally, a girl who never ran out of causes to rebel against. So it was a complete and utter mystery as to why she was sitting at home, in her room, at 9PM, on a Sunday of all days, while desperately crying to scrape through the last chapters of The Catcher in the Rye for an English assignment – three days before the deadline, 72 fucking hours, which meant that there were 72 hours that Santana could fill by partying, drinking or any other normal teenage activity
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As the hours past, her mind could only wander. Wander to him. Thoughts of his eyes, oh, his eyes, piercing and observant, the girl sighed as she thought of them. They reminded her of forests in the winter, full of wild green, stretching for miles and miles, sparkling like the dew that fell from the leaves each day, and shining like the sun that helps the foliage grow and mature, until there's no room for the old tree to grow, so it just crumbles away, becoming lacklustre and grey as the months go by, until a Texan lumberjack decides to put it out of its misery.
Santana wished that she were a plant or a tree a small enclosure somewhere. Free to move and grow, without having to handle the pressures and imbalances that people brought into her life, she would simply move, breath and flow, without having to depend on others to reel her back in when the unpredictable waters in the ocean of life swallowed her up and spit her out, with little care for her own wellbeing.
Santana Lopez was born with this self-sufficient mentality, the constant need to do everything on her own.
So it was a mystery of Conan Doyle proportions, as to why she would sit, at home, night upon night, feeling her former "party girl" personality slowly crumble peace by peace as she waited for his call, sat at her computer, like the co-dependent mess she could feel herself becoming, waiting for the dull, monotone beep of a Skype call, from his account to hers, just so she could see his face.
The crinkle of his brows when she challenged him to another round of their endless games of 20 Questions, the way his amaranth lips would suddenly part, to reveal his pearly white teeth, which never failed to remind her of the many times when they would be briefly attached to her upper neck or lower lip, which (more often than not) lead her to distasteful thoughts, the kind that would make her mother blush and her father curse.
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"S-stop, Cristo, Seb', I wanna stop," In the history of all the untrue things that have left Santana's mouth in the eighteen years she had been living, this one was the most outright lie, the notion betrayed her, did nothing but egg her male companion on, as he continued to push against her, touching her in the most intimate knew her commands fell on deaf ears.
The irrational part of her was screaming for her to continue, to do this, but the rational part was protesting with everything she had, begging the fiery Latina to think of what she was doing, to think of Glee and think of the people she would hurt if this continued.
Strong hands snaked around her waists, hooking into the sides of her shorts, yanking them down with a brutal passion. She took this moment to drink him in, the way he smelt of tobacco and designer cologne (the same brand her father wore, which would turn off most people. Not Santana. Not when her body was trapped in his vice like grip, as they fooled around in the darkness of a Dalton Academy supply closet, while both of their respective show choirs called both of their cell phones, that they conveniently forgot to bring), the pure, carnal desire in his eyes as he looked up at her with emerald orbs, making her stir inside and ache with unadulterated need.
As he continued his delicious assault on her, the Warbler didn't ask if she was sure, because he wasn't a gentleman, and she wasn't a lady. They were two greedy, selfish beings who didn't pretend to be otherwise, because that wasn't who they were. They were kindred spirits in almost every way possible. Both confident, sassy, and afraid of nothing, no task was too hard, nothing would ever satisfy them.
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She was Santana Lopez, and he was Sebastian Smythe, they would never love each other more than they loved themselves, they made that clear from the get-go. They were an experiment, something that they would talk about to their business associates (because children were something that Santana knew would never happen for either of them, they were far too driven, with far too much potential to willingly distract themselves with children, as adorable as they were) in twenty years' time, over a glass of vintage wine and last month's numbers.
Because, before everything else, Santana Lopez was realistic. The time of kidding herself that she would one day be swept off her feet by the typical Charming stereotype, all while looking constantly beautiful in a ball gown and glass slippers, past a long time ago.
Sebastian Smythe would never be her prince, and she would never be his princess; Santana wasn't entirely happy about that, the idea of not staying with Sebastian until her hair was grey and wise, with six grandchildren to tell the story of how their abuela and abuelo fell oh-so desperately in love with each other (leaving out the explicit details, ignoring the curious cries and whines of the six eager children as they begged to know more), and many children that loved them both dearly made her stomach twist into knots, her face pale ever so slightly.
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Sebastian Smythe had become her world, slowly, little by little, he had snook into that lonely place in her heart.
He infuriated her, daily, with his shit-eating smirk and constant self-assurance, even in the worst of situations (which was something Santana discreetly admired), the way he would whisper sweet nothings into her ear, making her blush shamefully, like Berry did whenever Hudson breathed in her direction, and that made her blood boil and heart hurt. It angered her. The fact that the Latina could feel for anyone that wasn't herself was alien, the notion made her skin crawl.
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Before she knew it, it had begun to rain, and she had begun to cry. Big, fat salty teardrops burnt her skin like acid, melting away both her skin and her icy resolve with an ease she wasn't at all comfortable with.
And with every tear that fell, she thought of him.
And with every thought of him, she felt the block of ice that isolated her heart from the rest of the world fall away, chip by chip, and Santana Lopez could do nothing but wonder about what would happen when the ice melted fully, and she was left bare, for everybody to see.