A/N: Just something I'm playing around with. I'm not sure if I'm going to continue.
You've lost count of the times you've been told to stay out of trouble and you know there are far too many to count. Its just something that you're inexplicably drawn to. You know its your penchant for getting into all kinds of not so pretty situations that has you labeled a bitch, a slut, a tramp, and plenty of other colorful names by the townspeople of Lima, Ohio. You're known for fucking anything with a pretty smile and drinking until you land yourself in the most troublesome situations. Until you find yourself tossing empty glass bottles at storefronts or screaming at street lamps. You're known for vandalizing big bad Coach Sylvester's office during your sophomore year and flashing the audience onstage on your graduation day. If your mother wasn't the sheriff of this shit town and your father wasn't the best doctor in the entire state you know you wouldn't get out of said trouble as easily as you do.
So, that being said, its a bit (a lot) of a surprise for you when one day your mother tells you to stay away from trouble. No, she doesn't give you the tired and rehearsed stay out of trouble routine you've heard pretty much since the day you could walk. Oh no. Your hard ass, straight laced, fun killing, 'I know what's best for you', mother tells you to stay away from trouble. At first the words simply do not compute because not only has she implied something other than you is trouble, your dear loving mother has implied the fallen right out of heaven angel standing just across the street from the two of you is the trouble she's warning you to stay away from. Its the first time you've seen her in town, the first time you've seen anyone like her in your entire nineteen years of life. And, fuck, you want her. Every single unexplored piece of her. You CRAVE her so deeply you can feel the desire to have her coursing through every jumping fiber of your being. Its crazy. Its wonderful. Its nothing you've ever felt before and you want more. You need more.
You'll never forget the way your mother's voice sounds, full of warning and suspicion and authority, when she tells you how to spell trouble. You'll never forget the shiver of anticipation that rolls its way from the tips of your fingers into the cavity of your ribcage toward that vibrating pit of your stomach before settling somewhere deliciously low. Because the sound of trouble, the taste of it, is like an extremely potent aphrodisiac to you. You just have to say it again. Out loud.
"Brittany Pierce." The name has that delectable undercurrent rushing through your veins once again. Polluting your bloodstream like the the most potent of drugs.
"I mean it, Santana." Your mother's stern words are a faraway whisper to the dozens of scenarios running marathons through you very, very dirty mind. "That Pierce girl is trouble." She says it as though she truly believes it'll sway you, as if she doesn't understand you've loved trouble from the day she brought you into this miserable stinking world. "I want you to stay away from her."
All you can manage is a half hearted nod of your head. Your gaze is focused on the sway of Brittany's hips, the gloriousness of her firm ass in those tight jeans. You can imagine fifteen things off of the top of your head that you would like to do to that ass.
"Santana Maria Lopez." Your mother's furiously snapping fingers snap you right out of your daze. Forcing you to focus your annoyed gaze on her. "Escuchame, mija." You hate it when she lectures you in Spanish. As if you didn't understand her the first time she said it and she's hoping saying it over again in a whole nother language will make it clearer. "Aléjate de ella. ¿Me entiendes?"
You have to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes at her sorry attempt to get you to actively listen to her. You gave up years ago trying to understand why she persists with her futile attempts to control you. You fix her with another distracted nod and let your gaze trail back toward that beautiful blonde creature. Unfortunately your mother has a different idea. Before you realize it she's grabbing your face with her hand, forcefully pulling your gaze back to her hard brown eyes and asking you again if you understand.
"Fucking ok!" You pull your face from her grasp and glare right back at her. "I get it, Mami. Stay away. Sheriff's orders."
She gives you one of her long, weary sighs in return. "I wish you wouldn't swear so much, Santana."
You hold yourself back from telling her you wish she would pull that stick out of her ass because the last time you said that she had a police grade ankle bracelet fixed to your person for an entire week. Of course, you figured out how to get the thing off without the alarm triggering, but you'd rather hold your tongue than go through the ordeal for a second time. By the time she heads for the police station with a firm instruction for you to get to the unlucky little shithole of an auto shop she has you working your fourth consecutive round of "community service" at, your blonde angel has vanished. You're tempted to roam the streets of Lima in search of this gorgeous woman, to sweet talk every person in town in order to get any information on your mysterious beauty. You're really fucking tempted. But someone upstairs must fucking love you because trouble is suddenly standing right in front of you, a cautious smile straining across her pretty pink lips. A weary look in her dark, jaded blue eyes. They're seriously the most gorgeous effing eyes you've ever seen. You must have gotten lost somewhere between meeting her gaze and her lips moving and not hearing the surely innocent question she must have asked because her expression shifts from cautious to guarded in a flicker of an instant.
Giving her you're most flirtatious smirk probably isn't the best move. Especially considering the way her already guarded expression turns hard. Those pretty blue eyes turning a bare fraction of a shade darker. The look screams danger and your blood is boiling in your veins. Itching for you to get that bit closer. To discover what her specific brand of trouble tastes like. "Sorry, sweetheart."
The pet name only worsens what you assume is supposed to be a warning expression. There's a twitch at her nose, the slight almost unnoticeable furrow at her brows. You know you've said the completely wrong thing and you can't help the shock of exhilaration it sends shooting through you. And when those pretty little lips of hers start moving again, words dripping like barely controlled rage and a hint of something sinister from a voice so ridiculously angelic you can't help the way your smirk broadens. There's something unbelievably sexy about the way she's glaring down at you; the flare of her nostrils and the brush of red crawling its way across her cheeks. You can't stop the teasing taunting tempt of your voice or the blatant implication behind your words. "I was a little distracted."
"Burt Hummel." She practically growls the name out at you and boy is that name the last thing you're expecting. "Where's his shop?"
"If you're having car trouble, sweetheart," You don't bother fighting the look of amusement that you're sure has found its away across your face. She's scowling now and goddamn if it isn't the hottest fucking thing you've ever seen. "I might know a thing or two."
"Listen, you seem like a very," The look in her eyes is somewhere between cruel and appraising as she takes in your appearance. You're well aware your skin tight mini skirt dangerously low cut top and ridiculously high heeled shoes give off the decidedly slutty impression that you've strived to perfect over the years. So when those pretty blue eyes waver at your awesome cleavage for the briefest of seconds you're more than ecstatic. It's when those eyes reconnect with your own, cold as ice, that you know you're going to be deliciously offended by her next few words. "Experienced girl and I," Her teeth clench as though she's having issues forcing the words out of her mouth. "I appreciate that you didn't ignore me like the two assholes I asked before you, but all I need is to know where the fuck I can find Burt Hummel."
"Hm..." You realize that you really shouldn't be playing with fire the way you are. You just can't seem to help yourself. "Say I take you to Hummel's shop, what's in it for me?" You just can't stop yourself from taking it one step further, from pushing this gorgeous specimen that little bit closer to her breaking point. The idea of her going completely berserk shouldn't get you as hot as it does. You're looking for a thrill you know only she can give you. "What'll you give me?" And just for the added effect, "Sweetheart."
"How about I refrain from messing up that pretty face of yours?" It's set somewhere between a whisper and a snarl. You're stuck on the suddenly gravelly texture of her voice. On the way its dipped an octave lower. And most importantly on the fact that she called your face pretty. Its enough to keep you smirking your cocky little smirk at her. Enough to add a devious twinkle to your eye and a considerable amount of swagger to your attitude.
You give her a shrug displaying the perfect amount of nonchalance and mirth. "No deal."
Her sexy scowl slips into this adorably confused expression in the span of a second and you have to stop yourself from cooing at her. When she's suddenly scowling again you know you've got her right where you want her. You can see it all in those pretty blue eyes of hers. The confusion and curiosity swimming beneath the ice of her glare. You've got her hook, line, and sinker. And the best part is she doesn't even know it yet. So before she can formulate a response you turn your back on her and walk away. You don't have to spare a backward glance at your angel to know that she's seething with rage and glaring holes into your back. To know that you've left an impression on her. Left your mark. One that she won't easily forget. One that will eat at her thoughts and drive her so far up the wall that she won't be able to stay away from you. Your mother told you she was trouble, told you to stay away from said trouble. Really, it isn't your fault that you tend to attract all kinds of trouble. Brittany Pierce included.
It isn't until three days later that you see her again. You're making your way toward Hummel's shop for another wonderfully boring day of sitting behind the front desk and filing your nails. The day you met her would've been your last day "working" there if some little fucktard hadn't complained about you not answering the phones or greeting customers or passing on messages or generally doing anything related to the job description at all. You're about to sit behind the front desk when you catch a glimpse of blonde hair and sun kissed skin through the window displaying the garage. She's wearing a standard issue 'Hummel's Auto Repair' jump suit pulled up to her waist and a grease stained wife beater that must've been predominantly white once. There's a cigarette dangling from between her lips and she's leaning against the garage doorframe. You can't help the greedy way your eyes devour her figure. The way that spark in the pit of your stomach ignites. The way the suddenly scorching flames lick at the walls of your insides. Catching you on fire from the inside out. Leaving you burning and breathless and craving her so very badly. And fuck, when your gaze meets hers you can swear you're suddenly drowning. You think you gasp out loud but you can't be sure of anything in that moment. Not with the way you're burning and drowning all at once.
All Brittany does is continue to glare at you. Her sparkling sapphire stare never wavering. Never breaking away from yours. Not even as she tugs the half smoked cigarette from her lips and throws it harshly to the ground. Stomping it out and heading your way with a chaotic billow of smoke escaping through her nose. Her brows furrow and she starts moving toward you like an angry bull charging toward its target. You briefly wonder if you're wearing red today because that would be so fucking ironic. Your musing is cut short by her sudden closeness. By the way she's towering over you, the way her angered glare is digging into you. And you're sure you would be scared, terrified, if you didn't catch that almost unnoticeable wandering of her gaze. If you didn't catch her eyes shift, for the briefest of moments, to your chest. Then your lips. And back to your eyes. Its in that very moment that you know she wants you almost as badly as you want her. That you're sure of it.
"Looks like you found what you were looking for." You can't stop the devious way your lips curve. "Sweatheert."
"You work here." The words are said in a controlled snarl. All accusation and confrontation. Those pretty blue eyes of hers flashing all kinds of danger.
"Hm," You settle down onto the office chair behind the desk and give her a taunting shrug. Picking up your nail file and starting your daily cuticle care. Responding as though she just commented about the weather. "Its more like mandatory labor."
Your reply only seems to further your gorgeous angel's irritation. You can't lie and say making her angrier isn't your intention because fuck is she sexy when she's angry. Her eyes darken until they're this ridiculously dangerous shade of blue and her cheeks stain this pretty pink color. And, god, the way her muscles jump and flex with barely concealed rage has you licking your lips in anticipation for the eventual outburst.
"Whatever you want to call it," She places her hands on the desk, mere inches from your own, and leans toward you. Invading your personal space, invading your electrified senses and making you tremble at the sudden proximity. Her eyes are somehow bluer up close, the freckles dusting her cheeks darker. Those sinfully sweet looking lips of hers drawing your gaze. Tempting you. Begging you to come just a little bit closer. To steal the words from her tongue. The faraway words you can barely comprehend her saying. "It looks like we'll be working together."
"No shit, Sherlock." Its out of your mouth before you can think to say it. You blame the sarcastic response on being a reflex acquired from constantly dealing with idiots for friends.
"Which is why I think," Brittany barrels on as though you haven't said a word and it leaves you a little miffed. "We should get a fresh start."
You generally entertain the idea for a brief moment. It would be nice to see your angel smile at you for once. While the near constant scowl or glare is the hottest thing you've ever experienced, you think she would be even more beautiful with a smile on her pretty face. Although you get the feeling her smiles are few and far between. Plus, you are Santana fucking Lopez. You don't play nice. You're pretty sure you don't even know the meaning of the word. So when she leans away from you, taking her scent and her body heat and the swirl of her sapphire eyes with her to stick out her hand for you to shake, you simply stare at her. Your eyebrow quirking and your lips stretching into a smirk. One that's gotten you into trouble too many times to count. "Here's the thing, Sweetheart."
Her scowl returns at the pet name. Her hand dropping to her side and her body tensing like a coil about to snap.
"I'm really counting on this... tension," You punctuate the word with a lick of your lips and an unabashed leer. Taking the time to trail lecherously over her body before returning to those too blue eyes of hers. Your smirk widens as her glare worsens. "We have going on here to lead to the hottest angry sex of my life. So," You shrug because there isn't much more to it. "I'm not interested in your little do over."
You figure blunt is the best way to go and from the way Brittany's wandering gaze slips almost guiltily along your body you're sure you made the right choice. When her eyes return to yours the irritation behind her glare falters. She knows she's been caught. Knows you know that she's been looking. That she will give in eventually because you're sexy as fuck and even she can't deny that she wants you.
"I'm not going to sleep with you."
Well, she can try to deny it. The lack of conviction in her voice and her still roaming eyes tell you more than her words ever will. But if your goddess wants to play this game so be it. You lean forward, elbows pressed against the desk, until your chest is nearly spilling out of your shirt. As intended, she falls for your little display instantly. Her jaw going slack and her eyes glazing with something more than irritation. Something carnal.
"I want you." The husk and smoke and velvet of your voice only lulls her deeper under your spell. "Under me." You enjoy the way her breath hitches and the red of her cheeks creeps down across her chest. "In me." Enjoy the way her fingers twitch uselessly at her sides. Straining against being put to good use. "All over me." Her blazing blue eyes snap up to meet yours and you almost moan out loud at the intensity you find in them. Your voice threatens to crack but you've had a lot of practice in the art of seduction. "In every way you can imagine."
Her body is so rigid so taunt and ready to burst that you're sure she's going to lunge at you any second now. Her next move both surprises you and exhilarates you. There's this enticing glint in her eyes and the way her lips slip into a lazy salacious smirk has you shuddering and wanting more. You don't realize you're suddenly closer until she's invading your frantic fucking senses all over again. Until you realize you're standing and she's leaning in and you're so close you can touch. Then she's speaking and her hands are lifting, fingers brushing teasingly up your forearms until her hands are gripping at your biceps and Jesus fucking Christ you can feel her hands on you beneath the barrier of your leather jacket. The feeling the sensation gives you, that dizzy headed buzzing at your every melting molecule, has you thinking you might faint. Even though the thought of swooning like some pansy should have you retching you can't bring yourself to give a single flying fuck. Just when you think the feeling of unbridled elation can't get any better your beautiful, dangerous angel is tugging you to her. Gripping your arms and practically yanking you against her. So close there's barely even room for either of you to breathe. You don't know how she manages to laugh that sexy laugh of hers when you can barely get enough air to your lungs to keep you from passing out.
"Every way I can imagine, huh?"
You want to answer her. You want to tell her both yes and right fucking now but you know all you would manage is a strained gurgle or a moan. With the delicious way her body is pressed against yours you're leaning more toward a moan. Instead you somehow manage a lazy grin and a nod that has you mentally patting yourself on the back.
"Oh, sweetheart," She's throwing that nickname back at you with one part venom and two parts seduction and, yeah, totally sounds better dripping from her lips heady, heavy, and venomous with desire. "You wouldn't be able to handle me."
Fuck. Holy fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck. Its the only thing running through your malfunctioning brain as your knees literally give out. If this beautiful creature wasn't holding you so tightly you would seriously be on the ground. Because... fuuuuuck. You want to tell her you could totally handle her. You want to tell her to fuck you right on top of this fucking desk. Unfortunately it seems as though you've lost all motor function. All you manage to do is gasp and shiver and stare, eyes half lidded and heavy with pure lust, into those hypnotizing eyes of hers. Speechless. For a rare moment in your life she has rendered you completely speechless.
"What's wrong?" Her hands flatten against your arms, palms sliding down along your vibrating skin and then up again. Fingers tangling in your dark hair as her lips trace a taunting trail across your jaw. Stopping at the curve of your ear. You whimper pathetically at the feel and she's laughing again. Right against your shivering flesh. Her hot breath caressing your skin and sending spider like chills rolling down your spine. Her words are a rasped burning growled burst of breath punctuated by a half playful half menacing nip at your ear. "Isn't this what you want?"
You want to scream shout moan whisper. You want to say something. You want to tell her fuck yes you want this. You want her. But your words seem to be stuck in your throat and your head is still spinning. Her touch is the only thing grounding you at the moment and that's just too fucking ironic since its what is also making you so unbearably incoherent. When her fingers detangle themselves from your hair, her hands leaving your skin, the press of her body lessening and leaving you cold, you nearly fall over. Your legs feel like jello and your everything is in this state of buzzing and numb that makes no sense at all. Your palms fall against the desk and with the sudden smack of skin on hard surface, you fall right back to your senses. The first thing you're aware of is the fact that she's practically across the room from you. The next is how labored your breathing is and how sticky the juncture between your legs feels. You chance another heavy lidded stare in her direction as you gasp for air. As you swallow your sanity back in with large heaving gulps of tension filled oxygen. Her eyes are on you, boring into you with an electric blue fire that burns you straight to the bone. She's setting you aflame with a look so animalistic you're sure she's a thought away from completely devouring you. You're not sure what kind of game she was trying to play but you are sure she lost at it. If the way her brows are furrowed and her lips are pressed into a disapproving frown are any indication.
You have to smirk at that, have to let loose a shaky rasped chuckle. The haze in her stare shifts, morphs into forced loathing and you tingle as her glare washes over you. As far as you're concerned your goddess can pretend all she likes, you both know she's craving you just as badly as you are her. So you tell her as much. Before she escapes the stifling crackling thickness of your combined lust to resume her quiet brooding in the garage and you settle back down onto the office chair. Before she can brush it all off like it never happened, like she never gave herself completely away. You tell her, out loud, exactly what she's thinking.
"We both know you want it just as bad and eventually," You allow her a wicked smirk as you compose yourself. "You're going to let yourself have it."
You watch her storm out of the room and into the garage. Watch her practically run toward the car she must have been working on before you arrived. Until she's disappearing behind the hunk of scrap metal and away from your line of sight. Its in that moment you allow yourself to breathe properly. To fully process what in the hell just happened between you. To savor the memory of her touch, menacing and passionate with an underlying hint of desperation. The way she smelt beneath the grease and grime, that faint scent of something soft and sweet and inviting. The look in those blue eyes of hers, the chilling intensity mixing enticingly with burning distaste. The sound of her voice like an alluring mixture of crackling fire and sugary sweet and temptation. The memory sends your stomach whirling and you know there will be more like it to come.