Title: Smooth Criminal

Summary: "You've been hit by—you've been struck by—a smooth criminal!"

Category: UST

Rating: T

(Authors Note: The UST between Sebastian and Santana was unbearable, so I wrote this ficlet to let out that UST that it left me with. Why, oh why do they both have to be gay? I mean I love Britana to death but that—that was just hot.)


"You've been hit by—"

"—you've been struck by—"

"—a smooth criminal!"

Sebastian heart pounded unforgivingly against his ribcage. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like this, palms sweaty, head reeling—his body trembling. He just stared for a moment into her angry brown eyes.

They or rather she looked ready to jump him—probably to pumble him and more— he felt his stomach tighten in response, and some part of him really hoped she would. He wanted her to pin him down—or at least try, he'd quickly right that—and rip off his clothes while he tore through hers. For the first time in his life he wanted to be inside of a woman.

He felt a throb in his groin and from that look in her eyes he figured that she felt something similar.

He wanted her to writhe under him. Maybe he'd make her beg a little first—just for fun, in the end he'd give it to her. But first, he'd make that pretty, large, mouth say his name, make it say please, and whine and beg for any sort of release.

He picked at the memory that had taken place only a few seconds ago, her weaving through the chairs in that—that dress even though it was much too short to be considered that.

Not that I'm complaining.

He could feel her hot breath on his face, she was panting—not in the way he wanted her to.

He thought of forcing that shirtcoatdressthing up over her head. Pulling down her panties and spreading her legs.

He let out a strained moan and felt his pants get a little tighter.

Her eyes shifted from frustration—in sexual-nature, he assumed, to a questioning look.

At that he turned and walked away, she followed, barking at him like a rabid dog, demanding answers.

His back to her he answered her questions as nonchalantly as he could, trying his best not to think of her fighting with him for dominance in his bed.

After he threw that slushy in her face, and she left—keeping what little dignity she had by not pitching a bitch-fit.

He went home that night and did something that he'd never done before.

He pictured a woman when he touched himself, and he still woke up to a wet bed.


(A/N: So, yeah, complete and total crack. May or may not write in Santana's perspective, who knows, I may even turn it into a multi-chapter. But probably not. Reviews welcome.)