Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please: Santana (18/29)
Title: Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please: Santana (18/29)
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
If there is one thing Santana Lopez loves, it is the unique freedom that comes from being her. She is the only person she knows who can engaged in some of life’s greatest pleasures, and it is awesome.
For example, running naked (well, sort of) through city streets without catching a single awkward glance? Amazing.
Of course, she isn’t doing so in her birthday suit. That would certainly garner a little attention; for God’s sake, she’s unbelievably attractive. There is no way she could motor in skin alone and get away with it.
But dressed in the fur of a shaggy black dog?
This works.
The whole shapeshifter thing kind of freaked her out at first-fucking duh, who wouldn’t be shocked to wake up with four paws and some whiskers?-but now she can’t get enough of it. She’s the only seventeen-year-old who can live on the streets of New York fuckin’ New York without a care in the goddamn world, and it’s brilliant. No rapist could dream of touching her, and there’s really nothing to mug when you’re soaring through the sky on nothing more than your own wings.
The only thing she ever has to worry about protecting is her girlfriend, and really, there’s nothing to that. Brittany is quick, and strong-perks of being horribly, unflinchingly in love with a dancer-and has that whole healing thing going for her; she practically takes care of herself.
And when she doesn’t, Santana is there, talons, or claws, or fangs a-flashing.
They are the perfect team.
Overall, it’s kind of hard to see how this isn’t the perfect life. No parents to fuck things up, no responsibility to anyone but one another. In short, no stress. Most kids her age are freaking out over college applications and term papers, petty relationship drama and general idiotic behavior. Santana has never had to worry about any of that; who needs school when there are whole skies and the vast expanse of the city at her fingertips? As for relationship drama-Jesus, she and Brittany couldn’t fit together better if they were two halves of the same body.
Sometimes, in her more whimsical moments, Santana speculates they might very well be exactly that. Not that she’ll ever admit it, even to Brittany herself. She’s got to retain some mystery.
Brittany will be waiting for her soon, actually-she’s certainly been out long enough-but Santana hasn’t quite breached the point of worry yet. She knows that line well and is careful to always toe on the side of her girlfriend’s sanity; the last time she came home later than expected, she found an infuriated, tearful blonde with one hell of a right hook, shrieking around tears about how she’d been entertaining all sorts of miserable images for hours. Images involving, mostly, Santana’s canine body lying prone next to the dingiest curb imaginable.
Brittany isn’t much for shouting and fighting, but she certainly has a keen instinct when it comes to animal rights. Santana knows better now than to assume “I’m fine” counts as truth after an ill-advised viewing of Animal Cops.
She smiles as best she can with an elongated snout at the memory. There isn’t much worth knowing in this world-not much worth putting any sort of concrete stock into-but the way Brittany feels about her qualifies as certainty.
Something jolts through her with a sharp suddenness, ripping all thought of the blonde from her mind. Lips curl back in a snarl as her dark head whips left and right, seeking the source of the intrusion.
A hand. A hand on her back, stroking down towards her tail, and though her animal instincts are pleased, Santana Lopez is not. She gives a low growl, willing the rebellious tuft of fur at the base of her spine to stop its infernal wagging, and narrows cold eyes.
The hand belongs to a child, she notes when the first beat of irritation has slithered past. It’s a blonde little thing, probably three or four years old-in fact, she thinks warily, it looks like a sibling of Brittany's might, if either of them were still in contact with family members. Big blue eyes, a thousand-watt smile, cherub cheeks-it’s cute.
Santana doesn’t really do cute.
But this is New York, and the middle of the day, and she supposes not much good can come of yanking a little boy’s hand off with little provocation. She settles for shifting warningly, nails clicking against the pavement as she strides a few paces away.
It’s a good tactic, a smart tactic, and Santana’s sort of proud of herself. Look at her, achieving her goals without violence. Brittany would be-
Well, goddammit.
Her eyes go wide, her jaw lolling open in shock as two pudgy hands wrap around the base of her tail and pull. It’s just about the least pleasant sensation in the world, having her tail pulled-like someone grasping one of her human arms and doing their best to rip it from its socket. This kid better get his shit together in the next four seconds, or she’s not going to be responsible for her actions.
When she gathers herself enough to wrench around and growl again, she finds him beaming. The little rat bastard seems to think he’s made a friend with his grabby hands. Yeah, right.
Don’t have to rip him completely apart, she rationalizes as he toddles nearer, clapping those evil hands together. Don’t have to take his whole arm off. A few fingers might do it…
“Todd!”
Strong arms wrap around the boy’s small frame, hoisting him into the air and atop broad shoulders before Santana can make a final decision as to how hard to bite. Big brown eyes glare down at her, and before she knows it, something snaps hard against her nose.
“Bad dog! Beat it!”
Beat it, she repeats silently, shaking her head reproachfully and giving the little brat’s father another view of impressive fangs. Shut the hell up. Like you’re a motherfucking model parent, letting your kid run rampant…
“Shoo,” the man tries again, swinging the rolled-up newspaper a second time. This time, Santana is ready for it; her head jerks up as his hand comes down, her teeth snatching around ink and paper, just barely missing skin. He makes a funny strangled noise, like he expected her to take his hand in the process-a prospect Santana’s nowhere near against, for the record-and steps back so suddenly, little Beast Boy sways precariously on his shoulders.
Fuck off, Santana grumbles silently, wishing her abilities came with a K.A. Applegate-ian talent for telepathy. What she wouldn’t give to slip into this fucker’s mind, scare the living hell out of him and his tail-pulling punk-
Well. She supposes she can sort of do that. In her own way.
She gives a furious bark, as loud as she dares with so many people around. Not quite so feral as to seem overly threatening (it’s stupid to call too much attention when she’s this unevenly matched; her canine body is powerful, but humans in large numbers could crush her like a pup), but still enough to jolt the cocky man out of his smack-happy behavior. It works. She barely has to roll her tongue hungrily between her teeth before he’s turning and stomping away, casting anxious glances over his shoulder like he’s waiting for her to barrel against his legs and smash him into the pavement.
It’s tempting. She can see it unfold in her mind’s eye: the thud of fur and muscle against the back of his jeans, the shout of surprise as he tumbles forward, the shriek emitting from his demon spawn as the child windmills violently into concrete-
But it would make Brittany upset, to see fresh blood on Santana’s fur, and there is no way she’d be able to make her girlfriend see exactly how much the little punk deserved to be put in his place. She’d just wind up sleeping alone for a week. It’s not worth it.
Growling softly, Santana turns and pads in the opposite direction, twisting her head to fling the paper free as soon as she rounds the next corner.
It’s getting dark, and she’s a little further out than she originally intended, but she’s still not completely ready to go home. She hasn’t been able to find anything particularly wonderful to eat, aside from a few fruits tucked into the kerchief Brittany fashions around her neck when she goes out to prowl, and that makes her feel more or less like a failed alpha. Not that Brittany needs her to find food; they could just as easily slip out, Santana wearing her regular skin, and pick a pocket or two for pizza. But if there is one thing Santana loves more than her freedom, it is protecting her girl, and really, fruit? Pathetic. It’s not even good fruit; she found fucking oranges the size of ping-pong balls. It’s a strike to her skills as a forager, for sure.
Plus, there’s something…weird on the air tonight. A strange drifting sense that Santana just can’t seem to shake. Nothing looks out of place, but all the same, something just smells off.
She lifts her head, arching her back, sniffing cautiously. Most of the scents are familiar: the bustle of body odor battling floral perfumes, the crush of gasoline and street-vendor hot dogs, the seduction of coffee grinds and salt. But above it…somewhere…there is something else. Something…
A rumble starts in her chest, frustration bubbling up. Something’s wrong. Or…not wrong. Just…
Fuck it, Santana decides with a shake of her head, trotting once more down the street. It’s just the city, with its stupid people and its stupid rolled-up newspapers, going to her head all over again. All she needs is a few more morsels of food, and then she can lope back to Brittany, shift to human, and spend the rest of the night working off the week’s aggression via beautiful orgasms.
It takes a little longer than she’d like to scrounge up a couple of sandwiches (and how amusing, that New Yorkers wouldn’t be wise enough by now to safeguard their dinners while eating outdoors), but she can smell turkey and mustard, and the girl to whom the sandwiches used to belong is slow as hell. In the end, Santana comes out ahead. Plus, hey, bonus-sandwiches.
They haven’t had some quality stolen sandwiches in like…a week.
Brittany’s going to be so happy.
Head held high, meticulously-wrapped bread and meat clamped between her jaws, Santana pants her way up and down a few back streets and into the alley closest to home. As a human girl, such a dark and dingy corridor would likely spell rape, or mugging, or some nasty combo of the two, but as man’s best friend? Santana fucking owns this place.
Which is why it’s so incredibly bizarre that she feels caged the second she leaves the open street.
This isn’t the natural order of things; Santana hasn’t felt caged since Before, since home, or that thing that masqueraded as such. Since striking out on her own, since taking up the mantle of the street with Brittany, nothing has been able to hold her. Nothing has weighed upon her chest, no manacles bind her ankles. She is the literal master of her own domain, regardless of what other people think, or how they poke or stare.End of discussion.
So why does she suddenly feel like she’s walked into a net she can’t make sense of?
Bending to set the sandwiches on the ground, Santana pads in an uneasy circle, sniffing heartily at the air. Her eyes aren’t the greatest at night-should’ve picked a different body once the sun started to sink, should’ve gone for something a little more feline-but there is absolutely nothing wrong with her ears.
As evidenced by the whispers she’s picking up like they’re being transmitted via megaphone straight into the side of her head.
“How are we supposed to find a runaway?” a male voice complains. Santana’s not entirely sure where he is, but she can smell him-feisty, angry, all aftershave and Taco Bell. She hears the low thunk of a fist against cloth, followed by a growled, “Touch me again, Hudson, and I’ll break your fucking face.”
“Shut up,” Hudson replies in a shrill whisper. “You’ll scare her off.”
“Scare who? There’s no one here, numbnuts. Hummel’s fucking vision was fucking-“
“Will you please reign in that tongue of yours?” a girl cuts in, sounding like she hasn’t slept in fourteen days or so. The man’s voice lowers, and Santana needs a moment to realize he’s trying to sound sexy.
“I’ll do whatever you want with this tongue of mine, babe. Just say the word.”
“For crying out loud, Noah,” the girl grumbles. “Please hush and let me concentrate.”
The thwack of palms against denim resonates. “On what? God, you freaks are pathetic. There’s no one here. It’s just a goddamn-“
“Noah! Shut. Up.”
A beat of silence. If she were dressed in the skin she was born with, Santana might think they’ve gone, but her nose insists otherwise. She lowers, haunches coiling, tail pointing straight out behind her.
“She’s here,” the girl breathes, and Santana bites down on a grumbling retort. There’s no point in giving up her position to a probable enemy, even if this is her turf. With no idea of what she’s up against, she’s content just to blend. Blend and wait, sandwiches seated protectively between her paws.
Feet scrabble against cement a few feet away, drawing nearer. The person probably thinks they’re being stealthy; Santana rolls her eyes. Frickin’ Todd could hear these bitches coming.
A pebble knocks sideways, scratch-sliding under her belly, and Santana feels her lips peel away from her teeth. Just a few more inches…
“There!”
The explosion of sound is immediate and overwhelming. Folding her ears flat against her head, Santana snarls when the first hand closes around the scruff of her neck.
Big mistake, fuckhead.
“Jesus Christ!” By the sounds of it, it’s the second man-Hudson-whose hand she’s just sunk her teeth into. Good. The whimper he emits as he whips free is gloriously unmanly, and then-
He’s gone.
It’s strange. The scent of him is still there, floating on the air like a sailboat set adrift, but the body is missing. Santana would waste time wondering, but there are more hands, more bodies, more idiots to concern herself with. One disappearing douchebag means nothing in comparison.
It’s hard to keep track of how many of them there are, or how many she’s closed her teeth around. The smells are distracting, bounding off of one another, melding into one chaotic stream of stress, and again, she wishes she’d picked another beast to wander as today. Dogs are great for many reasons, but in a fight, she’d much prefer to feel clear-headed, and this-this just isn’t working.
She hears a curse and a squishing sound and swears internally because, fuck, one of those assholes just crushed the hard-stolen sandwiches. Terrific.
“Grab her!” someone cries.
“I’m trying,” another fires back just as nails dig into her back. Santana bucks heavily, racing from one end of the alley to the other, dodging through legs and-the hell?-wheels as she goes.
This is fucking ridiculous.
A bolt of something-electricity, Santana thinks, like a lightning bolt out of the otherwise-clear night sky-zips over her head, followed by what looks annoyingly like ball of blue flame. Santana plasters herself against the ground, belly scratching the gravel, whining when the stench of scorched air winds into her nostrils and rests there.
“No fire! We need her alive, you idiot!”
“Don’t call her an idiot!” a new boy cries.
“I was talking to Puck!”
“People!” the girl who seems to be leading them all snaps. “Can we please focus on the task at hand here?”
Forget that shit, Santana thinks, because ‘the task at hand’ seems to revolve entirely upon ruffling her silken pelt for no apparent reason. These bastards have already ruined dinner; she’s done playing with them. Someone’s about to lose a hand.
At least.
“Got her, got her!” an excited female voice booms just as two hands wrap around Santana’s throat, lifting her bodily off the ground. She twists and flails in the air, snapping her jaws; in response, the girl actually has the audacity to muzzle her with one strong set of fingers.
Well, fuck.
“Mercedes has her!” the high-pitched boy who’s been going around deeming people idiotic cries. “Everybody relax!”
Yeah, Santana thinks meanly, fucking relax. The minute you do, I’ll-
But the hand around her snout tightens warningly, the other arm pulling her back against the girl’s chest, and there’s something else-something warm, slithering its way around her senses. Her eyes slip shut against her will, her paws flexing against nothing, her mind calming instantly. Too instantly. Somewhere underneath it all, she recognizes how not her this all is, how obviously someone else is slipping in under her skin, prying her open-
She’s going to fucking kill whoever’s doing this. Just as soon as she’s able to stop fucking relaxing.
“It’s okay,” the leader chick soothes, and Santana struggles to press back against the sound. It’s melodic and wonderful, the simple caress of a lover against her ears, and she hates it. No one can do this to her. No one but Brittany, and Brittany’s not here, Brittany’s-
Brittany is unprotected, at home, unaware. Her eyes close again, this time out of sheer desperation, because if she’s finally been captured by some of those crazy power-hungry assholes, who the hell will be left to take care of Britt?
She doesn’t even realize what’s going on until the girl-a petite midget with rumpled dark hair and sharp brown eyes-has her hands on either side of Santana’s head, gazing through her with something annoyingly like affection. In a better situation, Santana would be growling, barking, ripping clean through the girl’s arm. Now, she feels too light, suspended, like the only things grounding her to earth are the two sets of hands on her body. A whine curls up into her throat.
“It’s okay,” the brunette says calmly again, scratching behind Santana’s ear, and goddammit, that almost feels good. She tries to shake her head, tries to shake her off. The hand around her neck braces tighter.
“Mercedes. Let her go.”
And now it’s one set of hands, her body back on solid ground, and Santana knows she could wrench free if only she could convince her limbs to cooperate, but for some reason…
What the fuck is this?
The girl’s eyes are kind, warm, her hands soft and strong on either side of Santana’s head, and Santana hates her. There’s a false sense of security here, a trap or a trick, and Brittany needs her, Brittany needs her to stay strong, to find some vestige of resilience and buck against the fresh-cookie comfort oozing inside her gut.
She doesn’t even realize she’s transforming until the gravel cuts into her knees. The hands feel much less pleasant now that she’s lacking fur and canine nerve endings, but whatever hold this young woman’s got over her doesn’t seem inclined to vanish. Her head bows, flat, all-too human teeth gritted.
“What,” she manages to grind out, “are you doing?”
“Keeping you from tearing my throat out, mostly,” the girl replies placidly, like she does this kind of shit every day. Santana almost respects how unafraid she sounds.
“Well. Stop it.”
“Are you going to promise not to leap upon me if I let up?” the girl asks. Santana grumbles a curse.
“Fuck no.”
“In that case, no thank you,” the girl says cheerfully. “I think I like this very much.”
“Bitch,” Santana grits. The girl makes a tsking noise.
“Santana Lopez, my name is Rachel Berry.”
“Okay,” Santana replies without missing a beat. “Bitch Berry, then.”
Behind them, the smart-ass voice she recognizes as Puck murmurs, “Kinda sexy, isn’t she?”
“Not my type, Noah,” the high-pitched boy drawls.
Rachel Berry appears to ignore them all, fingers still splayed along the curve of Santana’s skull. “Santana Lopez,” she says again, and Santana wonders how the fuck this stupid girl found out her name in the first place. “We’ve got a prospect for you.”
“Does it involve food?” Santana gripes. “Because the way I see it, you bitches owe me dinner.”
“It involves hope,” Rachel replies firmly. “Hope and struggle. War. The fates have pointed us towards-“
“Yeah, yeah,” Santana interrupts. “Let me save you the spiel. Are you fuckers from the government?”
Brown eyes blink confusedly. “No.”
“You planning on stringing my ass up in some new-age freak crucifixion?”
“Certainly not,” Rachel gapes, sounding affronted. Santana narrows her eyes.
“Then let me go. And we’ll talk like civilized people about this whole…war thing.”
She’s not actually planning on listening, of course, but she senses Rachel is just stupid enough to take her at her word. Sure enough, the hands fall away from her head, fog lifting from her mind in the next second. Santana flexes her fists, arching an eyebrow.
“Care to tell me what that was all about, Smurfette?”
Rachel stands a little taller, eyes gleaming all the brighter. “We are in need of your expertise. There is a-“
The Latina throws up a hand, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “Gonna stop you again, mostly ‘cuz I’m getting the feeling you’re going to leave me with one hell of a migraine. If I promise to not kill you for jumping me in my alley, will you shut the fuck up?”
She’s gratified to see the girl’s mouth clack shut. Grudgingly, that little dark head nods once. Santana smirks.
“Awesome. Now. I’m not making any promises or anything, ‘cuz frankly, you’re an obnoxious little assbag. But I’m hungry as fuck, and your little parlor trick was admittedly impressive. And if your war has anything to do with one of the bastards been running us all into the ground lately, I’m not totally against helping out. Not for you, you understand, since-y’know-annoying. But I love a good fight, and you bitches look…” She pauses, looking them over: a set of tired, pathetic kids standing around in the shadows like they’re expecting the boogeyman to leap out at any second. Her head shakes. “You look sad as hell. Honestly, how do you expect to fight badasses looking like that?”
“Like what?” the amazing vanishing giant known as Hudson asks. Santana tilts her head.
“Well, for one,” she comments, “you’re wearing a bright red jersey. You idiots ever hear of stealth?”
“We managed to sneak up on you,” Wheelchair Kid points out. She laughs.
“There was no sneaking to it, Four-Eyes. I’m hungry, and you’re lucky. You’ve got the Thing and Mind-Chick on your side. From where I’m standing, that’s about all you’ve got.”
The wimpy-looking kid with the Bambi eyes crosses his arms indignantly. “We’re a lot more than-“
“Yeah,” she mutters. “I’m sure you’re a regular bunch of wonder-kids. Look, you want my help?”
Shooting her people a cautioning glance, Rachel merely nods. Santana taps her fingers against her knees.
“Fine. Follow me.”
She starts off deeper into the alley, somehow unsurprised when not a one of them follows. Rolling her eyes, she glances back.
“I’m. Hungry. What about that is so difficult to comprehend?”
“And you think we’re just going to wait around for you to stuff your face?” This from the black chick who managed to pin her in place. Santana makes a note to kick her ass for it later.
“I think,” she says slowly, irritated, “that you’re in no real position to fuck around. You want my help, you’ll come with. I’ve got a stomach to feed and a partner to run this all by. I don’t do shit without her. Got me?”
“Barely,” she hears one of the boys mutter, but Rachel’s nodding again, and this time, when she starts to move, she hears them shuffle after her.
Fucking tools, she thinks with a shake of her head. No wonder they’ve headed this way. If they think they’ve got a singular shot against whatever’s been brewing without her help, they’re nuts.
For fuck’s sake, their fearless leader’s wearing a sweater with an argyle kitten on it.
Brittany’s going to love this shit.
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
If there is one thing Santana Lopez loves, it is the unique freedom that comes from being her. She is the only person she knows who can engaged in some of life’s greatest pleasures, and it is awesome.
For example, running naked (well, sort of) through city streets without catching a single awkward glance? Amazing.
Of course, she isn’t doing so in her birthday suit. That would certainly garner a little attention; for God’s sake, she’s unbelievably attractive. There is no way she could motor in skin alone and get away with it.
But dressed in the fur of a shaggy black dog?
This works.
The whole shapeshifter thing kind of freaked her out at first-fucking duh, who wouldn’t be shocked to wake up with four paws and some whiskers?-but now she can’t get enough of it. She’s the only seventeen-year-old who can live on the streets of New York fuckin’ New York without a care in the goddamn world, and it’s brilliant. No rapist could dream of touching her, and there’s really nothing to mug when you’re soaring through the sky on nothing more than your own wings.
The only thing she ever has to worry about protecting is her girlfriend, and really, there’s nothing to that. Brittany is quick, and strong-perks of being horribly, unflinchingly in love with a dancer-and has that whole healing thing going for her; she practically takes care of herself.
And when she doesn’t, Santana is there, talons, or claws, or fangs a-flashing.
They are the perfect team.
Overall, it’s kind of hard to see how this isn’t the perfect life. No parents to fuck things up, no responsibility to anyone but one another. In short, no stress. Most kids her age are freaking out over college applications and term papers, petty relationship drama and general idiotic behavior. Santana has never had to worry about any of that; who needs school when there are whole skies and the vast expanse of the city at her fingertips? As for relationship drama-Jesus, she and Brittany couldn’t fit together better if they were two halves of the same body.
Sometimes, in her more whimsical moments, Santana speculates they might very well be exactly that. Not that she’ll ever admit it, even to Brittany herself. She’s got to retain some mystery.
Brittany will be waiting for her soon, actually-she’s certainly been out long enough-but Santana hasn’t quite breached the point of worry yet. She knows that line well and is careful to always toe on the side of her girlfriend’s sanity; the last time she came home later than expected, she found an infuriated, tearful blonde with one hell of a right hook, shrieking around tears about how she’d been entertaining all sorts of miserable images for hours. Images involving, mostly, Santana’s canine body lying prone next to the dingiest curb imaginable.
Brittany isn’t much for shouting and fighting, but she certainly has a keen instinct when it comes to animal rights. Santana knows better now than to assume “I’m fine” counts as truth after an ill-advised viewing of Animal Cops.
She smiles as best she can with an elongated snout at the memory. There isn’t much worth knowing in this world-not much worth putting any sort of concrete stock into-but the way Brittany feels about her qualifies as certainty.
Something jolts through her with a sharp suddenness, ripping all thought of the blonde from her mind. Lips curl back in a snarl as her dark head whips left and right, seeking the source of the intrusion.
A hand. A hand on her back, stroking down towards her tail, and though her animal instincts are pleased, Santana Lopez is not. She gives a low growl, willing the rebellious tuft of fur at the base of her spine to stop its infernal wagging, and narrows cold eyes.
The hand belongs to a child, she notes when the first beat of irritation has slithered past. It’s a blonde little thing, probably three or four years old-in fact, she thinks warily, it looks like a sibling of Brittany's might, if either of them were still in contact with family members. Big blue eyes, a thousand-watt smile, cherub cheeks-it’s cute.
Santana doesn’t really do cute.
But this is New York, and the middle of the day, and she supposes not much good can come of yanking a little boy’s hand off with little provocation. She settles for shifting warningly, nails clicking against the pavement as she strides a few paces away.
It’s a good tactic, a smart tactic, and Santana’s sort of proud of herself. Look at her, achieving her goals without violence. Brittany would be-
Well, goddammit.
Her eyes go wide, her jaw lolling open in shock as two pudgy hands wrap around the base of her tail and pull. It’s just about the least pleasant sensation in the world, having her tail pulled-like someone grasping one of her human arms and doing their best to rip it from its socket. This kid better get his shit together in the next four seconds, or she’s not going to be responsible for her actions.
When she gathers herself enough to wrench around and growl again, she finds him beaming. The little rat bastard seems to think he’s made a friend with his grabby hands. Yeah, right.
Don’t have to rip him completely apart, she rationalizes as he toddles nearer, clapping those evil hands together. Don’t have to take his whole arm off. A few fingers might do it…
“Todd!”
Strong arms wrap around the boy’s small frame, hoisting him into the air and atop broad shoulders before Santana can make a final decision as to how hard to bite. Big brown eyes glare down at her, and before she knows it, something snaps hard against her nose.
“Bad dog! Beat it!”
Beat it, she repeats silently, shaking her head reproachfully and giving the little brat’s father another view of impressive fangs. Shut the hell up. Like you’re a motherfucking model parent, letting your kid run rampant…
“Shoo,” the man tries again, swinging the rolled-up newspaper a second time. This time, Santana is ready for it; her head jerks up as his hand comes down, her teeth snatching around ink and paper, just barely missing skin. He makes a funny strangled noise, like he expected her to take his hand in the process-a prospect Santana’s nowhere near against, for the record-and steps back so suddenly, little Beast Boy sways precariously on his shoulders.
Fuck off, Santana grumbles silently, wishing her abilities came with a K.A. Applegate-ian talent for telepathy. What she wouldn’t give to slip into this fucker’s mind, scare the living hell out of him and his tail-pulling punk-
Well. She supposes she can sort of do that. In her own way.
She gives a furious bark, as loud as she dares with so many people around. Not quite so feral as to seem overly threatening (it’s stupid to call too much attention when she’s this unevenly matched; her canine body is powerful, but humans in large numbers could crush her like a pup), but still enough to jolt the cocky man out of his smack-happy behavior. It works. She barely has to roll her tongue hungrily between her teeth before he’s turning and stomping away, casting anxious glances over his shoulder like he’s waiting for her to barrel against his legs and smash him into the pavement.
It’s tempting. She can see it unfold in her mind’s eye: the thud of fur and muscle against the back of his jeans, the shout of surprise as he tumbles forward, the shriek emitting from his demon spawn as the child windmills violently into concrete-
But it would make Brittany upset, to see fresh blood on Santana’s fur, and there is no way she’d be able to make her girlfriend see exactly how much the little punk deserved to be put in his place. She’d just wind up sleeping alone for a week. It’s not worth it.
Growling softly, Santana turns and pads in the opposite direction, twisting her head to fling the paper free as soon as she rounds the next corner.
It’s getting dark, and she’s a little further out than she originally intended, but she’s still not completely ready to go home. She hasn’t been able to find anything particularly wonderful to eat, aside from a few fruits tucked into the kerchief Brittany fashions around her neck when she goes out to prowl, and that makes her feel more or less like a failed alpha. Not that Brittany needs her to find food; they could just as easily slip out, Santana wearing her regular skin, and pick a pocket or two for pizza. But if there is one thing Santana loves more than her freedom, it is protecting her girl, and really, fruit? Pathetic. It’s not even good fruit; she found fucking oranges the size of ping-pong balls. It’s a strike to her skills as a forager, for sure.
Plus, there’s something…weird on the air tonight. A strange drifting sense that Santana just can’t seem to shake. Nothing looks out of place, but all the same, something just smells off.
She lifts her head, arching her back, sniffing cautiously. Most of the scents are familiar: the bustle of body odor battling floral perfumes, the crush of gasoline and street-vendor hot dogs, the seduction of coffee grinds and salt. But above it…somewhere…there is something else. Something…
A rumble starts in her chest, frustration bubbling up. Something’s wrong. Or…not wrong. Just…
Fuck it, Santana decides with a shake of her head, trotting once more down the street. It’s just the city, with its stupid people and its stupid rolled-up newspapers, going to her head all over again. All she needs is a few more morsels of food, and then she can lope back to Brittany, shift to human, and spend the rest of the night working off the week’s aggression via beautiful orgasms.
It takes a little longer than she’d like to scrounge up a couple of sandwiches (and how amusing, that New Yorkers wouldn’t be wise enough by now to safeguard their dinners while eating outdoors), but she can smell turkey and mustard, and the girl to whom the sandwiches used to belong is slow as hell. In the end, Santana comes out ahead. Plus, hey, bonus-sandwiches.
They haven’t had some quality stolen sandwiches in like…a week.
Brittany’s going to be so happy.
Head held high, meticulously-wrapped bread and meat clamped between her jaws, Santana pants her way up and down a few back streets and into the alley closest to home. As a human girl, such a dark and dingy corridor would likely spell rape, or mugging, or some nasty combo of the two, but as man’s best friend? Santana fucking owns this place.
Which is why it’s so incredibly bizarre that she feels caged the second she leaves the open street.
This isn’t the natural order of things; Santana hasn’t felt caged since Before, since home, or that thing that masqueraded as such. Since striking out on her own, since taking up the mantle of the street with Brittany, nothing has been able to hold her. Nothing has weighed upon her chest, no manacles bind her ankles. She is the literal master of her own domain, regardless of what other people think, or how they poke or stare.End of discussion.
So why does she suddenly feel like she’s walked into a net she can’t make sense of?
Bending to set the sandwiches on the ground, Santana pads in an uneasy circle, sniffing heartily at the air. Her eyes aren’t the greatest at night-should’ve picked a different body once the sun started to sink, should’ve gone for something a little more feline-but there is absolutely nothing wrong with her ears.
As evidenced by the whispers she’s picking up like they’re being transmitted via megaphone straight into the side of her head.
“How are we supposed to find a runaway?” a male voice complains. Santana’s not entirely sure where he is, but she can smell him-feisty, angry, all aftershave and Taco Bell. She hears the low thunk of a fist against cloth, followed by a growled, “Touch me again, Hudson, and I’ll break your fucking face.”
“Shut up,” Hudson replies in a shrill whisper. “You’ll scare her off.”
“Scare who? There’s no one here, numbnuts. Hummel’s fucking vision was fucking-“
“Will you please reign in that tongue of yours?” a girl cuts in, sounding like she hasn’t slept in fourteen days or so. The man’s voice lowers, and Santana needs a moment to realize he’s trying to sound sexy.
“I’ll do whatever you want with this tongue of mine, babe. Just say the word.”
“For crying out loud, Noah,” the girl grumbles. “Please hush and let me concentrate.”
The thwack of palms against denim resonates. “On what? God, you freaks are pathetic. There’s no one here. It’s just a goddamn-“
“Noah! Shut. Up.”
A beat of silence. If she were dressed in the skin she was born with, Santana might think they’ve gone, but her nose insists otherwise. She lowers, haunches coiling, tail pointing straight out behind her.
“She’s here,” the girl breathes, and Santana bites down on a grumbling retort. There’s no point in giving up her position to a probable enemy, even if this is her turf. With no idea of what she’s up against, she’s content just to blend. Blend and wait, sandwiches seated protectively between her paws.
Feet scrabble against cement a few feet away, drawing nearer. The person probably thinks they’re being stealthy; Santana rolls her eyes. Frickin’ Todd could hear these bitches coming.
A pebble knocks sideways, scratch-sliding under her belly, and Santana feels her lips peel away from her teeth. Just a few more inches…
“There!”
The explosion of sound is immediate and overwhelming. Folding her ears flat against her head, Santana snarls when the first hand closes around the scruff of her neck.
Big mistake, fuckhead.
“Jesus Christ!” By the sounds of it, it’s the second man-Hudson-whose hand she’s just sunk her teeth into. Good. The whimper he emits as he whips free is gloriously unmanly, and then-
He’s gone.
It’s strange. The scent of him is still there, floating on the air like a sailboat set adrift, but the body is missing. Santana would waste time wondering, but there are more hands, more bodies, more idiots to concern herself with. One disappearing douchebag means nothing in comparison.
It’s hard to keep track of how many of them there are, or how many she’s closed her teeth around. The smells are distracting, bounding off of one another, melding into one chaotic stream of stress, and again, she wishes she’d picked another beast to wander as today. Dogs are great for many reasons, but in a fight, she’d much prefer to feel clear-headed, and this-this just isn’t working.
She hears a curse and a squishing sound and swears internally because, fuck, one of those assholes just crushed the hard-stolen sandwiches. Terrific.
“Grab her!” someone cries.
“I’m trying,” another fires back just as nails dig into her back. Santana bucks heavily, racing from one end of the alley to the other, dodging through legs and-the hell?-wheels as she goes.
This is fucking ridiculous.
A bolt of something-electricity, Santana thinks, like a lightning bolt out of the otherwise-clear night sky-zips over her head, followed by what looks annoyingly like ball of blue flame. Santana plasters herself against the ground, belly scratching the gravel, whining when the stench of scorched air winds into her nostrils and rests there.
“No fire! We need her alive, you idiot!”
“Don’t call her an idiot!” a new boy cries.
“I was talking to Puck!”
“People!” the girl who seems to be leading them all snaps. “Can we please focus on the task at hand here?”
Forget that shit, Santana thinks, because ‘the task at hand’ seems to revolve entirely upon ruffling her silken pelt for no apparent reason. These bastards have already ruined dinner; she’s done playing with them. Someone’s about to lose a hand.
At least.
“Got her, got her!” an excited female voice booms just as two hands wrap around Santana’s throat, lifting her bodily off the ground. She twists and flails in the air, snapping her jaws; in response, the girl actually has the audacity to muzzle her with one strong set of fingers.
Well, fuck.
“Mercedes has her!” the high-pitched boy who’s been going around deeming people idiotic cries. “Everybody relax!”
Yeah, Santana thinks meanly, fucking relax. The minute you do, I’ll-
But the hand around her snout tightens warningly, the other arm pulling her back against the girl’s chest, and there’s something else-something warm, slithering its way around her senses. Her eyes slip shut against her will, her paws flexing against nothing, her mind calming instantly. Too instantly. Somewhere underneath it all, she recognizes how not her this all is, how obviously someone else is slipping in under her skin, prying her open-
She’s going to fucking kill whoever’s doing this. Just as soon as she’s able to stop fucking relaxing.
“It’s okay,” the leader chick soothes, and Santana struggles to press back against the sound. It’s melodic and wonderful, the simple caress of a lover against her ears, and she hates it. No one can do this to her. No one but Brittany, and Brittany’s not here, Brittany’s-
Brittany is unprotected, at home, unaware. Her eyes close again, this time out of sheer desperation, because if she’s finally been captured by some of those crazy power-hungry assholes, who the hell will be left to take care of Britt?
She doesn’t even realize what’s going on until the girl-a petite midget with rumpled dark hair and sharp brown eyes-has her hands on either side of Santana’s head, gazing through her with something annoyingly like affection. In a better situation, Santana would be growling, barking, ripping clean through the girl’s arm. Now, she feels too light, suspended, like the only things grounding her to earth are the two sets of hands on her body. A whine curls up into her throat.
“It’s okay,” the brunette says calmly again, scratching behind Santana’s ear, and goddammit, that almost feels good. She tries to shake her head, tries to shake her off. The hand around her neck braces tighter.
“Mercedes. Let her go.”
And now it’s one set of hands, her body back on solid ground, and Santana knows she could wrench free if only she could convince her limbs to cooperate, but for some reason…
What the fuck is this?
The girl’s eyes are kind, warm, her hands soft and strong on either side of Santana’s head, and Santana hates her. There’s a false sense of security here, a trap or a trick, and Brittany needs her, Brittany needs her to stay strong, to find some vestige of resilience and buck against the fresh-cookie comfort oozing inside her gut.
She doesn’t even realize she’s transforming until the gravel cuts into her knees. The hands feel much less pleasant now that she’s lacking fur and canine nerve endings, but whatever hold this young woman’s got over her doesn’t seem inclined to vanish. Her head bows, flat, all-too human teeth gritted.
“What,” she manages to grind out, “are you doing?”
“Keeping you from tearing my throat out, mostly,” the girl replies placidly, like she does this kind of shit every day. Santana almost respects how unafraid she sounds.
“Well. Stop it.”
“Are you going to promise not to leap upon me if I let up?” the girl asks. Santana grumbles a curse.
“Fuck no.”
“In that case, no thank you,” the girl says cheerfully. “I think I like this very much.”
“Bitch,” Santana grits. The girl makes a tsking noise.
“Santana Lopez, my name is Rachel Berry.”
“Okay,” Santana replies without missing a beat. “Bitch Berry, then.”
Behind them, the smart-ass voice she recognizes as Puck murmurs, “Kinda sexy, isn’t she?”
“Not my type, Noah,” the high-pitched boy drawls.
Rachel Berry appears to ignore them all, fingers still splayed along the curve of Santana’s skull. “Santana Lopez,” she says again, and Santana wonders how the fuck this stupid girl found out her name in the first place. “We’ve got a prospect for you.”
“Does it involve food?” Santana gripes. “Because the way I see it, you bitches owe me dinner.”
“It involves hope,” Rachel replies firmly. “Hope and struggle. War. The fates have pointed us towards-“
“Yeah, yeah,” Santana interrupts. “Let me save you the spiel. Are you fuckers from the government?”
Brown eyes blink confusedly. “No.”
“You planning on stringing my ass up in some new-age freak crucifixion?”
“Certainly not,” Rachel gapes, sounding affronted. Santana narrows her eyes.
“Then let me go. And we’ll talk like civilized people about this whole…war thing.”
She’s not actually planning on listening, of course, but she senses Rachel is just stupid enough to take her at her word. Sure enough, the hands fall away from her head, fog lifting from her mind in the next second. Santana flexes her fists, arching an eyebrow.
“Care to tell me what that was all about, Smurfette?”
Rachel stands a little taller, eyes gleaming all the brighter. “We are in need of your expertise. There is a-“
The Latina throws up a hand, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “Gonna stop you again, mostly ‘cuz I’m getting the feeling you’re going to leave me with one hell of a migraine. If I promise to not kill you for jumping me in my alley, will you shut the fuck up?”
She’s gratified to see the girl’s mouth clack shut. Grudgingly, that little dark head nods once. Santana smirks.
“Awesome. Now. I’m not making any promises or anything, ‘cuz frankly, you’re an obnoxious little assbag. But I’m hungry as fuck, and your little parlor trick was admittedly impressive. And if your war has anything to do with one of the bastards been running us all into the ground lately, I’m not totally against helping out. Not for you, you understand, since-y’know-annoying. But I love a good fight, and you bitches look…” She pauses, looking them over: a set of tired, pathetic kids standing around in the shadows like they’re expecting the boogeyman to leap out at any second. Her head shakes. “You look sad as hell. Honestly, how do you expect to fight badasses looking like that?”
“Like what?” the amazing vanishing giant known as Hudson asks. Santana tilts her head.
“Well, for one,” she comments, “you’re wearing a bright red jersey. You idiots ever hear of stealth?”
“We managed to sneak up on you,” Wheelchair Kid points out. She laughs.
“There was no sneaking to it, Four-Eyes. I’m hungry, and you’re lucky. You’ve got the Thing and Mind-Chick on your side. From where I’m standing, that’s about all you’ve got.”
The wimpy-looking kid with the Bambi eyes crosses his arms indignantly. “We’re a lot more than-“
“Yeah,” she mutters. “I’m sure you’re a regular bunch of wonder-kids. Look, you want my help?”
Shooting her people a cautioning glance, Rachel merely nods. Santana taps her fingers against her knees.
“Fine. Follow me.”
She starts off deeper into the alley, somehow unsurprised when not a one of them follows. Rolling her eyes, she glances back.
“I’m. Hungry. What about that is so difficult to comprehend?”
“And you think we’re just going to wait around for you to stuff your face?” This from the black chick who managed to pin her in place. Santana makes a note to kick her ass for it later.
“I think,” she says slowly, irritated, “that you’re in no real position to fuck around. You want my help, you’ll come with. I’ve got a stomach to feed and a partner to run this all by. I don’t do shit without her. Got me?”
“Barely,” she hears one of the boys mutter, but Rachel’s nodding again, and this time, when she starts to move, she hears them shuffle after her.
Fucking tools, she thinks with a shake of her head. No wonder they’ve headed this way. If they think they’ve got a singular shot against whatever’s been brewing without her help, they’re nuts.
For fuck’s sake, their fearless leader’s wearing a sweater with an argyle kitten on it.
Brittany’s going to love this shit.