Currently beta-less with a penchant for poorly placed commas and run on sentences.
Hint, nudge, hint.
So, so fucking tired.
These 80 hour work weeks are killing you. So much, to the point where when you finally do get a day off, you're spending a majority of it catching up on laundry and sleep. Mostly sleep. Not that you don't have a lot of laundry — there's plenty of that; it's just depressing when all you seem to wear these days are sea-foam green scrubs. In fact, you're quite certain that there is a special place in hell where the walls are painted that off green color. You've seen it in your nightmares.
But all you really want is sound, dreamless sleep; the kind where when you wake up, you can't remember where you are.
Instead, you're sitting in some small, noisy pub, peeling the label off your bottle of Bud Light, trying to figure out how Quinn Fabray coerced you into leaving the house on your first night off in sixteen days.
You don't even like Bud Light.
But again, crappy beer seems to be a theme with this place. You take what you can get.
"Santana Lopez, I know you're not going to just sit there all night," Quinn grumbles, grabbing your shoulders from behind. "It's St. Patrick's Day; have some fun." The next thing you know, she's in front of you, throwing a pair of green beads around your neck and tugging brusquely, inching you off your bar stool. You groan as she continually moves back, bringing you with her, forcing you flat on your feet.
One thing you've learned about your best friend is that she almost always gets what she wants, and at the moment, you don't have the energy to argue with her. Besides, it's already quite evident what she's trying to do here — get you out of the house, force feed you festive Irish food and fill you up with booze. And even when she places a plastic green hat on your head and pulls you by the hand further into the crowd, you don't fight it.
The edges of your focus start feeling fuzzy after about three beers. You reminisce over a time when you were better capable of handling alcohol — mainly in your undergrad years when there was time to yourself. After med school, it became too much and you couldn't balance everything; your social life was the first thing to fall through the cracks. Now, in your second year residency, you wish you could relive some of those prior moments again just to bask in the freedom.
It's funny, because the brewed warmth traveling down the back of your throat tastes oddly familiar to that.
When Quinn hears a song she's fond of, she grabs a fistful of your top and strings you along, making you move your hips to the beat. Her thigh slips between yours and she grabs your shoulder as leverage to properly grind against you. You're rewarded with wistful stares and weighty glances. It's not surprising — why wouldn't people look? You're both fucking hot. If there's one thing you've always had going for you, it's definitely that.
You carry on. Besides, you like dancing.
An hour and eight beers later, you feel infinite. Better than okay. Maybe even confident enough to walk up to the cute blonde that just got done putting on a dance spectacle across the room. She's nothing short of fucking adorable standing there, hips leaned against the bar, donning distressed blue jeans and a "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" shirt. Long blonde, slightly disheveled hair threatens to fall from her bun. You'll even admit that she has the brightest eyes you've ever seen; almost translucent, but with the lightest hint of blue, demanding your attention. When her gaze manages to find you through the crowd and her eyes hold yours, you watch the corners of her lips curl up. The gesture seems so entirely unprovoked, so genuine that it makes you feel like it was just for you — and it's all the reassurance you need.
You don't answer when Quinn asks you where you're going. You don't even bother taking the stupid ass plastic hat off your head as you put your feet in motion, despite being positively aware it makes you look like an idiot. You think it's because of the unadulterated smile the blonde keeps bestowing upon you; it tells you she may find it endearing, and if you're being perfectly honest, part of you leaves it on purposefully.
Because you really want to be right.
Her eyes are on you again as you get closer. You can feel the softness in them, the kindness, the effortlessness in her movements.
You can tell just by the way she smiles that she's too good for you.
Then again, most women are. You tend to treat them awful. It's never been on purpose, you just have zero time for a girlfriend. Hell, you have zero time for yourself.
But you're already ahead of yourself.
On the barstool adjacent to hers, you lean your hip against the seat and rest your elbows on the counter, perhaps to give the illusion you're just trying to order another drink. Her eyes flicker over to you and slowly scan up and down, observing the provocative length of your tight dress, moving and settling over your skin like she's filing notions about who you are in the back of her mind. The fact that she is looking at you so deliberately, without the slightest bit of diffidence makes your stomach flutter.
It's then that you think you might get your wish.
"Hi," she offers with a voice so warm, you want to wrap yourself up in it.
"Hi," you swallow back, trying to make sure your words come out evenly.
Up close, you notice she isn't as tall as you had originally suspected; there's only about a four inch height differential between the two of you. You think maybe the alcohol in your system has thrown off your perceptivity, but when you look down again and notice muscular thighs taut against those tight jeans, and you realize just how very long her legs actually are, and...
"I like your hat," she grins.
A soft chuckle escapes your lips and you pull the silly hat off your head playfully, as if to examine it while giving her the widest of smirks. "Really?" You ask timidly, maybe a little less confident than you would have liked it to be.
Her smile continues throughout a nod.
"Well, that's good, because I think it might look better on you," you say while twirling the brim between your fingers. Slowly, you move your hand forward and set the light plastic hat gently over her head. You laugh because it's completely crooked, yet she still manages to look pathetically cute.
"Thanks," she beams.
"It matches your shirt," you tell her, making sure the tone you use is traced with flirtatious purpose. You've done this dance enough times with enough women to know the difference, so the last thing you want to do is misconstrue your intentions.
Your intention is to see her fully and completely naked.
"It does, but now I feel bad. Lord Tubbington is going to be super jealous. I knew I should've got him a hat, but green isn't his color. I think it makes him self conscious."
You raise a questioning eyebrow at that.
"Who the hell is Lord Tubbington?" You dare ask.
"The best feline of all felines."
You knit your eyebrows together and quizzically ask: "So...do you dress your cat up for all holidays, or just St. Patrick's Day?" She blushes slightly.
"He pretty much likes all clothes on all occasions. Except this one. And Eskimo coats. The fuzzy collar tickles his whiskers."
Her proud smile carries on, and you're unsure how to react; there's something about the tone of her voice, or the way she runs the tip of her finger across the rim of her cup that won't allow you to dislike anything about her. You accept this predetermined fate and fall in sync with her movements, drinking slowly on your barstool.
Deciding to steer away from the current conversation and move forward with a new one, you ask: "So what brings you out on this lovely holiday?" The edge of her plastic cup is finding the crest of her lips just as the words leave your mouth, prompting her to hold up one finger to keep your attention.
Then she answers "Just hanging out," after swallowing a gulp of what smells like Bacardi, using the back of her hand to wipe away any remnants. Her eyes never leave yours, and it just further encourages you.
"Nice. Do you have plans after...hanging out?"
You're not usually this forward. Under normal circumstances, you would still be making pointless conversation, maybe asking her about her day, fulfilling that innate need to be wooed. But you're wasted — more so than you've been in a long time, and its effecting your inhibitions.
"I'm not sure," she answers clear cut and concise, as if you haven't phased her in the least. You eye her curiously, looking for the change in demeanor, but it never comes.
Her lack of reaction presents the perfect opportunity for you to be slightly more bold. For that reason, you move just a little closer; your feet shuffle, you lean forward and allow your lips to linger dangerously close to her ear. Wanting to take a moment to indulge in the proximity, you still yourself before letting out a soft exhale and whispering against her skin, "Would you like plans?"
She raises an eyebrow in your direction as you pull back. There is no fear in her eyes, only interest as your gaze settles on her again. You notice the way her thighs flex when she crosses her calf over her knee, and an irrefutable urge to feel those legs wrapped around your waist suddenly becomes the focus of your thoughts.
She takes notice in your unabashed noticing.
But she doesn't make you feel masochist when she looks at you. Rather, she eyes you intently like she wants you to acknowledge her knowing; like she just needs you to own it. And you decide right then that you like the way she looks at you.
"It depends," she answers after what seems like an eternity.
"...On?" Your voice trails, hopeful, eager.
"Lots of stuff..." You take the time to study her lips as she speaks — their shape, their mass, the way the flesh shifts on cupids bow when she articulates certain words.
You bend your leg and unconsciously feel the edge of your high-heel touch the back of her calf. As if you're daring her to move, you leave it there, letting your eyes silently ask the question you've been wanting to ask for the last twenty minutes —
Do you want to fuck me?
She swallows thickly and runs her tongue between her lips, wetting them.
You move so your ass is on the edge of the seat and your knees are touching. The ragged material of her denim jeans scratches against your smooth legs, invading your personal space, restraining your senses.
Then you feel her wordless answer in the way she leans in a little closer, the way she shifts so your shoulders are pressed a little more harshly together. Her warm breath expels against the spot just under your ear, smelling faintly of cola and sweet rum, and it makes you want to steal the taste from her mouth.
Letting the alcohol propel your movements, you bring the tip of your finger across her knee and trace patterns through the torn fabric of her jeans. Her body tenses and you can hear the faintest, shakiest of breaths leave from between her lips.
You graze her cheek with your own, and then whisper, "I'd really like to go somewhere with you," in her ear.
And after she momentarily pauses, she finally says, "okay."
Albeit March, it's still fucking cold outside. You shiver and rub your hands together, bringing them to your lips to fight off the chill numbing your fingers. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the bright pink tip of her nose as you cross the street, her breath making little clouds amid the night air.
She feels your gaze right away, notices your eyes lingering on her face, and again, you find yourself rewarded with that smile.
You're still not sick of it yet.
Together, you cross two blocks through downtown Cleveland and find a decent hotel. You don't even give her the opportunity to try paying the bill. Instead, you watch from the lobby counter as she shuffles her feet and adjusts the green hat she still has on her head, her poor nose running all the while.
You grab her by the hand and lead her to the room, and once you're inside, you notice the smile that was so previously evident on her face has now diminished.
"Are you okay?" You ask, closing the door behind you. "We don't have to do this," you remind her.
"No, it's not that. It's just...I can't feel my nose," she explains.
A light, involuntary chuckle comes from your mouth. "Oh."
You take a few small steps forward and plant your hands on her hip, pulling her to you. She watches closely as you lean in, closing the gap until you're cheek to cheek. Soft, blonde strands of her hair fall forward, and you breathe in the smell of clean lilac as they tickle your face. The tip of her hot nose touches your own, prompting you to smile into her skin as you hold it there.
It's a strange act of intimacy you're not used to.
"Better?" You ask quietly after a moment.
Her fingers dig into your sides, and because you can no longer stop yourself, you press your lips gently against the warmth of her jaw. You feel the intake of her breath momentarily as her fingers grip you tighter. Hips fall heavy against yours, but you don't complain; rather, you support the extra weight pressed to your side and greedily suck at the flesh near her collarbone, eliciting the faintest of whimpers.
Before you can question it, she's inching you towards the bed and you feel the back of your knees hitting the edge of the mattress. Her lips are on that spot just under your ear, slowly trailing across your jawbone, dangerously close to your lips and...
She just looks at you. She's staring at your mouth, like she's measuring the distance stretched between your lips.
But you have rules about this sort of thing;
Never on the lips;
No phone numbers.
Her eyes are flickering and you can feel the soft gust or her breath on your chin. An internal battle with yourself begins as she leans forward, weakening your resolve. When she seeks you with her warm and glistening mouth, you think it's perhaps the alcohol that makes you falter; because you're tilting your head and arching into her, welcoming the softness. Your lips line perfectly as you press and part, hot breaths dissolving into one another's. Then her tongue finds yours, brushing them together, searching and lightly sucking, leaving your body to moves on its own volition. Demandingly, you pull her further against you.
Unconsciously, you moan.
Because you forgot how good this can be.
And she kisses you harder.
Teeth sink into the flesh of your bottom lip. A brusque stroke of her tongue finds refuge inside of your mouth again. Breasts are pressed tightly against your upper body, threatening to send you into vertigo. And when you feel her hands slowly sliding down your back and stopping on the curve of your ass to take a strong squeeze, you rock your hips into her to show your appreciation.
You really like the way her hands move — confident, yet gentle; authoritative while asking for permission. It's like she has perfect balance, perfect maturity in every movement.
You find it incredibly sexy.
She stands before you, legs apart, staring at you in an enticing way. Her fingers find the hem of her shirt and she pulls it over her head, letting it hit the floor behind her. Among the dim light you skim your eyes over the exposed skin. You bask in the sight of her; the tight and taut, the hard and soft. Silently, you lick your lips in anticipation.
She leans down to kiss you again, and you use the opportunity to run the palm of your hands across the expanse of her newly revealed flesh. You feel a shudder beneath your fingertips as you make a path up her back before settling on fabric, unhooking each clasp carefully.
When it comes loose, you want tug the bra by the straps, force it to fall away and whip it across the room. You know it's the only thing standing in the way of what you want; but you remain patient. You let her peel it away gradually, and upon revelation, you stare. Your hands linger near her abdomen, fingers twitching, desperate to move. Those kind eyes find yours and tell you it's okay. So you lick your lips and bring your face to the left breast, ghosting over the small, pert nipple. Slowly, you move, and she squeezes her eyes shut and lets out a breath when you gently flicker your tongue over the peak.
Your right hand makes its way up as well, finding the other, rolling the tip of her nipple between your thumb and forefinger. Her palms are flat on the bed as she leans further into your mouth, so that every time a soft whimper escapes from her lips it lands right above your ear. The sounds cloud your thoughts and engenders a wave of heat that rocks your centre, shaking the crux of you.
You don't think you've ever heard anything more sexy.
Her skin is like fire. You grab her by the belt loop of her jeans and scoot further back to the middle of the bed, bringing her with you. When you look up, she's straddling your thighs, staring down at you with utter reverence, daring your next move.
Slowly, your thumb slips open the button of her jeans.
The zipper pops quickly too, and they're off in a flash, tossed into the distance. You bite your lip to keep yourself from laughing when you glance down at her white cotton panties with a purple waistband, patterned with cartoon whales. Her face flushes when she follows your eyes and finds your glance, but you offer the softest of smiles, trying to reassure her with it.
She's really, really fucking cute.
You flip her on her back and cover her body with yours. Then, with dexterous fingers slipping past the elastic, you reassure her again. You find that spot at the apex of her thighs, brushing past the soft trail of fine hairs, delving into the wetness. She closes her eyes, smacks her lips together and grips a fistful of sheets when three nimble fingers venture deep down to where they need to be.
You feel an intake of her breath.
Wet warmth envelopes your hand and you push farther, dig deeper. With a sharp curl of your fingers, you feel the tips burn hot, trying to find that high place. You don't move in and out — you hold them there, rocking, searching for clues, for a cry or a whisper into the darkness.
She tells you when you're there.
You lean further again, into that spot, and rest your cheek against the flat of her stomach, planting soft kisses with sticky lips. Her fingers find purchase in your hair while yours move deftly inside of her. And even though they're so very numb, you follow her stifled cries and desperate pleas when one leg hooks around your waist. The shift in position only allows you to dive deeper, possibly make her climb higher, and you can tell by the way the sheets are tugging beneath you that her heel is digging into the mattress. She's almost there. You're also quite certain that if she knew your name, it would be falling from her lips right now, an infinite number of times.
You kind of wish she knew it.
You imagine those three syllables and her voice.
Then you feel it — muscles clench, reckless pants fill the room. Her head falls back and the last thrust allows you gather and catch her through the wave. Her legs are locked around you. Her body stills. You wait until your heartbeats slow, and with tired limbs, you allow your weight to fall against her side. Her breaths are shallow, and through the darkness, your eyes trace the curve of her jawline.
She catches you staring.
It only takes a moment.
In one swift motion, she's on you, taking claim of your body.
Unbridled fingers pull at the bottom of your dress and shamelessly lift if from your frame. Without the barrier, her fingers are splayed everywhere — across your abdomen, your thighs, the flesh of your breasts not covered by your bra.
But in a flicker of a notion, that's gone too.
And her lips are gently lingering on your shoulders and trailing across your clavicle. Hands previously placed on your hips are traveling in an upward motion, only to land on the curve of your breast. As the tips of her fingers tug gently on the nipple, air stops flowing through your lungs.
You have to remind yourself to breathe.
But the sensations traveling through your body are too fucking good. And her lips are wrapped around you, and the tip or her tongue is swirling the peak of your breast, and you're so lost you forget you exist.
The fingers fluttering against your inner thigh remind you just how very alive you are.
And then she's falling to her knees, bringing her head down, ready to travel between your legs. You quiver at the thought, but you've already broken one rule today; you don't need another. So you grab her by the wrists and pull her back to your level, holding her gaze, telling her what you want.
"Just...just fuck me," you request.
If she's disappointed, her eyes don't show it. They flicker. She acquiesces.
Then those soft hands are traveling down your body, fingers fumbling at your entrance, teasing the folds, tracing them with glistening tips. You hold your breath, and in one swift motion, she's inside of you, knuckles deep. It isn't until you squeeze your eyes shut and drag your nails across her shoulders that you can finally exhale again.
You can't count how many fingers are inside of you, but you can feel the depths in which their taking you. You throw your head back and rise your hips to the occasion, beckoning her to thrust harder. Sensing your challenge, the push and pull being exerted comes with a little more force, and you know at that point — quite simply — she's fucking you senseless.
You marvel in it.
There is a wetness between your legs. It's prevalent. Maybe even a little ashamedly so; but you don't dare ask her to stop. Rather, you grab a fistful of her hair in encouragement, because you want her to know just how much you love this.
You love fucking and being fucked.
Especially by her.
And you love the way in which she's doing so — quick, hard and unhindered. It's brought you to the brink and you're close — so close; with the coil in your abdomen, the quick drum of your heart, the slide of slickness between your legs. It builds and begs, like the elongated wait for spring, and you close your eyes to savor it. It's descending. And when you feel the flick of her thumb against your clit, your heart flutters and your body sinks further. Like drowning. But it's good, so you let it take you under. And for a moment, you're lost in the parallels.
You search for breath.
And then it returns to you.
Looking up, you find those kind eyes and become aware of reality again. You clutch her wrists and feel her pulse. Using the pad of your thumb, you wipe the sweat from her brow. She looks at you again, and you smile silently in appreciation.
Her eyes are heavy and you know she's exhausted. As if to further reiterate the fact, she collapses on top of you, with one long leg lazily thrown over yours. Her eyes flutter closed, and the only reason you know she's awake are the soft kisses her lips are planting near your bellybutton.
Grabbing her chin, you steal another kiss from her lips.
She grins at you sluggishly and falls back against you. Steadily, you feel the rhythmic beat of her heart.
You're seriously contemplating on breaking another rule.
But you're too tired to move and she's too cute to interrupt; so you lay there, threading your fingers gently through her hair, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. You don't want to fall asleep just yet, though. You just want to touch her a little longer, nuzzle into her neck just a little deeper, but you can feel it. You're drifting...
You wake to a persistent ache in the back of your legs and a gentle throb in your skull. The sheets are tousled. A shiver hits your spine in realization of the blankets torn off you, lying on the floor next to the bed. That's when you vaguely remember the prior evening, and a particularly attractive blonde...
But the other side of the bed is empty.