#f2f.001

Santana arrived at the lake ten minutes late. But for good reason; she had one full, bulky bag and a cooler with an assortment of items compatible for the portion of the day they would spend by the water. 

After they set up the air seemed to get thicker, a little more electric, and thinner with their chemistry and childish flirting stuffing up the air. Like the daunting, stripping, was coming upon them. Or maybe she was just imaging it; a rapid fire of insecurities speeding her heart up, and making bristles of shyness brush at her concious. So she tried to concentrate on Finn, and his reaction to being shirtless when they were texting. It had slightly perplexed her and she was eager to see what lied beneath. “I want to get wet.” She let the sentence hang there, her lips sweeping into an amused smirk. She began to unbutton her shorts and walk towards him, ‘fake it till you make it’ being chanted by a rowdy crowd inside of her head. She plucked one button from its place so her shorts slightly  peaked open. “Also,” her tone had taken a different approach -timid, almost begrudgingly sweet, “I’m gonna like what’s underneath your shirt. Like it might take my eyes a moment to adjust if you’re about to blind me with your pale chest, but I’ll get over it and only mildly make fun of you.”

“I have to admit, I can’t wait for the tropical island level.”

WHEN: 9/4. after nine.

NOTES: hanging out, catching up. doing too much, and we’ll see what else.

Santana’s red tube-top had prematurely been laid to rest by accident. Grabby hands plus thin fabric meant it was in a million pieces, so it had to be replaced. For Sam, she kept it red. It was a mid-drift halter that plunged down her cleavage; like high school, but better. She smirked in the mirror, checking out the rest of her ensemble - shorts and white keds. A replacement of her usual heels she would wear in LA. Just the thought, the first syllables of the abbreviation and the hotty smirk flatlined.

Not, tonight.

She repeated every couple minutes to the short drive to Maggie’s. By the time she was there, it had sunk in; she truly wasn’t going to do it tonight. There was alcohol, and best of all, Sam’s big ass lips awaiting her arrival.

Excited was the understatement of the year for how Jasmine was feeling taking an uber to Elijah’s. She was dressed to turn him on, in a little black dress that had an emphasis on little with it’s short hemline and thin material that clasped to her petite curves. Her hair was blown out, curls loose and big, pre-sex hair without the sex, to go with it - but she was hoping, in some capacity, that would be changing. When she pulled up to his place, she thanked the driver, ignored their attempt to make a pass out of her and stepped out of the Ford Focus to carefully walk to his door in her six inch heels. She had a large purse hanging from her shoulders that held the dildo, some alcohol, and a bit of pot; all of the necessities for their Saturday evening. Jasmine ran her hands through her hair, and scooted her dress down in the front, and a tad up on the hemline, before finally knocking on his door. She took one last breath that screamed nerves and anticipation, to collect herself in a cool, confident manner for Elijah to be greeted with. 

Santana hated Valentines Day. And not only because of Facebook’s 101 memes of lies stating V-day sucks instead the cold hard truth: you should have done a lot more sucking to enjoy this time of year. Or even everyone’s sudden enthusiasm for Leslie’s Knope’s non-existent teeth, and wax like skin preaching about Galentines. The fact, Galentines, sounded like Walmart’s answer to being ‘glamorously’ cake faced while still being ‘cheap’ was enough for Santana to hate it, but it was another reminder she didn’t even really have gals -- not one’s she actually liked, at least.

The holiday was a mess, and currently, as she sat in the stairways of the club she was suppose to be in with her ‘valentines’, she felt like the biggest mess of all.

Santana wore a pretty white dress, short as per usual, but basked in a sexy like innocence Cher herself embodied in her Calvin Klein frock, via Clueless. Her hair was straightened, pouring down her back like spilled black ink. There was a deep right part in her hair for not only the dramatic effect of sleek hair having a slightly Aaliyah aesthetic too it, but her cinnamon hues playing peek-a-boo with the slightest shift of her head. Her make up was simple, for once. Unmasking a beauty beneath that wasn’t the usual sizzling hot devil in red, but bright eyes, high cheek bones, and a purity, that yes, even Santana was capable of. It was all so perfect until her phone buzzed  right as she got to the top step of the stairwell in preparation for her dramatic arrival with her date she had assumed was a tad late.

The buzz was an alert of a text that simply read, ‘I’m not coming, jetting off to Brazil with Gigi.’ She stood their frozen for a few seconds, then finally, her feet encased in six inch heels were able to produce a few measly steps so she could sit on one of the steps in a pile of despair. Then ten minutes later, there’s another vibration and it’s a flood of pictures of Q and Rachel showing up, thralled around their, hunky, hot, and totally ‘in love’ with them dates.

Then it hit her. Not even a fake date wanted to spend Valentines day with her. There she was, alone in a stair wail, with a rejection text, misty eyes, and one fat tear droplet reminding her how pathetic she was -- or felt, at least. Quickly she looks to her phone clutched between trembling hands. It’s a blur of colors shining from the screen; luckily though, days spent sending about a zillion text, tweets, snaps, and whatever else, she has the keyboard memorized.

She taps a message to Sam:

Decided I rather hit the funeral home then this lame event. I’m heading out, you’re off for night. Ttyl.

Quinn was a tad nervous as she walked into the small cafe her and Finn had agreed to meet. It was nine o’clock when she walked through the door, the small venue greeted her senses with a jarring whiff of coffee grains, baked good, and a lingering stitch of weed. It had to come from one of the only people in there other then the staff, the couple speaking in an animated motion. Whether they were fighting, or having a heated discussion was unclear, but their presence was annoying, without a doubt, Quinn thought. 

She offered a polite smile to the barista when she walked up to the counter and ordered a tea. Then she found an empty booth in the back, clear from the people, but not far enough she didn’t have a quick and clear path to the door. While she waited, slightly irritated he wasn’t there already, she scrolled through her phone. Checking her messages on 1true, her feed on Instagram, practically anything to distract her from the nerves tightening in her belly. Whether it was her thumb drifting over the touch screen of her phone, or fixing the top of her strapless dress, she was fiddling or shifting; second guessing her outfit choice, or running her hands down her lap.

 The dress she wore was quite daring for her. It was a little black dress in every sense of the word. It melded to her body, every curve masked by the thin black fabric. The top portion of her dress was strapless, and molding over her small, but perky breast. Although, the real glory was when she stood up and her backside was highlighted by the form fitting dress. Black heels were strapped to her feet, and her face was framed by the simple up do she gathered her platinum blonde hair into. She was anything but virginal, an on going theme since she came to Miami. She was a lot of sexy, and just enough classy to her own liking, and no one else’s.

It was the jingle alerting the cafe someone was walking in that finally got her to shift her attention elsewhere. Eyes peeled away from her phone to catch a tall boy walking in. A very handsome one that looked somewhat familiar from 1True. Pink lips blossomed into a smile when he approached, “Finn?”