Clexa One-Shots

"Sober"

Neither one of them were precisely sure when it started, and it's not like they much acknowledge the fact that it even happens. The evening was late, tipping around one in the morning, and they were both convinced that the other was drunk... and like they do every time they're drunk, or convinced that they're drunk, they shoved themselves into the little apartment they used to share on Ark Street, lips locked together like their lives depend on it. In a sense, they do. In a sense, they both relay on these moments shared in their little apartment.

It's never slow either, one is shoving the other on the wall and ripping at her button up until the little black beads fly across different parts of the room, dropping with thuds and making bouncing sounds. The other is tugging at the other's belt, shoving down her jeans, clawing at silky skin on her thighs while the other's tongue is finding its way to meet the other's in a kiss that they'd honestly not want to part from for anything.

It's always passionate, and in the morning when they wake up, they never questioned each other about what two "straight" women were doing to each other the night before. Definitely not a normal activity for best friends of seven years, definitely not something two platonic friends do in their spare time. But still, they ignored the inevitable. Besides, they were always allowed to blame the alcohol. Because as far as the other knew, they were drunk, so drunk they couldn't control their own thoughts and actions.

One of the women's hands is roaming around a curved body, trying to find skin, to get a fill even though they both know they can't get enough. Not tonight. The other is moaning her name delicately into her mouth while her hands scoot up her shirt, feeling along the toned muscle of her stomach. They both shudder, used to this, always wanting each other, always needing the other's touch to survive until the next time.

It doesn't take them long to strip each other of clothes until they're both completely bare to each other, and hungry eyes run all over each other. They're normally impatient by the point and it's not uncommon for them to not fully make it to a bed for their first round. Collapsing on the couch, limbs entangled with limbs, heavy breathing, soft moans of pleasure ripping through the air. They shudder to touches that two straight female friends shouldn't be sharing, not even in such a heavily drunken state.

One woman's lips leave the others' who is moaning, whimpering even. She leaves marks down silky white skin, nearly coming apart when the other tugs her silky brown hair back in pure ecstasy. She continues her decent down; wanting to taste everything, touch everything. Just as the other woman would do the same to her not very long after the other had finished. They didn't want to stop, they almost couldn't stop. It feels like it takes forever to get to these moments, and they have only the memories of the last time they were together to get them through the day, already thinking of a new map to take by the time they get to each other again.

They would then proceed to one of the bedrooms, maybe collapsing on the floor for round two before they make it, aggressive kisses never parting from passionate mouths. No other words besides "yes" or "fuck" or the others name in spurts of passion that couldn't be reduced to quiet whimpers. Always desperate and needy for each other, no matter how many times they end up this way, it's never enough.

It was almost a routine for them when they were drunk. They could always expect to wake up naked and sated and wrapped up in each other's arms the next morning. They would pull each other from sleep in the morning with delicate kisses on the neck or the mouth, and then they would separate for the morning, take separate showers, drive in separate cars and not speak of it as they normally did. They'd go to their separate boyfriends, and separate lives, only slightly entangled by their very close friendship and work until the next drunken night, when they'd collapse into bed together again, all over each other for hours until they finally couldn't stay awake anymore. They could never, ever get enough.

But this time... This time was different.

By the time the third round would start, they'd have definitely made it to the bed by now. Both completely wrapped up with daft fingers between each other, coaxing out moans of pleasure from each other through the rest of the night until they were exhausted, sated, and spent. Until they couldn't keep their eyes open anymore, couldn't move, and they were left just limply wrapped around each other as they fought sleep a little too long because they didn't actually want it to end.

But this time... This time things would end very different.

Because this time, they weren't that drunk, despite what the other may have thought. This time, they couldn't pretend to forget the three words they'd repeatedly share to each other, consciously. This time, this time they'd cause a problem that they'd have to fix. This time they'd wake up and not be able to ignore what they had done the night before, and they'd have to finally face the feelings they'd been fighting from each other the moment they met.

This time when they're finally making it to their third round, both sober for the first time in all the years they've been doing this, when the woman with the brown silky hair is bringing the other to orgasm for the third time, in a kind of way they've never brought each other before, she'd shout three little words that would send the brunette's heart on a high speed chase, three little words that would shatter their little illusion they had both created for each other... and maybe they could have kept up the illusion, maybe they could have continued, if they had kept the same pace instead of slowing down, if they had been wild and impatient like normal, if they had chalked it up to just being drunk like they always do. Maybe the illusion would have stayed if the brunette didn't in that moment, pull the other woman down to meet her lips in the longest and most passionate kiss she'd ever given anyone, maybe, if when they finally parted lips she hadn't repeated the same words back, green eyes meeting blue, maybe, if the other hadn't pressed their foreheads together, maybe, if they hadn't decided they'd rather make love, sober and full of memory, they could have kept the illusion up for who knows how much longer.

But it shattered.

It shattered like glass all over the room in that moment, and each woman knew it. Because this "I love you" was real. It wasn't two best friends of seven years sharing their mutual respect for one another over all the time they've been loyal and honest with each other... This was deep and passionate and something rarely anyone finds.

This was real, earth-shattering real.

And they both knew they were going to have to face it.

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(This one might end up being a story at some point...)