**don't read this if you're underage. or do. i don't really care. but you've been warned**
It's a drunken haze that my mind is stuck in. I'm not entirely sure where I am, but I know that Clinton and I are in a peaceful bliss together. Our limbs are entangled as we lay on the couch, nothing on the TV and no music playing as we share messy, off-centered kisses. Giggles erupt between each one, as each of us are high on life, the intensity of which is only heightened by the alcohol in our veins.
"You're adorable." Clinton hums.
"Shut up and kiss me." I push our lips back together, moving closer to him. The couch isn't the easiest place for a make out session, but it's better than the floor we slept on, and woke up on just two hours ago. I break the kiss to take another swig of brandy before moving back in, euphoria in my bloodstream.
"You should be my girlfriend." Clinton says after taking a swig of his fireball.
"Isn't it like," I give him a quick peck. "Guy code that you're not supposed to fuck your brother's ex?"
"He was a shithead." Clinton moves his lips to my neck. "Is a shithead. Holy fuck you're hot."
"No," I push his head away. "Stop. You're tickling me."
"Oh my God," He smiles against my skin. "Only you would be tickled while getting a hickey."
"That's what a hickey feels like?" I touch the skin as Clinton pulls away. "I've never had one."
"Tonight's your lucky night." In the dim light, I can still see his teeth as he smiles. "They're some of my favorite things." With this, he attaches his lips to my neck once again. I run my fingers through his hair and let them settle there. His brown locks with golden accents are free of a man bun, flowing down until the end of his shoulders. I love how his hair looks when it is down. It also enables me to play with it all I please, one of my favorite activities.
After two more hickeys are imprinted into my skin, I pull Clinton's face back toward my own and kiss him with as much passion and force as I can muster up. "Fuck," Clinton whispers as we take a break. "You're so hot, Vana."
"Only you." I grab the bottom of his t-shirt and lift it over his head, placing the palm of my hand between his nipples as my eyes take in the scene in front of me. I'm literally straddling my abusive ex's brother, and he's shirtless underneath me. The Universe has no fucking idea what it's doing, really.
"We don't have to do anything you don't want to, okay?" Clinton grabs my other hand; the one not plastered to his bare chest. "If you want to stop, just tell me."
"I don't want to." I move my hand, allowing my fingertips to graze over one of his nipples.
"Okay." Clinton nods. "This is about you. We'll do this slow."
"Stop thinking and kiss me." He smiles, but lifts his head up until our lips smash together rather violently, in a feverish, lustful mess. My brain is cloudy with emotion, but everything is only increased by the added factor of alcohol. Speaking of, I end our kiss to take another drink. It will most likely be my last one, as I still want to be present enough to enjoy, and remember, the moment.
"Do you want your shirt off, baby?" Clinton's fingers play with the hem of my shirt, though he makes no attempt to remove it.
"Go ahead." I nod, smile overpowering my features. His hands move upward, pulling my shirt over my head and finally down my arms before throwing it somewhere unimportant in the room. Of course, I'm stuck wearing the ugliest possible bra, a raggedy, old, beige underwire one.
Instantly, though they're unwanted, the memories associated with this piece of clothing flood my brain. "Clinton," I move off of him, trying to stop myself from hyperventilating.
"Hey," He moves toward me, taking my hand immediately. "You're here with me, alright? How can I help you?"
"Take off this bra, and fucking burn it."
"I can do that." One of his hands grips my shoulder as the other sneaks behind my back, popping off the clips. I can feel the force of one breaking, but at this point I could care less. Once it's off, Clinton throws it behind the couch, and that's the last my mind thinks of it. "Holy shit," Clinton's eyes aren't at my own anymore, he's more concerned with my newly-visible chest. They flicker back up to meet mine for a moment. "Do you want to keep going?"
"Fuck yes, I want to keep going." He nods, moving down my body until his lips touch my sternum.
"Stop me if you want." He continues placing kisses in random places around my torso before he reaches the waistband of my pants. When I look back up, Clinton's kicking his pants to his ankles.
"Wait," I sigh, grabbing onto his hair and pulling him up. "I don't....I don't think I can do this. I feel very, very anxious."
"Okay, okay." Clinton quickly brings himself back up to my face, planting a kiss to my cheek.
"I want this...just not now." He nods as I fight to stop myself from rambling.
"You're totally fine. Do you want some water?"
"No, I don't want anything right now." Clinton passes me his own shirt, and I pull it on in an attempt to help the goosebumps covering my skin. "Can we go upstairs and cuddle for a while?"
"Fuck yeah we can! I'm always down for cuddles; let's go!" Excitedly, he picks me up and hurries upstairs, both of us giggling the entire way. Surprisingly, he leads me to his own bedroom. It looks much different than the one I've been staying in.
This room, while possessing the same themes, is darker and further down the hall. The accent color is red, the shade of blood, and is dotted in places such as his sheets and the inside of his closet. In my room, the accents are various cool tones, but I rather like the shade here. The room is very black, not much light entering from the single window. His dresser and desk are not wood like the bedroom down the hall, but they're rather made of vinyl. Against the smooth, shiny desk, the red cushioned chair in front of it is pleasant. He has an attached bathroom, whereas mine is next door. In the space next to the bathroom is where his window rests. Below it, a carpeted slap of wood extending from the wall, with wooden cabinets beneath it, painted black. Two decorative pillows take over the space; one reading life's a beach in blue cursive and the other being bless this mess. The white pillows are out of place, and obvious novelty items, but they don't look that out of place. The ceiling is indented in the space above the seating area of the small nook, where the roof must dip down. When following the cut all the way down, it leads to a polished, wooden bookshelf, fully stocked and built into the wall.
"You can keep the shirt on; it looks nice on you." Clinton sets me down on the bed, bringing me back to reality rather suddenly. He pulls on a pair of basketball shorts and turns on the TV, which rests on the dresser next to his closet and directly across from the large bed, daunting in the center of the room. The black duvet on top almost makes it look normal, but when pulled back it reveals deep red satin sheets. The pillowcases themselves are black as well, so when the bed is made, it almost looks normal.
"Do you want some pajama pants?" Clinton inquires. "I have some you can borrow."
"No, I'm fine." I smile at him. "This shirt goes to my knees anyways."
"It's not my fault you're so tiny."
"It's not my fault you're a giant."
He rolls his eyes, coming back over to me, remaining shirtless as he slides under the covers. Immediately, his arms gravitate around my waist and pull me close to him, but still leaving space between our hips; undeniably a conscious decision. Whatever program is on the TV is not important as we share lazy kisses before I drift off to sleep, the scent of his cologne filling my nose and his heartbeat drowning my sense of sound.
