acontrollist | A Twisted Up Frown, Disguised As A Smile

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A Twisted Up Frown, Disguised As A Smile

Rachel isn't one to make impulsive decisions. She usually takes as long as possible to think things through, weighing the pros and cons of each outcome.

She obviously didn't do that tonight, since she's standing in Sam Evan's doorway, a bottle of vodka in her hand.

Honestly, she doesn't know what else to do. Ever since she hung up that picture that Sam drew of her a month ago, she and Bradley have been doing nothing but fighting (and having makeup sex, but that's neither here nor there). Tonight was the worst though. There was screaming, name calling (whore was thrown both ways) and one of her favorite crystal vases is still sitting in 3 pieces on her kitchen counter. It probably didn't help matters that as soon as Bradley had left ("Where are you going?! We're not finished talking about this!" "Out. Don't wait up.") Rachel did the only thing she could think of, which was calling Sam, who'd told her to just come over.

She's not even sure how the vodka came into play, but getting drunk sounds really good right now.

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"Works." She nods, then she spots his lips and drops a hand down, poking his lip. "Soooft." She giggles again, wrapping her arms around his neck. Something occurs to her then as she sits there, leaning against him, faces inches apart. "Sam? How come Bradley's not as nice as you?"

"Thank the chapstick," he smiles after she pokes his mouth, a private joke of their since she'd bought him chapstick back in high school.

He's just had another sip of the vodka nestled between his thighs and puts the bottle down clumsily on the coffee table when Rachel's arms encircle his neck like a scarf, her face suddenly very close.

"I dunno..." He shrugs at her. "I'd never call you a whore."

"Whores like boys other than their boyfriends." She points out. Dropping her forehead against his, she pouts a little, moving to straddle him. She pulls back long enough to take another drink before dropping her forehead back against his. "Am I pretty, Sam?"

"You like boys other than your boyfriend?" he replies cluelessly, having not yet figured out she might be talking about him. Alcohol makes him a little slow... and then suddenly he's sitting back against the couch with her straddling his lap. His hands move of their own accord, clutching at her hips, and with their foreheads touching he has no choice but to stare into her eyes and get lost in them.

"I could draw you a thousand times," he drunkenly rambles, "and never be able to capture just how beautiful you are on paper." And the picture he'd given her a month ago was a pretty stunning interpretation of her.

"I like you. 'Cause. You're nice to me. And you think I'm pretty." She slides her hands down along his chest. "Bradley doesn't think I'm pretty. You're pre-...boys. Are not pretty. You. Are handsome."

"I think you're a lot of things." A lot of nice things that would take all evening to list. "I'm abulous," he smirks at her.

"You have abs." She nods. Then, after a moment of silence, she says. "Sam. I'm going to kiss you."

"Okay," he answers quickly without actually registering what she just said. Then... "Wait, what?" He blinks at her.

Too late. She leans in and kisses him, hands still tangled in his hair.

"Rach--" he starts, but yes, it's entirely too late. If he were a sober he might have stopped it, but with the alcohol in his system he does nothing but reciprocate, kissing her back with growing enthusiasm while he cups her hips in his hands.

She winds her arms tight around his neck, wasting no time opening her mouth to his and licking her way inside. He tastes like vodka, but so does she so she really doesn't care.

So he's sure Rachel tastes better when she hasn't been drinking straight vodka with him, but it's what she's doing with her mouth that matters. In a matter of seconds she proves she's as talented at kissing as she is at singing. His hands are no longer on her hips but on her butt instead, palming her ass.

This is nothing like he had in mind earlier when he invited Rachel over to comfort her. But that doesn't mean he hasn't though about it.

Rachel's talented at a lot of things. Like gasping loud against Sam's mouth and grinding her ass back against the hands there. She fucking loves that. "Sam..." She whimpers his name, grinding down against him and tugging at his hair.

He thought maybe this would just be some drunken making out and they could laugh about it in the morning and forget it ever happened. But she's grinded against his crotch enough to give him an erection and he forgot how horny vodka makes him. He can tell she likes the attention to her butt so he squeezes her cheeks with his fingers and moans, "Rachel..."

She whimpers again, nipping at his bottom lip before sucking at it gently. She knows how wrong this is, but she's such a handsy drunk and she's upset and she just wants to be wanted. Preferably by Sam.

Nobody wants her more than he does right now. And if she wants to hear him say it, all she has to do is listen carefully to what he mumbles against her mouth, in between her nipping and sucking on his plump lower lip. "Want you... Shouldn't..." But how can he not when she's driving him crazy right now? He shouldn't even be contemplating about having sex with her but she's upset and he wants to comfort her... but with his cock. Alcohol turns him into such a horny bad person...

That's okay, because it turns Rachel into exactly the same thing. She pushes her hands up under his shirt, nails scratching lightly against his abs before she just decides she wants it off all together, dropping it over the back of the couch. "Want." She groans against his lips. "Now. Bed or...floor. Flat place."

He leans his head back with a moan as he feels her nails scrape his abs, wanting them to go deeper, mark him, and he's glad to be rid of his shirt when she practically rips it from his chest. He's thinking about taking her on the couch but there's more space on the floor and frankly his bedroom is too far away so he makes a decision. "Floor." With her straddling his lap, it's easy to lift her up and he's kneeling on the floor, lowering her onto her back. "Off. Now," he pulls at her dress.

He wants her dress off but she's so drunk and really, it's just easier to bunch it up around her hips and kick her panties away, pulling him back between her legs and kissing him again. "Easier. Off." She mumbles, reaching down between them to undo his slacks.

"But..." He wants to see her naked but he's too drunk to argue with her and the second she takes off her panties he's pretty much putty in her hands. It's a bit of a haze as he helps her remove his slacks along with his boxers but eventually they're off and he has her pinned to the floor. He knows he's forgetting something right now (which is protection) but he can't think what as he parts her thighs and works his fingers inside her, waiting until she's wet enough to replace them with something else.

She's already damp (she's a horny drunk, what can she say?), but when he touches her she whines and gasps his name again, wiggling down against his fingers. "Fuck, oh god, yes, yes..." She wraps her legs around his waist, hips bucking. "Please, Sam..."

He barely has to move his fingers, her doing most of the work as she rides herself on them, desperate from some penetration from him and making do with his fingers for the moment. But they both know it's not enough, his cock nudging at her entrance, teasing her for what's about to come. "Ssshhh," he silences her with his mouth, pressing a deep kiss to her lips whilst he lines himself up and pushes his hard length between her wet folds. He's not slow or gentle about filling her up either because he has a feeling she wants it rough right now.

Oh baby, so rough. And he gets it perfect right away (or at least, he does according to her drunk!brain). She presses her lips hard against his, opening her mouth against his and pushing her tongue against his lips while her ankles tug him closer.

She sends him even deeper when she tugs at him with her feet, opening his mouth too so he can slide his tongue against hers. He draws his hips back, almost pulling out of her before he's slamming back inside her again, his pelvis slapping against hers. And it's clear enough that protection and Bradley couldn't be further from his mind right now as he starts a rhythm of hard thrusting. If she wants rough right now, she's getting it.

She presses her hands flat to his back, nails digging there as she gasps and moans and begs, these little whines deep in her throat and chest, all thought of actually being a little coherent gone from her mind. "Don't stop, don-...fuck me, Sam, fuck."

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