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texts 📱 lauren ⇆ finn

LAUREN: you're too tall for me to not notice we've been in the same film class this whole time.

LAUREN: it's Women in Film and you're one of like 3 guys. I got your number from the class contact sheet, if that's okay.

LAUREN: It's Lauren btw.

#texts.all #texts.finn #finn.all

There was only a few things in life that scared Santana -- well that’s not entirely true, but that’s what she liked to tell herself. One of them, was small spaces. So, as she sat knee’s to her chin, skin tight dress balled around her waist in a clump, and fat crocodile tears quivering with every bump the Honda made to what she was sure her inevitable death; she knew, karma was truly a bitch -- wait no, a cunt.

Now, back peddling an hour or so before, Santana wasn’t in the midst of one of the worse car rides in the history of her life, but doing her usual -- drinking, partying, and being sensationally hot. In fact, the night was beginning to be one for the books. Hot guys, hot people, and better yet, her stud of a bodyguard watching intently. Santana wanted him; maybe it was the drunken haze of far too much tequila, or the slight stubble framing his defined chin, or how cold, hard, and mean he looked staring, watching, and waiting for the slightest current of danger to drift her way so he could hulk out, with his biceps out, but she had never wanted someone more. But, Finn was off limits -- which wasn't a problem, because nothing was off limits to her, but him refusing to give in to her doe eyes, whether tainted with lust, or purity, was a problem. Or the fact he seemed immuned to her tiny tops, tiny shorts, or how often she dropped things in front of him, and how achingly slow she stood up when picking it up -- not to mention a few curtsie wiggles of her ass along the way -- was an even bigger problem. It was the fact she was throwing everything and anything at him, and here she was, twisted into a tight, clammy, hot, and gyrating embrace with by far the hottest guy in the club, but still, her mind and her eyes were drifting to Finn. So, after another hour or so, she decided moping and wanting weren't her thing -- having was; so her and hottie of the night made their way to her room. A little slip (something she had perfected over the years) and she was stumbling, giggling, and swinging their embraced hands into the air as they made their way to what she thought was going to be her room. Somewhere along the way though, maybe the fourth or so mis step she had made in her drunken rumble to her door, or resting her petite body into his chest for a little to long to catch her breath she had gone from suiting up for one heck of a ride, to being tied up, stuffed, and placed in a tiny back seat, but even worse, a cheap car. So what was once a drawl of tequila ridden notes about Finn being so hot, so noble, had taken a sudden, and very opposite direction while she sat cramped, and petrified in the tiny car. Santana was now gurgling out a spew of ‘fuck him’, ‘fat fuck’, and several other things.

Although her insults on him were misplaced, because she was the one who snuck off to jook up with the hottest guy in the club, and now psychopath driving her to her death. It was her who killed her cell phone battery snapping one to many selfies, then dialing, texting, and screaming into Finn’s voicemail until her phone beeped, then drained to a cold....dead.....black screen. A lot of it was her fault, but in the midst of the thick, wet sobs pouring out of her eyes, she just couldn't bring herself to blame herselfbut more like anyone who wasn't her. The violent cries stopped though. The car was beginngint to slow down. Just as quickly as the engine of the car purred to a silence, her head shot up, tears, snot, the twisted cringe of her crying face vacated the violent bitch tears, for stone cold silence. She swore she could hear her heart rattling in her chest. Driving into her rib cage with the fury of a thousand trembling refugees fresh off the boat. The slight scrape of the mystery man's shoes shifting rang loudly in her ear, even the slight huffs of his breath raging through his nostrils, as he sighed, got out of his seat, took a few lazy steps and stretched downwards to pop open his seat to peak in on her; Santana heard it all clear as day. She couldn't face him, she couldn't look -- stare into his eyes, plead -- no, she wouldn't do that, none of it. She wouldn't live her last moments starting into the eyes of the asshole disturbed enough to take strip the world of such a fine and beautiful piece of ass, she though. So she dropped her head into her knee's, squeezed her eyes shot, and perpared for whatever came next. But unknown to Santana, her phone wasn't dead. In fact, in her manic moments on the drive there, she had simply locked it from typing in the password wrong to many times -- so in fact, she was being tracked, the whole entire time.