sexysatansass-blog

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text message finn

FH: I didn't mean you should be afraid of me or whatever. Just that I'm supposed to be protecting you. You shouldn't feel like you've gotta threaten me to get your point across.

FH: No you don't. It's fine.

SL: But that's how I always get my point across.

SL: Nah, I do. And it could come in treats. The brutal years of being cracked over the head with a croc by abuela is some what worth it 'cos I can bake with the best of 'em. What is your weapon of choice to keep those puffy nips cheery?

[sexysatansass-blog]

text message finn

FH: Is that supposed to be a threat? I'm your bodyguard, Santana.

FH: Don't worry, I won't say anything. This can stay between us.

SL: ...and? I literally scared the coke outta Britt '07, when I was a tiny tot. The coke literally squirted outta her pot hole pores when she was faced with moi's fury. I fear nobody.

SL: Thanks. I owe you, I guess.

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text message finn

SL: Listen up; snitches get stitches. Let's not drop the truth like its hot on my father's lap when we get back home. I rather him not know my friends are A+ assholes.

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Okay, so maybe, just maybe Santana had pictured...fantasized...daydreamed about being in Finn's arms once, twice...a DOZEN times, but in every single MAYBE one he was shirtless, sweaty, and her clothes were sacrificed in the making of their hot sex. In no shape or form was there a desert (although she’s all about that exhibitionist life), a wailing dead beat in the background, and the dizzying fever pitch that is induced by the situation. In everyone of these fantasies that maybe did happened, they were void of a temper so overzealous, it’s not just a clean slate of death by words, or juggling round a bat like a real life Harley Quinn, or slicing and dicing with one stiletto nail at a time -- but it was so much, and too much, it blinds her.

Snixx isn’t just a psycho with impulse problems, and a knack for picking, prying, and basking in one’s insecurities (not to mention, coming up with a few for diabolic good measures), but she’s Santana’s bitch in shining armor. When six inch heels weren’t high enough for a metaphorical tower, when her bone structure and other assets that caused the masses to harden, or dampen at first sight couldn’t distract someone, and when her eyes can’t make a nay-sayer literally go mute, Snixx is there. A figment of vocal brutality, and little to none compassion -- all A+ qualities to Santana. When Santana’s taken back, or worse, hurt; it’s Snixx who capitalizes on her usual, fuck you day to day attitude, and strives to hurt, damage, and intimidate until rebellious voices fall quiet. So, when for the first time in her young life someone in the cross hairs of a vocal and physical beat down doesn’t watch in awe, or flee, she’s shocked.

All at once she stops screaming when he holds her, but the rage doesn’t go so easily. She’s shaking, cheeks trembling, nails digging into the pad of her hands from the tight ball her fingers have curled into, and for a moment, she’s not fighting. Then, all at once again, she’s pushing and attempting (unsuccessfully) to pry away from Finn. “Let me go!” Was he insane?! Santana thought. Did he know who she was, did he know who Snixx was? You don’t stop her in her fury, you don’t practically choke hold her petite body in muscular arms, you don’t crush her against a hard chest, then let trickles of air brush against a few sweet spots next to her ear! That was means to send Snixx packing, and back to Bitch Town Express. And Santana needed her in the moment. She needed her fury that was like a million obese American’s furiously busting and trampling their way into a Wal-Mart on Black Friday, so she wouldn’t hurt enough to show it. Finn was talking sense, but Santana didn’t want to hear it, she was to busy trying not to feel. Trying to concentrate on the anger, and....the MAYBE fantasies of being in his arms, some what (in a totally fucked way) coming to life, and most of all, suffocate the pain that chocked her.

Moments have ticked by, and she’s still. No more short lived outburst of bounded fist striking his chest to land in weak, pitiful blows, or ripping her body back and forth in his arms to get nowhere, but further exhausted. Finally, she’s spent, racing thoughts heaving and sputtering like a car trucking along on it’s last drip of gas, and her body is limp against his. She’s held up by him, her face is buried in his chest, and her balled fist tucked into between them. Her chest is heaving so harshly it drives into his harder then her fist ever could only moments before. “Get me out of here.” She spews through clinched teeth. “Get me the fuck out of here.” 

Santana didn’t give him much of an answer, just a shrug. She was to focused on the kidnappers accusation against her friends – although accusation seemed far more far fetched, then the possibility he could actually be lying. She sat there, a little to still, and a little to quiet to be calm let alone okay. She heard Finn, and as hot as it was hearing him scorn the boy who was practically wilting beneath his touch, she was to….hurt, upset, and ashamed this was the cause of the company she kept. Palms once lying flat on the dirt wee beginning to drag across the hard service of the ground. Curling into fist once again, just in time for her head to snatch upwards from the lull it was in only seconds before.

Hurt snapped into anger and shattered her once still composure. Her ears were hot, her petite body was shaking; even her cheeks were quivering from the hot flash of madness surfacing throughout her body.

Santana didn’t make an announcement of her exit from their little tiff. She could hear her kidnappers pleas fading away as she got close to the car and swung the door open angrily. Bony fingers going for the bat tucked beneath the seats, before she slammed the door close, and came coming towards them with fury – again. “Fuck that!” She screamed as she approached them. The wood bat was skipping over the rocks scattered in the dirt as her heels kicked up dirt from the speed of her walk. She approached them with the bat swinging upwards for the perfect batters pose (thank five years of softball for that) before she swung it down like a hammer on his knee. “My father’s not the one you want to be afraid of, you spineless piece of shit! Snixx ain’t a folks tale, and I promise you I’ll claw your beady eyes out, rip your tongue out, then chop your dick off to solely use it to slap some freaking sense into you!” She screamed, upper body lurching forward so she was in his face as she spewed the words. But she sat up again, twig arms raising with her to prepare another bat blow to the untouched knee.

[sexysatansass-blog]

this might just be my favorite tweet of 2015

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[sexysatansass-blog]

HALSEY // CASTLE

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[sexysatansass-blog]

Joanne Woodward has a drink in A New Kind of Love (1963)

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Santana didn't give him much of an answer, just a shrug. She was to focused on the kidnappers accusation against her friends -- although accusation seemed far more far fetched, then the possibility he could actually be lying. She sat there, a little to still, and a little to quiet to be calm let alone okay. She heard Finn, and as hot as it was hearing him scorn the boy who was practically wilting beneath his touch, she was to....hurt, upset, and ashamed this was the cause of the company she kept. Palms once lying flat on the dirt wee beginning to drag across the hard service of the ground. Curling into fist once again, just in time for her head to snatch upwards from the lull it was in only seconds before.

Hurt snapped into anger and shattered her once still composure. Her ears were hot, her petite body was shaking; even her cheeks were quivering from the hot flash of madness surfacing throughout her body.

Santana didn’t make an announcement of her exit from their little tiff. She could hear her kidnappers pleas fading away as she got close to the car and swung the door open angrily. Bony fingers going for the bat tucked beneath the seats, before she slammed the door close, and came coming towards them with fury -- again. “Fuck that!” She screamed as she approached them. The wood bat was skipping over the rocks scattered in the dirt as her heels kicked up dirt from the speed of her walk. She approached them with the bat swinging upwards for the perfect batters pose (thank five years of softball for that) before she swung it down like a hammer on his knee. “My father’s not the one you want to be afraid of, you spineless piece of shit! Snixx ain’t a folks tale, and I promise you I’ll claw your beady eyes out, rip your tongue out, then chop your dick off to solely use it to slap some freaking sense into you!” She screamed, upper body lurching forward so she was in his face as she spewed the words. But she sat up again, twig arms raising with her to prepare another bat blow to the untouched knee.

Santana practically ran right smack dab into Finn. His figure tall, lanky, but his muscles weren’t ones to go unnoticed. They may not bulge like a body builder or a Calvin Klein model, but Santana had spent plenty of days opting to stare at the friction of his muscles contracting against his T-shirts, then the back of his head. She was surprised, but delighted to feel the rough friction of his hand on her smooth skin. It was a refreshing contract, a sweet sense of…safety…maybe even home – but she blamed that on the after math delusion of being free. She was taking the steps towards him, words jumbled, an ‘I’m okay’, finally getting out some what clearly. Before she could sink into his chest, and let the tears spout from her eyes he was gone, going after her kidnapper. She kind of stumbled forward, an awkward jab of her feet onto the dirt beneath her because he was gone – to quickly in her mind.

The adrenaline had completely crumbled so the wave of emotion was drifting to the forefront, but luckily, the site of Finn going all Rambo on her attackers ass sent another spike of spite and energy to the surface. Before she knew it, her feet were pacing over to them, a pace, then a full sprint. When she was near she came towards the man with fingers crumbled into fist and a blow to his head greeting him.

“Who cares! Kick his ass!” She’s screaming, tiny fist of fury smashing into his face and feet kicking at him. The man’s trying to shield himself, get something out between Santana’s relentless fist. “Yo man! It was a joke! It was a fucking hoke! I didn’t do anything but what her fucking friends told me to do! Get her off of me dammit!” She yelled before thrusting his hands forward, and right into Santana’s chest. She toppled backwards and fell flat on her ass. She sat there, completely still, and in shock. A wave of emotion pelting her brain because of his words about her ‘friends’, her sitting on her ass, and fear still clawing to come to the surface in tears or screaming, or several of both.

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Santana practically ran right smack dab into Finn. His figure tall, lanky, but his muscles weren't ones to go unnoticed. They may not bulge like a body builder or a Calvin Klein model, but Santana had spent plenty of days opting to stare at the friction of his muscles contracting against his T-shirts, then the back of his head. She was surprised, but delighted to feel the rough friction of his hand on her smooth skin. It was a refreshing contract, a sweet sense of...safety...maybe even home -- but she blamed that on the after math delusion of being free. She was taking the steps towards him, words jumbled, an ‘I’m okay’, finally getting out some what clearly. Before she could sink into his chest, and let the tears spout from her eyes he was gone, going after her kidnapper. She kind of stumbled forward, an awkward jab of her feet onto the dirt beneath her because he was gone -- to quickly in her mind.

The adrenaline had completely crumbled so the wave of emotion was drifting to the forefront, but luckily, the site of Finn going all Rambo on her attackers ass sent another spike of spite and energy to the surface. Before she knew it, her feet were pacing over to them, a pace, then a full sprint. When she was near she came towards the man with fingers crumbled into fist and a blow to his head greeting him.

“Who cares! Kick his ass!” She’s screaming, tiny fist of fury smashing into his face and feet kicking at him. The man’s trying to shield himself, get something out between Santana’s relentless fist. “Yo man! It was a joke! It was a fucking hoke! I didn’t do anything but what her fucking friends told me to do! Get her off of me dammit!” She yelled before thrusting his hands forward, and right into Santana’s chest. She toppled backwards and fell flat on her ass. She sat there, completely still, and in shock. A wave of emotion pelting her brain because of his words about her ‘friends’, her sitting on her ass, and fear still clawing to come to the surface in tears or screaming, or several of both.

Both Santana and the kidnapper snapped their heads towards the distant sound of an engine roaring through the still air off wherever the heck they were. Santana had a mix of emotion sitting heavily in the pit of her belly. It could be help, or worse, some of his friends.  She didn’t scream though, she knew that was a sure fire way to get a fist to her head or something like that, so she kept trying to strain and crane her neck to get a better look. The engine wasn’t slowing down, but the monstrous buzz of the engine was becoming louder. The butterflies were raging, in fact, she felt a bit nauseous; unsure if it was even right to feel excitement. 

While the man watched, a slight panic in his eyes, and eyebrows rippling in confusion, she began to wrestle with the ties bounding her limbs together. She couldn’t flop to hard in the seat, at risk of sounds ticking him off, but with the engine getting louder she took the liberty to start bagging her wrist against the belt, to try and get some friction to loosen the ties on her wrist. Luckily though, my some miracle they weren’t that tight – although, she would soon find out exactly why. 

After a few more moments, her tiny wrist were sleeping through the bounds of the rope – fuck yes, another point to being incredibly skinny. She pat herself on the back, not eating for a couple days always paid off – a deluded thought, but it was still her’s. Santana, for the first time, felt a surge of energy and most of all hope. She leaped out of the cramped space she was in, rustling around to find some momentum as she leaped out of the car and right into him. The force of her jump sending her petite body spiraling into the air and into him was a force that even rocked him – in fact, it knocked him down. 

Santana was now running on pure adrenaline, so much so she didn’t even bother to turn around, or let her conscious tap into the fact the car engine had stopped and someone was approaching them. Oh no, there was no time to think about that when her fingers were reaching into the freshly sharpened razors tucked away in her hair. She knew exactly where she had them sewed in; tiny fingers reaching into her beehive on the top of her head to pluck them out and slice them over his face.

[sexysatansass-blog]

Both Santana and the kidnapper snapped their heads towards the distant sound of an engine roaring through the still air off wherever the heck they were. Santana had a mix of emotion sitting heavily in the pit of her belly. It could be help, or worse, some of his friends.  She didn’t scream though, she knew that was a sure fire way to get a fist to her head or something like that, so she kept trying to strain and crane her neck to get a better look. The engine wasn’t slowing down, but the monstrous buzz of the engine was becoming louder. The butterflies were raging, in fact, she felt a bit nauseous; unsure if it was even right to feel excitement. 

While the man watched, a slight panic in his eyes, and eyebrows rippling in confusion, she began to wrestle with the ties bounding her limbs together. She couldn’t flop to hard in the seat, at risk of sounds ticking him off, but with the engine getting louder she took the liberty to start bagging her wrist against the belt, to try and get some friction to loosen the ties on her wrist. Luckily though, they weren’t that tight -- although, she would soon find out exactly why. 

After a few more moments, her tiny wrist were sleeping through the bounds of the rope -- fuck yes, another point for being incredibly skinny. She patted herself on the back as she thought how another couple days of not eating always paid off -- a deluded thought, but it was still her’s. Santana, for the first time, felt a surge of energy and most of all hope. She attempted to jump out of the car, but her she practically collapsed, completely unsteady, and limbs like jello for that first moment. Finally, rustling around to find some momentum, she leaped out of the car and right into him. The force of her jump sending her petite body spiraling into the air and into him was a force that even rocked him -- in fact, it knocked him down. 

Santana was now running on pure adrenaline, so much so she didn’t even bother to turn around, or let her conscious tap into the fact the car engine had stopped and someone was approaching them. Oh no, there was no time to think about that when her fingers were reaching into the freshly sharpened razors tucked away in her hair. She knew exactly where she had them sewed in; tiny fingers reaching into her beehive on the top of her head to pluck them out and slice them over his face.

He wasn’t planning on telling her this anytime soon, or ever for that matter, but seeing Santana dancing with a bunch of different guys every night and knowing what they got up to when she disappeared with whichever person she’d chosen was hard for him to watch. The truth was that he actually kind of liked her and although he was good at resisting her when she would practically throw herself at him, it was getting more and more difficult to say no and remain professional when his personal feelings got involved. 

She was attractive, anyone could see that, but that wasn’t what drew him to her. It was the little things about her that really got to him and made it difficult to do his job. No, not the one her father had assigned to him, which was to watch over her and to keep her safe from anyone he and his team perceived as a threat. But the one given to him by his police captain, which was to infiltrate the gang again and report back to his leadership with any new information he acquired. It was the main reason he couldn’t let himself get too close to her, though he had to lie to her about that to prevent his cover from being blown.

He clenched his fists together as he reluctantly turned away from where she was dancing and tried not to think about how he wished it was him she was grinding on instead of that random guy. A feat that proved to be nearly impossible even as a member of his team approached him to see if he needed to be switched out. Shaking his head as he turned his attention back to where Santana had been previously, his eyes scanned the crowd, but he couldn’t pick her out immediately and sighed when he realized she’d given him the slip again for the third night in a row. 

After making sure the other bodyguard knew to pass the word along to report back to him once they had eyes on her again, he took off in the direction of her room to see if she had drifted up there while his attention was directed elsewhere. He gave three quick raps on the door and waited, but there was no response. Actually, there wasn’t a peep coming from her room which was suspicious. Usually she would be screaming at him to go away and leave her to her business, but this time…nothing. “Santana?” He asked quietly, as he slowly pushed the door open slowly and peeked his head around the corner to peer into her room. Seeing no signs that she had even been in there during the night, he began to have a slight uneasy feeling as he stepped further into the room and cleared it to make sure that absolutely no one was in there. 

The soft buzzing of his phone took his attention away from the current situation and he answered the call, hoping someone had spotted her or at least knew where she had gone, but there was no such luck. She had disappeared without a trace and… That was it. A trace. It felt like a huge invasion of privacy, but when it came to someone of her status there was no such thing as privacy. He quickly ended the call and was easily able to locate her position using the tracker her father had had installed in her phone. He called back the person he was just on the phone with as he walked out of her room, speaking quickly and abruptly. “I’ve got her location. She’s all the away across town for whatever reason. Get the driver to bring the car around and I’ll go check it out. Make sure nobody mentions this to the boss, alright? We don’t need him knowing we lost her.” 

After getting into the car, he directed the driver to exactly where he needed to go, but could tell something was wrong as soon as they arrived at their destination. For one, the place was abandoned and rundown like no one had inhabited it in many years. And two, he didn’t see any cars parked out front to alert him to anyone’s presence, but according to the tracker it said Santana was in the building. Or at least her phone was. He told the driver to cut the engine and slowly got out of the car, pulling his gun out of the holster as he did so and looked around cautiously. He didn’t know what was going on, but he did know that he needed to be prepared for just about anything.

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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.

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It’s why we can keep it a secret -- agree?

Look at what exactly?

And…?

You know, for someone whose saying I’m being inappropriate, that sure sounds like you’re checking me out – which I don’t mind in the least. 

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And...?

You know, for someone whose saying I’m being inappropriate, that sure sounds like you’re checking me out -- which I don’t mind in the least. 

That’s inappropriate, Santana. I work for you and your father remember?

I like your cute dimples and street cred doesn’t really matter to me. I just like seeing you smile.

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My panties are -- well, more like flying off at first sight. Are you growing for me -- I mean on me...I mean, well, you know.  

I smile, but my dimples totally harp on my street cred, plus, I'm not infamous 'cos I'm 'cute', it's 'cos I'm a freaking sex pot, ya know? Gotta keep the people happy, and expectations low.

Pain is beauty, Wreck it Ralph. I mean I’m sure you can pop one man boob out for a knockout to whatever threat is dumb ‘nough to try and take out moi, but I vote for abs of steel, vs, you eating ‘em to add to your collections of rolls. Well, your jawline is like semi fierce, those shit brown eyes may like look the palette of taco Tuesday’s diarrhea aftermath, but they’re kinda sweet, and your side smirk is panty drop worthy.

What do you like about me?

[sexysatansass-blog]

Pain is beauty, Wreck it Ralph. I mean I’m sure you can pop one man boob out for a knockout to whatever threat is dumb ‘nough to try and take out moi, but I vote for abs of steel, vs, you eating ‘em to add to your collections of rolls. Well, your jawline is like semi fierce, those shit brown eyes may like look the palette of taco Tuesday’s diarrhea aftermath, but they’re kinda sweet, and your side smirk is panty drop worthy.

What do you like about me?

No thanks, that sounds like a little too much for me. I’d pass out or something if I did that. Really? Why?

I don’t know, I guess I actually kinda like you even though you’re mean to me a lot. You grew on me.