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It's four in the morning and there's a girl in your bed.
How you got here, you'll never know, because for all intents and purposes, this should have never happened. You know her from a rally, you know her because she's a bit famous, Anna the Activist, the disdain of her proper family. You know her because you know Sam and you know Dean and they know Cas. You know her because Six Degrees of Separation and coincidence.
You run into her in a coffee shop on campus. You run into her there a lot. Mid- and post-Sam. You always see her coming, because even when it's cloudy some kind of light catches her hair.
It's like she's on fire. It's like she's a walking flame.
She touches you first. Always, she touches you first. Ruby! Hey! and a squeeze of your arm. And then a tight hug. And then a squeeze of your hand. She talks with her hands more often than not. Curls her fingers, makes diagrams in the air, waving about, moving, moving, moving-- she cannot stop.
You've never asked why. It would take away from the magic enigma that is Anna Milton.
No one greets you with such enthusiasm as she does. Your name is one to run away from, your name is trouble, your name brings chaos wherever you go, your name is the one prospies hear and shiver. Except she sings out your name, she calls it so the wind can carry it to all corners of the campus, she twirls your hair and intertwines your hands, pulls you to lunch or class or town or the dorms, dances on the quad the rest of the world be damned.
You're not like the others, so she says, and this time it doesn't feel like a condemnation.
Let the record state that you don't care what the others think. Fuck them all, you'll speak your mind. Fuck them all, you'll stand on top of the science building with banners, you'll use whoever you need to to make yourself heard, you'll stand up for what you believe in and get stoned and fuck whoever you want.
You're a terrorist, a stuck-up classmate spits at you after learning of your exploits over the summer (or at least the rumors of them, no one really knows what you do and you don't care to correct the confusion.)
I'm an anarchist, you reply.
Still, someone who doesn't turn up their nose, recoil in disgust, sneer.
Still, that's more refreshing and surprising than anything you've come across.
But you don't know how you got here. How you got to late dinners and casual conversation. How you got to jokes and propositions. How you got to her fingers in your hair, down your neck, across your collarbone. How you got to biting her lip and breathing in cinnamon. How you got from jackets and jeans to tits and ass, naked on your bed, her tongue twirling patterns on your nipple.
God, you've been around the block, but she is good. Sweet Anna Milton, the sex fiend. Who would have thought? Every mark she leaves, you match. Or you try, at least. There are bound to be some unaccounted for, after her sharp nails trail from your hair to your back and slide down your shoulder blades in a way that makes you gasp and arch.
She kisses you everywhere-- hair, forehead, mouth, tits, down and down and down, until her tongue's tracing along your pelvis. Closer and closer to your clit-- and sharply left and south, continuing to tease. She must be teasing, she must know, because she is clear not new at this. As your hands wrap in her hair, tremble against her neck, she lingers just around your lips, and you almost scream just do it already! except she's already sucking on your clit.
The feel of her fingers, running down your sides, shock you almost more, for you'd forgotten anything existed except her lips and her tongue, rolling and flicking and drinking you in. Anna is an overachiever. Anna, with her fingers like flames, brushes over your hips, rubbing in circles as she begins to eat you out. You groan and moan and arch and she moves with you. Your nails dig into the back of her bare collar as she takes your clit into her mouth again, sucking and then releasing and--
And you come and sink down, and just like that, she is placing gentle kisses along your stomach, she is curling her fingers over your jaw, and as you lay sweating and breathing heavy, she kisses your mouth gentle and soft, collapsing next to you as her taste and yours mingle in your mouth.
The two of you lay there, drunk in the moment, drunk on each other, drunk in the ecstasy of what just happened and still drinking, eyes locked and fingers curling around each other.
It is four in the morning and there is a girl in your bed. It is four in the morning and two hours since that girl went down on you and made you call out for a God you don't even believe in. It is four in the morning and an hour and a half since that girl then wrapped her arms around you and breathed you in, her gentle touch soothing you almost to sleep.
It is four in the morning and you don't understand how you've fallen in love with the girl with hair like fire who kisses you after sex with swollen lips and can't stop touching you even now, as she lays slumbering at your side.
Fire; maybe that's why she looks like she's on fire-- once she touches you, you're caught in her blaze.