Glee Fic: winter is for ohio
0penhearts harasses me a lot. And sometimes I do things for her so that I can get peace and quiet for, well, like a day or so before she starts all over again. And maybe I'm even desperate enough to do this so that I don't have to go home and finish packing my stuff. But. Yeah. That's all I got. Leave it to her to get up and all over my May/December kink. Jerk.
winter is for ohio
there are a million ways this could go. there will always be that opportunity. a small moment, three years later, and this is the first.
glee | will/rachel | no spoilers | 2,839 words, adult.
-
There is an email open on her phone from her dad. It says come home and granny’s very ill all which makes her stomach lurch and twist into knots.
But it’s how she ends up at the bar, three blocks into downtown and a cab away from the hospital, which is the real question. Her bags are somewhere in the back of her parents’ car and her fingers move against the table, back against her beer and midway into the memory of her composition exam.
She tries not to think about the hospital, or about the frail nature of her family. There has always been a lot of things they haven’t told her, her dads, so it’s best, as the outside, to linger around and wait for them to need her.
“Rachel?”
The booth moans when she shifts, her back flushed against her seat. Her hand wraps around the neck of her beer.
“Mr. Schuester,” she greets, and it takes her a minute to process everything: her own reaction unravels in a tired smile, just as she takes him in, the same odd, old pair of jeans and the wrinkles in the collar of his button down. It’s been three years, she reminds herself. Her mouth quirks again and she pulls her legs up onto her seat.
When he tilts his head to the open spot across the table from her, she nods. The bar alternates between being too loud and too dark, full of the work crowd and people, if anything, that look more like locals. There is no anonymity like New York.
“You look really great,” he says.
She laughs, shaking her head. “I look like my composition exam swallowed me whole, Mr. Schue, and then I spent an hour or so too long at the airport. It’s okay.”
His mouth quirks.
He starts to ask her about school; it’s an automatic process. It’s about passing information along too: no, no, school is great, I love New York, yes parents are still here. He fills in the loopholes about the others too, from Quinn to Santana, Artie, Mike, Tine, and even Sam, who left their junior year. They talk about Finn politely, and she lights up when the conversation turns to Puck and Kurt, who, of course, seems to be the source of most of the basics for Mr. Schuester.
He takes a sip of his beer. “I saw him at Homecoming,” he says. “Burt and Carol are huge supports of both the drama program and the athletic program still - he says that you’ve been in a couple of plays and are still writing songs?”
“Yes.” She looks down, studying her beer. “Twenty year old me,” she starts, “is a little different though - ” She flashes an amused smile, shaking her head. “It’s not just about broken hearts anymore or, well, high school popularity. Part of my composition project involves story writing and - oh god.”
She groans. He laughs and the sound is nervous.
“Sorry,” she says. “I just sounded like someone I know.”
Her nose wrinkles and his gaze is curious. She bites the inside of her mouth, offering now further story. Rubbing the back of her neck, she reaches for her beer.
“How are you?” she asks, again, outside of the pleasantries. She rubs her thumb along the mouth of her beer. When she catches Mr. Schuester’s gaze, he licks his lips. “I mean, outside of school,” she adds. She’s careful next. “You and Miss Pillsbury?”
He blushes. “Awkward,” he says.
She blinks.
“It was - Emma and I were …”
“You don’t have to tell me,” she murmurs, amused.
He shakes his head.
“Do you come here often?”
Rachel cringes at the words. Mr. Schuester actually laughs and she hides a blush into her beer. She takes a long sip and then puts it down. Her thumb brushes over the top again, catching a few, stray drops. The bottle is sweating and cold and she hasn’t realized how warm the bar is, until she brings her fingers to her mouth.
“Sorry,” she says. She licks the pad of her thumb. She watches as his eyes darken too. Tilting her head to the side, she manages a smile. “I don’t know what to say,” she confesses. “It’s a little strange being back.”
“Is everything all right?” he asks.
The question of the night, she almost says. But there are a lot of people to seeing, now that she’s back, brief or not, and she’d rather not practice
She’s quiet. Then, she looks down at her hands. “Just family things,” she says.
Maybe, this is how it starts.
( - they kiss in the men’s room, although she’s not entirely sure if he dragged her there or if she dragged him there, fist in his hair as he presses her into the wall. It’s dirty and she’s tired, he’s tired, but he kisses her and his mouth is hard and wet and she’ll have to admit that she likes it, really likes it that he calls her baby. He’s all teeth and she’s nails and sounds, running her hand against the back of his neck. The walls are dirty and she swears it’s way too appropriate, a little Johnny Cash and Elvis crooning in the speakers over her head. There’s a memory too, somewhere in there.)
The living room is too dark. Her fingers brush against the spines of the books. She brings her beer to her lips, shaking her head. It’s Hemingway that flashes back at her; if anything, it doesn’t surprise her that Mr. Schuester’s fan.
“You call me Will, you know,” he calls from the kitchen and really, really, she doesn’t know how she ended up here. There is no singular transition. Between her second beer and the text message from her dad saying that they’ll be staying at the hospital overnight, it seemed like the reasonable thing to do, going home with him. The friends excuse is much easier to say as it is.
“It’s a little strange,” she calls back. She pulls the book from the shelf and then carries it to the kitchen. He’s making pasta, for whatever reason, and she slides herself onto the counter behind him, taking another sip of her beer. “But I can promise I’ll try.”
He laughs.
Her jacket rests comfortably on the back of a chair at the table. There is snow on the shoulders and her t-shirt is drapped lazily over her leggings. She fingers the book, but then leaves it by her jacket, settling for her beer.
“Really,” she adds, and she turns her head - just to make sure - checking her boots as they rest by the front door of his apartment.
“I miss you, Rachel.”
She snorts. “Liar.”
“I do,” he says. He shakes his head. “I mean, at the end of the day, there really can only be one you. And what you and everyone else did, you changed a lot.”
She smiles a little. “It didn’t feel like it at the time.”
Something goes unspoken between them. She isn’t sure what it is exactly; he focuses back with the boiling water, turning the heat to a lower setting.
“I miss you too.” She pauses and then tries: “Will,” she adds. “You changed a lot for me,” she says to him. “You, more than anyone else.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“I didn’t want to give you credit at all.”
Her voice is dry and he laughs, pushing himself away from the pots on the stove.
“You were - ” she leans back, resting her head against one of the cabinets. Some of her hair brushes over her eyes. He reaches forward, his fingers pressing against her cheek. It’s the first time that he touches her and she swallows, watching as he pushes her bangs away from her eyes.
She’s not thinking either; her hand curls lightly around the end of his t-shirt, the button down lost somewhere in the other room. Her fingers tug at the fabric and she laughs softly, more for herself, before looking up.
“You were frustrating,” she finishes.
He laughs again. Her legs swing against the counter.
“So were you.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “I was awkward and abrasive, comfortable in my own skin and then not. And the one person that I wanted to say okay, you’re going to be great and it’s going to be -”
“Sometimes I’m your only fan,” he finishes.
Her lips curl. “Yes,” she says. “That sounds about right.”
He seems to study her, maybe for any signs of bitterness or irritation. She wants to smile at that piece of predictability, but her mind is still stuck in nine different places at one. Her hand brushes against her knee and then his hand, reaching for her, curls around the neck of her beer. His hand rests against hers and then she lets him take it.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Her gaze wavers. “No,” she says. She’s not bringing family here.
“I think that’s why I resented you,” he says quietly. His fingers touch her mouth. His thumb picks at her lip and then slides inside of her mouth. She makes a soft sound. “You didn’t need me,” he says. “Not like the others.”
“That’s a stupid reason,” she says. It’s impulsive, but calm. Her mouth turns lazily and she eyes him, curious, almost daring him to push. She watches as his eyes narrow briefly and her teeth nip at his fingers again, just as he reaches to touch her.
“I never said I was the brightest.”
He’s so serious when he says it that she forgets why she’s back in Lima, just for that brief, long second. She lets him touch her too: his hand moves from her mouth to her jaw, to her hair, tugging gently through the loose strands. Her t-shirt feels too cool when his other hand drops to her hip. The beer’s somewhere else, off to the side, and she spreads her legs to let him step between them.
When he says it again, she laughs. Only because it’s true.
There’s no story to the bedroom and that’s fine, that’s the best actually. What she focuses is on is the sound that he makes when his dick slides back into her mouth. The carpet is digging back against her knees, picking at her skin as she presses herself forward.
“Jesus,” he moans. She flattens her tongue against the tip. She rolls it lightly and it’s an overwhelming mix of beer and tang and everything else. She hums too, her eyes darting to his, just as his fist curls in her hair.
She jerks her hand down his length, rolling her fingers against the skin. He seems to like to let her pick the pace and she prefers, if anything, that kind of control because he’s been talking and talking and just talking and somehow, she thinks, this is how she’s going to get the answers.
She can’t help herself either, feeling him harden against the tips of her fingers. She hums again, just as she slides her mouth back over his dick. She likes the taste of him, she decides and it doesn’t last as long as she’d like, the need to see him jerk forward and back, just him in her mouth, saying her name and only her name, as her pulls her back.
His dick slides out of her mouth with a pop and then he’s pulling her to his bed, letting her drop into the sheets. She tries to remember if she kissed him first.
“I’m going to spread you out,” he breathes, and it’s shaky, just as her hips twist in the sheets. His palms are flat against her thighs and she’s looking up at him, her gaze heavy as she brushes her against her breasts.
She lets him watch as her fingers drift against her nipples. Her thumbs swipe against the skin and his hand slides between her legs. He’s still on his knees, dick hard and wet, slick from her mouth. She watches his knees tremble too and she’s sort of silently teasing him; somewhere between the kitchen and here, she’s decided this is about control, for keeping it and for him, clear or not, it’s about losing it.
“You made me crazy,” he says.
She chokes on a laugh and then he’s leaving over her, his hand wrapping around his dick. He reaches forward and brushes his fingers over her belly, rolling them lightly against into a trail, down and between her legs. His thumb presses into her clit and he moans, just over her, as her hips jerk a little into his hand.
“I barely noticed you.” Her voice is shaky. She groans impatiently when he lowers himself over her, into her, his hand guiding his dick to her. When the head presses against her clit, she makes a murmur of low noises, arching into him and her teeth grazing his throat. It makes him laugh.
“I know,” he says.
He pushes inside of her slowly, his hand stroking his shift until they’re belly to belly and he’s just inside of her. She feels full and too aware, almost too stimulated, and she’s overwhelmed briefly of first and second times, dorm rooms and apartment buildings, boys with names and boys with just faces.
This is different. This feels like need, like too much need and weight. She forgets New York again, she forgets her family, forgets that this is the worst kind of idea. His hips roll back and then into hers, hard and she’s curling a leg around him, his hand flushing over the back of her thigh. His mouth goes to her neck, biting, and her fingers fist into her hair and he just starts to fuck her.
“You’re so tight, baby,” he says. His tongue presses into her skin, over the dip touching her shoulder and his teeth marks. “So tight.”
She only moans, throwing herself back into visions of high school, of things that were so shamefully hers. Somewhere between a crush and having boyfriends, she used to find herself, fingers inside of her, thinking about herself over his lap, nails digging into his back, his desk, over the piano.
He’s not gentle and that’s what she wants, the feeling of his dick sliding in and out of her, the sensation of how heavy he is against her. Her skin is sticky and hot and she turns her head, her teeth catching his ear. It’s too easy to accept that he’s fucking her right into his bed, in an apartment that seems like the very same house he lived in until she graduated, she remembers.
She gasps though, when he slides a hand between them, pressing his fingers into her clit, cooing to her as she makes these noises. She says his name too, just on the brink, and then again when she finally, finally hits that peak, clenching around his dick.
“Rachel,” he gasps, and he’s after, her nails digging into his back and his teeth bitting into her shoulder. Her legs are linked around his hips and the sheets under her are a mess of twists and knots.
One of them laughs. She gives it to him because she’s still selfish.
“I would have said yes if you had asked,” she says.
In the morning, her phone lights up with a voicemail. It’s one of her dads from the hospital; she’ll find out, midway, that he’s just asking her to bring coffee.
But she’s standing, naked in Will’s kitchen, popping an orange slice into her mouth just as he slides a hand between her legs. He doesn’t kiss her, but he bites at her lips.
“Why are you really here?” he asks and it’s soft. She bites into the last orange slice, fed to her by his fingers. Her teeth graze the pads of his fingertips. His eyes are dark and she feels a finger push inside of her. It’s another one too, as he leans down and slides his mouth over hers.
He lick away at the orange and he’s going to ask her again: why are you here; his hand cups her ass first and he’s pulling her into him, away from the counter. She thinks she’s going to have to call her dads later and maybe, maybe stop somewhere to bring flowers for her grandmother. She’s supposed to say hi to Finn and Kurt, and then there’s Puck’s mom and sister too.
But he’s sliding to his knees, between her legs, another finger pushing inside of her. She watches as he licks his lips too, the corners of his mouth tugging into a light smile, just before he leans into her legs and then presses his tongue against her clit. She wonders if she’s going to taste like oranges too.
She still won’t answer though and maybe, it’s for the best. Later, she tells him it’s the holidays.
winter is for ohio
there are a million ways this could go. there will always be that opportunity. a small moment, three years later, and this is the first.
glee | will/rachel | no spoilers | 2,839 words, adult.
-
There is an email open on her phone from her dad. It says come home and granny’s very ill all which makes her stomach lurch and twist into knots.
But it’s how she ends up at the bar, three blocks into downtown and a cab away from the hospital, which is the real question. Her bags are somewhere in the back of her parents’ car and her fingers move against the table, back against her beer and midway into the memory of her composition exam.
She tries not to think about the hospital, or about the frail nature of her family. There has always been a lot of things they haven’t told her, her dads, so it’s best, as the outside, to linger around and wait for them to need her.
“Rachel?”
The booth moans when she shifts, her back flushed against her seat. Her hand wraps around the neck of her beer.
“Mr. Schuester,” she greets, and it takes her a minute to process everything: her own reaction unravels in a tired smile, just as she takes him in, the same odd, old pair of jeans and the wrinkles in the collar of his button down. It’s been three years, she reminds herself. Her mouth quirks again and she pulls her legs up onto her seat.
When he tilts his head to the open spot across the table from her, she nods. The bar alternates between being too loud and too dark, full of the work crowd and people, if anything, that look more like locals. There is no anonymity like New York.
“You look really great,” he says.
She laughs, shaking her head. “I look like my composition exam swallowed me whole, Mr. Schue, and then I spent an hour or so too long at the airport. It’s okay.”
His mouth quirks.
He starts to ask her about school; it’s an automatic process. It’s about passing information along too: no, no, school is great, I love New York, yes parents are still here. He fills in the loopholes about the others too, from Quinn to Santana, Artie, Mike, Tine, and even Sam, who left their junior year. They talk about Finn politely, and she lights up when the conversation turns to Puck and Kurt, who, of course, seems to be the source of most of the basics for Mr. Schuester.
He takes a sip of his beer. “I saw him at Homecoming,” he says. “Burt and Carol are huge supports of both the drama program and the athletic program still - he says that you’ve been in a couple of plays and are still writing songs?”
“Yes.” She looks down, studying her beer. “Twenty year old me,” she starts, “is a little different though - ” She flashes an amused smile, shaking her head. “It’s not just about broken hearts anymore or, well, high school popularity. Part of my composition project involves story writing and - oh god.”
She groans. He laughs and the sound is nervous.
“Sorry,” she says. “I just sounded like someone I know.”
Her nose wrinkles and his gaze is curious. She bites the inside of her mouth, offering now further story. Rubbing the back of her neck, she reaches for her beer.
“How are you?” she asks, again, outside of the pleasantries. She rubs her thumb along the mouth of her beer. When she catches Mr. Schuester’s gaze, he licks his lips. “I mean, outside of school,” she adds. She’s careful next. “You and Miss Pillsbury?”
He blushes. “Awkward,” he says.
She blinks.
“It was - Emma and I were …”
“You don’t have to tell me,” she murmurs, amused.
He shakes his head.
“Do you come here often?”
Rachel cringes at the words. Mr. Schuester actually laughs and she hides a blush into her beer. She takes a long sip and then puts it down. Her thumb brushes over the top again, catching a few, stray drops. The bottle is sweating and cold and she hasn’t realized how warm the bar is, until she brings her fingers to her mouth.
“Sorry,” she says. She licks the pad of her thumb. She watches as his eyes darken too. Tilting her head to the side, she manages a smile. “I don’t know what to say,” she confesses. “It’s a little strange being back.”
“Is everything all right?” he asks.
The question of the night, she almost says. But there are a lot of people to seeing, now that she’s back, brief or not, and she’d rather not practice
She’s quiet. Then, she looks down at her hands. “Just family things,” she says.
Maybe, this is how it starts.
( - they kiss in the men’s room, although she’s not entirely sure if he dragged her there or if she dragged him there, fist in his hair as he presses her into the wall. It’s dirty and she’s tired, he’s tired, but he kisses her and his mouth is hard and wet and she’ll have to admit that she likes it, really likes it that he calls her baby. He’s all teeth and she’s nails and sounds, running her hand against the back of his neck. The walls are dirty and she swears it’s way too appropriate, a little Johnny Cash and Elvis crooning in the speakers over her head. There’s a memory too, somewhere in there.)
The living room is too dark. Her fingers brush against the spines of the books. She brings her beer to her lips, shaking her head. It’s Hemingway that flashes back at her; if anything, it doesn’t surprise her that Mr. Schuester’s fan.
“You call me Will, you know,” he calls from the kitchen and really, really, she doesn’t know how she ended up here. There is no singular transition. Between her second beer and the text message from her dad saying that they’ll be staying at the hospital overnight, it seemed like the reasonable thing to do, going home with him. The friends excuse is much easier to say as it is.
“It’s a little strange,” she calls back. She pulls the book from the shelf and then carries it to the kitchen. He’s making pasta, for whatever reason, and she slides herself onto the counter behind him, taking another sip of her beer. “But I can promise I’ll try.”
He laughs.
Her jacket rests comfortably on the back of a chair at the table. There is snow on the shoulders and her t-shirt is drapped lazily over her leggings. She fingers the book, but then leaves it by her jacket, settling for her beer.
“Really,” she adds, and she turns her head - just to make sure - checking her boots as they rest by the front door of his apartment.
“I miss you, Rachel.”
She snorts. “Liar.”
“I do,” he says. He shakes his head. “I mean, at the end of the day, there really can only be one you. And what you and everyone else did, you changed a lot.”
She smiles a little. “It didn’t feel like it at the time.”
Something goes unspoken between them. She isn’t sure what it is exactly; he focuses back with the boiling water, turning the heat to a lower setting.
“I miss you too.” She pauses and then tries: “Will,” she adds. “You changed a lot for me,” she says to him. “You, more than anyone else.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“I didn’t want to give you credit at all.”
Her voice is dry and he laughs, pushing himself away from the pots on the stove.
“You were - ” she leans back, resting her head against one of the cabinets. Some of her hair brushes over her eyes. He reaches forward, his fingers pressing against her cheek. It’s the first time that he touches her and she swallows, watching as he pushes her bangs away from her eyes.
She’s not thinking either; her hand curls lightly around the end of his t-shirt, the button down lost somewhere in the other room. Her fingers tug at the fabric and she laughs softly, more for herself, before looking up.
“You were frustrating,” she finishes.
He laughs again. Her legs swing against the counter.
“So were you.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “I was awkward and abrasive, comfortable in my own skin and then not. And the one person that I wanted to say okay, you’re going to be great and it’s going to be -”
“Sometimes I’m your only fan,” he finishes.
Her lips curl. “Yes,” she says. “That sounds about right.”
He seems to study her, maybe for any signs of bitterness or irritation. She wants to smile at that piece of predictability, but her mind is still stuck in nine different places at one. Her hand brushes against her knee and then his hand, reaching for her, curls around the neck of her beer. His hand rests against hers and then she lets him take it.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Her gaze wavers. “No,” she says. She’s not bringing family here.
“I think that’s why I resented you,” he says quietly. His fingers touch her mouth. His thumb picks at her lip and then slides inside of her mouth. She makes a soft sound. “You didn’t need me,” he says. “Not like the others.”
“That’s a stupid reason,” she says. It’s impulsive, but calm. Her mouth turns lazily and she eyes him, curious, almost daring him to push. She watches as his eyes narrow briefly and her teeth nip at his fingers again, just as he reaches to touch her.
“I never said I was the brightest.”
He’s so serious when he says it that she forgets why she’s back in Lima, just for that brief, long second. She lets him touch her too: his hand moves from her mouth to her jaw, to her hair, tugging gently through the loose strands. Her t-shirt feels too cool when his other hand drops to her hip. The beer’s somewhere else, off to the side, and she spreads her legs to let him step between them.
When he says it again, she laughs. Only because it’s true.
There’s no story to the bedroom and that’s fine, that’s the best actually. What she focuses is on is the sound that he makes when his dick slides back into her mouth. The carpet is digging back against her knees, picking at her skin as she presses herself forward.
“Jesus,” he moans. She flattens her tongue against the tip. She rolls it lightly and it’s an overwhelming mix of beer and tang and everything else. She hums too, her eyes darting to his, just as his fist curls in her hair.
She jerks her hand down his length, rolling her fingers against the skin. He seems to like to let her pick the pace and she prefers, if anything, that kind of control because he’s been talking and talking and just talking and somehow, she thinks, this is how she’s going to get the answers.
She can’t help herself either, feeling him harden against the tips of her fingers. She hums again, just as she slides her mouth back over his dick. She likes the taste of him, she decides and it doesn’t last as long as she’d like, the need to see him jerk forward and back, just him in her mouth, saying her name and only her name, as her pulls her back.
His dick slides out of her mouth with a pop and then he’s pulling her to his bed, letting her drop into the sheets. She tries to remember if she kissed him first.
“I’m going to spread you out,” he breathes, and it’s shaky, just as her hips twist in the sheets. His palms are flat against her thighs and she’s looking up at him, her gaze heavy as she brushes her against her breasts.
She lets him watch as her fingers drift against her nipples. Her thumbs swipe against the skin and his hand slides between her legs. He’s still on his knees, dick hard and wet, slick from her mouth. She watches his knees tremble too and she’s sort of silently teasing him; somewhere between the kitchen and here, she’s decided this is about control, for keeping it and for him, clear or not, it’s about losing it.
“You made me crazy,” he says.
She chokes on a laugh and then he’s leaving over her, his hand wrapping around his dick. He reaches forward and brushes his fingers over her belly, rolling them lightly against into a trail, down and between her legs. His thumb presses into her clit and he moans, just over her, as her hips jerk a little into his hand.
“I barely noticed you.” Her voice is shaky. She groans impatiently when he lowers himself over her, into her, his hand guiding his dick to her. When the head presses against her clit, she makes a murmur of low noises, arching into him and her teeth grazing his throat. It makes him laugh.
“I know,” he says.
He pushes inside of her slowly, his hand stroking his shift until they’re belly to belly and he’s just inside of her. She feels full and too aware, almost too stimulated, and she’s overwhelmed briefly of first and second times, dorm rooms and apartment buildings, boys with names and boys with just faces.
This is different. This feels like need, like too much need and weight. She forgets New York again, she forgets her family, forgets that this is the worst kind of idea. His hips roll back and then into hers, hard and she’s curling a leg around him, his hand flushing over the back of her thigh. His mouth goes to her neck, biting, and her fingers fist into her hair and he just starts to fuck her.
“You’re so tight, baby,” he says. His tongue presses into her skin, over the dip touching her shoulder and his teeth marks. “So tight.”
She only moans, throwing herself back into visions of high school, of things that were so shamefully hers. Somewhere between a crush and having boyfriends, she used to find herself, fingers inside of her, thinking about herself over his lap, nails digging into his back, his desk, over the piano.
He’s not gentle and that’s what she wants, the feeling of his dick sliding in and out of her, the sensation of how heavy he is against her. Her skin is sticky and hot and she turns her head, her teeth catching his ear. It’s too easy to accept that he’s fucking her right into his bed, in an apartment that seems like the very same house he lived in until she graduated, she remembers.
She gasps though, when he slides a hand between them, pressing his fingers into her clit, cooing to her as she makes these noises. She says his name too, just on the brink, and then again when she finally, finally hits that peak, clenching around his dick.
“Rachel,” he gasps, and he’s after, her nails digging into his back and his teeth bitting into her shoulder. Her legs are linked around his hips and the sheets under her are a mess of twists and knots.
One of them laughs. She gives it to him because she’s still selfish.
“I would have said yes if you had asked,” she says.
In the morning, her phone lights up with a voicemail. It’s one of her dads from the hospital; she’ll find out, midway, that he’s just asking her to bring coffee.
But she’s standing, naked in Will’s kitchen, popping an orange slice into her mouth just as he slides a hand between her legs. He doesn’t kiss her, but he bites at her lips.
“Why are you really here?” he asks and it’s soft. She bites into the last orange slice, fed to her by his fingers. Her teeth graze the pads of his fingertips. His eyes are dark and she feels a finger push inside of her. It’s another one too, as he leans down and slides his mouth over hers.
He lick away at the orange and he’s going to ask her again: why are you here; his hand cups her ass first and he’s pulling her into him, away from the counter. She thinks she’s going to have to call her dads later and maybe, maybe stop somewhere to bring flowers for her grandmother. She’s supposed to say hi to Finn and Kurt, and then there’s Puck’s mom and sister too.
But he’s sliding to his knees, between her legs, another finger pushing inside of her. She watches as he licks his lips too, the corners of his mouth tugging into a light smile, just before he leans into her legs and then presses his tongue against her clit. She wonders if she’s going to taste like oranges too.
She still won’t answer though and maybe, it’s for the best. Later, she tells him it’s the holidays.