Fic: Suggest Otherwise (1/1)
Title: Suggest Otherwise
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Quinn/Will
Word Count: 368
Summary: She needs it, even if it hurts. For phelipa, who requested “Glee, Quinn/Will, sensitive spots” at toestastegood’s, Five Acts Meme. General Series Spoilers. Warnings for mild, consensual adult/minor sensuality.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I don't even know how I wrote this, as it's definitely not my normal sort of thing at all, and I've never even pondered shipping these two. Alas -- I've learned not to fight the muse when she strikes.
Suggest Otherwise
The warmth of another body against her is something that she's missed, something that she needs; the way he moves with nothing to gain and everything to lose. She's never had that before.
His lips are slow, soft, chapped at the corners so they drag just a little, send shivers down her spine; his palms don't roam, don't stray -- he keeps his hands steady, sure against the swell of her belly, the one place on a woman he's never known, and should have.
He should have.
His thumb strokes against the overhang of her baby bump, the neglected crease of chafed skin below as his mouth laves at her collarbone, wets the neckline of her shirt; her head falls back against the tiling on the wall, hair catching in the rough patches, tugging as the moisture of his breath settles just below her ear, and when he exhales, chills that spot, she can feel the tingle of it, the rush of cold and desperation like she's never known before -- like she remembers, only vaguely, through a haze of wine coolers and steam, but better. Deeper. Harder. Until she can't even breathe.
He runs the bridge of his nose against her, brushes the shell of her ear, and she shudders, arches into him as best she can, her shape a little awkward, now, but he gives in all the right places, bends against her, makes her beautiful. He's at the hollow of her throat, and she knows that he can feel the way her heart flutters, the way it throbs; knows that if he'd just look up, he'd see the fear, the need her in eyes, if he'd just-
"I can't."
It's a breath she can't spare, and he's gone before it breaks.
She huddles in the corner of the girls' bathroom in the math hallway, counting the hours, the cracks in the floor until the last bell rings, the last tear falls, and her pulse slows down enough that she can feel the baby move, if she pays close enough attention; until she can imagine that this never happened.
The dampness, the stains in her boyshorts -- almost too small, now, and she'd only just bought them -- suggest otherwise.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Quinn/Will
Word Count: 368
Summary: She needs it, even if it hurts. For phelipa, who requested “Glee, Quinn/Will, sensitive spots” at toestastegood’s, Five Acts Meme. General Series Spoilers. Warnings for mild, consensual adult/minor sensuality.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I don't even know how I wrote this, as it's definitely not my normal sort of thing at all, and I've never even pondered shipping these two. Alas -- I've learned not to fight the muse when she strikes.
Suggest Otherwise
The warmth of another body against her is something that she's missed, something that she needs; the way he moves with nothing to gain and everything to lose. She's never had that before.
His lips are slow, soft, chapped at the corners so they drag just a little, send shivers down her spine; his palms don't roam, don't stray -- he keeps his hands steady, sure against the swell of her belly, the one place on a woman he's never known, and should have.
He should have.
His thumb strokes against the overhang of her baby bump, the neglected crease of chafed skin below as his mouth laves at her collarbone, wets the neckline of her shirt; her head falls back against the tiling on the wall, hair catching in the rough patches, tugging as the moisture of his breath settles just below her ear, and when he exhales, chills that spot, she can feel the tingle of it, the rush of cold and desperation like she's never known before -- like she remembers, only vaguely, through a haze of wine coolers and steam, but better. Deeper. Harder. Until she can't even breathe.
He runs the bridge of his nose against her, brushes the shell of her ear, and she shudders, arches into him as best she can, her shape a little awkward, now, but he gives in all the right places, bends against her, makes her beautiful. He's at the hollow of her throat, and she knows that he can feel the way her heart flutters, the way it throbs; knows that if he'd just look up, he'd see the fear, the need her in eyes, if he'd just-
"I can't."
It's a breath she can't spare, and he's gone before it breaks.
She huddles in the corner of the girls' bathroom in the math hallway, counting the hours, the cracks in the floor until the last bell rings, the last tear falls, and her pulse slows down enough that she can feel the baby move, if she pays close enough attention; until she can imagine that this never happened.
The dampness, the stains in her boyshorts -- almost too small, now, and she'd only just bought them -- suggest otherwise.