Title: Call Me Hopeless, But Not Romantic

Author: Claddagh Ring

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee.

Rating: M for strong sexual imagery and language... it's smut. Smutty, smut, smut, smut.

Pairing: Rachel/Blaine; Raine... I ship it. Hard. I really do. I need it. I want it.

AN: I've wanted to write a good angsty Raine story for awhile, but I couldn't seem to get past the big blinking neon SMUT sign in my head, so I decided to get that out of my system... and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was suitably angsty in it's own right.

Also, I apologize upfront to anyone who feels Blaine may be OOC because of the cursing, but in my head, Blaine curses like a sailor during intense situations, so that's what I ran with.

The way her tiny hands felt so fantastically fucking amazing bunched up in his hair was without a doubt the most confusing thing in his life. It shouldn't even register on his radar, but the way her nails scraped his scalp was just enough to send him spiraling down into a hormone induced crazy haze world where pushing her away or saying no would become the second hardest thing in existence. It never made sense, never would make sense, but that didn't stop it from happening over and over again. It didn't stop her from sucking the taste from his tongue, or him from licking the salt from her neck or them from fumbling through empty bedrooms while their boyfriends were both downstairs.

"Why do you fucking do this to me?" he growled against her throat and was only answered by a tiny groan that seemed to vibrate through her chest and his. Her hands tugged sharply at his hair and forced his head back until he was staring through bleary eyes at her golden star studded ceiling. His hands were shaking, palms flat against the wall as she snaked her fingertips under his shirt, skimming his abdomen, climbing up and over his ribcage before sinking into that spot in the center of his spine that caused his entire body to betray him by grinding into hers.

"Do you talk to him this way?" she asked. As she did, her teeth grazed his collarbone, almost hard enough to bruise, but not quite. Because they couldn't be caught, they knew how to mark each other without leaving any damning evidence behind, and they were good at it.

"Do you?" He pressed her fully into the wall next to her desk, hitching her legs around his waist causing her grip on his shoulders to tighten as she clung to him for support. His hands gripped the back of her thighs, tracing the skin just past the hemline of her skirt. It was incredible to him how soft she was, everywhere and he found it increasingly difficult to believe that any guy could ever be that smooth or that they could generate such heat, rolling like waves to a shore.

She slipped down the wall and the center of that heat fell into his palm, hot and sticky like a raging summer storm. A whimper ached through her lips and he couldn't help the cruel smile twisting his lips as he whispered in her ear, "Do you let him fuck you like this, against the wall, cunt dripping in his hands?"

His fingers began to work of their own accord, pressing into her crux in slow debilitating circles, using the friction from her simple cotton underwear to bring her closer to that edge she seemed to be fighting against. Her breathing became increasingly shallow and erratic and finally disappeared altogether as his shoved the last of her clothing aside and plunged three fingers into her. He could tell she wanted to scream, like she had the first few times, but they had taught themselves not to. But goddamn, her body did it for her as she contrasted around his hand, tighter and hotter and deeper and deeper still but she wouldn't let it go.

Instead she cupped this front of his jeans, which were so strained he was sure a seam would split, and squeezed until he his knees shook. "And what about you, huh?" she sighed wickedly as she peeled the zipper away from his waist, opening the front of his pants and in two swift, deft movements, she had her hands down his boxers and wrapped around the hardest he had ever been. She giggled as she sank to the floor on her knees. "Does he know how much better you'd like it if he swallowed?"

Her mouth closed around him and every coherent thought flew from his brain. He tangled his hands in her hair, guiding her forward, forcing more of himself into her, knowing that she could take it. Her tongue flicked around his tip as her hand glided down, then up, then down and he was falling further into the abyss, to that blackout he'd been to many times before, with her, with him, with himself. He didn't have her kind of control; he couldn't hold it back no matter how hard he tried. He had to let it go and with anyone else, he would have to pull away but her greedy mouth drank him in.

He stood panting with his forehead resting against the wall as she lazily began to stroke him again, up and down until he began to harden once again. He pulled away from the wall and caught her in his arms, slamming her back into the edge of the desk. It would leave a bruise, but he was past the point of caring and he hitched her legs over his waist again then pinned her against the flat of the desk, hands held tight in his above her head.

"Did you ever tell him you like it better too?" he asked, slipping her underwear past her knees before he pushed himself into her, knowing that while she was still wet from before, she's wasn't quite ready for him. But he also knew she liked that more than anything else. "Or that you like it rough?" He pulled out and slammed back into her, deeper and further than the last drive. "That this," he grunted as she tried to arch up into his movement, only to be shoved back down onto the desk, "is the only way you feel properly fucked?"

Like it always did when they were together, a furiousness flared up, a kind of primal anger that took them over and she broke free from his grip and she sat eye-level to him, thrusting herself into him and propelled them off the desk and onto the floor. There was a rip of fabric as her used undergarments fell away. Her knees straddled his hips and her nails dug into his chest that he knew would leave little half moons that would fade in an hour. She plunged herself downwards and rode him, up and down, back and forth, like that fucking prep school melodrama he had been forced to watch last week. But she was so fucking good at it.

"Does he know you like to be on the bottom?" she asked, twisting her hips to meet his and he could feel it starting again. All of it, all at once. She was tightening, getting hotter, pulling him in deeper and his black abyss was racing to meet him.

"Does it really fucking matter what he knows?" he choked and the abyss swallowed them both, bodies screaming out for them in words they couldn't say. His entire world crashed and burned and exploded and crumbled all at once until the only things left where the sounds of her breathing and he golden stars.

He knew, laying there on the ground, that they had taken too long. That it was only a matter of minutes before one of their boyfriends would come up the stairs searching for them. He'd played it out in his head a thousand times: Finn would try to kick his ass and he would fight back. Kurt would cry. She would cry. They would pretend that it wasn't what it seemed, or that it was a one time thing. She would tell Finn that she was sorry, that she really did love him. Kurt would demand answers, but wouldn't want to hear them. Because Rachel and Blaine, they didn't make any sense, never did and never would. And if they didn't hurry, they might even get caught this time.

But he couldn't seem to care because Rachel's hands were in his hair again.

-:-

And girl, how can you love without ever losing it all?
Don't put your faith in this when you won't believe it.
- "Call Me Hopeless, But Not Romantic" Mayday Parade; Mayday Parade (2011)

AN2: Yeah, I know, it's a little twisted with the whole "does he know?" bit but that's one of the reasons people have affairs – they get to do things they normally don't.

Please review, even if it's to tell me how much I suck...