Fic: Kick, Push, Will/Sue, NC-17
Title: Kick, Push
Author: ellydash
Pairing: Will Schuester/Sue Sylvester
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 7,919
Warnings: Hate sex, masochism
Spoilers: 2x11 (The Sue Sylvester Bowl Shuffle) and 2x12 (Silly Love Songs); references to 1x21 (Funk)
Note: Takes place during the events of 2x12.
Summary: In the aftermath of her humiliating loss, Will attempts to lift Sue’s spirits on Valentine’s Day. As usual, he has no idea what she really wants.
one.
Sue Sylvester refuses to partake in the rituals of Valentine’s Day, because Sue Sylvester will not privilege the use of certain colors over others. The holiday’s prejudicial bias towards red and white and pink, she tells anyone who’ll listen, is discrimination, and fosters an environment of hatred that victimizes all other hues. If there’s one thing Sue doesn’t tolerate, it’s bigotry.
Absolutely every word of this speech is true, or at least delivered like truth, which, in the end, is the most important thing.
Sue hates Valentine’s Day like she hates most national holidays, with the noticeable exception of National Blame Someone Else Day (she chooses to celebrate that event constantly, and without regard to the calendar). This holiday, though, is especially insufferable. There always seems to be an exponential increase in hallway groping incidents, a problem she’s usually forced to address with the reassuring force of a fire hose. And each year, she’s made to witness the epidemic of flowers in the faculty lounge, the red and white paper Valentines she sees in the others’ inboxes, signs of friendship and goodwill. Those offend Sue most of all, even if she can’t exactly figure out why.
She’d considered, briefly, purchasing flowers for herself, because, after all, she’s married now, and that’s something you’re supposed to do for your spouse on Valentine’s Day, isn’t it? But she can’t stand flowers. Especially roses. She’d just reject them, and then she’d feel rejected. No point.
This year, she manages to spray apart six different couples with her hose before Figgins runs to stop her, hollering about “the children” and “more lawsuits” and “flesh wounds.”
He’s overreacting as usual, and anyway, she’s got Gloria Allred on her speed dial.
two.
Will Schuester has the utter audacity to sit at her table during lunch.
She sneers at him as he slides his carcass onto the seat next to her, lip curling off her upper teeth: the only warning he deserves before she attacks. For some reason, probably a missing survival gene, he chooses to ignore her signal, and calmly rustles inside his paper sack, pulling out a sandwich and pop. She can’t believe his nerve. It’s been less than a week since he’d hijacked her budget and stolen her girls, just a few short days, and here he is, unwrapping his lunch like his life isn’t in danger.
“Got a date for Valentine’s, Sue?” Will asks, oblivious to her disturbed state. He’s talking around a bite of sandwich, his words muffled by a repulsive mash of tuna fish and Wonder bread.
Raw fury surges in her; it’s never banked too far down in her body, normally, but lately she’s especially quick to riot. Sue pushes away her shake and glares at him. “William, when this glorious nation was still in its first flushes of genocidal bloodlust, a young cross-dressing woman managed to fool the Founding Fathers into believing her pantaloons concealed a set of twig and berries. Before her subterfuge was discovered, she managed to declare war on the British and turn everyone in the newly settled city of San Francisco gay. The name of that young woman, Will, was Benedict Arnold, and until your disgusting wrest of power last week she was the greatest traitor our country’s ever known.”
“I didn’t betray you, Sue,” he says, swallowing. “Your Cheerios left on their own. So you don’t have a Valentine, then?”
“What I’ve got, buddy, is a nationally ranked cheerleading team and more trophies than a serial killer with a sharp knife and a lot of storage space. I wouldn’t want a Valentine if you dipped one in protein powder.”
She tries not to see it in his face (because it makes her feel like ramming a hole in the nearby wall with her fist) but there it is, anyway: a flash of compassion. He feels sorry for her, she realizes. Will Schuester feels sorry for her. On multiple fronts. This is unacceptable. Unnatural.
And, of course, she doesn’t have a nationally ranked cheerleading team. Not anymore.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he says, setting his sandwich on the table, “I don’t have a Valentine either.”
“Well, I gotta say, I’m not shocked, seeing as how you're completely unlovable. Face it, Will, the only relationship you seem to be able to sustain is your co-dependent union with Kids Incorporated.”
”You’re one to talk,” he retorts, clearly taken aback. “When’s the last time you let anyone into your life?”
“The difference between us,” Sue says, lifting one leg over the other, “is that I keep people away on purpose. You prostrate yourself in front of humanity and beg to be liked. It’s nauseating to watch, like a clown car crash with no casualties.”
“It’s not a bad thing, wanting to be liked.” He mutters this observation, pushing his fingers into the bread of his tuna fish sandwich. It looks soggy, and she wrinkles her mouth in disgust, an emotion never far away when Will’s in the room with her. “At least I’ve got the courage to go for it.”
“And look what it’s gotten you,” she points out. “What’s it gonna be tonight, Will? Funneling Rocky Road down your gullet while sobbing out the chorus to ‘All by Myself’? Since you’re incapable of multitasking, I’m guessing you’ll choke to death on the almonds. Your decomposing body’s gonna go undiscovered until the smell gets too bad for your neighbors to ignore.”
Will stands up, grabbing the uneaten remnants of his lunch. “You can sit here and make predictions all you like,” he snaps. “In the meantime, I’ll send you a postcard from Regionals with a trophy on it, remind you what winning looks like.”
It’s meant to wound her, and it does. She stares at him, struck dumb by the sting of this unexpected cut, and the answering look on his face, an expression of sudden regret, tells Sue she’s given away more than she intended.
“Sue.” He places his hand on her shoulder. “Sue, I’m sorry. That was - I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Go to hell, Schuester,” she says, suddenly tired, and jerks away from his touch, turning back to her shake.
She wants Will to come after her, call her out. If he had any backbone at all, he'd tell her he hasn’t taunted her with anything she hasn’t thrown at him before, and worse besides. He backs down quickly, though, as always, and slinks out of the faculty lounge, his shoulders slumped in contrition. He won’t give her the fight she’s asking for, and she hates him all the more for abandoning her.
Sue nearly throws her shake after him, but stops herself in time. The protein deficiency isn’t worth it.
three.
Even before the Great Betrayal of 2011, she’d been missing something indefinable from her Cheerios’ practices: some spark, some flare of brilliance she hadn’t been able to explain in words or actions. Sue knows what she’s missing, now, and it’s clear to her, as she watches her hastily re-configured squad attempt a series of toe touch splits, exactly what that absent element is. Not Brittany, or Santana, or Quinn, who despite their undeniable talent are, ultimately, replaceable. No, it’s Sue’s own acceleration.
For years, she’s moved towards her goals with the speed and focus of an RIM-161 anti-ballistic missile, equally devastating upon target reach. Lately, though, she’s spiraling, stripped of her radar, unable to see her next mark. Her routines, she realizes, are part of this fallout. They’ve become what she promised herself they’d never be: repetitive. They’re numb like she is.
“PRACTICE IS OVER,” she shouts, through the megaphone. “HIT THE SHOWERS, LADIES. BECKY, BRING ME MY BATTLE SNEAKERS.” They’ll bring back that sense of purpose she’s missing, her battle sneakers. She has them specially made by an Italian shoemaker; they’re lifted, slightly, giving her another three inches of glorious height without losing any of the comfort she deserves.
Becky’s standing in front of her with the shoebox. Sue blinks and sets down the megaphone, impressed with her protégé’s speed.
“Excellent work, Becky,” she says, taking the box. “I may force you to try out for cross-country in the spring. If that pace is any indication, you run faster than a newly-elected politician from her promises.”
“Thanks, Coach,” Becky beams. “Glad to help.”
The sneakers fit just as they always do, snug at the sides, a little roomy in the toe. She stands up, flexing her feet slightly, surveying the gym at her new, elevated height, and waits for the world to look and feel different.
“Are you ready for battle?” Becky asks, eyes shining with admiration.
“Ready,” Sue tells her, the word rolling through her throat like gravel. It sounds right. It sounds true, and in the end, that’s the most important thing.
four.
She treks into the faculty lounge on her battle sneakers, lip curled in anticipation just in case Will’s decided to stay after school today, but he’s not there. Beiste is, though, fussing at the coffee machine, her red polo and white shorts a sickening complement to the offensive colors of the day. Sue considers making a cutting comment about the ironic tragedy of a loveless woman matching her outfit to a holiday that’s rejected her entirely, but decides it’s not worth the effort, not today. She’s ready to collect her mail, grab her things and go home. There’s a backlog of Animal Hoarders episodes waiting for her on her DVR, and then she’ll probably settle in for a long, satisfying evening of posting about her prowess on internet cheerleading forums.
Beiste looks at Sue, purses her lips. Sue gives her a quick appraising glance. “Just here for m’mail,” she says, nonchalantly, crossing over to the row of inboxes, where her own sits yawning at four times the size of the others. “No need to think up with something folksy for my benefit. Your metaphors make me itch anyway.”
Something red and white catches her eye, and she does a double-take; reaches into her inbox to clutch at it. She tries to squash the hateful swell of hope that struggles up unwanted.
It’s a Valentine. A small one, and crude, but a Valentine. Someone’s made this for her.
She squints at the carefully printed words written over the heart.
Roses are red
Your tracksuit is blue
You may hate me a lot
But I don’t really hate you.
Happy Valentine’s Day
Will
“Holy mother of Lourdes, that’s terrible,” she says, out loud.
Shannon Beiste stares at her, and Sue, looking back, sees alarm in the other woman’s face.
“Can I help you, Beiste?” she barks. “Look, if you’re out of energy supplements, don’t come begging at my door. I have a strict hoarding policy in my contract that prohibits me from sharing with people who resemble Dick Butkus.”
“No,” Beiste says, slowly. “It’s just that - “
“What?”
“You looked - I don’t know. Kind of pleased, I guess. Just for a second.” She shrugs, turns back to the coffee machine. “Someone die?”
“Soon,” Sue vows, crumpling Will’s ridiculous handiwork in her fist, and spins about on her sneakered heel, marching out of the faculty lounge.
five.
She hates Will Schuester. Hates him.
It’s not enough that he’s humiliated her in front of the entire school. It’s not enough that he’s taken her entire budget. No, he’s got to give her a Valentine, too, just so he doesn’t have to feel guilty about grinding her face in the dirt of his victory. She can’t stand his goddamned hypocrisy.
(She hates herself, too: for falling for it, even briefly.)
The hallway’s still cluttered with a few teenagers, chatting with each other about Ke$ha's water phobia or Rihanna's disturbing inability to remember her name or whatever the hell kids talk about to each other, and it’s sickening; no one even bothers to notice her as Sue storms through, fists clenched at her side, the Valentine twisted in her right hand. This is what Schuester’s done to her, with the help of her traitor trinity. He’s made her a no-name at McKinley, sucked the scent of terror out of her body, so that not one of these kids smells her coming.
Once inside her office, she storms over to her desk, pulls open a drawer, and jams the Valentine as far back as it’ll go. The slam of the drawer against the desk feels like an expletive.
“Coach Sylvester,” Quinn says, quietly, from the doorframe, and it’s only thanks to her extensive military training that Sue doesn’t startle. She looks up, her mouth pinched thin with anger. The girl’s wearing a ridiculous babydoll dress and tights that look like something out of a pederast’s clandestine dress-up collection. (Her hair is disgustingly perfect, curled in soft waves. Sue never could get her hair to look like that.)
“Get out, Q. I have nothing to say to you.”
Quinn takes a deep breath, stepping forward. She’s not shaking, Sue notices, and it’s this small detail, more than anything else, that lets her know they’re in a new era, one where the mere presence of Sue Sylvester in a room isn’t enough to make knees knock and voices quake. “I followed you here - I just want to explain why I did what I did. I think I owe you an explanation. After everything you’ve done for me.”
Sue can’t believe her nerve. “Get this straight,” she snarls. “You, Brittany and Santana betrayed me. You made me look like a fool in front of the entire cheerleading world. You lost me my budget. You managed to back my sworn enemy into something that smells an awful lot like triumph. I don’t give a damn about your explanation. Take your rounded peach of an ass, turn it around immediately, and get the hell out of my office.”
“You tried,” Quinn exclaims, “to shoot a student out of a cannon. You could’ve killed Brittany, and you didn’t care. Mr. Schuester’s got his faults, I’ll admit, but at least our lives aren’t in danger in glee club. At least we’re not treated like cattle.”
She wants to strike at Quinn’s soft underbelly, gash it open, revel in the tender spill of her viscera. “Well, you sure breed like a prize heifer, Q. Got any plans to cook up another unloved bastard with your poster boy for the Aryan Nation? I could make a killing selling your discarded spawn to white supremacists.”
Quinn exhales, and her eyes are wet. “That’s unfair,” is all she manages, before her voice catches.
Sue can’t corral the smile from her face. “Since when, Quinn,” she asks, sitting in her chair, “are you suddenly interested in fair?”
It’s a real win, the first one she’s had in days. She waits for the familiar joy of victory to spread warm through her chest, like thaw. It doesn’t.
Quinn runs out of her office, attempting unsuccessfully to hide her tears.
I am a winner, Sue reminds herself. She waits for her rush, and waits.
Her desk is covered in newly unnecessary papers, made redundant with the advent of Will Schuester’s abhorrent victory over her squad. Order forms, consent slips, licensing forms. She doesn’t need any of this, now that she’s effectively neutered for the present, her financial coffers rapidly drying in the absence of new influx. Her hand reaches for the nearest sheet, and she crumples it in her fist, squeezing the paper against her skin, needing some resistance.
There’s a quiet knock on her open door, and Sue knows who it is, without lifting her head. She can smell him, all scalp grease and desperation, evidently unable to resist the chance to see if she’s appropriately grateful.
“You’ve got money now, Will, thanks to those backstabbers I trusted with my unblemished record,” she says, and releases the crumpled paper from the confines of her grip. It rolls a few inches down her desk, apparently glad for the escape. “You might’ve at least invested in a couple of glue sticks and some glitter for your third-grade art project.”
“I take it you saw my Valentine, then.”
He sounds pleased with himself. It makes her nauseous.
“I don’t want your pity,” she informs him, hoarsely, and jabs a finger in his direction. “I’m not some goddamned charity case, Schuester. I know your life revolves around licking the wounds of those miserable puppies in your glee club, but don’t you dare make the mistake of condescending to me.”
He stares at her. “I’m not - it wasn’t pity. I was trying to do something nice. I know that concept is totally alien to you, but that’s all I wanted to do. Make you, I don’t know, feel better. I know you’ve been having a hard time, lately.”
“And you thought that poem would do it? William, at least one line in that thing -“ she gestures towards the desk drawer, where the Valentine rests in disgrace - “is factually inaccurate. My tracksuit today happens to be green.”
“You ever heard of poetic license, Sue?” he asks, closing the door behind him.
“Poetic license,” she sneers, disregarding this ridiculous justification, “is a weakness, Will, generally embraced by those who lack the ability to communicate clearly. I hate poetry, anyway. ”
“I’m sorry you didn’t like it.” He looks genuinely hurt, and she wonders how long he’d spent on those lines. Knowing Will, he’d written and re-written them, in some horribly misguided attempt to make them both feel better about their lives. The thought depresses her: the two of them, tied together inside his terrible poem.
“Well,” she allows, clearing her throat. “It wasn’t complete garbage. You got one thing right. I really do hate you a lot. I’m glad you’re not completely oblivious.”
“Sometimes I pay attention.” He smiles at her, taking a few steps towards her desk. “And I was telling the truth, you know. About not really hating you.”
He doesn’t need to confess this. She knows. It’s the thing Sue doesn’t understand about him, can’t seem to figure out, even though she’s tried, time and time again: why Will doesn’t hate her with the same intensity she’s managed to stir up for him. God knows over the years she’s thwarted his meager plans with a success rate the condom industry would envy. If the tables were turned, she’d go to bed every night with the promise of his ruination on her lips.
(Except now, the tables are turned. In the days since he’s taken her budget from her, she’s performed this ritual without fail, a new addition to her normally inflexible evening routine. It calms her down, like a hot bath or the sobs of young children.)
“Let’s have dinner,” he says, suddenly, and she gapes at him. “I came here to ask you to dinner. Look, I don’t have any plans tonight, and I know you don’t either. Be my date for the evening. You can go back to hating me tomorrow.”
Sue remembers the weight of her pearl necklace, a collar rubbing against the vulnerable flesh of her throat. “No way,” she answers. Her voice is rough. She couldn’t be less interested in playing nice. “I’m not letting you set me up like that again.”
“No set up.” Embarrassment flickers over his face, and she knows he’s remembering what he’d done to her: his ridiculous attempt at revenge that, even now, stings at her with the truth of its accuracy. “Dinner. A real one. My way of saying sorry about everything. Quinn, Brittany, Santana. The budget. I really didn’t want to win like this.”
“Then you’re an even bigger fool than I guessed,” she snaps. “Winners don’t apologize, William, and that’s why you’ll never be a real winner.”
“Okay.” He looks at her, and for the first time in her admittedly selective memory she can recognize something in him, something starving and familiar. “You know what, Sue? You’re right. You’re right. I wanted to win like this. It’s been the best week I’ve had in a very long time, and I’ve got to admit, part of that’s been seeing you humiliated.”
Sue bares her teeth in something that’s not a smile, and stands up, smoothing her hands over her thighs. “Feels good, doesn’t it, William?” she says, her voice low.
His eyes widen, and she sees his ridge of his throat roll in a reflexive swallow.
“Being on top,” she clarifies. “Taking me down. Humiliating me.”
“It does.” Will’s face flushes. “It feels great.”
“Bet you’ve fantasized about it. Weak men always do, when it comes to strong women. How’s the reality compare to the fantasy?”
He doesn't answer her. The heat in his face tells her all she needs to know.
“Yeah,” she breathes, licking her lips, reflexively. “Thought so. You’re no better than I am, Will. You’re even worse, because you won’t admit to it. Your apologies make me sick.”
“Have dinner with me,” he repeats, but it sounds different in his mouth, now, urgent, and he reaches out suddenly, grabbing her wrist. She tries to jerk her arm back, testing him, and he tightens his hold, fingers pressing over the fabric of her jacket, into the flesh and bone.
Her disdain for Will Schuester is, in part, born out of the assumption that he’ll crumple under her strength. He always does. He’s never demonstrated the potential for real resistance. Now, though, she wants to test the limits of his malleability; she wants to grab at the soft meat of his body with her hands and mouth and see if he submits to the pressure of her need.
The thought of him fighting back makes her ache.
“If I accept this invitation,” she says, slowly, “and believe me, William, that’s an ‘if’ larger than those pores currently threatening to swallow your forehead, I’ll need something clarified. Are we talking about more than dinner here?”
Without pausing, he asks, “Would you want that?”
She nods, the dip of her head an almost imperceptible shake.
Will takes a small step towards her, still clutching her wrist. Sue doesn’t recognize his expression, and she’d been pretty sure she’d seen everything he had to offer: confusion, anger, smugness, delight, self-pity. It’s none of these.
“If you laugh at me,” she threatens, with an intensity that surpasses even her normal force, “I will murder you. Believe me, that isn’t poetic license.”
“Sue.” He’s very, very close, now. She can smell his cologne: biting, unsubtle, clearly designed for poors, and it makes her nose tickle. “I’m not laughing. I won’t laugh. You’re serious?”
“The fact that I’m threatening you with a grisly demise, William, when obviously logic dictates that it's in my best interest to keep you alive for prolonged psychological torment, should indicate to you exactly how serious I am.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His left hand grips the back of her neck; he pulls her into him, and she stumbles against Will’s body with the force of her real surprise, knocking him back against the desk as they kiss. He doesn’t lose his balance.
She bites his lower lip, testing, and to her surprise, Will bites back immediately, hard. Sue groans into his mouth at the unexpected, welcome sting of pain. There’s copper on her tongue. Arousal claws at her dulled body, stroking it awake.
“Too much?” he asks, pulling back, sounding concerned, and her always-simmered irritation sparks into a small flare. Will can’t read her. He never could.
She threads her fingers through his hated hair - softer than she’d imagined, less sticky with the residue of product - and pulls, feeling his scalp tighten against her clutch. He makes a small whimper of protest.
“Fight back,” she snarls against his mouth. “Come on, Schuester, fight me -“ She yanks, harder, bucking against him, and Will, ever unimaginative, mirrors her action, grabbing a fistful of her hair, tugging viciously. It hurts. It hurts like hell and she’s suddenly intensely, unbearably turned on.
“I think I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he breathes.
“So come on, then,” she growls, and reaches for the zipper on her jacket. “Let’s go.”
He puts a hand over hers, halting it. “Not yet,” he says. “Not here. After dinner. We should do this right. I owe you that much, after - everything.”
“Right?” She shakes her head, frustrated. “I don’t care about right. I care about now.”
Will’s hands slide over and around her hips, brazenly cupping her ass like he’s got a right to it. He’s pulling her against him, her hips pressing against his, and his face is very, very close to hers. Sue doesn’t like this. He can see her. He can see what she can’t keep from showing him. Her eyes drop to the top of her desk.
“Dinner first,” he repeats, and she can smell the sudden, strange resolve from him, somewhere behind his discounted cologne. “Then my place.”
“You’re a tease, William. I don’t appreciate teasing.”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he promises, and shifts against her, just slightly, the hard ridge of his cock pressing into the well between her thigh and groin. “I’ll let you top.”
He lifts his thigh between her legs, slowly, deliberately, his grip on her ass pushing her down. The contact is delicious. Sue sucks hard on her tender lower lip, hunting that small bloom of pain. She’ll bruise from Will’s bite.
“Don’t assume,” she tells him, quietly, “that you know what I want.”
six.
She doesn’t wear her pearls to Breadstix. Not this time.
Will’s already seated when she arrives, and the look of relief on his face when he sees her striding over to their table nearly makes her laugh out loud.
“Thought I was gonna stand you up, huh?” she observes, sliding into the booth. “I considered it, you know.”
“I’m sure you did,” he says, but his voice lacks the usual wryness she’s used to hearing from him. “You, uh, look nice.”
“I look exactly how I always look, William. Exceptional.” It’s true; she hasn’t altered her appearance whatsoever, partly in stubborn refusal to repeat her humiliation at his hands, and partly because Sue understands that one should always retain one’s armor when treading into unknown territory. “You’re paying, by the way. Sue Sylvester is nothing if not traditional.”
“Mr. Schuester? Coach Sylvester?”
It’s Rachel Berry. Behind her, Mercedes Jones gapes, a slack look of awed wonder mirroring Rachel’s astonished expression.
“Oh, man,” Will mutters, and actually sinks down a little in his seat. Sue glares at him, infuriated by his embarrassment.
“Rachel,” she says, and nods briefly at Mercedes. “Quitter. Here on a date, huh? Newly sapphic? I’m picturing a lot of vocalizing with the two of you in the sack, a lot of vocal runs. You’re gonna want to close the windows before you get going.”
Will puts his palm over his eyes. “Sue. Enough.”
“We’re not dating,” Rachel says, sounding way too confident for Sue’s comfort. “Didn’t you know, Mr. Schue? Kurt and the Warblers are here tonight, performing, but I think they’ve just left. We were all here, you know, on one big group friendship dinner date, celebrating our fabulous singleness. Well, Mercedes and Kurt and I were celebrating, that is. I’ve decided I no longer need a man to make me happy. I’m going to focus on me now.”
“That’s great, Rachel,” Will says, a little wearily. “I’m glad you had a good Valentine’s Day. I’ll see you at school tomorrow, okay?”
Rachel turns to leave, but Mercedes stops her, a hand on her shoulder. “What are you guys doing here?” she asks, staring at Will and Sue. “It’s - are you - on a date, or something?”
“No, of course not,” Will blurts, just as Sue says, “Your powers of observation are astounding, Mercedes.”
“Um.” Mercedes looks uncomfortable, and while normally Sue appreciates it when students seem uneasy - prefers it, actually - this current discomfort isn’t particularly enjoyable. Not when it’s the result of Will directly contradicting her. “Okay. So, this is really weird, and, uh, we’re just gonna go, like you said, Mr. Schue. Let’s go, Rachel.”
“Fantastic idea, Mercedes,” Rachel manages, and grabs the other girl’s arm, indulging in a ridiculously loud stage-whisper as the two rush towards the restaurant door. “Oh, my God, what was that? Are they actually - ? I can’t believe he’d - with her - ”
Will’s face is bright red.
“I’m insulted,” Sue says, dryly, and wrests a breadstick out of its holder, biting down. “You shook that frizzy noggin of yours like a bobblehead in a hurricane. Got something against those kids knowing about this?”
He unfolds his menu, attempting to hide his fluster behind the plastic-wrapped paper. “I just - don’t see any point to it, okay? This is between you and me. It doesn’t need to go any further.”
“You’re embarrassed.” She points the hobbled breadstick at him, accusingly.
“No. I’m not.”
“Your face is redder than my tracksuit, William, and trust me, that’s an accomplishment. You’re embarrassed to be seen with me, admit it.”
“It’s not that,” he says. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
Sue raises her arms, palms facing up in mock wonderment, preparing to ask him exactly how he’s managed to read her mind when she’s been specifically trained against inception techniques, when Will catches sight of something over her shoulder. His mouth drops open.
“Don’t turn around,” he pleads. “Please. Just - don’t do it. I know you will, but I’m asking anyway. Don’t.”
So she turns around, because she’s nothing if not eager to disappoint him, and lo and behold, standing just inside the door, it’s the Kewpie doll industry’s life-sized tribute to Howard Hughes: Emma Pillsbury-Howell, with her white-toothed, disgustingly handsome marital aid in tow. She’s speaking to the hostess, probably asking for a table as far away from the restroom as possible, or maybe for an extra wipe down of the booths before she and hubby deign to take a seat. Sue takes in Emma’s ruffled white blouse, her candy-apple skirt, her blush-colored high heels, her perfectly coiffed hair, the weird dull sheen on her skin that always looks to Sue like carefully applied protective coating.
She knows just how to get Will in the mood for combat.
“Hey, plaque rat!” Sue hollers, shifting her focus to Carl, and behind her, Will makes a sound like quiet panic.
Carl looks right at her, brightening in recognition. “Well, life ain’t easy for a girl named Sue!” he calls back, and pokes Emma. “Hey, Ems, look who it is. Let’s go and say hi.”
Emma’s face freezes, and Sue wonders, with irritation, if the woman’s capable of any other emotion besides paralyzed terror. It’s a compliment, sure, but the monotony of it bores her. Carl takes Emma’s hand in his, tugs her gently in their direction, and Emma slowly, reluctantly, puts one heeled foot in front of the other.
“Oh, no,” Will’s saying, under his breath, “don’t, don’t do this, Sue.”
“Try and stop me,” she hisses at him, and grins, kicking at him under the table as Emma and Carl walk toward them. Her foot connects squarely with his shin. He grimaces, shooting her a look of real anger. Good. She wants him angry.
“Nice to see you again, Sue.” Carl’s smile is whiter than Kurt Hummel’s milky, translucent thighs. It’s giving her a headache. “You too, Will. I see you’re finally trying to get over my wife.” He nods at Sue. “Smart move, bro.”
“Please don’t do this,” Emma murmurs, sounding infuriatingly like Will. The two of them deserve each other: ineffectual pleaders who need to be goaded into finding a backbone. Sue imagines the two of them in bed, exchanging polite, milquetoast requests. Is this all right? Can I - ? Oh, my, yes, that’s just fine, thank you. She nearly kicks Will in the leg a second time, she’s so pissed off.
“Know what? I think,” she says, to punish Will for her disturbing fantasy, “that Orin Scrivello and his lil’ lady Audrey here should join us. We’ll make it a foursome.” She winks, lewdly, at Emma, who blanches.
“I don't really think - ” Will begins, just as Emma says, “Oh, we have -”
“I know, I know, you wanna sit across the table from each other and stare into each others’ eyes - and that reminds me, Ellen, I’ve been meaning to talk at you about something. You’re gonna want to start seriously considering taking out a loan for some ocular reduction surgery, because your eye to head ratio -” She makes a circle with her half-eaten breadstick in the general direction of Emma’s face - “is just getting out of control. The First Bank of Sue Sylvester offers a highly reasonable 41% interest rate, by the way.”
"Stop it," Will warns her.
“I can’t imagine,” Emma says, her voice quiet, “a more horrible evening than eating dinner with you. Which -” She looks at Will. “Why are you having dinner with her, Will? On Valentine’s Day, of all days? It can’t be better than staying in.”
“She’s been having a hard time of it, lately,” Will explains, and looks at Sue, smirking, as if to say see? I can play this game, too. “I thought I’d take her out, lift her spirits, help her feel better about herself.”
Emma and Carl are silent, and Sue glares back at Will, briefly contemplating the possibility of welding a couple of these breadstix into some sort of crude, rudimentary weapon. They’re stale enough to hurt. He’s saying this to goad her back, she knows, and it's what she's after, but there’s a note of truth to it, too. Humiliation crawls in her stomach, spreads on her face.
“You deserved it, you know that?” Emma says, suddenly. “You deserved everything you got, Sue. I’m glad those girls left you for Will’s glee club. I’m even happier you lost your competition. Now maybe you’ll start reconsidering your behavior. The way you treat people is terrible.”
Sue gapes. “Let me break this down for you, Anne of Green Labels, all right? I might happen to be temporarily sidelined, but know this: Sue Sylvester’s gonna stage a comeback Madonna would envy. I’ll be running this school again before you and Hot Carl here master the freakish art of sexless fornication.”
“Whoa,” Carl interrupts, before Emma manages to sputter out her indignant response. “Ladies, let’s not get out of control here. Emma, howsabout we go find our table, okay?”
“Great idea,” Will chimes in, overenthusiastic, not bothering to hide his relief. “Awesome to see you guys. Have a fantastic dinner.”
She watches them retreat, Carl’s hand on the small of Emma’s back, familiar and comfortable, and she suddenly hates Emma Pillsbury-Howell, hates her simpering morality and her ruffles and her toothy husband.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he says, when they’re alone again. "Call them over."
“You didn’t have to dress like Mr. Rogers tonight,” she retorts, and grinds the breadstick against the table with the flat of her hand. It crumbles more easily than she’d anticipated. “We all make choices. Frankly, mine’s a lot better than yours. I mean, look, Will, I keep expecting you to take off your shoes and start talking about your neighborhood.”
He doesn’t try to defend his fashion sense. “What are you trying to prove, Sue? Are you trying to get back at me?”
“When I get back at you, and I will, you’ll know it,” she promises. “I’m stockpiling revenge ideas as we speak. I’m storing them away in my cheeks. I'm like a chipmunk, minus the nut dependency issues. No, what this is, buddy, is an overwhelmingly successful attempt to get you all riled up. Some might call it verbal abuse. I like to think of it as foreplay.”
Will flushes, pushing at the menu in front of him. “You deserve -” he begins, and then breaks off, color spreading down his neck.
“You gonna teach me a lesson?” she asks, and her foot finds his calf under the table, pressing, sliding just a bit. “Gotta tell you, Will, I’ve seen you at work in the classroom. I’m not optimistic.”
“I’ve been thinking about you since I left your office,” he says, very quietly. She leans in, almost unwillingly, caught by the tone in his voice. “I’ve been thinking about the sound you made when I pulled your hair. I want to hear you make that sound again.”
“Liked it?” she breathes.
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
They stare at each other, and Sue squeezes her thighs together, straightens up in her seat. Will looks a little dazed. The air’s thick between them, and she wants to grab him right there, take his ludicrous tie in her fist and swallow him whole with her sudden need.
“I’m not hungry,” she manages. “The food here is terrible, anyway. Especially the breadstix.”
“Yeah,” he says, and licks his lips. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.”
seven.
It’s a testament to how much she wants to get laid that she actually lets him drive. Even post-apocalyptic refugees, desperate for a getaway vehicle to escape the terrible relentlessness of the undead, would reject his car for being too ugly. She tries not to touch the door, or the seat, or the center console. Pathetic is catching, and this sad little vehicle is infected with it.
Will doesn’t speak. He’s driving at least fifteen miles over the speed limit. She can hear him breathing, in and out, the sound shallow and needy.
“Listen carefully, William,” she murmurs, when they’re stopped at a red light, her voice damp and low. She reaches across the car, cups her hand between his legs. He’s already hard. “Normally, my sexual modus operandi involves getting the object of my interest into a position of my choosing and, with the help of a fantastic array of accessories, fucking that object of interest so thoroughly that said individual is incapable, for the next week, of sitting down without wincing.”
Will rubs his mouth with his fist, and stares at the road ahead, eyes wide. (Sue wonders if he’s noticed her undefined pronouns. Probably not. He seems to be rapidly losing the ability to notice much of anything, outside the interests of his cock. Typical.)
“But that’s not what I want from you,” she continues, rubbing against him, and he inhales, sharply. “I’m going to propose something to you, Will, and because you’re apparently completely incapable of discerning my needs without explicit verbal instruction, I’m going to spell it out for you, using small, short words. I want to get fucked. I want it to be rough. That something you think you can handle, or should I assume your general incompetence extends to the bedroom, too?”
“Oh - fuck,” he whispers, clearly stunned by this statement. “Sue - God.”
“I highly approve of all those words being in one sentence, buddy,” she tells him, calmly, and withdraws her hand, facing forward again. “I’m gonna take your acknowledgement of my divinity as a contractual promise. Any problems with that, take it up with my lawyer, Gloria Allred.”
Will swallows, audibly. “How rough?”
“I want you to leave marks,” she says, watching the traffic light in front of them change from red to green. “Not on my neck or face. I don’t want anyone else to be able to see them. Just me.”
He's silent. The car coughs to life, lurches through the intersection.
“You said you owed me,” she reminds Will. “I want you to pay up.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Too late,” Sue says. It sounds harsher than she’d wanted, more like the truth than she’d meant to give him.
eight.
They never make it to the bedroom.
She’s crossing the dining room when Will grabs her suddenly from behind, spins her into him. His mouth collides with her jaw, her lip, and then he’s kissing her open, wet, licking the breath out of her eager mouth. It’s good, even though she hates to admit it, and she gropes at his chest, trying to get beneath his ridiculous sweater. He pushes at her, equally greedy, slams her against the side of the dining room table.
Sue grunts with the force of the impact, a groan forced from her throat. “Ah,” she chokes, leaning away, clawing at the back of his coat, “get this - get this off -”
“You first,” he directs, and she pulls at her jacket zipper, hands uncharacteristically erratic, yanking harder than she needs to, breaking off the slider. She’s trying to get the jacket off and he’s already under her shirt, palms hot against the swell of her breasts, pushing her down onto the table, crawling on top of her. Her spine rolls against the wood, vertebrae protesting, but she’s struggling out of her undershirt, resisting just enough to pull it over her head.
“You’re still dressed,” she snaps, as he straddles her hips. “Fix that.”
Will reaches between her arching back and the table top for the clasp of her bra, unhooking it. “You’re not giving the orders right now,” he tells her, lowering his mouth to her breast.
Sue starts to tell him that she hadn’t specified that particular clause in their verbal contract, but he bites her nipple, and coherence drops, immediately. She whimpers at the shock of it through her and the answering throb of her clit, and she hisses at him, says you’re weak, because it’s what she knows, it’s her catechism; says harder, says more.
He’s slow to respond, at first, the way she wants. It isn’t until she starts mocking him, cribbing from the mental dossier she’s collected for years on Will Schuester’s soft spots, that he begins to answer her with his hands and mouth, his teeth less forgiving with each insult, his nails digging more deeply into her skin. “Shut up,” he says, loudly, after she praises Carl Howell’s effortless gloss of dark hair for the third time, “just shut up, Sue,” and she laughs, taunts, “Make me, Schuester.” He pinches the flesh of her stomach between unforgiving fingers, grabs her hair as he sucks at her collarbone, knocks her head into the wood of the table. She pants, her body sick with wanting.
“Adequate,” she observes, and watches as he climbs off her, off the table. It’s all the encouragement she’s willing to give him.
Will doesn’t seem to be interested in her approval. He’s wrestling down her track suit bottoms, her underwear, yanking her legs, sliding her towards the edge of the table for better access. She spreads her knees, inviting Will in, and at the first pulse of his hot wet mouth on her, they both groan, the hum of his voice shuddering against her clit. Sue sits halfway up, pulls at his hair, trying to draw him closer, wanting pressure. He tears roughly at the thin skin of her thigh, tracking into her body, and his tongue moves inside her with an unforgiving roll.
When she comes against his mouth, it’s violent.
“I’m not done with you,” she informs him, after she's found her voice again. “Take off your clothes before you fuck me. You look ridiculous.”
For the first time since they've begun, he obeys her, pulling off his jacket and sweater and tie, unbuttoning his shirt, removing his jeans and boxers. Will's mouth and chin, she notices, are glazed with the proof of her arousal, and it makes her feel slightly uneasy, for reasons she can’t quite define. She allows herself the indulgent distraction of admiring his body, his muscled thighs and overdeveloped torso, his dark full cock standing, thick, waiting for her. Mine, she thinks, still hungry. Mine.
“Bend over,” Will tells her, “get up, bend over the table,” and she does, positioning herself, looking back over her shoulder while he unwraps the condom he’s pulled from his jeans, rolls it on. He doesn't comment on her newly decorated back, or show any sign of surprise. She feels cheated; he's the first person who's seen it. There's an insult, somewhere, good enough to throw at him, something about his observation skills and she tries to think of it but then he's leaning against her tattooed skin, chest warm and dry against her sweat-damp back, cock ready between her legs and she grits her teeth, says, instead, “Now, Will, now.”
When he enters her, he isn’t gentle. He pushes in without hesitation, one rough unforgiving thrust, until he’s buried inside her. She inhales, bracing herself against the table with the flats of her hands, and Will moans into her neck and hair, says her name, says, “Sue, come on, come on -”
“Yes,” she answers, not knowing what she’s agreeing to, not caring, “yes,” and they move, hips pounding in an old, quick rhythm, his hands on her waist, grasping, holding her together. His mouth works over her skin as she fucks back hard against him, breathing harshly, chasing the raw slick rasp of his thrusts, trying for something she can't name.
“I’m gonna -” he gasps, and then he’s coming, driving short and sharp into her, jerking with the unpredictability of code. She wonders, while he’s still pulsing inside her, what’s pulled him over the edge. If it’s the feeling of her so strangely pliant, writhing under his hands: wounded, open.
__
While he’s disposing of the condom, she leans against the edge of the dining room table, looks down at her body and takes inventory. There’s a long scratch or two on her belly, enflamed skin on the insides of her thighs, an angry red mark on her left breast, another on her hip. It’s a passable collection. She knows better than to expect more out of him.
“You all right?" Will asks her, walking back in. He sounds a little shaken, like he’s not sure how to process what’s just happened between them. It’s a ridiculous conversation to be having while naked. It’s a ridiculous conversation to be having at all. “It wasn’t - too much?”
“I needed to feel something,” she says, answering the unspoken question in his voice. It’s the only explanation she can give him. “You took something away from me. Something’s missing, inside me. I want it back.” Sue doesn’t add that whatever’s gone from her left a long, long time ago, because that would mean excusing Will from culpability. There’s someone else at fault, has to be.
Will’s expression is full of concern, and it’s exactly what she doesn’t want from him, the next worst thing, after pity. Sue clears her throat, picks up her discarded jacket off the floor, wraps it around her shoulders. She feels exposed, exhausted.
“Look at me, Sue,” he says, softly. "Please."
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“That mug of yours resembles a Cubist painting. Your right eye looks like it’s trying to escape. And your nose is off center. Staring at you offends my highly developed sense of aesthetics.”
He touches her chin with his fingers, gently, and lifts it, raising her face towards his. “You’re gonna be okay. I'm sure of it. You always are.”
“You don’t know that,” she says, and abruptly, horribly, her voice breaks. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Hey,” he says, alarmed, putting his arm around her. “Oh, shit, Sue, don’t do that. Hey, no, don’t do that, all right? Come here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Shut up,” she manages, swallowing, wiping the back of her hand over her eyes. His apologies aren’t for her benefit. “Just shut up, Will, shut up,” and he does, and Sue lowers her cheek slowly to the hot hard flesh of his shoulder, allowing him to hold her. She’ll run an extra set of laps, wear her battle sneakers longer, yell louder, push herself harder tomorrow, to make up for it.
Author: ellydash
Pairing: Will Schuester/Sue Sylvester
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 7,919
Warnings: Hate sex, masochism
Spoilers: 2x11 (The Sue Sylvester Bowl Shuffle) and 2x12 (Silly Love Songs); references to 1x21 (Funk)
Note: Takes place during the events of 2x12.
Summary: In the aftermath of her humiliating loss, Will attempts to lift Sue’s spirits on Valentine’s Day. As usual, he has no idea what she really wants.
one.
Sue Sylvester refuses to partake in the rituals of Valentine’s Day, because Sue Sylvester will not privilege the use of certain colors over others. The holiday’s prejudicial bias towards red and white and pink, she tells anyone who’ll listen, is discrimination, and fosters an environment of hatred that victimizes all other hues. If there’s one thing Sue doesn’t tolerate, it’s bigotry.
Absolutely every word of this speech is true, or at least delivered like truth, which, in the end, is the most important thing.
Sue hates Valentine’s Day like she hates most national holidays, with the noticeable exception of National Blame Someone Else Day (she chooses to celebrate that event constantly, and without regard to the calendar). This holiday, though, is especially insufferable. There always seems to be an exponential increase in hallway groping incidents, a problem she’s usually forced to address with the reassuring force of a fire hose. And each year, she’s made to witness the epidemic of flowers in the faculty lounge, the red and white paper Valentines she sees in the others’ inboxes, signs of friendship and goodwill. Those offend Sue most of all, even if she can’t exactly figure out why.
She’d considered, briefly, purchasing flowers for herself, because, after all, she’s married now, and that’s something you’re supposed to do for your spouse on Valentine’s Day, isn’t it? But she can’t stand flowers. Especially roses. She’d just reject them, and then she’d feel rejected. No point.
This year, she manages to spray apart six different couples with her hose before Figgins runs to stop her, hollering about “the children” and “more lawsuits” and “flesh wounds.”
He’s overreacting as usual, and anyway, she’s got Gloria Allred on her speed dial.
two.
Will Schuester has the utter audacity to sit at her table during lunch.
She sneers at him as he slides his carcass onto the seat next to her, lip curling off her upper teeth: the only warning he deserves before she attacks. For some reason, probably a missing survival gene, he chooses to ignore her signal, and calmly rustles inside his paper sack, pulling out a sandwich and pop. She can’t believe his nerve. It’s been less than a week since he’d hijacked her budget and stolen her girls, just a few short days, and here he is, unwrapping his lunch like his life isn’t in danger.
“Got a date for Valentine’s, Sue?” Will asks, oblivious to her disturbed state. He’s talking around a bite of sandwich, his words muffled by a repulsive mash of tuna fish and Wonder bread.
Raw fury surges in her; it’s never banked too far down in her body, normally, but lately she’s especially quick to riot. Sue pushes away her shake and glares at him. “William, when this glorious nation was still in its first flushes of genocidal bloodlust, a young cross-dressing woman managed to fool the Founding Fathers into believing her pantaloons concealed a set of twig and berries. Before her subterfuge was discovered, she managed to declare war on the British and turn everyone in the newly settled city of San Francisco gay. The name of that young woman, Will, was Benedict Arnold, and until your disgusting wrest of power last week she was the greatest traitor our country’s ever known.”
“I didn’t betray you, Sue,” he says, swallowing. “Your Cheerios left on their own. So you don’t have a Valentine, then?”
“What I’ve got, buddy, is a nationally ranked cheerleading team and more trophies than a serial killer with a sharp knife and a lot of storage space. I wouldn’t want a Valentine if you dipped one in protein powder.”
She tries not to see it in his face (because it makes her feel like ramming a hole in the nearby wall with her fist) but there it is, anyway: a flash of compassion. He feels sorry for her, she realizes. Will Schuester feels sorry for her. On multiple fronts. This is unacceptable. Unnatural.
And, of course, she doesn’t have a nationally ranked cheerleading team. Not anymore.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he says, setting his sandwich on the table, “I don’t have a Valentine either.”
“Well, I gotta say, I’m not shocked, seeing as how you're completely unlovable. Face it, Will, the only relationship you seem to be able to sustain is your co-dependent union with Kids Incorporated.”
”You’re one to talk,” he retorts, clearly taken aback. “When’s the last time you let anyone into your life?”
“The difference between us,” Sue says, lifting one leg over the other, “is that I keep people away on purpose. You prostrate yourself in front of humanity and beg to be liked. It’s nauseating to watch, like a clown car crash with no casualties.”
“It’s not a bad thing, wanting to be liked.” He mutters this observation, pushing his fingers into the bread of his tuna fish sandwich. It looks soggy, and she wrinkles her mouth in disgust, an emotion never far away when Will’s in the room with her. “At least I’ve got the courage to go for it.”
“And look what it’s gotten you,” she points out. “What’s it gonna be tonight, Will? Funneling Rocky Road down your gullet while sobbing out the chorus to ‘All by Myself’? Since you’re incapable of multitasking, I’m guessing you’ll choke to death on the almonds. Your decomposing body’s gonna go undiscovered until the smell gets too bad for your neighbors to ignore.”
Will stands up, grabbing the uneaten remnants of his lunch. “You can sit here and make predictions all you like,” he snaps. “In the meantime, I’ll send you a postcard from Regionals with a trophy on it, remind you what winning looks like.”
It’s meant to wound her, and it does. She stares at him, struck dumb by the sting of this unexpected cut, and the answering look on his face, an expression of sudden regret, tells Sue she’s given away more than she intended.
“Sue.” He places his hand on her shoulder. “Sue, I’m sorry. That was - I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Go to hell, Schuester,” she says, suddenly tired, and jerks away from his touch, turning back to her shake.
She wants Will to come after her, call her out. If he had any backbone at all, he'd tell her he hasn’t taunted her with anything she hasn’t thrown at him before, and worse besides. He backs down quickly, though, as always, and slinks out of the faculty lounge, his shoulders slumped in contrition. He won’t give her the fight she’s asking for, and she hates him all the more for abandoning her.
Sue nearly throws her shake after him, but stops herself in time. The protein deficiency isn’t worth it.
three.
Even before the Great Betrayal of 2011, she’d been missing something indefinable from her Cheerios’ practices: some spark, some flare of brilliance she hadn’t been able to explain in words or actions. Sue knows what she’s missing, now, and it’s clear to her, as she watches her hastily re-configured squad attempt a series of toe touch splits, exactly what that absent element is. Not Brittany, or Santana, or Quinn, who despite their undeniable talent are, ultimately, replaceable. No, it’s Sue’s own acceleration.
For years, she’s moved towards her goals with the speed and focus of an RIM-161 anti-ballistic missile, equally devastating upon target reach. Lately, though, she’s spiraling, stripped of her radar, unable to see her next mark. Her routines, she realizes, are part of this fallout. They’ve become what she promised herself they’d never be: repetitive. They’re numb like she is.
“PRACTICE IS OVER,” she shouts, through the megaphone. “HIT THE SHOWERS, LADIES. BECKY, BRING ME MY BATTLE SNEAKERS.” They’ll bring back that sense of purpose she’s missing, her battle sneakers. She has them specially made by an Italian shoemaker; they’re lifted, slightly, giving her another three inches of glorious height without losing any of the comfort she deserves.
Becky’s standing in front of her with the shoebox. Sue blinks and sets down the megaphone, impressed with her protégé’s speed.
“Excellent work, Becky,” she says, taking the box. “I may force you to try out for cross-country in the spring. If that pace is any indication, you run faster than a newly-elected politician from her promises.”
“Thanks, Coach,” Becky beams. “Glad to help.”
The sneakers fit just as they always do, snug at the sides, a little roomy in the toe. She stands up, flexing her feet slightly, surveying the gym at her new, elevated height, and waits for the world to look and feel different.
“Are you ready for battle?” Becky asks, eyes shining with admiration.
“Ready,” Sue tells her, the word rolling through her throat like gravel. It sounds right. It sounds true, and in the end, that’s the most important thing.
four.
She treks into the faculty lounge on her battle sneakers, lip curled in anticipation just in case Will’s decided to stay after school today, but he’s not there. Beiste is, though, fussing at the coffee machine, her red polo and white shorts a sickening complement to the offensive colors of the day. Sue considers making a cutting comment about the ironic tragedy of a loveless woman matching her outfit to a holiday that’s rejected her entirely, but decides it’s not worth the effort, not today. She’s ready to collect her mail, grab her things and go home. There’s a backlog of Animal Hoarders episodes waiting for her on her DVR, and then she’ll probably settle in for a long, satisfying evening of posting about her prowess on internet cheerleading forums.
Beiste looks at Sue, purses her lips. Sue gives her a quick appraising glance. “Just here for m’mail,” she says, nonchalantly, crossing over to the row of inboxes, where her own sits yawning at four times the size of the others. “No need to think up with something folksy for my benefit. Your metaphors make me itch anyway.”
Something red and white catches her eye, and she does a double-take; reaches into her inbox to clutch at it. She tries to squash the hateful swell of hope that struggles up unwanted.
It’s a Valentine. A small one, and crude, but a Valentine. Someone’s made this for her.
She squints at the carefully printed words written over the heart.
Roses are red
Your tracksuit is blue
You may hate me a lot
But I don’t really hate you.
Happy Valentine’s Day
Will
“Holy mother of Lourdes, that’s terrible,” she says, out loud.
Shannon Beiste stares at her, and Sue, looking back, sees alarm in the other woman’s face.
“Can I help you, Beiste?” she barks. “Look, if you’re out of energy supplements, don’t come begging at my door. I have a strict hoarding policy in my contract that prohibits me from sharing with people who resemble Dick Butkus.”
“No,” Beiste says, slowly. “It’s just that - “
“What?”
“You looked - I don’t know. Kind of pleased, I guess. Just for a second.” She shrugs, turns back to the coffee machine. “Someone die?”
“Soon,” Sue vows, crumpling Will’s ridiculous handiwork in her fist, and spins about on her sneakered heel, marching out of the faculty lounge.
five.
She hates Will Schuester. Hates him.
It’s not enough that he’s humiliated her in front of the entire school. It’s not enough that he’s taken her entire budget. No, he’s got to give her a Valentine, too, just so he doesn’t have to feel guilty about grinding her face in the dirt of his victory. She can’t stand his goddamned hypocrisy.
(She hates herself, too: for falling for it, even briefly.)
The hallway’s still cluttered with a few teenagers, chatting with each other about Ke$ha's water phobia or Rihanna's disturbing inability to remember her name or whatever the hell kids talk about to each other, and it’s sickening; no one even bothers to notice her as Sue storms through, fists clenched at her side, the Valentine twisted in her right hand. This is what Schuester’s done to her, with the help of her traitor trinity. He’s made her a no-name at McKinley, sucked the scent of terror out of her body, so that not one of these kids smells her coming.
Once inside her office, she storms over to her desk, pulls open a drawer, and jams the Valentine as far back as it’ll go. The slam of the drawer against the desk feels like an expletive.
“Coach Sylvester,” Quinn says, quietly, from the doorframe, and it’s only thanks to her extensive military training that Sue doesn’t startle. She looks up, her mouth pinched thin with anger. The girl’s wearing a ridiculous babydoll dress and tights that look like something out of a pederast’s clandestine dress-up collection. (Her hair is disgustingly perfect, curled in soft waves. Sue never could get her hair to look like that.)
“Get out, Q. I have nothing to say to you.”
Quinn takes a deep breath, stepping forward. She’s not shaking, Sue notices, and it’s this small detail, more than anything else, that lets her know they’re in a new era, one where the mere presence of Sue Sylvester in a room isn’t enough to make knees knock and voices quake. “I followed you here - I just want to explain why I did what I did. I think I owe you an explanation. After everything you’ve done for me.”
Sue can’t believe her nerve. “Get this straight,” she snarls. “You, Brittany and Santana betrayed me. You made me look like a fool in front of the entire cheerleading world. You lost me my budget. You managed to back my sworn enemy into something that smells an awful lot like triumph. I don’t give a damn about your explanation. Take your rounded peach of an ass, turn it around immediately, and get the hell out of my office.”
“You tried,” Quinn exclaims, “to shoot a student out of a cannon. You could’ve killed Brittany, and you didn’t care. Mr. Schuester’s got his faults, I’ll admit, but at least our lives aren’t in danger in glee club. At least we’re not treated like cattle.”
She wants to strike at Quinn’s soft underbelly, gash it open, revel in the tender spill of her viscera. “Well, you sure breed like a prize heifer, Q. Got any plans to cook up another unloved bastard with your poster boy for the Aryan Nation? I could make a killing selling your discarded spawn to white supremacists.”
Quinn exhales, and her eyes are wet. “That’s unfair,” is all she manages, before her voice catches.
Sue can’t corral the smile from her face. “Since when, Quinn,” she asks, sitting in her chair, “are you suddenly interested in fair?”
It’s a real win, the first one she’s had in days. She waits for the familiar joy of victory to spread warm through her chest, like thaw. It doesn’t.
Quinn runs out of her office, attempting unsuccessfully to hide her tears.
I am a winner, Sue reminds herself. She waits for her rush, and waits.
Her desk is covered in newly unnecessary papers, made redundant with the advent of Will Schuester’s abhorrent victory over her squad. Order forms, consent slips, licensing forms. She doesn’t need any of this, now that she’s effectively neutered for the present, her financial coffers rapidly drying in the absence of new influx. Her hand reaches for the nearest sheet, and she crumples it in her fist, squeezing the paper against her skin, needing some resistance.
There’s a quiet knock on her open door, and Sue knows who it is, without lifting her head. She can smell him, all scalp grease and desperation, evidently unable to resist the chance to see if she’s appropriately grateful.
“You’ve got money now, Will, thanks to those backstabbers I trusted with my unblemished record,” she says, and releases the crumpled paper from the confines of her grip. It rolls a few inches down her desk, apparently glad for the escape. “You might’ve at least invested in a couple of glue sticks and some glitter for your third-grade art project.”
“I take it you saw my Valentine, then.”
He sounds pleased with himself. It makes her nauseous.
“I don’t want your pity,” she informs him, hoarsely, and jabs a finger in his direction. “I’m not some goddamned charity case, Schuester. I know your life revolves around licking the wounds of those miserable puppies in your glee club, but don’t you dare make the mistake of condescending to me.”
He stares at her. “I’m not - it wasn’t pity. I was trying to do something nice. I know that concept is totally alien to you, but that’s all I wanted to do. Make you, I don’t know, feel better. I know you’ve been having a hard time, lately.”
“And you thought that poem would do it? William, at least one line in that thing -“ she gestures towards the desk drawer, where the Valentine rests in disgrace - “is factually inaccurate. My tracksuit today happens to be green.”
“You ever heard of poetic license, Sue?” he asks, closing the door behind him.
“Poetic license,” she sneers, disregarding this ridiculous justification, “is a weakness, Will, generally embraced by those who lack the ability to communicate clearly. I hate poetry, anyway. ”
“I’m sorry you didn’t like it.” He looks genuinely hurt, and she wonders how long he’d spent on those lines. Knowing Will, he’d written and re-written them, in some horribly misguided attempt to make them both feel better about their lives. The thought depresses her: the two of them, tied together inside his terrible poem.
“Well,” she allows, clearing her throat. “It wasn’t complete garbage. You got one thing right. I really do hate you a lot. I’m glad you’re not completely oblivious.”
“Sometimes I pay attention.” He smiles at her, taking a few steps towards her desk. “And I was telling the truth, you know. About not really hating you.”
He doesn’t need to confess this. She knows. It’s the thing Sue doesn’t understand about him, can’t seem to figure out, even though she’s tried, time and time again: why Will doesn’t hate her with the same intensity she’s managed to stir up for him. God knows over the years she’s thwarted his meager plans with a success rate the condom industry would envy. If the tables were turned, she’d go to bed every night with the promise of his ruination on her lips.
(Except now, the tables are turned. In the days since he’s taken her budget from her, she’s performed this ritual without fail, a new addition to her normally inflexible evening routine. It calms her down, like a hot bath or the sobs of young children.)
“Let’s have dinner,” he says, suddenly, and she gapes at him. “I came here to ask you to dinner. Look, I don’t have any plans tonight, and I know you don’t either. Be my date for the evening. You can go back to hating me tomorrow.”
Sue remembers the weight of her pearl necklace, a collar rubbing against the vulnerable flesh of her throat. “No way,” she answers. Her voice is rough. She couldn’t be less interested in playing nice. “I’m not letting you set me up like that again.”
“No set up.” Embarrassment flickers over his face, and she knows he’s remembering what he’d done to her: his ridiculous attempt at revenge that, even now, stings at her with the truth of its accuracy. “Dinner. A real one. My way of saying sorry about everything. Quinn, Brittany, Santana. The budget. I really didn’t want to win like this.”
“Then you’re an even bigger fool than I guessed,” she snaps. “Winners don’t apologize, William, and that’s why you’ll never be a real winner.”
“Okay.” He looks at her, and for the first time in her admittedly selective memory she can recognize something in him, something starving and familiar. “You know what, Sue? You’re right. You’re right. I wanted to win like this. It’s been the best week I’ve had in a very long time, and I’ve got to admit, part of that’s been seeing you humiliated.”
Sue bares her teeth in something that’s not a smile, and stands up, smoothing her hands over her thighs. “Feels good, doesn’t it, William?” she says, her voice low.
His eyes widen, and she sees his ridge of his throat roll in a reflexive swallow.
“Being on top,” she clarifies. “Taking me down. Humiliating me.”
“It does.” Will’s face flushes. “It feels great.”
“Bet you’ve fantasized about it. Weak men always do, when it comes to strong women. How’s the reality compare to the fantasy?”
He doesn't answer her. The heat in his face tells her all she needs to know.
“Yeah,” she breathes, licking her lips, reflexively. “Thought so. You’re no better than I am, Will. You’re even worse, because you won’t admit to it. Your apologies make me sick.”
“Have dinner with me,” he repeats, but it sounds different in his mouth, now, urgent, and he reaches out suddenly, grabbing her wrist. She tries to jerk her arm back, testing him, and he tightens his hold, fingers pressing over the fabric of her jacket, into the flesh and bone.
Her disdain for Will Schuester is, in part, born out of the assumption that he’ll crumple under her strength. He always does. He’s never demonstrated the potential for real resistance. Now, though, she wants to test the limits of his malleability; she wants to grab at the soft meat of his body with her hands and mouth and see if he submits to the pressure of her need.
The thought of him fighting back makes her ache.
“If I accept this invitation,” she says, slowly, “and believe me, William, that’s an ‘if’ larger than those pores currently threatening to swallow your forehead, I’ll need something clarified. Are we talking about more than dinner here?”
Without pausing, he asks, “Would you want that?”
She nods, the dip of her head an almost imperceptible shake.
Will takes a small step towards her, still clutching her wrist. Sue doesn’t recognize his expression, and she’d been pretty sure she’d seen everything he had to offer: confusion, anger, smugness, delight, self-pity. It’s none of these.
“If you laugh at me,” she threatens, with an intensity that surpasses even her normal force, “I will murder you. Believe me, that isn’t poetic license.”
“Sue.” He’s very, very close, now. She can smell his cologne: biting, unsubtle, clearly designed for poors, and it makes her nose tickle. “I’m not laughing. I won’t laugh. You’re serious?”
“The fact that I’m threatening you with a grisly demise, William, when obviously logic dictates that it's in my best interest to keep you alive for prolonged psychological torment, should indicate to you exactly how serious I am.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His left hand grips the back of her neck; he pulls her into him, and she stumbles against Will’s body with the force of her real surprise, knocking him back against the desk as they kiss. He doesn’t lose his balance.
She bites his lower lip, testing, and to her surprise, Will bites back immediately, hard. Sue groans into his mouth at the unexpected, welcome sting of pain. There’s copper on her tongue. Arousal claws at her dulled body, stroking it awake.
“Too much?” he asks, pulling back, sounding concerned, and her always-simmered irritation sparks into a small flare. Will can’t read her. He never could.
She threads her fingers through his hated hair - softer than she’d imagined, less sticky with the residue of product - and pulls, feeling his scalp tighten against her clutch. He makes a small whimper of protest.
“Fight back,” she snarls against his mouth. “Come on, Schuester, fight me -“ She yanks, harder, bucking against him, and Will, ever unimaginative, mirrors her action, grabbing a fistful of her hair, tugging viciously. It hurts. It hurts like hell and she’s suddenly intensely, unbearably turned on.
“I think I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he breathes.
“So come on, then,” she growls, and reaches for the zipper on her jacket. “Let’s go.”
He puts a hand over hers, halting it. “Not yet,” he says. “Not here. After dinner. We should do this right. I owe you that much, after - everything.”
“Right?” She shakes her head, frustrated. “I don’t care about right. I care about now.”
Will’s hands slide over and around her hips, brazenly cupping her ass like he’s got a right to it. He’s pulling her against him, her hips pressing against his, and his face is very, very close to hers. Sue doesn’t like this. He can see her. He can see what she can’t keep from showing him. Her eyes drop to the top of her desk.
“Dinner first,” he repeats, and she can smell the sudden, strange resolve from him, somewhere behind his discounted cologne. “Then my place.”
“You’re a tease, William. I don’t appreciate teasing.”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he promises, and shifts against her, just slightly, the hard ridge of his cock pressing into the well between her thigh and groin. “I’ll let you top.”
He lifts his thigh between her legs, slowly, deliberately, his grip on her ass pushing her down. The contact is delicious. Sue sucks hard on her tender lower lip, hunting that small bloom of pain. She’ll bruise from Will’s bite.
“Don’t assume,” she tells him, quietly, “that you know what I want.”
six.
She doesn’t wear her pearls to Breadstix. Not this time.
Will’s already seated when she arrives, and the look of relief on his face when he sees her striding over to their table nearly makes her laugh out loud.
“Thought I was gonna stand you up, huh?” she observes, sliding into the booth. “I considered it, you know.”
“I’m sure you did,” he says, but his voice lacks the usual wryness she’s used to hearing from him. “You, uh, look nice.”
“I look exactly how I always look, William. Exceptional.” It’s true; she hasn’t altered her appearance whatsoever, partly in stubborn refusal to repeat her humiliation at his hands, and partly because Sue understands that one should always retain one’s armor when treading into unknown territory. “You’re paying, by the way. Sue Sylvester is nothing if not traditional.”
“Mr. Schuester? Coach Sylvester?”
It’s Rachel Berry. Behind her, Mercedes Jones gapes, a slack look of awed wonder mirroring Rachel’s astonished expression.
“Oh, man,” Will mutters, and actually sinks down a little in his seat. Sue glares at him, infuriated by his embarrassment.
“Rachel,” she says, and nods briefly at Mercedes. “Quitter. Here on a date, huh? Newly sapphic? I’m picturing a lot of vocalizing with the two of you in the sack, a lot of vocal runs. You’re gonna want to close the windows before you get going.”
Will puts his palm over his eyes. “Sue. Enough.”
“We’re not dating,” Rachel says, sounding way too confident for Sue’s comfort. “Didn’t you know, Mr. Schue? Kurt and the Warblers are here tonight, performing, but I think they’ve just left. We were all here, you know, on one big group friendship dinner date, celebrating our fabulous singleness. Well, Mercedes and Kurt and I were celebrating, that is. I’ve decided I no longer need a man to make me happy. I’m going to focus on me now.”
“That’s great, Rachel,” Will says, a little wearily. “I’m glad you had a good Valentine’s Day. I’ll see you at school tomorrow, okay?”
Rachel turns to leave, but Mercedes stops her, a hand on her shoulder. “What are you guys doing here?” she asks, staring at Will and Sue. “It’s - are you - on a date, or something?”
“No, of course not,” Will blurts, just as Sue says, “Your powers of observation are astounding, Mercedes.”
“Um.” Mercedes looks uncomfortable, and while normally Sue appreciates it when students seem uneasy - prefers it, actually - this current discomfort isn’t particularly enjoyable. Not when it’s the result of Will directly contradicting her. “Okay. So, this is really weird, and, uh, we’re just gonna go, like you said, Mr. Schue. Let’s go, Rachel.”
“Fantastic idea, Mercedes,” Rachel manages, and grabs the other girl’s arm, indulging in a ridiculously loud stage-whisper as the two rush towards the restaurant door. “Oh, my God, what was that? Are they actually - ? I can’t believe he’d - with her - ”
Will’s face is bright red.
“I’m insulted,” Sue says, dryly, and wrests a breadstick out of its holder, biting down. “You shook that frizzy noggin of yours like a bobblehead in a hurricane. Got something against those kids knowing about this?”
He unfolds his menu, attempting to hide his fluster behind the plastic-wrapped paper. “I just - don’t see any point to it, okay? This is between you and me. It doesn’t need to go any further.”
“You’re embarrassed.” She points the hobbled breadstick at him, accusingly.
“No. I’m not.”
“Your face is redder than my tracksuit, William, and trust me, that’s an accomplishment. You’re embarrassed to be seen with me, admit it.”
“It’s not that,” he says. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
Sue raises her arms, palms facing up in mock wonderment, preparing to ask him exactly how he’s managed to read her mind when she’s been specifically trained against inception techniques, when Will catches sight of something over her shoulder. His mouth drops open.
“Don’t turn around,” he pleads. “Please. Just - don’t do it. I know you will, but I’m asking anyway. Don’t.”
So she turns around, because she’s nothing if not eager to disappoint him, and lo and behold, standing just inside the door, it’s the Kewpie doll industry’s life-sized tribute to Howard Hughes: Emma Pillsbury-Howell, with her white-toothed, disgustingly handsome marital aid in tow. She’s speaking to the hostess, probably asking for a table as far away from the restroom as possible, or maybe for an extra wipe down of the booths before she and hubby deign to take a seat. Sue takes in Emma’s ruffled white blouse, her candy-apple skirt, her blush-colored high heels, her perfectly coiffed hair, the weird dull sheen on her skin that always looks to Sue like carefully applied protective coating.
She knows just how to get Will in the mood for combat.
“Hey, plaque rat!” Sue hollers, shifting her focus to Carl, and behind her, Will makes a sound like quiet panic.
Carl looks right at her, brightening in recognition. “Well, life ain’t easy for a girl named Sue!” he calls back, and pokes Emma. “Hey, Ems, look who it is. Let’s go and say hi.”
Emma’s face freezes, and Sue wonders, with irritation, if the woman’s capable of any other emotion besides paralyzed terror. It’s a compliment, sure, but the monotony of it bores her. Carl takes Emma’s hand in his, tugs her gently in their direction, and Emma slowly, reluctantly, puts one heeled foot in front of the other.
“Oh, no,” Will’s saying, under his breath, “don’t, don’t do this, Sue.”
“Try and stop me,” she hisses at him, and grins, kicking at him under the table as Emma and Carl walk toward them. Her foot connects squarely with his shin. He grimaces, shooting her a look of real anger. Good. She wants him angry.
“Nice to see you again, Sue.” Carl’s smile is whiter than Kurt Hummel’s milky, translucent thighs. It’s giving her a headache. “You too, Will. I see you’re finally trying to get over my wife.” He nods at Sue. “Smart move, bro.”
“Please don’t do this,” Emma murmurs, sounding infuriatingly like Will. The two of them deserve each other: ineffectual pleaders who need to be goaded into finding a backbone. Sue imagines the two of them in bed, exchanging polite, milquetoast requests. Is this all right? Can I - ? Oh, my, yes, that’s just fine, thank you. She nearly kicks Will in the leg a second time, she’s so pissed off.
“Know what? I think,” she says, to punish Will for her disturbing fantasy, “that Orin Scrivello and his lil’ lady Audrey here should join us. We’ll make it a foursome.” She winks, lewdly, at Emma, who blanches.
“I don't really think - ” Will begins, just as Emma says, “Oh, we have -”
“I know, I know, you wanna sit across the table from each other and stare into each others’ eyes - and that reminds me, Ellen, I’ve been meaning to talk at you about something. You’re gonna want to start seriously considering taking out a loan for some ocular reduction surgery, because your eye to head ratio -” She makes a circle with her half-eaten breadstick in the general direction of Emma’s face - “is just getting out of control. The First Bank of Sue Sylvester offers a highly reasonable 41% interest rate, by the way.”
"Stop it," Will warns her.
“I can’t imagine,” Emma says, her voice quiet, “a more horrible evening than eating dinner with you. Which -” She looks at Will. “Why are you having dinner with her, Will? On Valentine’s Day, of all days? It can’t be better than staying in.”
“She’s been having a hard time of it, lately,” Will explains, and looks at Sue, smirking, as if to say see? I can play this game, too. “I thought I’d take her out, lift her spirits, help her feel better about herself.”
Emma and Carl are silent, and Sue glares back at Will, briefly contemplating the possibility of welding a couple of these breadstix into some sort of crude, rudimentary weapon. They’re stale enough to hurt. He’s saying this to goad her back, she knows, and it's what she's after, but there’s a note of truth to it, too. Humiliation crawls in her stomach, spreads on her face.
“You deserved it, you know that?” Emma says, suddenly. “You deserved everything you got, Sue. I’m glad those girls left you for Will’s glee club. I’m even happier you lost your competition. Now maybe you’ll start reconsidering your behavior. The way you treat people is terrible.”
Sue gapes. “Let me break this down for you, Anne of Green Labels, all right? I might happen to be temporarily sidelined, but know this: Sue Sylvester’s gonna stage a comeback Madonna would envy. I’ll be running this school again before you and Hot Carl here master the freakish art of sexless fornication.”
“Whoa,” Carl interrupts, before Emma manages to sputter out her indignant response. “Ladies, let’s not get out of control here. Emma, howsabout we go find our table, okay?”
“Great idea,” Will chimes in, overenthusiastic, not bothering to hide his relief. “Awesome to see you guys. Have a fantastic dinner.”
She watches them retreat, Carl’s hand on the small of Emma’s back, familiar and comfortable, and she suddenly hates Emma Pillsbury-Howell, hates her simpering morality and her ruffles and her toothy husband.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he says, when they’re alone again. "Call them over."
“You didn’t have to dress like Mr. Rogers tonight,” she retorts, and grinds the breadstick against the table with the flat of her hand. It crumbles more easily than she’d anticipated. “We all make choices. Frankly, mine’s a lot better than yours. I mean, look, Will, I keep expecting you to take off your shoes and start talking about your neighborhood.”
He doesn’t try to defend his fashion sense. “What are you trying to prove, Sue? Are you trying to get back at me?”
“When I get back at you, and I will, you’ll know it,” she promises. “I’m stockpiling revenge ideas as we speak. I’m storing them away in my cheeks. I'm like a chipmunk, minus the nut dependency issues. No, what this is, buddy, is an overwhelmingly successful attempt to get you all riled up. Some might call it verbal abuse. I like to think of it as foreplay.”
Will flushes, pushing at the menu in front of him. “You deserve -” he begins, and then breaks off, color spreading down his neck.
“You gonna teach me a lesson?” she asks, and her foot finds his calf under the table, pressing, sliding just a bit. “Gotta tell you, Will, I’ve seen you at work in the classroom. I’m not optimistic.”
“I’ve been thinking about you since I left your office,” he says, very quietly. She leans in, almost unwillingly, caught by the tone in his voice. “I’ve been thinking about the sound you made when I pulled your hair. I want to hear you make that sound again.”
“Liked it?” she breathes.
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
They stare at each other, and Sue squeezes her thighs together, straightens up in her seat. Will looks a little dazed. The air’s thick between them, and she wants to grab him right there, take his ludicrous tie in her fist and swallow him whole with her sudden need.
“I’m not hungry,” she manages. “The food here is terrible, anyway. Especially the breadstix.”
“Yeah,” he says, and licks his lips. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.”
seven.
It’s a testament to how much she wants to get laid that she actually lets him drive. Even post-apocalyptic refugees, desperate for a getaway vehicle to escape the terrible relentlessness of the undead, would reject his car for being too ugly. She tries not to touch the door, or the seat, or the center console. Pathetic is catching, and this sad little vehicle is infected with it.
Will doesn’t speak. He’s driving at least fifteen miles over the speed limit. She can hear him breathing, in and out, the sound shallow and needy.
“Listen carefully, William,” she murmurs, when they’re stopped at a red light, her voice damp and low. She reaches across the car, cups her hand between his legs. He’s already hard. “Normally, my sexual modus operandi involves getting the object of my interest into a position of my choosing and, with the help of a fantastic array of accessories, fucking that object of interest so thoroughly that said individual is incapable, for the next week, of sitting down without wincing.”
Will rubs his mouth with his fist, and stares at the road ahead, eyes wide. (Sue wonders if he’s noticed her undefined pronouns. Probably not. He seems to be rapidly losing the ability to notice much of anything, outside the interests of his cock. Typical.)
“But that’s not what I want from you,” she continues, rubbing against him, and he inhales, sharply. “I’m going to propose something to you, Will, and because you’re apparently completely incapable of discerning my needs without explicit verbal instruction, I’m going to spell it out for you, using small, short words. I want to get fucked. I want it to be rough. That something you think you can handle, or should I assume your general incompetence extends to the bedroom, too?”
“Oh - fuck,” he whispers, clearly stunned by this statement. “Sue - God.”
“I highly approve of all those words being in one sentence, buddy,” she tells him, calmly, and withdraws her hand, facing forward again. “I’m gonna take your acknowledgement of my divinity as a contractual promise. Any problems with that, take it up with my lawyer, Gloria Allred.”
Will swallows, audibly. “How rough?”
“I want you to leave marks,” she says, watching the traffic light in front of them change from red to green. “Not on my neck or face. I don’t want anyone else to be able to see them. Just me.”
He's silent. The car coughs to life, lurches through the intersection.
“You said you owed me,” she reminds Will. “I want you to pay up.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Too late,” Sue says. It sounds harsher than she’d wanted, more like the truth than she’d meant to give him.
eight.
They never make it to the bedroom.
She’s crossing the dining room when Will grabs her suddenly from behind, spins her into him. His mouth collides with her jaw, her lip, and then he’s kissing her open, wet, licking the breath out of her eager mouth. It’s good, even though she hates to admit it, and she gropes at his chest, trying to get beneath his ridiculous sweater. He pushes at her, equally greedy, slams her against the side of the dining room table.
Sue grunts with the force of the impact, a groan forced from her throat. “Ah,” she chokes, leaning away, clawing at the back of his coat, “get this - get this off -”
“You first,” he directs, and she pulls at her jacket zipper, hands uncharacteristically erratic, yanking harder than she needs to, breaking off the slider. She’s trying to get the jacket off and he’s already under her shirt, palms hot against the swell of her breasts, pushing her down onto the table, crawling on top of her. Her spine rolls against the wood, vertebrae protesting, but she’s struggling out of her undershirt, resisting just enough to pull it over her head.
“You’re still dressed,” she snaps, as he straddles her hips. “Fix that.”
Will reaches between her arching back and the table top for the clasp of her bra, unhooking it. “You’re not giving the orders right now,” he tells her, lowering his mouth to her breast.
Sue starts to tell him that she hadn’t specified that particular clause in their verbal contract, but he bites her nipple, and coherence drops, immediately. She whimpers at the shock of it through her and the answering throb of her clit, and she hisses at him, says you’re weak, because it’s what she knows, it’s her catechism; says harder, says more.
He’s slow to respond, at first, the way she wants. It isn’t until she starts mocking him, cribbing from the mental dossier she’s collected for years on Will Schuester’s soft spots, that he begins to answer her with his hands and mouth, his teeth less forgiving with each insult, his nails digging more deeply into her skin. “Shut up,” he says, loudly, after she praises Carl Howell’s effortless gloss of dark hair for the third time, “just shut up, Sue,” and she laughs, taunts, “Make me, Schuester.” He pinches the flesh of her stomach between unforgiving fingers, grabs her hair as he sucks at her collarbone, knocks her head into the wood of the table. She pants, her body sick with wanting.
“Adequate,” she observes, and watches as he climbs off her, off the table. It’s all the encouragement she’s willing to give him.
Will doesn’t seem to be interested in her approval. He’s wrestling down her track suit bottoms, her underwear, yanking her legs, sliding her towards the edge of the table for better access. She spreads her knees, inviting Will in, and at the first pulse of his hot wet mouth on her, they both groan, the hum of his voice shuddering against her clit. Sue sits halfway up, pulls at his hair, trying to draw him closer, wanting pressure. He tears roughly at the thin skin of her thigh, tracking into her body, and his tongue moves inside her with an unforgiving roll.
When she comes against his mouth, it’s violent.
“I’m not done with you,” she informs him, after she's found her voice again. “Take off your clothes before you fuck me. You look ridiculous.”
For the first time since they've begun, he obeys her, pulling off his jacket and sweater and tie, unbuttoning his shirt, removing his jeans and boxers. Will's mouth and chin, she notices, are glazed with the proof of her arousal, and it makes her feel slightly uneasy, for reasons she can’t quite define. She allows herself the indulgent distraction of admiring his body, his muscled thighs and overdeveloped torso, his dark full cock standing, thick, waiting for her. Mine, she thinks, still hungry. Mine.
“Bend over,” Will tells her, “get up, bend over the table,” and she does, positioning herself, looking back over her shoulder while he unwraps the condom he’s pulled from his jeans, rolls it on. He doesn't comment on her newly decorated back, or show any sign of surprise. She feels cheated; he's the first person who's seen it. There's an insult, somewhere, good enough to throw at him, something about his observation skills and she tries to think of it but then he's leaning against her tattooed skin, chest warm and dry against her sweat-damp back, cock ready between her legs and she grits her teeth, says, instead, “Now, Will, now.”
When he enters her, he isn’t gentle. He pushes in without hesitation, one rough unforgiving thrust, until he’s buried inside her. She inhales, bracing herself against the table with the flats of her hands, and Will moans into her neck and hair, says her name, says, “Sue, come on, come on -”
“Yes,” she answers, not knowing what she’s agreeing to, not caring, “yes,” and they move, hips pounding in an old, quick rhythm, his hands on her waist, grasping, holding her together. His mouth works over her skin as she fucks back hard against him, breathing harshly, chasing the raw slick rasp of his thrusts, trying for something she can't name.
“I’m gonna -” he gasps, and then he’s coming, driving short and sharp into her, jerking with the unpredictability of code. She wonders, while he’s still pulsing inside her, what’s pulled him over the edge. If it’s the feeling of her so strangely pliant, writhing under his hands: wounded, open.
__
While he’s disposing of the condom, she leans against the edge of the dining room table, looks down at her body and takes inventory. There’s a long scratch or two on her belly, enflamed skin on the insides of her thighs, an angry red mark on her left breast, another on her hip. It’s a passable collection. She knows better than to expect more out of him.
“You all right?" Will asks her, walking back in. He sounds a little shaken, like he’s not sure how to process what’s just happened between them. It’s a ridiculous conversation to be having while naked. It’s a ridiculous conversation to be having at all. “It wasn’t - too much?”
“I needed to feel something,” she says, answering the unspoken question in his voice. It’s the only explanation she can give him. “You took something away from me. Something’s missing, inside me. I want it back.” Sue doesn’t add that whatever’s gone from her left a long, long time ago, because that would mean excusing Will from culpability. There’s someone else at fault, has to be.
Will’s expression is full of concern, and it’s exactly what she doesn’t want from him, the next worst thing, after pity. Sue clears her throat, picks up her discarded jacket off the floor, wraps it around her shoulders. She feels exposed, exhausted.
“Look at me, Sue,” he says, softly. "Please."
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“That mug of yours resembles a Cubist painting. Your right eye looks like it’s trying to escape. And your nose is off center. Staring at you offends my highly developed sense of aesthetics.”
He touches her chin with his fingers, gently, and lifts it, raising her face towards his. “You’re gonna be okay. I'm sure of it. You always are.”
“You don’t know that,” she says, and abruptly, horribly, her voice breaks. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Hey,” he says, alarmed, putting his arm around her. “Oh, shit, Sue, don’t do that. Hey, no, don’t do that, all right? Come here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Shut up,” she manages, swallowing, wiping the back of her hand over her eyes. His apologies aren’t for her benefit. “Just shut up, Will, shut up,” and he does, and Sue lowers her cheek slowly to the hot hard flesh of his shoulder, allowing him to hold her. She’ll run an extra set of laps, wear her battle sneakers longer, yell louder, push herself harder tomorrow, to make up for it.