A/N: This is not my usual area of expertise at all, but this thing popped into my head waaaay back when "Blame It" first aired and kept coming back. Obviously it wanted to be written, which makes me think it might want to be read, too. (And we could all use a little Finchel reconciliation, right? Even if it is three-year-old drama at this point.) This started out as a one-shot and then Finn and Rachel grabbed the reins and wouldn't give them back, so we'll see where this goes.

Also, this is my first time writing anything even remotely like this – hence the "ghost" account; too many people who know me personally have the link to my real one, though I'll be really interested to see if any of you can guess who I am. Feeback in any form is much appreciated.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. This is dedicated to the two biggest Finchel shippers ever, Cory and Lea.

The music pounded from the Berrys' intense sound system in their Oscar room. Finn had never understood why they named their rooms – like, was there a "Steve" room somewhere? – but he'd long since stopped wondering about it.

The glee club was scattered all around, the party having broken up into mini-groups and conversations the way all parties seemed to, whether they started with twelve people or a hundred. He'd always kinda thought beer pretty much looked, smelled, and tasted like piss, no matter how many times Puck tried to convince him otherwise, but since Quinn used to drag him to every party ever thrown (something about his duties as quarterback or whatever) he'd gotten used to comparing party patterns so he wouldn't get bored. Kind of a lame hobby, but it passed the time 'til Quinn's curfew.

Tonight, he was the DD, and he found himself falling into old habits. He was a little surprised that Rachel's party wasn't any different (even though it was almost a completely different crowd than all those other parties). There were the people actually dancing – right there in the middle since the Berrys actually had a real dance floor. There was the make-out corner on the couch, and the hook-up closet in the laundry room, the chatty corner on the other couch, and the meaningful conversation corner which apparently was happening on the stage, once Kurt came over and shared his crush-drama. And then it evaporated once Blaine brought his drunk-chattiness over here. Parties were fluid like that.

Kurt pulled Blaine off of him then, which was why Finn hadn't seen her coming.

"Finny, dance with me," Rachel whispered as she flung herself into his arms, nuzzling into his chest. "We had it going on, right? I wasn't making it up or anything?"

He looked anywhere but her as he nodded absently, trying not to notice the way she was beaming up at him. He hadn't seen her look this happy since – well, since they broke up. He wished he didn't care so much either way. staring up at him in adoration, like she used to before – well, before everything happened.

She swayed a little as she leaned into him. "I would do anything for you, anything!"

He was suddenly bombarded with images of what anything might include and knew he needed to get off that train of thought. Having her crushed against him like that wasn't helping, either.

"Okay, Rachel," he said to distract her, "since this is your first time at this, I'm going to break it down for you." He sat her down on the edge of the stage and plopped a short-but-safe distance away. But her head still somehow found its way onto his shoulder. He ignored the warmth that spread from the spot. "Guys and girls fall into certain… archetypes when they get drunk."

He explained his way around the room, sharing more of his party-expertise, wondering idly if Rachel even remembered that the only reason he knew that word at all was because she explained it to him, back when seeing it on an English assignment turned into an explanation of the known boyfriend archetypes and then to her reasoning for why Finn was the very best kind - followed by some mutual appreciation in the physical sense. It was one memory in a thousand, but she must remember – Rachel didn't forget anything – which could only mean the memories weren't haunting her the way they were him. He couldn't help but resent her for it, just a little, and his voice rose.

"And then we come around full circle, right back to you. Rachel. And right now you're being the needy-girl drunk, hanging all over me, being overly lovey – it's not cool."

Immediately, she pulled her head off of his shoulder, and he could think a little clearer. But then she leaned in close so she could whisper right into his ear. "Well, what kinda girl is this?"

Uh oh. He knew that hard edge to her voice. He'd sat through enough impassioned speeches to recognize when she was gearing up for an offensive strike. A sudden and intense feeling of dread washed over him, but a second later his brain had been wiped clear of any thought at all.

Her hand – which only a moment ago had been resting on his shoulder – was trailing slowly downward over the front of his shirt. He sucked in a breath as it crossed his navel, but it didn't stop until it reached his belt. She turned her wrist, and suddenly Rachel was palming him through his jeans.

He turned his head to look at her, about the only movement he could manage since every ounce of heat and blood in his body was rushing to pool under her fingers. She was looking steadily back at him, but it wasn't love he saw in her eyes now. It was something darker, something that made her eyes flash and spark like live wires.

"Rachel?" he grunted. He swallowed and tried again. "What are you doing?"

She smiled then, an evil little smirk. "Living. Now, take me upstairs."

She didn't know what could have possessed her to say that. Well, actually, she did - pink wine coolers, and then whatever else Puck kept putting in her cup.

She thought that she might be a little bit of an angry drunk too, because the second Finn told her she was being overly lovey, a burning fury had lit up her skin. Of course she was being overly lovey – she loved him, and he knew it, too – but if that wasn't what he wanted, then fine.

Rachel Berry always had a Plan B.

She didn't wait for an answer, but curled her fingers into his jeans for just a fraction of a second, feeling something twitch and swell faintly through the denim before she released him and walked as deliberately as she could for the stairs. She heard a scuffling noise a beat later, and knew he was following.

Had she been her normal self, she would have been delighted her party was such a rousing success. At least, she thought it was. She wasn't entirely sure what a successful party entailed, but everyone was clearly drunk, and loud, and she was pretty sure no one was thinking about leaving anymore. So she called this a victory.

The thought made her giddy. She broke into a skip, practically bouncing up the stairs as she held tight to the cup clutched in one hand.

She made it to the main level without mishap, but when she made to dash up to the second floor with the same vigor, her foot caught on the lip of the next stair, and she toppled forwards, her nearly empty cup flying out of her grasp.

She wondered belatedly why she wasn't on the ground and realized something thick and warm was hooked around her waist, keeping her on her feet. She knew those arms. Her hands came up to rest on top of his, holding his arm to her as she leaned backwards into his chest.

His warm exhale washed over her, his breathing heavy and audible, and the memory of why she had been running upstairs sluggishly returned. She had missed this, just being close to him, having him hold her, feeling his arms around her. For weeks, she'd been desperate to feel that again, but fear of more rejection and embarrassment had kept some of her more drastic ideas in check.

Her drunken self, it seemed, didn't have that problem.

Not when he was holding her close, stirring something deep inside her she hadn't felt in months, that same something that first awoke, bleary-eyed and stumbling, during their first kiss in the auditorium. Though her heart ached for him everyday since their break-up, she had tried to give him the space she knew he wanted, hoping some merciful force in the universe would let her get over him too. But now it was painfully obvious that her body had missed him as much, if not more than her heart. And it was her body that was taking charge now.

His other hand came up to grasp her arm, gently kneading between her shoulder and her elbow, and the sleeve of her dress felt like flimsy tissue paper between them. His touch set her nerves alight. Her head fell back against his shoulder, turning to breathe him in deeper, to press a kiss under his jaw. She had only meant it to be one, but she couldn't help herself. Feeling his pulse pound and race under her lips, tasting his salty musk, hearing his breathing hitch - it was too much, too familiar, too good to end. She traced a line down his throat and back up again. His arm slackened just a little at her waist, and she turned slowly, ungracefully, into him, working a hand up around his neck, into his hair.

She felt the moan start deep in his throat, bobbing his Adam's apple, humming against her lips. She couldn't wait another second. She lifted her head, using the extra height of the stairs to press her lips firmly, finally, against his. He never hesitated, opening his mouth and stroking her tongue with his, making her head spin. She leaned into him, and he adjusted his grip to hold her closer, one hand splayed across the top of her back, the other kneading her hip through her dress.

Finn's chest hiccuped into hers with every sharp gasp for breath, the skin on her back burning under his wandering fingers, but she wanted closer, so she clumsily kicked a bare foot free of her skirt and hooked it behind his knee, pressing her pelvis against his. She felt the bulge in his jeans against her core, and the sharp pang that erupted from the spot overrode everything else, making her head roll back on her shoulders with a groan, her mouth falling from his as she clung to him just to stay upright. His hand dropped around her thigh and hitched it over his hip to steady her, then trailed across her skin until he cupped an ass cheek, gently squeezing it. She rested her forehead against his neck, unable to catch her breath as her body responded instinctively, rubbing against him as he rubbed right back.

"Finn," she whimpered into his collarbone, kissing him there.

Realization shot through him at the sound of his name, and he froze. He blinked rapidly to shake off the haze of want and need that spiraled all around him. He couldn't think clearly with her pressed against him like that, around him, but if he moved away she'd fall. He went completely rigid, trying to breathe in calm, cool air until his limbs were under control.

Rachel tilted her head back to look up at him, confusion and lust plain on her face. "Finny?" she asked. "Why'd you stop?"

"We can't," he croaked, shaking his head. He moved his hand from her ass to her knee, trying to lower her leg, disentangle himself somehow, but she redoubled her grip and hung on.

"Is it 'cause you don't love me anymore?" Her voice was small, and with her dark eye shadow and red, kiss-swollen lips, she could have been the Rachel of a year ago, trying to seduce him in a catsuit. "Is it because of the fireworks? Because you saw them with Quinn and not me?"

He swallowed. He didn't want to talk about this. "You're drunk," he said instead.

Her hands fisted in his sweater, pulling like he could possibly get any closer. "I don't care. I miss you. And I want you. I always want you. Even when you don't want me."

He looked up at the sloped ceiling, exhaling, feeling his heart thud. Why did she have to make this so hard? He couldn't be that asshole who'd take advantage of her. He wasn't sure he'd be able to stop a second time. "Rachel, we're in the middle of the stairs. This isn't you. You wouldn't be doing this if you weren't drunk."

"But I'd want to." He could hear the unnatural shrillness in her voice, and he didn't want to believe her, but she just sounded so sure. "And I know – I know I'm never going to get you back or – or write a good song if I can't stop being such a boring stick in the mud. So I'm going after what I want, and living, like you said, and – just this once couldn't you wear something with buttons I could tear off?"

He smiled despite himself, even though he could hear how frustrated she was getting. "Rachel –" he started. But she ignored him and used her hold on his collar to smash her lips back on his, whimpering into his mouth. The next second her hands had given up on his sweater and dove straight underneath instead, grabbing at the skin of his back, tickling along the waistband of his jeans. He groaned against her lips, and her tongue plunged into his mouth.

He suddenly felt lightheaded, like he needed to hold onto something or they'd both go tumbling to the floor. Thinking to put them back on less perilous ground, he wrapped his arms underneath her thighs and held her against him, blindly running the last few stairs to the top landing.

It was only when he tried to put her down that he realized she'd used the trip to wrap both arms and legs around him in a vice grip, her dress now bunched around her waist. She ignored his attempts to unlock her legs from his back and licked a deliberate stripe up his neck to his ear. His vision tilted, and he leaned them both against a nearby wall, not sure how long he'd be able to stand if she kept that up. He needed to calm down, he needed to think clearly. He couldn't just –

"Rachel!" he said suddenly, alarmed because she'd rolled her hips against him just as she sucked on his earlobe, and he'd ground back against her without meaning to. He'd never been able to keep his cool around her – hadn't their first kiss proved that? She hadn't even been trying to seduce him then, and any self-control he'd learned in the last year was clearly no match for her determination.

She didn't answer him, but hoisted herself in his arms to nip at his bottom lip, running a hand under his shirt and along the top of his back. She withdrew her hand after a moment and tugged on his collar, nearly choking him, while her other hand yanked the hem of his sweater and T-shirt upwards. She didn't seem to realize that she'd never get either off when she was clinging to his torso like that.

"Rachel," he said again, breathlessly, holding her against the wall with his body so he could reach for her wandering hands. But his brain turned to jelly when he felt her chest flush, panting, against his. As if she knew just how to wind him up further, she turned her head to exhale hotly against the skin on his neck, still wet from her open-mouthed kisses.

He could've sworn he'd been sober ten minutes ago, but now he felt just as drunk as she was. He was too big for his skin, sure he was about to burst at any second. His insides were fluttering and squirming, and he couldn't be sure if he was about to puke or if he just desperately needed to kiss her. There was a weight in his stomach that seemed connected to the tingling itch in his palms, one he was frantically trying to soothe by rubbing his hands along her arms, hoping to get her attention since he seemed unable to actually push her away. He was having a hard time remembering why he'd ever wanted to in the first place.

"Please, Finn," she said into his neck, tightening her legs around his hips so that her heels dug into his ass. "Please touch me."

The ache in his stomach seemed to drop suddenly lower. His head drooped under the weight of exhaustion and want. He started to protest, to remind her that she was drunk, that they were broken up, but she clasped his face gently in her hands – more gently than she'd touched him all night – and tilted his chin back so she could look at him. He stared back, taking in her swollen lips, flushed cheeks, and hair that looked beyond disheveled. (Had he done that? He couldn't remember.) Her gaze was surprisingly steady and clear.

"I know what I'm doing," she said firmly, almost sadly, like she knew he would try to talk her out of it. "Just please."

He swallowed, watching her gaze roaming his face, like she was waiting for him to decide. He felt her thumb run along his bottom lip, and then he couldn't watch her anymore and his eyes fell closed. It wasn't fair.

It had been over two months since they broke up. He thought they were both starting to move on, could maybe even hope to be friends again without it being awkward. But here she was, clearly not over him and making him feel things he'd been trying to stomp out or ignore – which obviously hadn't worked. If anything, he thought the time apart had only made him want her more. Absence makes the heart get blue balls, or something, right? He wasn't strong enough to push her away. The most he could do was ask her to stop, and that obviously wasn't going to work. Did he even want to say no?

Well, that was obvious too. Underneath the confusion and the lust and his (not so subtle) erection all vying for his attention, he recognized an overwhelming surge of relief. As angry and hurt as he'd been all this time, he'd never not missed her. Being with Rachel had always felt so right and special, and now having that back, even just for a few minutes – he'd probably be overjoyed if he thought it could last. But it couldn't, right? He wasn't ready to jump back into a relationship with her yet, no matter how much he missed her.

He opened his eyes and looked at her seriously. "I really, really want to say yes, Rachel. You have no idea. But I'm not ready to – we broke up and I can't –" He sighed and tried again. "This can't mean what you want it to. So I can't."

She looked suddenly near to tears, but she nodded, letting her hands fall from his face. "I get it." She looked down at their bodies, still locked together against the wall. Finn suddenly realized his arms were killing him. How long had he been holding her? Thirty minutes? An hour?

"But what if it didn't mean anything?" Rachel said suddenly.

Both his eyebrows shot up. "Do you mean –?" She held his gaze evenly. He gulped. "Is that a good idea?" he asked slowly.

She rolled her eyes with all of her usual flair. "I'm tired of being Miss Responsible and overthinking everything. It's gotten me nowhere. I just want you, and I don't care if it's a good idea or not. So?"

He didn't like that bitter edge to her voice. It didn't sound like anything he'd ever heard before, and he was afraid neither of them knew what they were getting into here. But his pulse had picked up again, and her fingers were raising goosebumps on his skin as they stroked absently at the base of his neck. He already knew what his answer had to be.

"Okay."

A/N: First smut story - how am I doing? And if anyone wants to hazard a guess at what my other account on here is, I'm really interested to know what you think.