"You wanna, like, dress old-Hollywood?" he asks, because treating it like Halloween is a hell of a lot less gay than dressing up in formal shit and dancing because he has a feeling that this prom isn't going to be as fun as last year. "I don't know if Marilyn Monroe wore animal sweaters but you'd look hot all old-Hollywood, babe, and we would look fucking hot together if we went. Surprise the fuck out of everybody." He hasn't given it much thought to this point, but when he thinks Hollywood, he thinks Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp, and he also thinks about old shit, like black-and-white movies and Scarface and Don Corleone and Marilyn Monroe and Gone With the Wind and all that old shit. "I could pull off James Dean, huh?"



When her tiny hand cups around him, all rational thought abandons his brain; it takes him a good twenty seconds before he can recover enough to chase her up the stairs and into his bedroom, wrapping his arms smoothly around her waist and pulling her backward against his hips, running the palms of his hands down against the lean muscles of her thighs. "You," he breathes in her ear, nibbling on the lobe, "are so fucking hot, Rachel-Berry, and you drive me fucking crazy, and I - can't - you are gonna - clothes on the floor and you better find one of my shirts you like 'cuz that's the only thing I wanna see you wear today if you need clothes." His lips drag from the sensitive patch of skin just below her ear down against her neck. "If you're not naked or wearing sheets, I mean." One hand on her thigh slides up until two fingers are pressed against bare slick skin beneath her skirt and he teases, tracing her entrance but refusing to do any more than that, rocking his hips against her bottom.