Glee Fic: it’s a two-handed kind of war

[fated_addiction]

I think this point, it's just called acceptance that I'm suddenly, reluctantly into this pairing and have a lot of feelings most of them really dirty about them. Like FEELING FEELINGS. But whatever. For the glee_kink_meme again and really, somebody just revoke my internet pass anyway. Thanks to smc_27, as this is for her, but mostly, for talking it out and not telling me I'm crazy. And for 0penhearts. Because she sucks. And she's going to gloat.

Also, fair warning (and I definitely should have put this up earlier), if Student/Teacher anything isn't your thing, you should keep on, keep on scrolling on. Please.

it’s a two-handed kind of war
now, together, let’s practice the excuse: it’s always complicated. just go and put his favorite perfume on.
glee | will/rachel | general spoilers | 2,350 words, adult.

-

They all watch him. They're all too used to their own drama as it is; Kurt calls it incestuous, Puck calls it his fault, and she finds herself somewhere in between because she finds herself sympathetic to Mr. Schuester anyway.

"This is sad," she murmurs, and they're facing their first day with an empty chair in Glee. Rachel sits at the piano with Kurt while everybody kind of stares at the chair, like it's going to tell them what to do.

Except it won't.

And it's never anybody's turn to tall to him; by the end of the day, it's too clear that she's going to have to go.

He lives closer than she remembers. There is a hole in the knee of her jeans, the fringe is coming apart, and really, she keeps them around because she can usually get a favor from Puck if she wears them. But she's covered in paint and her white t-shirt is tied at the small of her back; she has a life and painting at rec center at the JCC is part of her deal with Puck that she'd come around once a week to appease his mother.

It's still kind of strange, seeing his place and ending up here. The car is parked outside the garage and when she gets to the front door, she hesitates a little before she knocks. She leans against the rail by the door to wait, staring at her flats until she hears the lock snap.

"Rachel?"

Her mouth quirks. When she looks up, he seems surprised. There is a beer in his hand.

"Hello," she greets.

His brow furrows. "Hi."

"I -" she rolls her tongue over her teeth. "I came to see how you were," she says evenly. "I know this whole thing with Miss Pillsbury had been remarkably ... uneasy for you."

"Rachel," he murmurs. "I'm fine."

And it's half-hearted, silly in a way that she's never think of when it comes to him. But he doesn't push her either. He leans harder against the door, fixing a lazy hand against his shirt. It makes her think that she should stay.

"Aren't you -" she finds herself straightening against the rail. "- going to let me in?"

He studies her for a moment. After awhile, he steps back and the door opens wider.

It takes the second beer for her to settle on the kitchen counter. She feels too casual - but isn't that the role anyway? She lets her legs dangle off the side and tries not to stare too hard at everything around her.

"You've been busy," he says.

Rachel shrugs. "I have to keep to a couple after school things," she says carefully. Her fingers flex against her legs. "And you were close by home, so."

"I am?"

She nods.

Down the street and another turn over, left, and then maybe a right which could easily be avoided if she cuts by the Elms' house - she knows because Puck knows and how he knows is probably anything that shouldn't surprise her.

"I live on Harrison," she chooses to say.

He nods. He brings his beer to his mouth. She watches as he swallows back half of it.

"I want her to be happy," he murmurs, and Rachel wonders how many beers she's missed. "I mean," he says. " I should. Emma's pretty. She's warm and I just - I want to have that too."

"I know."

"But it doesn't work like that, does it?"

A strange smile crosses her mouth and Mr. Schuester is stepping towards her, closer. He hovers by her legs.

"It's how top forty radio survives," she says dryly.

He laughs. The sound softens his mouth. He puts his beer by her thigh and then runs a nervous hand through his hair.

"You don't have to be here, Rachel," he says softly.

She licks her lips. "I know."

"She wouldn't have come here."

"This isn't a competition," she says gently, and he laughs. The sound is sharp and she's not thinking, reaching out and letting her fingers graze the hem of his t-shirt. "I came because we're all worried. It's the right thing to do to come and see you."

"And the others?"

She laughs. "Apparently I speak you, Mr. Schue."

He scoffs, but the corners of his mouth turn anyway. Her hand hasn't moved either; she doesn't know why he's letting her be this close, or why she's this relaxed, but she lets her fingers pick lightly at the fabric. When he chuckles, she wonders if she seems insistent. He moves to stand against her legs anyway.

"You speak me, huh?"

She bites her lip and looks up. Mr. Schuester finishes off his beer. She doesn't remember him picking it up.

"That is true," he says lightly.

"I guess," she murmurs.

"Neither of us like it though."

It's strange, this kind of open honesty from him. It must be the space, she thinks, being here, in his house. It’s odd too, but she’s really comfortable and she’s sure, at some point, she should stop being comfortable around him.

Instead, she continues to pick at his shirt. Her legs part a little and then he steps in between them, her jeans grazing his thighs. Her throat sort of tenses too, tight and warm, and she finds herself staring back.

“I don’t mind it,” she tells him.

He smiles a little. His fingers graze her jaw and she turns her cheek into the palm of his hand, not really breaking his gaze. She’s not nervous, which is odd, and she keeps waiting for it, for that moment to come and sort of take over her and how she’s supposed to really feel.

“You hide yourself really well,” he says. His thumb rolls over her lip and her breath catches. She’s not wide-eyed, not yet. “You think no one notices.”

“This isn’t about me,” she says.

“But you’re showing me,” he says. He nudges at her legs. They spread further apart and he leans into, his hand dropping to press against her hip.

She feels his hand through her t-shirt and suddenly, the fabric is too thin, too taunt over her skin and the way it’s pulled up over her hips and tied at the small of her back is something she’s really too aware of.

“This isn’t about me,” she repeats, and he kisses her first.

He does not tell her to call him Will. Her jeans are somewhere on the kitchen floor, her t-shirt stuck on his couch and just by the archway that leads into the hallway.

There is a window just before the bedroom. He has her pressed, framed into the ledge, bent slightly at the waist with her hands resting into the glass. Her legs are spread and he presses himself between them, his hand wrapped around his dick, brushing lazily against the curve of her ass. She makes a soft sound and he leans over her, his teeth nipping at her shoulder. She feels his tongue trace back over the marks.

“Nowhere to be?” he asks, and she’s still so wet from the first time, when he went down on her, two fingers and his mouth, curling as she came and fisted a hand through his hair. She’s flushed too and her mouth tastes a little like his beer. “Rachel,” he murmurs. “Baby,” he says. The tip of his dick starts to slide inside of her.

“Nowhere to be,” she says breathlessly. Her breasts flush against the ledge. She slams her palms over the glass and it makes him chuckle, his arm wrapping around her waist as he settles inside of her. She likes this feeling, she thinks.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs. His teeth graze her shoulder. He rolls his hips a little and she whimpers, pressing back against him. “I want you to stay,” he says.

The sensation is too quick to be overwhelming; he starts to move and she can feel herself stretch, the way he seems to be heavy and hard, pulling his dick out of her, but not all the way, and then pushing himself into her, just as he starts to feel too deep.

He lets his hand come to cup her breast, his fingers pressing against her nipple. His nail scrapes at her skin and she moans, her head dropping back against his shoulder. She’s holding onto the ledge until her head turns and his mouth is over hers again, wet and hot. Her tongue pushes forward, over his teeth and then against his tongue, lapping away at his mouth. He moans too and she likes the taste of the sound.

“You feel so - ” she gasps as he bends them forward again, thrusting harder. “ - so good,” she breathes.

Against her mouth, he moans or growls or it’s something completely different. He seems to hold onto her tighter, keeping her flushed against him. His skin feels warm and sticky and she manages to thread a shaky hand through his hair to kiss him again, biting at his lip as she moves with him.

This is how he fucks her, right there, right in front of the window where anyone can sort of see them. There’s nothing in her that cares, or considers the kind of consequences that might arise from any of this. All she knows is that she likes how big and full he feels inside of her and how sticky her thighs feel, or how there’s sweat gathering at the back of her neck, her hair starting to fall wildly around them.

Rachel likes this.

The carpet scrapes against her knees when she shifts. Rachel presses her mouth against his thigh, feeling his fingers curl in her hair.

“You - ” he starts, but doesn’t finish and the corners of her mouth tug in amusement as his other hand drops against her mouth. Her hand is wrapped around his dick, stroking slowly, and she takes a few of his fingers into her mouth. “You looks so pretty like that,” he breathes.

It’s so dirty, how he says it, the color of his voice dark and low, and she can kind of imagine the way he’s going to start looking at her, heavy eyes and maybe too close. She rolls her tongue against the tips of his fingers, dragging her hand back over his shaft and letting her thumb start to stroke the tip of his dick.

He’s still sticky, like her, and she’s a little fuzzy on how they moved from the hallway to his bedroom, still unable to really separate. He seems to like to keep her close and she likes the way his body kind molds to hers.

“I like when you call me pretty,” she tells him.

She moves her mouth from his hand and then takes his dick into her mouth, leaning forward onto her knees, and dragging her mouth over him, taking him as deep as she can. She feels him brush the back of her throat and his hand seems to tighten in her hair.

“You’re so pretty,” he says again. “So, so pretty and I - jesus, baby, it can’t be the same after this, is that what you want?”

She hums and he moans, the sound sort of strangled as she lets her mouth start to slide up and down his length. She keeps her eyes open and wide, looking straight up at him, as he watches her. She can feel the ache between her legs and tries not to touch herself because she wants this to be about him.

“I like - ” he moans, “I like that, that - baby, you’re mine now. You’re mine.”

He’s babbling and she just likes the way he tastes, how he feels in her mouth, and little this is about control. She watches him as she continues to move her mouth and suddenly, his hand jerks hard into her hair and he grunts, into two strokes with her hand, spilling into her mouth.

He’s salty and thick and she sort of gasps as his dick stays in her mouth, until he slumps and drags himself out. He’s shaky when he helps her stand, his arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her against him. When he kisses her, she moans and she feels his tongue roll over hers, tasting himself.

“This is a bad idea,” he says against her mouth.

She chokes over a laugh, pulling back slightly to see him. She’s shaky and her knees hurt a little, until he pulls them down, her in his lap and him at the edge of the bed.

“Probably,” she agrees.

There’s not like i won’t tell or this can’t happen again; it’s dangerous and impulsive and feeds into things like secrets and codependency that should not be afforded. She feels his fingers against her thigh and she shifts, so that she’s soft of straddling his hand, watching him quietly.

“I never know how to stop,” he says.

Her mouth curls. They both share that part too.

Mr. Schuester comes back to school on a Monday. In Glee, he is all smiles and apologies and Puck is watching her curiously, shaking his head when she shrugs. She says something like i can be convincing and it’s something that he knows to be true; still, it sounds dirty coming out of her mouth and she fights not to blush, looking away and back at the sheet music in her lap for the next round of practice.

After school though, she’s cutting through the Elms’ house and there’s a voicemail from her daddy, letting her know that her parents have extended their trip until Sunday night and she can call them later. She’s calm, maybe too calm, and maybe that’s more of a problem than anything else. There are teeth marks on her thigh from lunchtime and the button down tucked into her skirt is a little too long and so, so not hers.

The bag around her shoulder is a little too heavy. It falls when he pulls her through the door.