Fic: Are You Afraid I'm Gonna...? (Kurt/Rachel) NC-17
Title: Are You Afraid I'm Gonna...?
Author: hyperemmalawlz
Fandom: Glee
Characters/Pairing: Kurt/Rachel. References to Finn/Rachel, Kurt/Blaine, Brittany/Santana, and Artie/Brittany.
Word Count: 3680
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Rachel get into another fight over a solo. Santana locks them in the closet. It ends... how you might expect if you lock two people who are always fighting over trivial things in a closet together.
Spoilers: Up to 2x09, "Special Education."
Warnings: Swearing, porn (including rough sex, wall sex, and biting/marking), tiny violence? Also, Kurt-in-het.
Author's Notes: Written for this prompt on the glee_kink_meme: "Rachel and Kurt both expected their first times to be all romantic and sweet. They definitely did not expect to end up in the janitor's closet going at it like crazed rabbits half way through one of their bitch fights. And of course, they both just want the other person to Stop Talking, but they're way, way too devoted to this argument now, and being Rachel and Kurt, they both really want to win." And they finally have a shipper comm, so I can post here!
Are You Afraid I'm Gonna...?
“I cannot believe you got us into this situation,” Kurt sneers, looming in close.
Rachel, to her credit, doesn't flinch (then again, in this sort of light it would be hard to notice even if she did). “I got us into this situation? Kurt, if you had just been willing to accept my superior vocal range and tenacity-”
“Oh really, superior?” Kurt asks. “In case you have not been paying attention - my vocal range extends almost as high as yours and much, much lower; you are not - The song requires-”
And this is how McKinley High welcomed him back. His ability to return (thanks to a certain glorified rodent with hair stereotypical of his jewish creed rather publicly outing one David Karofsky, leading to Karofsky's transfer) had been mostly met by his friends and fellow glee club members with joy and hesitation in denying him his wishes, as they all wanted to keep him there.
Not so with one Rachel Berry. They were still friends, of a sort, but a lot of their closeness they discovered could be abruptly pushed to the side in their rediscovered constant battle for the spotlight. His other friends appeared less than pleased with Rachel for this (then again, they appeared less than pleased with Rachel for most things), but nothing stops that girl when she's that determined.
Truth be told, Kurt doesn't usually mind her attitude. It makes his life feel more normal again, and gives him an excuse to aim his caustic barbs without having to feel like he's just as bad as the psychotic closet case that drove him out of this school, or the domineering robots at Dalton who would judge you for anything and everything you'd say; who made it so important to him that he become able to return to McKinley.
“Kurt, you know I respect your talent and presence as a performer, but I simply do not think you have the particular style this piece-”
“Oh, style? Well, maybe I'll call your fashion advisers - I don't think that homeless woman who sleeps near the public toilets has a phone and Strawberry Shortcake's is probably made out of some food product and would disintegrate in the rain, but I'm sure I can find a way around it.”
“And yet again, your reliance on ad hominem arguments betrays the fact deep down you know I'm right; physical clothing was not what I was talking about and you know it-”
The group had arranged a meeting of their own without Mr. Schuester, as the teacher had announced there was a solo up for grabs towards the end of the last rehearsal; too late for them to have a proper discussion about it. The group decided to discuss it on their own so they'd feel less pressured by any idea an authority figure had on what they 'should' do, but Rachel immediately clung to the idea she would perform it and refused to listen to reason. Kurt calmly and maturely explained why he was better suited to sing the song (a calm and mature argument which, okay, may have referred to her as a 'midget' one time too often). Kurt found himself drawn into a fight. Eventually, their squabbling got so intense that the others apparently could no longer stand it, and Santana dragged them off to a janitor's closet where at least the sound would be muffled.
It was all so clearly Rachel's fault.
“You are so self-righteous; you think everything's about you and just because you happen to fit into the neat little heteronormative cliches about what a star should be, you automatically win.”
“And there you go again, trying to play the homophobia card to manipulate everyone to your will; as the daughter of two gay dads, I believe-”
“Oh yes, because you go through so fucking much for something no-one would even know about you if you didn't show it off like-”
“You're still changing the subject! When you look at any kind of relevant evidence, I am simply a more reliable choice to perform the number - I mean, look what happened with Defying Gravity?”
Kurt steps into her personal space, shoving her against the wall. “You have no idea how much I want to hit you right now.”
It's tiny closet, so he doesn't shove her far or hard. Still, she can't hide her shock that he would do that. Hummel, what on Earth are you doing? You don't hit a girl! he tries to tell himself, but then Rachel's regained her composure and his guilt is a little bit buried under the emotion he's bringing to this fight.
“Go ahead,” she says, staring him straight in the eye. “All it'll prove is that you're far too invested in this; it's more than a little unhealthy.
Fuck!
“Do not push me, Rachel.”
His skin feels hot and his blood is rushing so hard he feels it might break said skin. Something isn't falling into place in his mind.
“Why not?” she asks. “I know I'm going to win this fight. The star always wins. I don't see why you feel the need to get so emotional about it.”
“You hypocrite,” he sneers. “God, weren't you meant to have changed? Didn't you learn something about yourself and relax with the spotlight?”
“What about you? Didn't you learn to treat me with actual respect and not use me as an emotional punching bag for all your frustrations?”
“Rachel-”
“Don't,” he voice is low now, almost a whisper. “You can think what you want of me, Kurt, but it has never been personal. And that's why I win.”
“You win because you have circumstances on your side. It's not personal because you're psychotic enough to get this obsessed with things and not care about any of the people relating to it.”
“Now who's the hypocrite?”
“Stop it, Rachel,” he says, looming in closer. “God, we need to calm down. It's just a damn song.”
“I will if you will,” she says, meeting his gaze unblinkingly. “Want to know what I think?”
“What?”
She steps closer to him, and if she's trying to be intimidating her height is probably not on her side, but she carries herself with enough arrogance that it looks a little less ridiculous. “You need someone you can beat,” she tells him. “Someone you can take things from, like everyone does to you.”
“Rachel-”
“When you weren't here, I wasn't around enough to for using me for that to make sense. So we were friends. But when you're here - I'm annoying; I get all the solos. No-one will defend me from you; no-one will think you're a bad person for hurting me.”
God, he's practically on fire now.
“Well, if you want to hurt me? Do your worst. I can handle it, which makes me a damn sight better than you.”
“Fuck, Rachel-”
“Go ahead, Kurt. What are you so scared of?”
And something snaps; whatever's making his skin so hot and his blood boil; whatever's got him leaning in so close.
He smashes his mouth against hers as hard as he possibly can.
“Mmph!” Rachel mumbles, but before long she's kissing back, tugging on his shirt and thrusting her tongue forward boldly. She tastes like breathmints, which, when he thinks about it, doesn't surprise him much - she seems the kind to have them on hand.
“Jesus,” he mumbles against her mouth, which is slightly ironic, given he's atheist and she's jewish, but her fingers are scratching near the hem of his shirt and he needs someone's name to take in vain.
“Kurt,” she mutters as he breaks away from her mouth, pressing kisses down the side of her neck. “Shouldn't we - I mean, you're-”
“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, because he knows what she's going to say. Yes, he's gay. He has been aware of that for many months now; he is still rather entranced by the thought of dick, and the thought of most girls in a sexual manner makes him feel a little icky. And yes, it disturbs him how incompatible that is with slamming Rachel Berry against a wall and ravishing her like the worst romance novel cliche this side of consent, but he's rather enjoying himself doing just that, so he'd rather she not bring it up.
Rachel whimpers and arches her back against the wall; Kurt thinks of that whole romance novel cliche thing from before and hesitates. He pulls away and meets her eye.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Don't you fucking dare,” she snaps. “Um... not to pressure you or anything because even if I'm the girl, it's a double standard to imply you wouldn't have any hesitations about sexual conduct with me, especially given your previously established sexual identity and ohhh.”
His mouth is back on her neck, but more importantly he's made a grab for one of her breasts with his left hand. Because, well, if he's going to try heterosexuality he may as well take advantage of the mammaries that other boys seem to find so enchanting. It's not really doing much for him, just having this lump of flesh in his hand through the fabric (her shirt has a kitten on it, and he's genuinely worried he may break out in hives from contact with such bad fashion), but Rachel is clearly enjoying it and her moans are actually almost as good to listen to as her singing voice.
“You're going to leave a hickey,” she whispers, but in a tone of voice that tells him she doesn't mind all that much. Nonetheless, he rolls his eyes and bites into her neck, hard. She shrieks.
“I don't care,” he tells her, before returning to sucking to make that hickey worse. He's not entirely sure why he wants to mark her so badly, given the unspoken agreement he's fairly sure they have that this will remain a secret. However, something about the power is intoxicating. Rachel Berry, oh-so confident and self-possessing, will have to look in a mirror and see that Kurt Hummel could do that to her. If her wanted to, he could own her entirely. The thought of it makes him groan against her skin and suddenly his other hand is pushing at the hem of her skirt.
Rachel practically squeaks, before letting out a shuddery breath. “Your movements are quite shaky, Kurt,” she says. “If your body posture wavers too much, it can really distract an audience from the performance.”
It takes him a second to remember their whole debate. Oh, goddamnit. Still, if she insists, there's nothing wrong with him continuing to argue his case, right?
And then he grabs her by the thighs and hoists her up the wall.
“Ah!” she cries, more in surprise than anything, while he wraps her legs around his waist and presses his body weight upon her to keep her trapped between him and the wall.
“And you respond too easily, vocally, to stimuli,” he says, thrusting his hips forward. She moans. Her skirt is now bunched up around her waist (and thank god he doesn't have to look at most of it anymore; it was checkered), which means he is now pressed against her with nothing but his clothing and her cotton panties keeping them from making proper contact. And god, he's hard. He is agonizingly hard, for Rachel Berry.
He expects to wake up and have to laugh about being the inverse of most people's sexually confusing dreams any second now.
“I mean, if you cry out because of something while singing, it disturbs the performance far more than a few stray shudders,” Kurt tells her.
“You're being ridiculous,” she says, but he's still thrusting against her and she descends into something of a choked off moan.
“Kurt, please.”
...She just begged. Rachel Berry begged. He made Rachel Berry actually beg.
He bites his lip and holds his breath just to keep from coming in his pants, because these were entirely too expensive and entirely too hard to find to ruin them over this. Not to mention, it would be humiliating and Rachel would probably have a PowerPoint presentation on premature ejaculation ready to go (she's Rachel, and she was dating Finn for months).
He looking her in the eye, and her eyes are hazy in ecstasy. It's like steroids for his ego, that he can do that to her. “What do you want, Rachel?” he asks.
“Touch me.”
Two of his fingers are under her panties. He brushes them against her folds, and wow, she's wet. It both intrigues him and grosses him out a little at the same time.
“Take them off, Kurt,” she snaps.
He rolls his eyes, even as he starts to pull the stretchy fabric off her. “If I drop you, it's your own fault,” he warns her, but she manages to pull a leg back so he can slide her underwear off it, without falling down. The panties wind up hanging limply from her opposite thigh. Nonetheless, he's relieved when her leg grips around him again and it's easier to keep her up. Except there's that pressed against him, naked on her part, and the crude way of summing it up seems best: holy shit.
He grinds against her, desperate for friction on his cock. And he knows he must be getting a pool of bodily fluids on his pants, but it's not actually all that important to him at this very moment. He wants to be touching Rachel and his priority list is frantically rearranging to accommodate that suddenly shooting to the top.
“Kurt. Touch me,” she insists, thrusting her hips up wildly and tossing her hair over her shoulder; god, what a cliche, he manages to think even as he gasps at the feel of it against his cock. He pushes two fingers inside her without hesitation, and she moans loud enough to wake the people who were alive when her clothes were fashionable.
“Ohgodohgodyes, Kurt,” she babbles, pushing her hips back against his hand and plunging him in deeper. He's a little bit, well, fascinated by how her muscles clench and contract around his fingers, and he slides them back and forth to change her moans and shudders, like she's a musical instrument he's just learning how to play.
“You know, you don't have very good body control either,” he casually informs her, earning a glare. “I mean, writhing and shaking and relying on me to hold you up. If I'd distract them, I think you would leave them totally lost, Rachel my dear.”
“Kurt, my body control is wayward at this very moment because I am being fingered against a wall by a boy who's years of piano have obviously been very beneficial; I do not think most audiences would be affected by this,” she says, and he can't help but think well now you've ruined the game. In revenge, he shoves fingers in deeper and twists them roughly; she cries out and her head goes thud against the wall.
“God, Kurt, fuck me!” she yells.
He pauses.
Something at the back of his mind tells him he doesn't want his first time to be like this. To be in a filthy janitor's closet at school; to be rough and angry and with someone he frequently considers a rival; to be with his stepbrother's recent ex (Finn will kill him if he finds out, which given the rest of the club is in a room all of about thirty feet away, is a lot more likely than Kurt cares to think about); to be with someone other than the person he knows he has feelings for (he thinks vaguely of Blaine; his dapper ways, charming smile and unbelievably fetishistic uniform; but of course Rachel still clenching around his fingers distracts him a little); to be with a girl. However, his cock is not listening to any of these very persuasive arguments, as it is leaking at the thought of sliding inside Rachel and fucking her until she screams. He's left with something of a dilemma.
Rachel whimpers. “Kurt.”
That rather makes the choice for him.
Wordlessly, he pushes her against the wall harder and pulls his hand away, so he can get his pants undone without her falling and breaking her neck (he's not sure he's all that vanilla, but necrophilia? No). He undoes his fly and lets the pants fall around his ankles; then he has to grab her with his hands again and pulls back from the wall slightly, so he can shake them off. But then they're off and he and Rachel are against the wall again; he kisses her neck and lightly sucks at the spot where he does so. “God,” he mutters mindlessly, “you want me.”
And she's glaring at him again. “Kurt,” Rachel says. “Get it inside me now or I will set you on fire.”
Kurt rolls his eyes, but he lines up and slides inside. Ohhh...
Rachel gasps, hands grasping onto his back and digging her nails through the fabric (he wants to tell her to stop that, but it requires coherent sentences which he has obviously had some kind of falling out with, as they are nowhere in his head). “Fuck, Kurt,” she moans, much lower than he thought was on her register.
She's tight and she's hot, clenching around him like his own fist could never. He thrusts a little, making her gasp again and making him bite his lip to contain a moan. Stereotypes always told him he'd be a bottom, but if being inside another person - even a girl - feels like this he's not giving it up for the world.
“Kurt move,” she blurts out, and he thrusts inside her hard. She clenches again, and he can't keep back a moan.
“Rachel,” he sputters out, “you feel amazing.”
She smirks at him. “I know. Now who can't control their vocals?”
He rolls her eyes at her ego and her bringing up their debate; he thrusts harder against her to make her gasp and wipe that damn smirk off her face. It works perfectly. The gasp transforms to a low groan, and he sees her hand snaking downward before she starts gently stroking at that nub of flesh just above where he is pressed inside her. She whimpers as he brushes against it.
Still slamming inside her, he takes one of his own fingers and covers hers with it. “Rub it harder,” he tells her, indicating with his own finger. She does just that as he pulls back and moans.
The power of making her do that - although logistically she probably only obeyed because it genuinely did feel better - has him on the fucking edge. The fact she is tightening around him harder and more frequently now doesn't help, as the work themselves and each other into a frenzy. He pushes into her and she pushes back, burying him to the hilt. She rubs hard and fast against her clit, gasping as she does so, before suddenly leaning forward and biting into his shoulder.
“Oh god,” she moans, panting loudly - her legs tighten around his waist and- “Kurt - Kurt I'm going to-”
She clenches like nothing before and actually screams as she comes; Kurt's last thought before he desperately pulls out and lets himself follow suit (because he meant it when he told Dad not to worry about him getting anyone pregnant) is that, with her voice, she really does deserve a solo. Just not his.
*
Santana walks back into the choir room from her official 'Check on Them Killing Each Other Over the Song in a Janitor's Closet' expedition (putting them in there was her idea, so everyone agreed she was the one who had to go see how it was going) with a weirdly smug look on her face.
Puck sees her in the doorway. “So,” he asks, “how are the diva-psychos?”
Santana shrugs. “They're having sex,” she says. “And that was a shitty nickname.”
She receives a lot of blank stares.
She blinks at this. “Really. You're all surprised?” she asks. “Come on guys. Those two have had sexual tension up the wazoo for like, ever. He talks about tying her up in his basement, for christ's sake. And his basement is his bedroom.”
The rest of the club share uncomfortable looks before Artie voices what everyone's thinking: “Um, gay?”
Santana rolls her eyes. “So freaking what? Sex is sex, and everyone's got someone they break their rules for, right?”
Her smirk sharpens at Artie's girlfriend next to him, and Artie makes a rather unsubtle possessive grab for his girlfriend's hand. Brittany herself just keeps picking at the back of her chair; she's sure she put that dragon's tooth in there somewhere.
“Um,” Finn says. “That's... awkward and kind of creepy.”
Santana blinks at him. “Oh yeah. Your bro fucking your ex. Well, sorry!” she says, sounding completely unapologetic.
“Thanks,” says Finn.
He mumbles something after that which no-one can quite make out, but it sounds surprisingly like should have gotten at least one three-way out of all this.
A loud groan comes from someone surprising - Tina. “Screw it,” she says. “Can I take the solo just to spite them for bitching at each other and messing things up with their U-S-T?”
Everyone shares glances and shrugs (Finn nods rather enthusiastically).
“Sounds fine to me,” Santana says, and Tina beams.
Author: hyperemmalawlz
Fandom: Glee
Characters/Pairing: Kurt/Rachel. References to Finn/Rachel, Kurt/Blaine, Brittany/Santana, and Artie/Brittany.
Word Count: 3680
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Rachel get into another fight over a solo. Santana locks them in the closet. It ends... how you might expect if you lock two people who are always fighting over trivial things in a closet together.
Spoilers: Up to 2x09, "Special Education."
Warnings: Swearing, porn (including rough sex, wall sex, and biting/marking), tiny violence? Also, Kurt-in-het.
Author's Notes: Written for this prompt on the glee_kink_meme: "Rachel and Kurt both expected their first times to be all romantic and sweet. They definitely did not expect to end up in the janitor's closet going at it like crazed rabbits half way through one of their bitch fights. And of course, they both just want the other person to Stop Talking, but they're way, way too devoted to this argument now, and being Rachel and Kurt, they both really want to win." And they finally have a shipper comm, so I can post here!
Are You Afraid I'm Gonna...?
“I cannot believe you got us into this situation,” Kurt sneers, looming in close.
Rachel, to her credit, doesn't flinch (then again, in this sort of light it would be hard to notice even if she did). “I got us into this situation? Kurt, if you had just been willing to accept my superior vocal range and tenacity-”
“Oh really, superior?” Kurt asks. “In case you have not been paying attention - my vocal range extends almost as high as yours and much, much lower; you are not - The song requires-”
And this is how McKinley High welcomed him back. His ability to return (thanks to a certain glorified rodent with hair stereotypical of his jewish creed rather publicly outing one David Karofsky, leading to Karofsky's transfer) had been mostly met by his friends and fellow glee club members with joy and hesitation in denying him his wishes, as they all wanted to keep him there.
Not so with one Rachel Berry. They were still friends, of a sort, but a lot of their closeness they discovered could be abruptly pushed to the side in their rediscovered constant battle for the spotlight. His other friends appeared less than pleased with Rachel for this (then again, they appeared less than pleased with Rachel for most things), but nothing stops that girl when she's that determined.
Truth be told, Kurt doesn't usually mind her attitude. It makes his life feel more normal again, and gives him an excuse to aim his caustic barbs without having to feel like he's just as bad as the psychotic closet case that drove him out of this school, or the domineering robots at Dalton who would judge you for anything and everything you'd say; who made it so important to him that he become able to return to McKinley.
“Kurt, you know I respect your talent and presence as a performer, but I simply do not think you have the particular style this piece-”
“Oh, style? Well, maybe I'll call your fashion advisers - I don't think that homeless woman who sleeps near the public toilets has a phone and Strawberry Shortcake's is probably made out of some food product and would disintegrate in the rain, but I'm sure I can find a way around it.”
“And yet again, your reliance on ad hominem arguments betrays the fact deep down you know I'm right; physical clothing was not what I was talking about and you know it-”
The group had arranged a meeting of their own without Mr. Schuester, as the teacher had announced there was a solo up for grabs towards the end of the last rehearsal; too late for them to have a proper discussion about it. The group decided to discuss it on their own so they'd feel less pressured by any idea an authority figure had on what they 'should' do, but Rachel immediately clung to the idea she would perform it and refused to listen to reason. Kurt calmly and maturely explained why he was better suited to sing the song (a calm and mature argument which, okay, may have referred to her as a 'midget' one time too often). Kurt found himself drawn into a fight. Eventually, their squabbling got so intense that the others apparently could no longer stand it, and Santana dragged them off to a janitor's closet where at least the sound would be muffled.
It was all so clearly Rachel's fault.
“You are so self-righteous; you think everything's about you and just because you happen to fit into the neat little heteronormative cliches about what a star should be, you automatically win.”
“And there you go again, trying to play the homophobia card to manipulate everyone to your will; as the daughter of two gay dads, I believe-”
“Oh yes, because you go through so fucking much for something no-one would even know about you if you didn't show it off like-”
“You're still changing the subject! When you look at any kind of relevant evidence, I am simply a more reliable choice to perform the number - I mean, look what happened with Defying Gravity?”
Kurt steps into her personal space, shoving her against the wall. “You have no idea how much I want to hit you right now.”
It's tiny closet, so he doesn't shove her far or hard. Still, she can't hide her shock that he would do that. Hummel, what on Earth are you doing? You don't hit a girl! he tries to tell himself, but then Rachel's regained her composure and his guilt is a little bit buried under the emotion he's bringing to this fight.
“Go ahead,” she says, staring him straight in the eye. “All it'll prove is that you're far too invested in this; it's more than a little unhealthy.
Fuck!
“Do not push me, Rachel.”
His skin feels hot and his blood is rushing so hard he feels it might break said skin. Something isn't falling into place in his mind.
“Why not?” she asks. “I know I'm going to win this fight. The star always wins. I don't see why you feel the need to get so emotional about it.”
“You hypocrite,” he sneers. “God, weren't you meant to have changed? Didn't you learn something about yourself and relax with the spotlight?”
“What about you? Didn't you learn to treat me with actual respect and not use me as an emotional punching bag for all your frustrations?”
“Rachel-”
“Don't,” he voice is low now, almost a whisper. “You can think what you want of me, Kurt, but it has never been personal. And that's why I win.”
“You win because you have circumstances on your side. It's not personal because you're psychotic enough to get this obsessed with things and not care about any of the people relating to it.”
“Now who's the hypocrite?”
“Stop it, Rachel,” he says, looming in closer. “God, we need to calm down. It's just a damn song.”
“I will if you will,” she says, meeting his gaze unblinkingly. “Want to know what I think?”
“What?”
She steps closer to him, and if she's trying to be intimidating her height is probably not on her side, but she carries herself with enough arrogance that it looks a little less ridiculous. “You need someone you can beat,” she tells him. “Someone you can take things from, like everyone does to you.”
“Rachel-”
“When you weren't here, I wasn't around enough to for using me for that to make sense. So we were friends. But when you're here - I'm annoying; I get all the solos. No-one will defend me from you; no-one will think you're a bad person for hurting me.”
God, he's practically on fire now.
“Well, if you want to hurt me? Do your worst. I can handle it, which makes me a damn sight better than you.”
“Fuck, Rachel-”
“Go ahead, Kurt. What are you so scared of?”
And something snaps; whatever's making his skin so hot and his blood boil; whatever's got him leaning in so close.
He smashes his mouth against hers as hard as he possibly can.
“Mmph!” Rachel mumbles, but before long she's kissing back, tugging on his shirt and thrusting her tongue forward boldly. She tastes like breathmints, which, when he thinks about it, doesn't surprise him much - she seems the kind to have them on hand.
“Jesus,” he mumbles against her mouth, which is slightly ironic, given he's atheist and she's jewish, but her fingers are scratching near the hem of his shirt and he needs someone's name to take in vain.
“Kurt,” she mutters as he breaks away from her mouth, pressing kisses down the side of her neck. “Shouldn't we - I mean, you're-”
“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, because he knows what she's going to say. Yes, he's gay. He has been aware of that for many months now; he is still rather entranced by the thought of dick, and the thought of most girls in a sexual manner makes him feel a little icky. And yes, it disturbs him how incompatible that is with slamming Rachel Berry against a wall and ravishing her like the worst romance novel cliche this side of consent, but he's rather enjoying himself doing just that, so he'd rather she not bring it up.
Rachel whimpers and arches her back against the wall; Kurt thinks of that whole romance novel cliche thing from before and hesitates. He pulls away and meets her eye.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Don't you fucking dare,” she snaps. “Um... not to pressure you or anything because even if I'm the girl, it's a double standard to imply you wouldn't have any hesitations about sexual conduct with me, especially given your previously established sexual identity and ohhh.”
His mouth is back on her neck, but more importantly he's made a grab for one of her breasts with his left hand. Because, well, if he's going to try heterosexuality he may as well take advantage of the mammaries that other boys seem to find so enchanting. It's not really doing much for him, just having this lump of flesh in his hand through the fabric (her shirt has a kitten on it, and he's genuinely worried he may break out in hives from contact with such bad fashion), but Rachel is clearly enjoying it and her moans are actually almost as good to listen to as her singing voice.
“You're going to leave a hickey,” she whispers, but in a tone of voice that tells him she doesn't mind all that much. Nonetheless, he rolls his eyes and bites into her neck, hard. She shrieks.
“I don't care,” he tells her, before returning to sucking to make that hickey worse. He's not entirely sure why he wants to mark her so badly, given the unspoken agreement he's fairly sure they have that this will remain a secret. However, something about the power is intoxicating. Rachel Berry, oh-so confident and self-possessing, will have to look in a mirror and see that Kurt Hummel could do that to her. If her wanted to, he could own her entirely. The thought of it makes him groan against her skin and suddenly his other hand is pushing at the hem of her skirt.
Rachel practically squeaks, before letting out a shuddery breath. “Your movements are quite shaky, Kurt,” she says. “If your body posture wavers too much, it can really distract an audience from the performance.”
It takes him a second to remember their whole debate. Oh, goddamnit. Still, if she insists, there's nothing wrong with him continuing to argue his case, right?
And then he grabs her by the thighs and hoists her up the wall.
“Ah!” she cries, more in surprise than anything, while he wraps her legs around his waist and presses his body weight upon her to keep her trapped between him and the wall.
“And you respond too easily, vocally, to stimuli,” he says, thrusting his hips forward. She moans. Her skirt is now bunched up around her waist (and thank god he doesn't have to look at most of it anymore; it was checkered), which means he is now pressed against her with nothing but his clothing and her cotton panties keeping them from making proper contact. And god, he's hard. He is agonizingly hard, for Rachel Berry.
He expects to wake up and have to laugh about being the inverse of most people's sexually confusing dreams any second now.
“I mean, if you cry out because of something while singing, it disturbs the performance far more than a few stray shudders,” Kurt tells her.
“You're being ridiculous,” she says, but he's still thrusting against her and she descends into something of a choked off moan.
“Kurt, please.”
...She just begged. Rachel Berry begged. He made Rachel Berry actually beg.
He bites his lip and holds his breath just to keep from coming in his pants, because these were entirely too expensive and entirely too hard to find to ruin them over this. Not to mention, it would be humiliating and Rachel would probably have a PowerPoint presentation on premature ejaculation ready to go (she's Rachel, and she was dating Finn for months).
He looking her in the eye, and her eyes are hazy in ecstasy. It's like steroids for his ego, that he can do that to her. “What do you want, Rachel?” he asks.
“Touch me.”
Two of his fingers are under her panties. He brushes them against her folds, and wow, she's wet. It both intrigues him and grosses him out a little at the same time.
“Take them off, Kurt,” she snaps.
He rolls his eyes, even as he starts to pull the stretchy fabric off her. “If I drop you, it's your own fault,” he warns her, but she manages to pull a leg back so he can slide her underwear off it, without falling down. The panties wind up hanging limply from her opposite thigh. Nonetheless, he's relieved when her leg grips around him again and it's easier to keep her up. Except there's that pressed against him, naked on her part, and the crude way of summing it up seems best: holy shit.
He grinds against her, desperate for friction on his cock. And he knows he must be getting a pool of bodily fluids on his pants, but it's not actually all that important to him at this very moment. He wants to be touching Rachel and his priority list is frantically rearranging to accommodate that suddenly shooting to the top.
“Kurt. Touch me,” she insists, thrusting her hips up wildly and tossing her hair over her shoulder; god, what a cliche, he manages to think even as he gasps at the feel of it against his cock. He pushes two fingers inside her without hesitation, and she moans loud enough to wake the people who were alive when her clothes were fashionable.
“Ohgodohgodyes, Kurt,” she babbles, pushing her hips back against his hand and plunging him in deeper. He's a little bit, well, fascinated by how her muscles clench and contract around his fingers, and he slides them back and forth to change her moans and shudders, like she's a musical instrument he's just learning how to play.
“You know, you don't have very good body control either,” he casually informs her, earning a glare. “I mean, writhing and shaking and relying on me to hold you up. If I'd distract them, I think you would leave them totally lost, Rachel my dear.”
“Kurt, my body control is wayward at this very moment because I am being fingered against a wall by a boy who's years of piano have obviously been very beneficial; I do not think most audiences would be affected by this,” she says, and he can't help but think well now you've ruined the game. In revenge, he shoves fingers in deeper and twists them roughly; she cries out and her head goes thud against the wall.
“God, Kurt, fuck me!” she yells.
He pauses.
Something at the back of his mind tells him he doesn't want his first time to be like this. To be in a filthy janitor's closet at school; to be rough and angry and with someone he frequently considers a rival; to be with his stepbrother's recent ex (Finn will kill him if he finds out, which given the rest of the club is in a room all of about thirty feet away, is a lot more likely than Kurt cares to think about); to be with someone other than the person he knows he has feelings for (he thinks vaguely of Blaine; his dapper ways, charming smile and unbelievably fetishistic uniform; but of course Rachel still clenching around his fingers distracts him a little); to be with a girl. However, his cock is not listening to any of these very persuasive arguments, as it is leaking at the thought of sliding inside Rachel and fucking her until she screams. He's left with something of a dilemma.
Rachel whimpers. “Kurt.”
That rather makes the choice for him.
Wordlessly, he pushes her against the wall harder and pulls his hand away, so he can get his pants undone without her falling and breaking her neck (he's not sure he's all that vanilla, but necrophilia? No). He undoes his fly and lets the pants fall around his ankles; then he has to grab her with his hands again and pulls back from the wall slightly, so he can shake them off. But then they're off and he and Rachel are against the wall again; he kisses her neck and lightly sucks at the spot where he does so. “God,” he mutters mindlessly, “you want me.”
And she's glaring at him again. “Kurt,” Rachel says. “Get it inside me now or I will set you on fire.”
Kurt rolls his eyes, but he lines up and slides inside. Ohhh...
Rachel gasps, hands grasping onto his back and digging her nails through the fabric (he wants to tell her to stop that, but it requires coherent sentences which he has obviously had some kind of falling out with, as they are nowhere in his head). “Fuck, Kurt,” she moans, much lower than he thought was on her register.
She's tight and she's hot, clenching around him like his own fist could never. He thrusts a little, making her gasp again and making him bite his lip to contain a moan. Stereotypes always told him he'd be a bottom, but if being inside another person - even a girl - feels like this he's not giving it up for the world.
“Kurt move,” she blurts out, and he thrusts inside her hard. She clenches again, and he can't keep back a moan.
“Rachel,” he sputters out, “you feel amazing.”
She smirks at him. “I know. Now who can't control their vocals?”
He rolls her eyes at her ego and her bringing up their debate; he thrusts harder against her to make her gasp and wipe that damn smirk off her face. It works perfectly. The gasp transforms to a low groan, and he sees her hand snaking downward before she starts gently stroking at that nub of flesh just above where he is pressed inside her. She whimpers as he brushes against it.
Still slamming inside her, he takes one of his own fingers and covers hers with it. “Rub it harder,” he tells her, indicating with his own finger. She does just that as he pulls back and moans.
The power of making her do that - although logistically she probably only obeyed because it genuinely did feel better - has him on the fucking edge. The fact she is tightening around him harder and more frequently now doesn't help, as the work themselves and each other into a frenzy. He pushes into her and she pushes back, burying him to the hilt. She rubs hard and fast against her clit, gasping as she does so, before suddenly leaning forward and biting into his shoulder.
“Oh god,” she moans, panting loudly - her legs tighten around his waist and- “Kurt - Kurt I'm going to-”
She clenches like nothing before and actually screams as she comes; Kurt's last thought before he desperately pulls out and lets himself follow suit (because he meant it when he told Dad not to worry about him getting anyone pregnant) is that, with her voice, she really does deserve a solo. Just not his.
*
Santana walks back into the choir room from her official 'Check on Them Killing Each Other Over the Song in a Janitor's Closet' expedition (putting them in there was her idea, so everyone agreed she was the one who had to go see how it was going) with a weirdly smug look on her face.
Puck sees her in the doorway. “So,” he asks, “how are the diva-psychos?”
Santana shrugs. “They're having sex,” she says. “And that was a shitty nickname.”
She receives a lot of blank stares.
She blinks at this. “Really. You're all surprised?” she asks. “Come on guys. Those two have had sexual tension up the wazoo for like, ever. He talks about tying her up in his basement, for christ's sake. And his basement is his bedroom.”
The rest of the club share uncomfortable looks before Artie voices what everyone's thinking: “Um, gay?”
Santana rolls her eyes. “So freaking what? Sex is sex, and everyone's got someone they break their rules for, right?”
Her smirk sharpens at Artie's girlfriend next to him, and Artie makes a rather unsubtle possessive grab for his girlfriend's hand. Brittany herself just keeps picking at the back of her chair; she's sure she put that dragon's tooth in there somewhere.
“Um,” Finn says. “That's... awkward and kind of creepy.”
Santana blinks at him. “Oh yeah. Your bro fucking your ex. Well, sorry!” she says, sounding completely unapologetic.
“Thanks,” says Finn.
He mumbles something after that which no-one can quite make out, but it sounds surprisingly like should have gotten at least one three-way out of all this.
A loud groan comes from someone surprising - Tina. “Screw it,” she says. “Can I take the solo just to spite them for bitching at each other and messing things up with their U-S-T?”
Everyone shares glances and shrugs (Finn nods rather enthusiastically).
“Sounds fine to me,” Santana says, and Tina beams.