Glee Fic: the high school trap
Catching up, catching up, catching up. Moved into a new apartment, trying not to crash, but I can still blame 0penhearts for all of this. And taking me away from everything else. You heard me, Mary. You heard me.
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.
the high school trap
glee | will/rachel | general spoilers | 3,133 words, adult.
somewhere between your first week and maybe the next two, the rumor mill is going to start wandering around. it’s going to get close. for the glee-kink-meme. the prompt is: general spoilers for rumors, student/teacher, established relationship, and, well, at school.
-
Somebody says something before school is the guess. How it usually travels: is locker to locker, then teacher to teacher, until someone blows up and it’s a free-for-all admission right in front of the whole school.
“I bet he makes them call him daddy,” Santana laughs. “At least, that’s what Julie Knowles just said after Spanish. Slut.”
Rachel still isn’t entirely sure where the conversation started, or how they all got involved, but there’s an uncomfortable sense of candor that suddenly unravels when they start talking about Mr. Schuester.
“You’re gross,” Mercedes says next to her, rolling her eyes too. Rachel folds her hands in her lap and stares straight ahead, at the empty blackboard. Mr. Schuester is always ten minutes late to their lunch rehearsal; there’s always some kind of lazy confrontation that erupts between him, Principle Figgins, and the newly obsessed, strangely motivated Coach Sylvester. Someone has got to start blaming her eligibility for political office at any rate, Rachel thinks.
She also starts trying to tune everyone out. There is Finn and Puck in the front of the room, deep in whispers about their pending solo. Mercedes and Kurt keep trying to half-heartedly rope her into going shopping before their weekend Chicago trip, courtesy of her dads and a belated birthday present. She’s not paying attention; half of it is the fact that everybody in the chorus room so incestuously connected, from Quinn to Finn to a deparated Sam and even Puck and Rachel, and the other half is simply because she doesn’t really need to hear it.
Mr. Schuester does wander into the room, flustered and more than a few minutes late. They all hear Coach Sylvester’s voice echo down the hall before he shuts the door and starts rambling about top forty radio and the old, open classics. Nobody’s brought up Sections and Regionals and Nationals and how important it’s going to be when it’s time to really focus on putting together a set list. Rachel, even, doesn’t speak up; for her, senior, a now tentative friendship with Finn because of the breakup and then everything else, is just there.
It is still a whirlwind though. It’s Puck and Finn who get up and sing a medley of Neil Diamond and Nick Cave and nothing that goes together. Rachel watches Mr. Schuester in the corner, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he winces. She wants to be sympathetic, but that holds off until both boys are done.
It’s Brittany who finally asks though. “So,” she says. “Like, is it true that you’ve slept with most of the senior girls? Should we be jealous?”
Everybody laughs. Mr. Schuester is pale.
It takes her until after French to come around. Her hands flutter nervously over her books and when she steps into his office and closes the door, he looks up at her and his expression completely changes, half-dark, half-uncomfortable, and somewhere in between all of that, she can taste the shame.
“So,” she starts awkwardly. Her voice is light and there are knots in her stomach. “Is there something you want to tell me? That you’re a serial teacher who likes - ”
“Rachel,” he cuts her off.
She doesn’t wince. “Sorry,” she says, and that’s a lie too. She puts her books down on the floor, by the chair that she finally sits on. She rests on the edge, propping her chin in her hand and licking her lips. “Just curious,” she says dryly.
He rolls his eyes. “I do have self-control.”
They both know that this is a lie. How they started, it was somewhere between Miss Pillsbury and Finn, or more so Puck because she and Puck have that kind of relationship and it seems to be the healthiest one outside of her fathers. She can’t remember if it was him or her, or if it was his hand that rolled against her thigh, his fingers under her skirt, or the way it was too entirely comfortable for her, on her knees and between his legs, her hot, tight mouth around his dick all the same.
She can remember that he called her baby and sweetheart and other things; all things that she took home with her when she shoved her fingers deep, deep into her cunt. It wasn’t the first or the last time, and she really doesn’t know how to forget why there are teeth marks on her throat or how that one time, just that one time she let Brad from Carmel, who happened to be at Santana’s party, go down on her and finger her until she faked an orgasm because she was too busy thinking about Will - Mr. Schuester - and how he felt inside of her, stretching her until she wanted to cry and burst at the same time for him.
“I have a headache,” she says softly, and it’s Brittany, she tells herself. It’s mean and it’s horrible and she really thinks she’s lovely, but multiple students doesn’t equate to anyone knowing about her and Will and their first time in the chorus room.
But that was months ago.
Rachel does not come back until after school, after two hours of Glee in the auditorium and the reminder that her AP exams are going to break her in half even though she’s totally and utterly committed and prepared. She says goodbye Puck, smiles uneasily at Finn, and manages to promise both Santana and Mercedes that she’ll be along tomorrow for coffee and an impromptu stop at the mall for something short for Chicago.
She sits in Mr. Schuester’s office until he arrives too, until he closes the door and locks it, leaning back against the wood panel and shouldering off his jacket to drop on the floor. The cuffs of his sleeves are rolled and she’s licking her lips before catching herself.
“No one knows,” she murmurs.
He shakes his head. “I can’t be reckless.”
She snorts. “Funny,” she says dryly.
“You know what I mean - ” he runs a shaky hand through his hair. “You’re you,” he says, but that’s half-hearted.
And really, this is far, far away from being about Brittany and her questions; the second or third time started their school moments, where somehow talking about her helping him with language tutoring ended up being her with her mouth over his, sticky and wet with his come, and his hand at her throat, pulling tugging at her hair as they kissed and she settled in his lap. The door has been open before; this is all that she’ll admit to.
“You are reckless,” she says. She looks away, rubbing her throat. “You’re every bit as reckless as I am and I know, I know that like me, there’s a thing about someone finding out and getting off on it.”
He laughs, but it’s dark and open. She pushes herself away from his desk, where she stands from leaning against the ledge. She stops in front of him, at the door. She doesn’t touch him and he leans forward, over her.
“You look - ” he swallows and shakes his head. “You looked very pretty today,” he says.
“Are you being condescending?” she asks.
His mouth twitches.
“I’m your only fan,” he tells her, and her eyes drop to the belt around his jeans.
She could say i’m serious because it’s simple and to the point, but his fingers reach for her mouth and spread over her lip, rubbing lightly against the skin. Her breath is sharp and she sighs, biting lightly at the pads of his fingertips. He doesn’t make a sound, but his eyes are dark and someone, him or her or both, swallows.
“We can’t do this at school,” he says softly, and it comes back, from the late night rides, to the second time she’s walked into his home and it’s just been her, to that time, the insanity of his three fingers, inside of her, and his thumb, rolling over her clit as he pressed his tongue at her throat, then bit at her breast and her nipple.
“You said that the last time.”
She’s dry and unrelenting, unapologetic as his mouth presses against hers, opened and wet. He doesn’t touch her hip, not like he usually does, like a reassurance, his fingers slide between their mouths and when he pulls away, she’s sucking lightly at his skin, as he watches her with dark eyes.
“I did,” he drawls, and he pushes her back into steps. Her feet move them to his desk and he’s swiping at all the papers, the files and the exams. There’s a rustle of papers and they’re over the floor as he presses her into the wood.
Mr. Schuester is not a good man. She doesn’t even like that he tries; when he pulls at her skirt, it bunches at her waist and he’s pressing his fingers between her legs, against her panties. She’s wet and her hips jerk forward, against his fingers as he laughs.
“You have to be quiet, baby,” he says again.
The door is unlocked again. He’s fucked her into her desk and the papers remain on the floor, by his feet and his bag. The sweat against the column of his throat is caught between her teeth and he keeps her too close. Her thighs are wet, slick with nerves and the stickiness of her orgasm. He never says cum, but it’s more about how he whispers things like tight and wet and that no one, no one will make her as tight as she is around his fingers and mouth.
She is not on her knees, not yet, but her bare ass is pressing into somebody’s test as she watches him stroke his dick with dark eyes. He is neither fast nor patient, but he’s waiting nonetheless, watching and seeing how she reacts.
“I don’t call you daddy,” she says softly, breathlessly, and there’s an angry flush to her cheeks. He smirks and she watches his thumb rub over the tip off his cock. It’s sticky when he brings it to her mouth, his cock hard and pressing into her thigh as he leans forward. She sucks at his thumb, rolling her tongue against his skin and sighing with relief.
She likes the way he tastes and he knows that. He palms her breast.
“No,” he agrees. “Not even Will,” he says too.
“Do you like that? That I just call you Mr. Schuester?” she asks, and she’s completely serious, sucking at his thumb still as he watches her. He uses his free hand to pull her forward, so that her legs are dangling off the sides. She can’t remember the first rule, if it was to just simple be quiet or take extra, extra care to.
He doesn’t answer though, and his hand is back between her legs, his fingers pressing against her clit and she’s sore and just aches. She lets out this moan though as his fingers start to rub at her slit. She’s wet, so wet, and there’s this obscene, soft sound that just happens when his fingers slide back into her again.
“No,” she breathes, and his mouth opens lightly over hers. “I want you. I want you. And you didn’t tell -”
She gasps when he pulls his fingers back again, and he makes a fist over his dick, pushing his hips forward and then guiding the tip inside of her. He doesn’t press forward, not yet, but she can already feel the memory of herself as she stretches, just for him and how he likes when she lets her nails sink into her back.
It’s then that she remembers that he may or may not have pocketed her panties and the last time, oh the last time, she found out that he likes to keep them and in his jacket until she comes over his place and the air inside is cold when it touches her ass. She told him too that she kind of likes the way the air hits her skin, her clit, when she lies on his bed and she’s spreading herself out for him. No one else would understand as it is; for the two of them, she thinks, it’s always going to be like that.
He tells her this too, mouth hot over her ear, half-grinning and moaning as his belly presses over hers. She breathes first.
“They’ll -” he moans, “no one else will let you - ” and he struggles, only with the words, because it’s really more when she feels and listens to the sounds he makes; it’s his mouth again, at her throat, her ear, and then over her mouth, his fist pulling at her hair and when his hips jerk forward again, his dick is pushing into her and she can just feel it slide.
She can barely tell him to stop talking as it is.
Mr. Schuester kneels between her legs and his tongue slides over her clit. “Baby,” he murmurs, and it’s almost feverish, “Baby.”
She wonders what she tastes like; he’s sticky and salty and she likes knowing that he opens himself just before Spanish class, his third one of the day, next door to her French class. She knows he’ll see her just before and if they had done this at lunch, just between breaks, she’d make sure to flash, briefly, the curve of her ass.
But she’s sticky too and moaning, watching as he buries himself between her thighs. His fingers are curling in her skin. She has half a fist in his hair, arched back and he’s told her once before that he just likes the way she tastes with him. It makes her want him back inside of her, back to seeing how deep he can go.
“We’re the worst kept - secret,” she manages, and he laughs against her cunt, his tongue darting against the soft hole. She cries out at the sensation and bites down at her fist, shoving her knuckles against her teeth. She wants his fingers. She wants his mouth. She wants to come so hard that he looks at her in the same way he watches her sing, on stage and wanting her.
“You’re a good girl,” he says.
They both know there’s just another hour before the janitor comes humming down the hallway and that he likes stopping to talk to Mr. Schuester only because she’s usually in the room and there’s some kind of argument about the set list. They don’t fake that. There’s basketball practice too and the Cheerios, rolling out of the gym and the nearby hallway and it’s really true that anyone could want to walk in.
“Quiet,” he orders.
He kneels back and her eyes are wide, glassy as she catches his mouth and how it glistens. He’s sticky and she likes that he’s sticky. She doesn’t have time to react because his fingers are back inside of her and she’s arching into his hand, slumping forward as he finger fucks her back into someone’s test.
“Quiet,” he says again, and she bites harder at her fist - it’s not enough because her mew sort of slips and he narrows his eyes, his fingers spreading over her belly to hold her down. “You need to be quiet,” he says.
It’s because this is school, she reasons and her rationalizations are more than sort of panicked because she’s going to cry again for the third, maybe fourth time. His hand spreads over her belly and he pushes her hard, back, so that her head drops over the ledge and her hair spills over into his chair.
He’s moving his hand slowly and there’s really - that’s a lie - no particular pace. It’s just easy to say that he slows down, only to pry her fist from her mouth and to slide his fingers into her mouth inside.
“Suck them,” he says, and it’s shaky, and she’s never asked him if he’s been by himself and just gone and thought of her. She complies though, wrapping her lips around the tips of his fingers and trying so, so hard to muffle any kind of sound.
They’re small and she watches, gaze almost blurred, as he sort of smiles. She’s flushing again too and it’s building, the sensations, back in her belly. She aches and aches and just aches. She thinks, just briefly, that she may call him daddy just to see what he’d do and there’s just something about the risk of him stopping, if only to torture, that she just can’t bear.
“I do it so they can see you,” he says. “Since you’re such a pretty girl.”
She moans, and her tongue rolls over his thumb as she keeps sucking at his fingers. It’s louder than she intends it to be. He’s bending over her then, his mouth grazing at her throat too. She feels his teeth and her hips buck.
“You know it’s true,” Mr. Schuester breathes. “Your mouth was mine first,” he says and he trembles into her. When he bites into her throat, she cries out into his hand, his fingers pressing harder into her mouth. The sounds from her mouth are muffled and it keeps being more and more about what he has to say.
She unravels, much later. This is because he tells her he’s not finished too.
The Glee club’s first early scrimmage of the year puts them in a bus, on the way back from some obscure town two hours away from Akron. She sits in the back, next to Mr. Schuester because they all volunteered her to tell him that the club has decided to forever ban Michael Bublé from any kind of future set list even if it’s senior year.
His knuckles still graze her thigh and when she watches the lights go out on the bus, she manages to half-watch his fingers disappear under the rising hem of her dress. They’re cool against her thighs then settle against the thin, cotton fabric of her panties. He presses a finger to his mouth and she flushes, watching as he launches into a lazy argument about her ability to be too picky when it comes to sound choices.
The lights are still on. She manages to look to the front of the bus for the moment.
Santana smirks at her and Rachel presses her hands against her cheeks, as the bus goes dark. She must be wearing some kind of look on her face and it’s hard to concentrate because they’re two seats behind Puck too and there’s no one worse to lie to outside of Puck and, well, her dads.
It’s still Brittany that speaks up. “Remember to keep it quiet,” she says cheerfully.
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.
the high school trap
glee | will/rachel | general spoilers | 3,133 words, adult.
somewhere between your first week and maybe the next two, the rumor mill is going to start wandering around. it’s going to get close. for the glee-kink-meme. the prompt is: general spoilers for rumors, student/teacher, established relationship, and, well, at school.
-
Somebody says something before school is the guess. How it usually travels: is locker to locker, then teacher to teacher, until someone blows up and it’s a free-for-all admission right in front of the whole school.
“I bet he makes them call him daddy,” Santana laughs. “At least, that’s what Julie Knowles just said after Spanish. Slut.”
Rachel still isn’t entirely sure where the conversation started, or how they all got involved, but there’s an uncomfortable sense of candor that suddenly unravels when they start talking about Mr. Schuester.
“You’re gross,” Mercedes says next to her, rolling her eyes too. Rachel folds her hands in her lap and stares straight ahead, at the empty blackboard. Mr. Schuester is always ten minutes late to their lunch rehearsal; there’s always some kind of lazy confrontation that erupts between him, Principle Figgins, and the newly obsessed, strangely motivated Coach Sylvester. Someone has got to start blaming her eligibility for political office at any rate, Rachel thinks.
She also starts trying to tune everyone out. There is Finn and Puck in the front of the room, deep in whispers about their pending solo. Mercedes and Kurt keep trying to half-heartedly rope her into going shopping before their weekend Chicago trip, courtesy of her dads and a belated birthday present. She’s not paying attention; half of it is the fact that everybody in the chorus room so incestuously connected, from Quinn to Finn to a deparated Sam and even Puck and Rachel, and the other half is simply because she doesn’t really need to hear it.
Mr. Schuester does wander into the room, flustered and more than a few minutes late. They all hear Coach Sylvester’s voice echo down the hall before he shuts the door and starts rambling about top forty radio and the old, open classics. Nobody’s brought up Sections and Regionals and Nationals and how important it’s going to be when it’s time to really focus on putting together a set list. Rachel, even, doesn’t speak up; for her, senior, a now tentative friendship with Finn because of the breakup and then everything else, is just there.
It is still a whirlwind though. It’s Puck and Finn who get up and sing a medley of Neil Diamond and Nick Cave and nothing that goes together. Rachel watches Mr. Schuester in the corner, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he winces. She wants to be sympathetic, but that holds off until both boys are done.
It’s Brittany who finally asks though. “So,” she says. “Like, is it true that you’ve slept with most of the senior girls? Should we be jealous?”
Everybody laughs. Mr. Schuester is pale.
It takes her until after French to come around. Her hands flutter nervously over her books and when she steps into his office and closes the door, he looks up at her and his expression completely changes, half-dark, half-uncomfortable, and somewhere in between all of that, she can taste the shame.
“So,” she starts awkwardly. Her voice is light and there are knots in her stomach. “Is there something you want to tell me? That you’re a serial teacher who likes - ”
“Rachel,” he cuts her off.
She doesn’t wince. “Sorry,” she says, and that’s a lie too. She puts her books down on the floor, by the chair that she finally sits on. She rests on the edge, propping her chin in her hand and licking her lips. “Just curious,” she says dryly.
He rolls his eyes. “I do have self-control.”
They both know that this is a lie. How they started, it was somewhere between Miss Pillsbury and Finn, or more so Puck because she and Puck have that kind of relationship and it seems to be the healthiest one outside of her fathers. She can’t remember if it was him or her, or if it was his hand that rolled against her thigh, his fingers under her skirt, or the way it was too entirely comfortable for her, on her knees and between his legs, her hot, tight mouth around his dick all the same.
She can remember that he called her baby and sweetheart and other things; all things that she took home with her when she shoved her fingers deep, deep into her cunt. It wasn’t the first or the last time, and she really doesn’t know how to forget why there are teeth marks on her throat or how that one time, just that one time she let Brad from Carmel, who happened to be at Santana’s party, go down on her and finger her until she faked an orgasm because she was too busy thinking about Will - Mr. Schuester - and how he felt inside of her, stretching her until she wanted to cry and burst at the same time for him.
“I have a headache,” she says softly, and it’s Brittany, she tells herself. It’s mean and it’s horrible and she really thinks she’s lovely, but multiple students doesn’t equate to anyone knowing about her and Will and their first time in the chorus room.
But that was months ago.
Rachel does not come back until after school, after two hours of Glee in the auditorium and the reminder that her AP exams are going to break her in half even though she’s totally and utterly committed and prepared. She says goodbye Puck, smiles uneasily at Finn, and manages to promise both Santana and Mercedes that she’ll be along tomorrow for coffee and an impromptu stop at the mall for something short for Chicago.
She sits in Mr. Schuester’s office until he arrives too, until he closes the door and locks it, leaning back against the wood panel and shouldering off his jacket to drop on the floor. The cuffs of his sleeves are rolled and she’s licking her lips before catching herself.
“No one knows,” she murmurs.
He shakes his head. “I can’t be reckless.”
She snorts. “Funny,” she says dryly.
“You know what I mean - ” he runs a shaky hand through his hair. “You’re you,” he says, but that’s half-hearted.
And really, this is far, far away from being about Brittany and her questions; the second or third time started their school moments, where somehow talking about her helping him with language tutoring ended up being her with her mouth over his, sticky and wet with his come, and his hand at her throat, pulling tugging at her hair as they kissed and she settled in his lap. The door has been open before; this is all that she’ll admit to.
“You are reckless,” she says. She looks away, rubbing her throat. “You’re every bit as reckless as I am and I know, I know that like me, there’s a thing about someone finding out and getting off on it.”
He laughs, but it’s dark and open. She pushes herself away from his desk, where she stands from leaning against the ledge. She stops in front of him, at the door. She doesn’t touch him and he leans forward, over her.
“You look - ” he swallows and shakes his head. “You looked very pretty today,” he says.
“Are you being condescending?” she asks.
His mouth twitches.
“I’m your only fan,” he tells her, and her eyes drop to the belt around his jeans.
She could say i’m serious because it’s simple and to the point, but his fingers reach for her mouth and spread over her lip, rubbing lightly against the skin. Her breath is sharp and she sighs, biting lightly at the pads of his fingertips. He doesn’t make a sound, but his eyes are dark and someone, him or her or both, swallows.
“We can’t do this at school,” he says softly, and it comes back, from the late night rides, to the second time she’s walked into his home and it’s just been her, to that time, the insanity of his three fingers, inside of her, and his thumb, rolling over her clit as he pressed his tongue at her throat, then bit at her breast and her nipple.
“You said that the last time.”
She’s dry and unrelenting, unapologetic as his mouth presses against hers, opened and wet. He doesn’t touch her hip, not like he usually does, like a reassurance, his fingers slide between their mouths and when he pulls away, she’s sucking lightly at his skin, as he watches her with dark eyes.
“I did,” he drawls, and he pushes her back into steps. Her feet move them to his desk and he’s swiping at all the papers, the files and the exams. There’s a rustle of papers and they’re over the floor as he presses her into the wood.
Mr. Schuester is not a good man. She doesn’t even like that he tries; when he pulls at her skirt, it bunches at her waist and he’s pressing his fingers between her legs, against her panties. She’s wet and her hips jerk forward, against his fingers as he laughs.
“You have to be quiet, baby,” he says again.
The door is unlocked again. He’s fucked her into her desk and the papers remain on the floor, by his feet and his bag. The sweat against the column of his throat is caught between her teeth and he keeps her too close. Her thighs are wet, slick with nerves and the stickiness of her orgasm. He never says cum, but it’s more about how he whispers things like tight and wet and that no one, no one will make her as tight as she is around his fingers and mouth.
She is not on her knees, not yet, but her bare ass is pressing into somebody’s test as she watches him stroke his dick with dark eyes. He is neither fast nor patient, but he’s waiting nonetheless, watching and seeing how she reacts.
“I don’t call you daddy,” she says softly, breathlessly, and there’s an angry flush to her cheeks. He smirks and she watches his thumb rub over the tip off his cock. It’s sticky when he brings it to her mouth, his cock hard and pressing into her thigh as he leans forward. She sucks at his thumb, rolling her tongue against his skin and sighing with relief.
She likes the way he tastes and he knows that. He palms her breast.
“No,” he agrees. “Not even Will,” he says too.
“Do you like that? That I just call you Mr. Schuester?” she asks, and she’s completely serious, sucking at his thumb still as he watches her. He uses his free hand to pull her forward, so that her legs are dangling off the sides. She can’t remember the first rule, if it was to just simple be quiet or take extra, extra care to.
He doesn’t answer though, and his hand is back between her legs, his fingers pressing against her clit and she’s sore and just aches. She lets out this moan though as his fingers start to rub at her slit. She’s wet, so wet, and there’s this obscene, soft sound that just happens when his fingers slide back into her again.
“No,” she breathes, and his mouth opens lightly over hers. “I want you. I want you. And you didn’t tell -”
She gasps when he pulls his fingers back again, and he makes a fist over his dick, pushing his hips forward and then guiding the tip inside of her. He doesn’t press forward, not yet, but she can already feel the memory of herself as she stretches, just for him and how he likes when she lets her nails sink into her back.
It’s then that she remembers that he may or may not have pocketed her panties and the last time, oh the last time, she found out that he likes to keep them and in his jacket until she comes over his place and the air inside is cold when it touches her ass. She told him too that she kind of likes the way the air hits her skin, her clit, when she lies on his bed and she’s spreading herself out for him. No one else would understand as it is; for the two of them, she thinks, it’s always going to be like that.
He tells her this too, mouth hot over her ear, half-grinning and moaning as his belly presses over hers. She breathes first.
“They’ll -” he moans, “no one else will let you - ” and he struggles, only with the words, because it’s really more when she feels and listens to the sounds he makes; it’s his mouth again, at her throat, her ear, and then over her mouth, his fist pulling at her hair and when his hips jerk forward again, his dick is pushing into her and she can just feel it slide.
She can barely tell him to stop talking as it is.
Mr. Schuester kneels between her legs and his tongue slides over her clit. “Baby,” he murmurs, and it’s almost feverish, “Baby.”
She wonders what she tastes like; he’s sticky and salty and she likes knowing that he opens himself just before Spanish class, his third one of the day, next door to her French class. She knows he’ll see her just before and if they had done this at lunch, just between breaks, she’d make sure to flash, briefly, the curve of her ass.
But she’s sticky too and moaning, watching as he buries himself between her thighs. His fingers are curling in her skin. She has half a fist in his hair, arched back and he’s told her once before that he just likes the way she tastes with him. It makes her want him back inside of her, back to seeing how deep he can go.
“We’re the worst kept - secret,” she manages, and he laughs against her cunt, his tongue darting against the soft hole. She cries out at the sensation and bites down at her fist, shoving her knuckles against her teeth. She wants his fingers. She wants his mouth. She wants to come so hard that he looks at her in the same way he watches her sing, on stage and wanting her.
“You’re a good girl,” he says.
They both know there’s just another hour before the janitor comes humming down the hallway and that he likes stopping to talk to Mr. Schuester only because she’s usually in the room and there’s some kind of argument about the set list. They don’t fake that. There’s basketball practice too and the Cheerios, rolling out of the gym and the nearby hallway and it’s really true that anyone could want to walk in.
“Quiet,” he orders.
He kneels back and her eyes are wide, glassy as she catches his mouth and how it glistens. He’s sticky and she likes that he’s sticky. She doesn’t have time to react because his fingers are back inside of her and she’s arching into his hand, slumping forward as he finger fucks her back into someone’s test.
“Quiet,” he says again, and she bites harder at her fist - it’s not enough because her mew sort of slips and he narrows his eyes, his fingers spreading over her belly to hold her down. “You need to be quiet,” he says.
It’s because this is school, she reasons and her rationalizations are more than sort of panicked because she’s going to cry again for the third, maybe fourth time. His hand spreads over her belly and he pushes her hard, back, so that her head drops over the ledge and her hair spills over into his chair.
He’s moving his hand slowly and there’s really - that’s a lie - no particular pace. It’s just easy to say that he slows down, only to pry her fist from her mouth and to slide his fingers into her mouth inside.
“Suck them,” he says, and it’s shaky, and she’s never asked him if he’s been by himself and just gone and thought of her. She complies though, wrapping her lips around the tips of his fingers and trying so, so hard to muffle any kind of sound.
They’re small and she watches, gaze almost blurred, as he sort of smiles. She’s flushing again too and it’s building, the sensations, back in her belly. She aches and aches and just aches. She thinks, just briefly, that she may call him daddy just to see what he’d do and there’s just something about the risk of him stopping, if only to torture, that she just can’t bear.
“I do it so they can see you,” he says. “Since you’re such a pretty girl.”
She moans, and her tongue rolls over his thumb as she keeps sucking at his fingers. It’s louder than she intends it to be. He’s bending over her then, his mouth grazing at her throat too. She feels his teeth and her hips buck.
“You know it’s true,” Mr. Schuester breathes. “Your mouth was mine first,” he says and he trembles into her. When he bites into her throat, she cries out into his hand, his fingers pressing harder into her mouth. The sounds from her mouth are muffled and it keeps being more and more about what he has to say.
She unravels, much later. This is because he tells her he’s not finished too.
The Glee club’s first early scrimmage of the year puts them in a bus, on the way back from some obscure town two hours away from Akron. She sits in the back, next to Mr. Schuester because they all volunteered her to tell him that the club has decided to forever ban Michael Bublé from any kind of future set list even if it’s senior year.
His knuckles still graze her thigh and when she watches the lights go out on the bus, she manages to half-watch his fingers disappear under the rising hem of her dress. They’re cool against her thighs then settle against the thin, cotton fabric of her panties. He presses a finger to his mouth and she flushes, watching as he launches into a lazy argument about her ability to be too picky when it comes to sound choices.
The lights are still on. She manages to look to the front of the bus for the moment.
Santana smirks at her and Rachel presses her hands against her cheeks, as the bus goes dark. She must be wearing some kind of look on her face and it’s hard to concentrate because they’re two seats behind Puck too and there’s no one worse to lie to outside of Puck and, well, her dads.
It’s still Brittany that speaks up. “Remember to keep it quiet,” she says cheerfully.