Glee Fic: we all have answers
I could lie and say this is for the kink meme. But it’s not. I may feel like I have to rectify that too, at some point. So this is the part where I ask myself what has my life become. No really. What has it become.
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.
we all have answers
there are no schematics to an affair; they always start when there’s no one around to notice. this was a long time coming.
glee | will/rachel | general spoilers/original song | 4,538 words, adult.
-
The piano in his place is new. Rachel stands in the doorway, eyeing the room with a mix of curiosity and unease. She hasn’t been here since Christmas, she remembers. Or after, really, when they had a club party to celebrate the coming excitement of the next, new year for all of them.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks, and Rachel looks up, gently placing her bag by the door. She rubs at her arms before pulling her jacket off, smiling a little when he points to a closet in the corner.
“Just water please,” she says.
Mr. Schuester nods and disappears through another door. The kitchen, she remembers. She takes a few, tentative steps towards the piano and then reaches out, her fingers brushing against the top of the key case. This was his idea - understandably, really - and since the disaster with Quinn and trying to write her own song happened, she’d rather sing what she has in front of someone she can trust.
It takes her a moment to sit down though. Her hands cup her skirt, folding it gently back against her legs just before she sits. She lets out a soft sigh and pushes back the cover so that she can see the keys.
“Divorce present,” he says.
She jumps, startled as Mr. Schuester comes back into the room. He puts the glass of water on the piano in front of her and then shifts to sit on the bench by her side.
“It’s lovely,” she says, and his mouth quirks. She looks up at him, her hair brushing over her eyes. “And - I mean, none of us ask, but how are you?”
“Fine,” he murmurs. He nods towards the piano. “So let’s hear what you have.”
Rachel doesn’t want to start playing, just like that; there’s a part of her that’s still very, very protective of what she’s written - part love song, part a lot of herself, and really it’s always different when she’s playing for someone who isn’t Finn or Quinn or even her dads. She forces herself to swallow, her fingers brushing against the keys.
Okay, she hears herself say and the word seems to fall out of her mouth, a slight hiss against her teeth. Her fingers start to move and then she’s playing the first couple of bar, both shaky and full of nerves. It’s different, she keeps telling herself. She’s not Barbara or Pattie and it’s harder not to be incredibly bold in a room full of people. She feels way too exposed and unsure.
But she starts to sing, more than aware of how closely he watches her.
It hits ten and this is really how it starts, him writing notes over a mess of papers that she’s finally brought out to show him. She’s pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail and the weight on her shoulders has finally relaxed.
“It’s really amazing, Rachel,” he says to her. “The kind of work that you’ve put into this - it’s just really, really amazing.”
She blushes. “I still feel - uncomfortable, you know?”
The corners of his mouth curl and then he laughs, the sound low as he reaches for the glass of water that sits between them. He takes a sip and then, without thinking, he hands her the glass as well. She brings it to her mouth, sipping carefully.
“I think you just have to be patient with yourself.”
She laughs softly, into the glass and it takes her a moment to come to terms with the fact that she can hear him tease her. Her cheeks are still warm and she turns a little, just slightly into him, her knee hitting his leg.
“Remember who you’re asking,” she says dryly, and he laughs.
“This is very true.”
He pulls off his glasses, tossing them over the top of the piano and rubbing his eyes. She still holds the glass of water in her hand and she’s not entirely sure if it’s now that she makes the appropriate excuse to go home.
It’s just that there’s a sharp pain in the back of her neck and she’s tired, she’s really tired, and they do only have a couple of weeks left until they walk into Regionals and she’s expected to carry them through into the something else because she’s talked herself up to this point and there is nothing she won’t let herself not come through with.
She looks up when his fingers graze her knee, just where the hem of her skirt meets her skin. He rubs it a little, just absently, and she finds herself leaning into his touch. She may or may not catch the way his gaze darkens or how the pressure changes and she can sort of more than feel his hand against her skin.
She can hear herself ask: “Can we do this again?”
School isn’t any different. She gets angry and frustrated, flustered between Glee and getting thrusted into a relationship that she’d rather be kept out of. She cares about Finn and she won’t stop caring about Finn, but she’s not all about punishing herself every time he wants to have a moment and Quinn wants to hate her for that.
It shows the next night, when she comes over to Mr. Schuester’s house, when she sits on his couch, still dressed in her dance clothes, rubbing the back of her neck as she pays little attention to her notes and even less attention to the phone call he’s having with his ex-wife. There’s something about finances and space and the patience of her pity lasts as long as his does, up until the point when she looks up and he’s slamming the phone back into the receiver.
“Sorry,” he says, dropping onto the couch next to her. He’s too long not to be too close and she watches as he drops his head back against the pillows. He rubs his eyes. “I had to take that,” he apologizes again.
“No worries.”
He looks over at her and smiles tiredly. She catches him as he studies her, taking in her change of clothes the first time that night. She doesn’t really feel self-conscious and she’s explained to him - her dads are in Chicago and most of the time, she’s left to her own devices so dance classes save her from boredom.
He reaches over, picking at the shoulder of her t-shirt. It’s her dad’s Brown shirt, the gray dulling as it’s been worn too many times. His fingers graze the arch of her neck.
“Brown?”
“Daddy,” she supplies. She relaxes as his fingers sweep again, slowly, and then closer to her throat. Her lips curl. “He went to Brown,” she says. “My dad went to Northwestern. I think the story is they met at a rock concert - who, is the question, because that changes every time someone asks.”
He laughs. “And they’re supportive, I assume.”
Rachel shrugs. They are, she thinks. Her dads are pretty indulgent when it comes to letting her do what she wants, within reason. What people don’t understand is that she works really hard too, balancing their trust and her obligations, schoolwork and everything else that she has on her plate.
“I think,” she says slowly, “they’ll support me as long as I keep doing well in school, that I keep up with dance and voice, and teaching all the same. I think my dad is more understanding with the idea that I want to go into the arts and that I want to make a living out of it. I think Daddy has a harder time because it’s unpredictable and it’s New York city and where’s the pragmatic part of it all - but they both know that I’m an excellent judge at those situations.”
She looks up at Mr. Schuester and he’s staring at her strangely, like she’s grown a second head and it’s really not Rachel speaking to him. Her mouth quirks and she rolls her eyes, drawing her legs onto the couch as she turns towards him.
“I’m a practical girl, Mr. Schue.” Her voice is warm and teasing. “Even I know my limitations when they happen. But they trust me because I work really hard.”
He laughs, flushing. “I - I didn’t mean to make you think that I - ” he pauses, turning toward her. Her knee rests against his leg and she laughs a little too. “You’re always surprising me, Rachel,” he says.
It’s the first real conversation she’s had with him. There’s no way to ignore it either.
The song finishes the night before their performance at Regionals. Her dads are coming home in the morning so she has enough time to linger around at his place.
“I feel good,” she admits quietly, and she’s washing her dishes as he stands against the counter next to him, batting his hands away from her as he keeps trying to pull her away from helping. Mr. Schuester’s the only one that’s heard it; Finn has asked a couple of times and she’s kind of just shyly turned him down, telling him to wait and work on the clubs other original song.
“Good,” Mr. Schuester says. “You should,” he adds. He reaches forward and tucks some of her hair behind her ear. She doesn’t think and smiles. “You should feel really good about everything you do.”
He’s smiling and she thinks it’s nice, nice that she hasn’t felt like he’s targeting her because of some inane need to make sure that she’s still humble and that she’s the one that carry herself without some kind of guidance. This is different, so different and she’s more than aware that he knows it too.
Rachel keeps herself playful though and flicks water in his direction, causing him to laugh, out loud and with heavy surprise. The water gets over the front of his shirt and there’s a little on his face, which makes her laugh too.
She’s not really thinking when she reaches for him, putting the rest of the dishes down and curling a hand around his jaw. She brushes her fingers against his forehead, then his cheek, and she’s not really sure who gets serious first, or even if it really matters, but when her fingers stop against his mouth, she swears, swears she feels his mouth as he kisses the tips.
“I should probably go,” she murmurs. Her voice is thick and breathy, caught on a low pitch when his mouth turns and he leans into press it against her palm.
She feels him linger and she likes that he lingers, that there’s odd, sharp feeling of need and want and control rising and twisting in her belly. She likes that his eyes are dark, darker than they should be and if she pressed a little closer, she knows that he’d just go and touch her and keep her there.
But she doesn’t. He takes a moment before he answers. “Yeah,” he says.
They win Regionals. Her voice is hoarse and she is shy with everybody’s response, from the way Puck swings her around, to Mercedes as she hugs her too tightly. It’s Mr. Schuester that sort of gets to her last, when she’s pressed between Santana and Lauren and Sam who are all talking; it’s his hand that slides over her waist, then cups the back of her thigh just when he leans into her, over her and breathes a lazy congratulations over her ear. She manages to nod and she is more than aware of his fingers as they drag over the curve of her ass, how easy it is when Puck and Mike kind of run into them and she is pushed into Mr. Schuester.
Still, they both maintain some kind of smile.
Rachel is not a liar. It stays with her the whole night.
There is no one in his office after six. This is long after Glee and when most of the team sports are wrapping up, just at the beginning of when the school starts to get clean. He’s packing up his things when she leans against the door, holding the trophy in one of her hands with a shy smile of amusement.
“This was your idea,” she says quietly, and when he looks up, the corners of his mouth are turning. He tries to hide the smile, but she steps into the room and shuts the door behind her. “Mercedes told me it was Finn’s, but - ” she laughs softly. “This was your idea, if anything but.”
“Guilty,” he murmurs.
He stops packing too, but doesn’t sit or lean against his desk. Instead, he comes to her at the door and hovers just before he presses her against it, taking the trophy out of her hand and putting it on the bookcase next to her.
Their fingers lace and he pins her hand above her head, flushed against the wood. She licks her lips and he slides a knee between her legs, pressing it lightly against her thigh. He’s forward, but she’s not surprised. She doesn’t feel surprised at all.
There’s no confession, no fanfare, no unravel of secrets - although, she’s sure, she’s very sure that they’re there. He’s looking at her and she knows, knows that he wants and knows that she wants him and that like everything else, this is a decision that has to happen with the both of them.
“At school, Mr. Schue?” her voice is soft. She licks her lips. “Really? I didn’t think that it would be your thing.”
He’s bent, slightly, and his fingers drift through her hair. They drag and catch a little of her curls, the ones that rest against her throat.
“You’re the practical girl,” he says.
It makes her laugh and his mouth hovers over hers, then slides against her lips; his teeth catch her lips too, rubbing over the bottom one. She makes a soft sound and her hips press forward, just his hips press back and keep her hard against the door.
Rachel tries not to think about lines. But school, school seems too obvious and predictable and she’s sure he’d laugh if she’d tell him. She’s just distracted by his mouth and when he kisses, he really kisses her, she feels like she’s being swallowed. It’s the way his tongue rolls into her mouth, over hers and then sweeps against her teeth. It’s like he’s licking away all her taste, anything that she tastes, and she pulls her hand into his hair, her fingers tightening hard as she keeps him close.
He growls and she tastes that too, sinking her teeth back into his lip. His hand drops and curls around her leg. The fabric of her dress drops back and he pulls her leg to his hip. She kisses him and kisses him hard; she likes the way that his mouth feels, all hot and flushed and completely unapologetic.
She likes that she makes him like this.
There is no guilt when she calls her daddy from the car, when she tells him that she’s going to spend the night over a friends’ and that she call them in the morning. It may or may not come later, but she’s in Mr. Schuester’s car and he’s driving them to his place, his hand sneaking between her legs and her thighs.
He groans because she’s wet and the tips of his fingers press against her panties, just as she hangs up with her daddy, and she lets her hips roll forward against them.
“Jesus,” he says. The color of his voice changes, darkens even, and she spreads her legs enough so that her dress rides up her thighs and he can slip his fingers under her panties.
They come to a red light and she’s vaguely aware that they’re two blocks away from his place, that he’s pressing two fingers against her clit and she’s pressing her head back against her seat, so she can try and watch him.
“You’re so dangerous, baby,” he tells her, and she moans.
His nail scrapes lightly against her clit and then he drags his middle finger along her slit, brushing it lightly against her entrance. She’s so wet and her hips arch into his hand, just enough because of the seatbelt digging into her waist.
He laughs huskily and his finger pushes instead of her. She feels it, how slowly it drags into her and how wet she knows it’s going to be. There’s this obscene, little pop and he slides his index finger inside of her too. But he doesn’t move his hand and when she whimpers, her hips trying to move against it, he shakes his head.
“Not yet,” he says, and she may just die, she thinks.
The garage door stays open when he makes her get out. She sees his hand and how it sort of glistens with her wetness, complying when he asks her to pull off her panties too.
They stay in the car with his bag, with her bag, when Mr. Schuester slides her up on the back of the trunk and spreads her legs. She aches and she’s flushed, leaning against the glass as his hands press over her thighs.
Her dress is now bunched at her waist and all she wants is for him to touch her, fingers and mouth or mouth and fingers - whatever he wants to do. She’s vaguely aware of the small, open driveway behind him and the way that the lights from the other house turn on and flicker as it starts to get dark outside. The garage itself is dark too, only because the lights inside faded after they parked the car.
“You’re such a pretty girl, baby,” he says, and she moans, her eyes closing briefly as she stretches further against the glass. He doesn’t really kneel, but he bends over her, sliding his mouth over her thigh. “I’m glad that you trust me,” he says.
“I do,” she breathes.
Her clit aches. It feels so stiff and when his lips slide over it, his teeth grazing the skin, she lets out a started cry. She fists a hand into his hair and her hips jerk into his mouth, muffling the low laugh that he lets out.
She feels his tongue drag against it too, and then brush lazily along her slit, rolling deep into pussy, just like his fingers before. Her nipples are hard too and when she shifts, whimpering, she can feel them rub against the fabric of her bra. It’s too much. It’s just too much sensation and she feels like she’s going to explode.
“I - ” she moans again and he starts flicking his tongue in and out of her. She can’t stop her hips as they rise and jerk back, as he starts fucking her with his mouth. “I like when you call me - oh baby,” she breathes too.
He laughs into her pussy and then draws back, mouth wet as he slides his fingers back into her. It’s two fingers and easily, his hand rolling into her, setting the pace as she arches back against his car. She can feel his thumb too as it rubs against her clit, teasing and pushing her all the same.
His mouth hovers over hers again. She fights to keep her eyes open so that she can see him, sticky and flushed and this all hers.
“I know,” he says.
She fucks him in his bedroom because it’s closest to the garage and most of her clothes are lost along the ways it is. He likes her in his lap though and pulls a fist through her hair as he sinks his teeth along her throat, Rachel riding out the rest of her orgasm with a mix of soft moans and whimpers.
When his release hits, she feels drag against her thighs, over his and the sheets below them. He turns her so that she’s on his back and that he’s between her legs, lapping away at the mix of him and her and how it clings to her skin.
“Tell me you like it,” he says, and she arches make, feeling his tongue as it enters her again, swirling lightly. She babbles out that she wants to kiss him so that she can taste herself and him on his mouth too. “No,” he says, and then he laughs too. “Tell me you like it, baby.”
With a fist in his hair again, she unravels pretty quickly, sore and aching, and begging him to give her the release that she needs. She thrashes underneath him, at the sound of his laugh and the way he coos and still calls her pretty girl.
And then when it finally its her, when she comes and cries out, he’s climbs back over her and twists her legs through his so that they tangle in the bed.
She’s breathless, giving up the admission. “I do.”
Somehow she’s naked in his kitchen and it’s a little after three in the morning, after it’s been sleep and sex and sleep and sex. She’s humming and it’s all so strange, how hungry she gets just after sex. There’s peanut butter, but she doesn’t really like peanut butter and if she remembers her first time, a near summer ago, it was the same thing that happened after Jesse, then after Finn and going a little too far - Mr. Schuester likes watching her licking her fingers too.
The jeans are low on his hips. She hums again when he corners her into the counter, her free hand brushing over his stomach as she licks the rest of the peanut butter off of her fingers. When he leans in, he takes them into her mouth and she laughs a little trying to bat him away.
“It’s the sounds that you make,” he murmurs against her fingers, then at her palm as his tongue sweeps against her skin. She lets out a soft moan and then he reaches in, palming one of her breasts.
“I know,” she says. Her mouth curls and then she’s reaching for his jeans, popping the button open easily. It’s the zipper too and then she’s got his dick in her hand, hot and heavy and pulsing into her palm.
“You make me crazy,” he tells her too.
His breath catches and she doesn’t go down on him; instead, she lets her fingers drag against his shaft, her thumb catching the head of his dick. He’s a little sticky and he hisses, arching into her hand. She wants to stroke him into being hard, more than ready, as if to say, see this is what you do to me.
“Jesse,” she murmurs; there’s the unanswered question and he sort of growls, catching the slight amusement writing itself into her mouth. “The summer afterwards,” she tells him. “It was so hot and he wanted to talk and I was so angry - I kissed him and then we were sticky and my dress was somewhere in the grass and I - came so hard.”
She leans in and bites at his shoulder. Mr. Schuester pushes her back and then they’re stumbling over to the table, her hips hitting the low end of the table. His dick brushes against her leg and he’s stepping out of his jeans, staring at her.
“Finn knows,” she says. She leans back against the table. It’s cool against the curve of her ass and her thighs stick a little to the wood. “But he’s not allowed to ask.”
Just a schoolgirl goes the song, and she could laugh, she might laugh more if he wasn’t watching her like he was ready to devour her right then and there. It’s that sense of control again and she stretches herself over the table, her hands brushing against her breasts and then cupping them.
“And,” she adds breathlessly. “Puck’s my friend - none of this should surprise you.”
He laughs then, his hand curling around his dick. He strokes himself too, watching her as she stays there, right in front of him, on the table that he eats at, that he and his wife had sat at too. She should feel guilty, but there’s something in that too, something in the way that he looks at her with that thought reflected back.
“I always play for keeps,” he says.
And he’s inside of her again, his dick pushing into her as her legs rise and hook around his waist. He drags her to the end of the table so that she’s closer, and that when he reaches for her, his fingers drag along her throat and it makes her moan.
“You’re such a pretty little thing,” he murmurs, and she arches a little, making him laugh. Oh god, oh god, she thinks. It’s just the way that he says it; she’s no different from him, the way that his voice unravels over her is all about weight and pitch and those lazy, lazy sounds. “I like that you don’t hide anything from me, baby.”
His hips press forward and she moans. They forward again, drawing back quickly so that she can feel his dick slide back out of her, only to the tip.
She feels his hand tremble over her again, at her throat, dragging his fingers between her breasts and then back between her legs. They rub lightly against her clit and then he’s sinking into her again, wrenching a cry out of her mouth.
Rachel lets him have her this way too. He knows that she likes it just like that.
The reality of it is that it’s so very dirty, and so very dangerous, but he’s never been about anything but himself and Rachel, well, she’s never really known how to let herself say no and no again to him. She thinks it’s because she doesn’t care about the consequences and that at school, between the two of them, it’s still tense and full of too much weight, to the point everybody rolls their eyes and says something like here goes Rachel and Mr. Schue again.
But they’ll never know that she tells her dads that she takes composition lessons from him too, that even though they do write sometimes and most of it happens when she’s naked in his kitchen and his bedroom and there was that time that he wrote a song in pen against the side of her thigh. There’s that time that Jesse comes back too, that Mr. Schuester gets her to call him Will, and she rides him in the auditorium, right in Jesse’s chair, so that when she sings my man, she has to look at him too. There will be the summer before her senior year as well, where she’s in the grass and her summer dress is somewhere nearby, and he fucks her hard as the neighbor’s party goes on loudly next door in the sightline of the deck that can see into Mr. Schuester’s yard if you just stand at the right angle.
It’s just that there’s the truth. There’s no going back.
They’ve never cared to begin with.
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.
we all have answers
there are no schematics to an affair; they always start when there’s no one around to notice. this was a long time coming.
glee | will/rachel | general spoilers/original song | 4,538 words, adult.
-
The piano in his place is new. Rachel stands in the doorway, eyeing the room with a mix of curiosity and unease. She hasn’t been here since Christmas, she remembers. Or after, really, when they had a club party to celebrate the coming excitement of the next, new year for all of them.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks, and Rachel looks up, gently placing her bag by the door. She rubs at her arms before pulling her jacket off, smiling a little when he points to a closet in the corner.
“Just water please,” she says.
Mr. Schuester nods and disappears through another door. The kitchen, she remembers. She takes a few, tentative steps towards the piano and then reaches out, her fingers brushing against the top of the key case. This was his idea - understandably, really - and since the disaster with Quinn and trying to write her own song happened, she’d rather sing what she has in front of someone she can trust.
It takes her a moment to sit down though. Her hands cup her skirt, folding it gently back against her legs just before she sits. She lets out a soft sigh and pushes back the cover so that she can see the keys.
“Divorce present,” he says.
She jumps, startled as Mr. Schuester comes back into the room. He puts the glass of water on the piano in front of her and then shifts to sit on the bench by her side.
“It’s lovely,” she says, and his mouth quirks. She looks up at him, her hair brushing over her eyes. “And - I mean, none of us ask, but how are you?”
“Fine,” he murmurs. He nods towards the piano. “So let’s hear what you have.”
Rachel doesn’t want to start playing, just like that; there’s a part of her that’s still very, very protective of what she’s written - part love song, part a lot of herself, and really it’s always different when she’s playing for someone who isn’t Finn or Quinn or even her dads. She forces herself to swallow, her fingers brushing against the keys.
Okay, she hears herself say and the word seems to fall out of her mouth, a slight hiss against her teeth. Her fingers start to move and then she’s playing the first couple of bar, both shaky and full of nerves. It’s different, she keeps telling herself. She’s not Barbara or Pattie and it’s harder not to be incredibly bold in a room full of people. She feels way too exposed and unsure.
But she starts to sing, more than aware of how closely he watches her.
It hits ten and this is really how it starts, him writing notes over a mess of papers that she’s finally brought out to show him. She’s pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail and the weight on her shoulders has finally relaxed.
“It’s really amazing, Rachel,” he says to her. “The kind of work that you’ve put into this - it’s just really, really amazing.”
She blushes. “I still feel - uncomfortable, you know?”
The corners of his mouth curl and then he laughs, the sound low as he reaches for the glass of water that sits between them. He takes a sip and then, without thinking, he hands her the glass as well. She brings it to her mouth, sipping carefully.
“I think you just have to be patient with yourself.”
She laughs softly, into the glass and it takes her a moment to come to terms with the fact that she can hear him tease her. Her cheeks are still warm and she turns a little, just slightly into him, her knee hitting his leg.
“Remember who you’re asking,” she says dryly, and he laughs.
“This is very true.”
He pulls off his glasses, tossing them over the top of the piano and rubbing his eyes. She still holds the glass of water in her hand and she’s not entirely sure if it’s now that she makes the appropriate excuse to go home.
It’s just that there’s a sharp pain in the back of her neck and she’s tired, she’s really tired, and they do only have a couple of weeks left until they walk into Regionals and she’s expected to carry them through into the something else because she’s talked herself up to this point and there is nothing she won’t let herself not come through with.
She looks up when his fingers graze her knee, just where the hem of her skirt meets her skin. He rubs it a little, just absently, and she finds herself leaning into his touch. She may or may not catch the way his gaze darkens or how the pressure changes and she can sort of more than feel his hand against her skin.
She can hear herself ask: “Can we do this again?”
School isn’t any different. She gets angry and frustrated, flustered between Glee and getting thrusted into a relationship that she’d rather be kept out of. She cares about Finn and she won’t stop caring about Finn, but she’s not all about punishing herself every time he wants to have a moment and Quinn wants to hate her for that.
It shows the next night, when she comes over to Mr. Schuester’s house, when she sits on his couch, still dressed in her dance clothes, rubbing the back of her neck as she pays little attention to her notes and even less attention to the phone call he’s having with his ex-wife. There’s something about finances and space and the patience of her pity lasts as long as his does, up until the point when she looks up and he’s slamming the phone back into the receiver.
“Sorry,” he says, dropping onto the couch next to her. He’s too long not to be too close and she watches as he drops his head back against the pillows. He rubs his eyes. “I had to take that,” he apologizes again.
“No worries.”
He looks over at her and smiles tiredly. She catches him as he studies her, taking in her change of clothes the first time that night. She doesn’t really feel self-conscious and she’s explained to him - her dads are in Chicago and most of the time, she’s left to her own devices so dance classes save her from boredom.
He reaches over, picking at the shoulder of her t-shirt. It’s her dad’s Brown shirt, the gray dulling as it’s been worn too many times. His fingers graze the arch of her neck.
“Brown?”
“Daddy,” she supplies. She relaxes as his fingers sweep again, slowly, and then closer to her throat. Her lips curl. “He went to Brown,” she says. “My dad went to Northwestern. I think the story is they met at a rock concert - who, is the question, because that changes every time someone asks.”
He laughs. “And they’re supportive, I assume.”
Rachel shrugs. They are, she thinks. Her dads are pretty indulgent when it comes to letting her do what she wants, within reason. What people don’t understand is that she works really hard too, balancing their trust and her obligations, schoolwork and everything else that she has on her plate.
“I think,” she says slowly, “they’ll support me as long as I keep doing well in school, that I keep up with dance and voice, and teaching all the same. I think my dad is more understanding with the idea that I want to go into the arts and that I want to make a living out of it. I think Daddy has a harder time because it’s unpredictable and it’s New York city and where’s the pragmatic part of it all - but they both know that I’m an excellent judge at those situations.”
She looks up at Mr. Schuester and he’s staring at her strangely, like she’s grown a second head and it’s really not Rachel speaking to him. Her mouth quirks and she rolls her eyes, drawing her legs onto the couch as she turns towards him.
“I’m a practical girl, Mr. Schue.” Her voice is warm and teasing. “Even I know my limitations when they happen. But they trust me because I work really hard.”
He laughs, flushing. “I - I didn’t mean to make you think that I - ” he pauses, turning toward her. Her knee rests against his leg and she laughs a little too. “You’re always surprising me, Rachel,” he says.
It’s the first real conversation she’s had with him. There’s no way to ignore it either.
The song finishes the night before their performance at Regionals. Her dads are coming home in the morning so she has enough time to linger around at his place.
“I feel good,” she admits quietly, and she’s washing her dishes as he stands against the counter next to him, batting his hands away from her as he keeps trying to pull her away from helping. Mr. Schuester’s the only one that’s heard it; Finn has asked a couple of times and she’s kind of just shyly turned him down, telling him to wait and work on the clubs other original song.
“Good,” Mr. Schuester says. “You should,” he adds. He reaches forward and tucks some of her hair behind her ear. She doesn’t think and smiles. “You should feel really good about everything you do.”
He’s smiling and she thinks it’s nice, nice that she hasn’t felt like he’s targeting her because of some inane need to make sure that she’s still humble and that she’s the one that carry herself without some kind of guidance. This is different, so different and she’s more than aware that he knows it too.
Rachel keeps herself playful though and flicks water in his direction, causing him to laugh, out loud and with heavy surprise. The water gets over the front of his shirt and there’s a little on his face, which makes her laugh too.
She’s not really thinking when she reaches for him, putting the rest of the dishes down and curling a hand around his jaw. She brushes her fingers against his forehead, then his cheek, and she’s not really sure who gets serious first, or even if it really matters, but when her fingers stop against his mouth, she swears, swears she feels his mouth as he kisses the tips.
“I should probably go,” she murmurs. Her voice is thick and breathy, caught on a low pitch when his mouth turns and he leans into press it against her palm.
She feels him linger and she likes that he lingers, that there’s odd, sharp feeling of need and want and control rising and twisting in her belly. She likes that his eyes are dark, darker than they should be and if she pressed a little closer, she knows that he’d just go and touch her and keep her there.
But she doesn’t. He takes a moment before he answers. “Yeah,” he says.
They win Regionals. Her voice is hoarse and she is shy with everybody’s response, from the way Puck swings her around, to Mercedes as she hugs her too tightly. It’s Mr. Schuester that sort of gets to her last, when she’s pressed between Santana and Lauren and Sam who are all talking; it’s his hand that slides over her waist, then cups the back of her thigh just when he leans into her, over her and breathes a lazy congratulations over her ear. She manages to nod and she is more than aware of his fingers as they drag over the curve of her ass, how easy it is when Puck and Mike kind of run into them and she is pushed into Mr. Schuester.
Still, they both maintain some kind of smile.
Rachel is not a liar. It stays with her the whole night.
There is no one in his office after six. This is long after Glee and when most of the team sports are wrapping up, just at the beginning of when the school starts to get clean. He’s packing up his things when she leans against the door, holding the trophy in one of her hands with a shy smile of amusement.
“This was your idea,” she says quietly, and when he looks up, the corners of his mouth are turning. He tries to hide the smile, but she steps into the room and shuts the door behind her. “Mercedes told me it was Finn’s, but - ” she laughs softly. “This was your idea, if anything but.”
“Guilty,” he murmurs.
He stops packing too, but doesn’t sit or lean against his desk. Instead, he comes to her at the door and hovers just before he presses her against it, taking the trophy out of her hand and putting it on the bookcase next to her.
Their fingers lace and he pins her hand above her head, flushed against the wood. She licks her lips and he slides a knee between her legs, pressing it lightly against her thigh. He’s forward, but she’s not surprised. She doesn’t feel surprised at all.
There’s no confession, no fanfare, no unravel of secrets - although, she’s sure, she’s very sure that they’re there. He’s looking at her and she knows, knows that he wants and knows that she wants him and that like everything else, this is a decision that has to happen with the both of them.
“At school, Mr. Schue?” her voice is soft. She licks her lips. “Really? I didn’t think that it would be your thing.”
He’s bent, slightly, and his fingers drift through her hair. They drag and catch a little of her curls, the ones that rest against her throat.
“You’re the practical girl,” he says.
It makes her laugh and his mouth hovers over hers, then slides against her lips; his teeth catch her lips too, rubbing over the bottom one. She makes a soft sound and her hips press forward, just his hips press back and keep her hard against the door.
Rachel tries not to think about lines. But school, school seems too obvious and predictable and she’s sure he’d laugh if she’d tell him. She’s just distracted by his mouth and when he kisses, he really kisses her, she feels like she’s being swallowed. It’s the way his tongue rolls into her mouth, over hers and then sweeps against her teeth. It’s like he’s licking away all her taste, anything that she tastes, and she pulls her hand into his hair, her fingers tightening hard as she keeps him close.
He growls and she tastes that too, sinking her teeth back into his lip. His hand drops and curls around her leg. The fabric of her dress drops back and he pulls her leg to his hip. She kisses him and kisses him hard; she likes the way that his mouth feels, all hot and flushed and completely unapologetic.
She likes that she makes him like this.
There is no guilt when she calls her daddy from the car, when she tells him that she’s going to spend the night over a friends’ and that she call them in the morning. It may or may not come later, but she’s in Mr. Schuester’s car and he’s driving them to his place, his hand sneaking between her legs and her thighs.
He groans because she’s wet and the tips of his fingers press against her panties, just as she hangs up with her daddy, and she lets her hips roll forward against them.
“Jesus,” he says. The color of his voice changes, darkens even, and she spreads her legs enough so that her dress rides up her thighs and he can slip his fingers under her panties.
They come to a red light and she’s vaguely aware that they’re two blocks away from his place, that he’s pressing two fingers against her clit and she’s pressing her head back against her seat, so she can try and watch him.
“You’re so dangerous, baby,” he tells her, and she moans.
His nail scrapes lightly against her clit and then he drags his middle finger along her slit, brushing it lightly against her entrance. She’s so wet and her hips arch into his hand, just enough because of the seatbelt digging into her waist.
He laughs huskily and his finger pushes instead of her. She feels it, how slowly it drags into her and how wet she knows it’s going to be. There’s this obscene, little pop and he slides his index finger inside of her too. But he doesn’t move his hand and when she whimpers, her hips trying to move against it, he shakes his head.
“Not yet,” he says, and she may just die, she thinks.
The garage door stays open when he makes her get out. She sees his hand and how it sort of glistens with her wetness, complying when he asks her to pull off her panties too.
They stay in the car with his bag, with her bag, when Mr. Schuester slides her up on the back of the trunk and spreads her legs. She aches and she’s flushed, leaning against the glass as his hands press over her thighs.
Her dress is now bunched at her waist and all she wants is for him to touch her, fingers and mouth or mouth and fingers - whatever he wants to do. She’s vaguely aware of the small, open driveway behind him and the way that the lights from the other house turn on and flicker as it starts to get dark outside. The garage itself is dark too, only because the lights inside faded after they parked the car.
“You’re such a pretty girl, baby,” he says, and she moans, her eyes closing briefly as she stretches further against the glass. He doesn’t really kneel, but he bends over her, sliding his mouth over her thigh. “I’m glad that you trust me,” he says.
“I do,” she breathes.
Her clit aches. It feels so stiff and when his lips slide over it, his teeth grazing the skin, she lets out a started cry. She fists a hand into his hair and her hips jerk into his mouth, muffling the low laugh that he lets out.
She feels his tongue drag against it too, and then brush lazily along her slit, rolling deep into pussy, just like his fingers before. Her nipples are hard too and when she shifts, whimpering, she can feel them rub against the fabric of her bra. It’s too much. It’s just too much sensation and she feels like she’s going to explode.
“I - ” she moans again and he starts flicking his tongue in and out of her. She can’t stop her hips as they rise and jerk back, as he starts fucking her with his mouth. “I like when you call me - oh baby,” she breathes too.
He laughs into her pussy and then draws back, mouth wet as he slides his fingers back into her. It’s two fingers and easily, his hand rolling into her, setting the pace as she arches back against his car. She can feel his thumb too as it rubs against her clit, teasing and pushing her all the same.
His mouth hovers over hers again. She fights to keep her eyes open so that she can see him, sticky and flushed and this all hers.
“I know,” he says.
She fucks him in his bedroom because it’s closest to the garage and most of her clothes are lost along the ways it is. He likes her in his lap though and pulls a fist through her hair as he sinks his teeth along her throat, Rachel riding out the rest of her orgasm with a mix of soft moans and whimpers.
When his release hits, she feels drag against her thighs, over his and the sheets below them. He turns her so that she’s on his back and that he’s between her legs, lapping away at the mix of him and her and how it clings to her skin.
“Tell me you like it,” he says, and she arches make, feeling his tongue as it enters her again, swirling lightly. She babbles out that she wants to kiss him so that she can taste herself and him on his mouth too. “No,” he says, and then he laughs too. “Tell me you like it, baby.”
With a fist in his hair again, she unravels pretty quickly, sore and aching, and begging him to give her the release that she needs. She thrashes underneath him, at the sound of his laugh and the way he coos and still calls her pretty girl.
And then when it finally its her, when she comes and cries out, he’s climbs back over her and twists her legs through his so that they tangle in the bed.
She’s breathless, giving up the admission. “I do.”
Somehow she’s naked in his kitchen and it’s a little after three in the morning, after it’s been sleep and sex and sleep and sex. She’s humming and it’s all so strange, how hungry she gets just after sex. There’s peanut butter, but she doesn’t really like peanut butter and if she remembers her first time, a near summer ago, it was the same thing that happened after Jesse, then after Finn and going a little too far - Mr. Schuester likes watching her licking her fingers too.
The jeans are low on his hips. She hums again when he corners her into the counter, her free hand brushing over his stomach as she licks the rest of the peanut butter off of her fingers. When he leans in, he takes them into her mouth and she laughs a little trying to bat him away.
“It’s the sounds that you make,” he murmurs against her fingers, then at her palm as his tongue sweeps against her skin. She lets out a soft moan and then he reaches in, palming one of her breasts.
“I know,” she says. Her mouth curls and then she’s reaching for his jeans, popping the button open easily. It’s the zipper too and then she’s got his dick in her hand, hot and heavy and pulsing into her palm.
“You make me crazy,” he tells her too.
His breath catches and she doesn’t go down on him; instead, she lets her fingers drag against his shaft, her thumb catching the head of his dick. He’s a little sticky and he hisses, arching into her hand. She wants to stroke him into being hard, more than ready, as if to say, see this is what you do to me.
“Jesse,” she murmurs; there’s the unanswered question and he sort of growls, catching the slight amusement writing itself into her mouth. “The summer afterwards,” she tells him. “It was so hot and he wanted to talk and I was so angry - I kissed him and then we were sticky and my dress was somewhere in the grass and I - came so hard.”
She leans in and bites at his shoulder. Mr. Schuester pushes her back and then they’re stumbling over to the table, her hips hitting the low end of the table. His dick brushes against her leg and he’s stepping out of his jeans, staring at her.
“Finn knows,” she says. She leans back against the table. It’s cool against the curve of her ass and her thighs stick a little to the wood. “But he’s not allowed to ask.”
Just a schoolgirl goes the song, and she could laugh, she might laugh more if he wasn’t watching her like he was ready to devour her right then and there. It’s that sense of control again and she stretches herself over the table, her hands brushing against her breasts and then cupping them.
“And,” she adds breathlessly. “Puck’s my friend - none of this should surprise you.”
He laughs then, his hand curling around his dick. He strokes himself too, watching her as she stays there, right in front of him, on the table that he eats at, that he and his wife had sat at too. She should feel guilty, but there’s something in that too, something in the way that he looks at her with that thought reflected back.
“I always play for keeps,” he says.
And he’s inside of her again, his dick pushing into her as her legs rise and hook around his waist. He drags her to the end of the table so that she’s closer, and that when he reaches for her, his fingers drag along her throat and it makes her moan.
“You’re such a pretty little thing,” he murmurs, and she arches a little, making him laugh. Oh god, oh god, she thinks. It’s just the way that he says it; she’s no different from him, the way that his voice unravels over her is all about weight and pitch and those lazy, lazy sounds. “I like that you don’t hide anything from me, baby.”
His hips press forward and she moans. They forward again, drawing back quickly so that she can feel his dick slide back out of her, only to the tip.
She feels his hand tremble over her again, at her throat, dragging his fingers between her breasts and then back between her legs. They rub lightly against her clit and then he’s sinking into her again, wrenching a cry out of her mouth.
Rachel lets him have her this way too. He knows that she likes it just like that.
The reality of it is that it’s so very dirty, and so very dangerous, but he’s never been about anything but himself and Rachel, well, she’s never really known how to let herself say no and no again to him. She thinks it’s because she doesn’t care about the consequences and that at school, between the two of them, it’s still tense and full of too much weight, to the point everybody rolls their eyes and says something like here goes Rachel and Mr. Schue again.
But they’ll never know that she tells her dads that she takes composition lessons from him too, that even though they do write sometimes and most of it happens when she’s naked in his kitchen and his bedroom and there was that time that he wrote a song in pen against the side of her thigh. There’s that time that Jesse comes back too, that Mr. Schuester gets her to call him Will, and she rides him in the auditorium, right in Jesse’s chair, so that when she sings my man, she has to look at him too. There will be the summer before her senior year as well, where she’s in the grass and her summer dress is somewhere nearby, and he fucks her hard as the neighbor’s party goes on loudly next door in the sightline of the deck that can see into Mr. Schuester’s yard if you just stand at the right angle.
It’s just that there’s the truth. There’s no going back.
They’ve never cared to begin with.