Glee Fic: by summer and fall
For smc_27, who keeps giving me all these prompts and I keep ... doing things with them. I mean, yeah. Yeah. I don't know what else to say anymore. But S, you're the best. The literal best. ♥
Also, fair warning (and I definitely should have put this up earlier), if May/December, Student/Teacher anything isn't your thing, you should keep on, keep on scrolling on.
by summer and fall
in many ways she is just a girl. this is where it gets complicated.
glee | will/rachel (will/rachel/jesse) | general spoilers for prom | 4,521 words, adult.
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Mr. Schuester finds out about prom, only because she sits with Jesse just outside the school, holding an ice pack to his face as she tries not to cry. There is a soft bruise under her cheek and she supposes she should really be crying about that and her bathroom encounter with Quinn, but she keeps alternating between feeling numb and completely and utterly exhausted.
“Rachel,” he says gently, and she looks up, meeting his gaze and then Coach Sylvester’s, who stands with Finn and his parents off to the side. There’s Kurt too and there’s endearing need to start quoting John Hughes.
Somehow though, in the middle of it, she finds her voice.
“I’m going to go back inside,” she says.
It all happens too fast to really follow; Kurt gets the crown, she and Quinn take awkward prom pictures with the other girls, and she ignores her phone every time she passes her bag, not really wanting to find out if it’s Jesse or Finn. Either way, she still ends up at her locker and pulls off her heels with a wince, hoping that she’s left some pair of extra flats to take her home.
All she wants to do is curl up in bed, she thinks. She remembers that she’s got to call her dads too, who expect her to come up and make the drive to her grandmother’s that Sunday, an hour away. She hasn’t decided whether she’ll tell them or not, or if she’ll let it all depend on how bad the bruise turns out.
“You need a ride?”
Mr. Schuester comes up from behind her. He touches her elbow and she watches some of the other kids as they pass, disappearing back into the parking lot to go off to parties and home, if there’s nothing else.
“Yeah,” she hears herself say. “Probably. I don’t know.”
He laughs a little and holds up his keys. She manages to fake a smile and decides to forego looking in her locker, grabbing her heels off the floor and starting to walk with him outside.
It’s cooler than she remembers. The goose bumps crawl over her arms and she must look so ridiculous, she thinks. The curls are starting to come undone against her neck, there’s taffeta and satin everywhere, and she’s back into wanting to crawl into bed again.
“What happened to your cheek, Rachel?” Mr. Schuester asks, and his hand on her arm causes her to jump. He rubs his thumb over her skin and then draws his fingers along the crook of her elbow, just before his hand drops at his side.
She bites her lip and looks away. She manages to watch a couple of cars disappear from the lot. The lights are getting heavy too and she must’ve walked out with the last of the students, her shoulders sagging with relief as she leans against his car.
“Quinn,” she says quietly.
He sighs like he’s not surprised and she purses her lips, folding her hands tightly against the front of her dress. She feels small and it’s sudden, just before his fingers brush against her arm again. It feels like a reassurance and part of her wants to laugh, but the corners of her mouth decide to turn instead.
It’s so odd, standing here with him, and for once, for once, she doesn’t think he’s bothered by the fact either. She knows that she could have walked home with Mercedes and Sam, or tagged along with Blaine and Kurt in some kind of show of support. But neither was in her, and she manages to meet Mr. Schuester’s gaze again.
He opens the car door for her. “I’m sorry,” he says.
The lights in her house are all off with the exception of the few in the front and the garage, a sure sign that her parents are not home. She wrings her hands in her lap again and sighs out loud, catching herself with a soft laugh.
“Sorry,” she says. She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to think that I’m ungrateful too, on top of everything else.”
Rachel’s voice is dry and he laughs, reaching over and brushing his hand over her leg. It moves to her shoulder and then her hair, as his fingers tuck a few of the loose strands back behind her ear.
“You had a rough night.”
She snorts.
“You know what I mean,” he says with a laugh. She turns her cheek into his fingers and watch as he brings them to brush against the bruise. She’s sure that she looks like a mess now, watching the frown that drops against his mouth.
“I should probably go in,” she says.
“I know.”
“My dads -” she bites her lip and stops herself - what could she say? They’re not home. They’re not going to be home for most of the weekend. It’s the entire heat of the night and the sudden, unwelcome notion that he holds just as much unpredictability as everyone else that was part of her night.
But somehow, he gets to say walk you to your door and it’s as if he’s said the most sensible thing. The truth is somewhere between stepping into prom and not coming out, more close to the reality of her night than anything else.
So Rachel lets him. She forgets her shoes in his car.
How his fingers find the zipper of her dress, in the dark hallway, is lost with the decision to ask him to come in and his lazy acceptance of her offer. She can’t remember the exact wording, or if it was her hand on his arm that led to him nudging her inside, but what she does know is that his mouth slides over the back of her neck and she’s making this sound that she’s never heard herself do before.
The dress falls too.
Her bra digs into her skin. She feels his hands move to cup her breasts, then pick at the fabric. She swears she hears him mutter lace just by her ear, just as his teeth scrape against her shoulder.
“I wanted to look pretty,” she says breathlessly.
He laughs behind her. She likes that sound, low and worrying. All pretenses of him being her teacher, of she being his student, seem to stumble back outside. She turns into him too, her hands curling in his coat.
“I did,” she says. Her hands move to his collar and then his shoulders, pushing the jacket to the floor. “I wanted to feel pretty too,” she murmurs. “And - ”
“You don’t,” he says.
She nods. “I don’t.”
It’s too dark to really see him and she wishes that she had left more lights on before she left for the night. It’s just that there was Jesse and he smiled and for a moment, just a slight moment, it was nice to be walking into something without the history.
But Mr. Schuester cups her cheek, then his fingers drag against her jaw, until she’s forced to draw herself onto her toes to reach him.
His mouth grazes hers. “You’re very pretty, Rachel,” he murmurs. She bites back a gasp and he lets his teeth brush over her lip. “Too pretty,” he says, and his tongue brushes into to her mouth, rolling lightly into hers. She moans and his hand drops to her hip.
It’s different, so different, when she can feel his hand against her skin, when there are no pretenses of rehearsals, but then it still feels as it should: so very, very wrong. She’s a big girl and this is a stupid decision, maybe one of her worst.
But he calls her a pretty girl again.
It’s not okay, him in her bedroom, in her pretty girl bedroom, on her knees and with a hand flat against his stomach. His dick is in her mouth and she’s watching as he throws his head back, his hand tight in her hair, tightening as she works her fingers along his shaft too.
“Oh god,” he breathes, and she laughs against his skin, letting her tongue flatten against the tip. She wraps her lips around it too and sucks, her eyes fluttering close. She’s deliberate with how she touches him, makes sure drag out each move her hands and fingers take, and her mouth opens wide enough to take him inside again, her tongue running along the underside of his dick.
He fists both hands in her hair and she rocks back against her knees. She keeps herself still, her eyes wide and open as he starts to jerk his hips forward, his dick sliding in and out of her mouth. She moves her hands to his thighs, running her nails against his skin, and then to curl her fingers around the base of his dick.
“Did you plan this?” she teases.
Her voice is too soft and she blows air against his dick, watching his hips arch. He grunts too and she’s back to stroking him with her hand.
“Do I ever?” he asks.
That morning, her dad calls and she explains to him that prom was more than sort of a bust, as Mr. Schuester crawls between her legs as she watches. His dick is in his hand and her eyes are wide and dark.
“I think I’m going to stay,” she says, and she spreads her legs slowly, sliding a hand between them. It’s so wrong, but he’s in her house and he hasn’t exactly left and she hasn’t exactly told him to. Her fingers brush over her clit as she watches him stroke himself right there, between her legs and in front of her.
“We’ll see you on Monday,” her dad says.
She can’t remember if she throws out a goodbye or her voice is heavy enough to get away with just not feeling well. But she drops the phone and Mr. Schuester sinks forward, guiding himself inside of her.
“Baby,” he breathes, and she feels his hips jerk forward. She feels tight and he feels so heavy, his mouth sliding over her throat. She tastes her whimper and feels him smile against her skin. “Baby,” he says. “You look so pretty in the morning.”
Her laughter is soft and his palm curves along her thigh, drawing her leg up to wrap around his hip. He shifts and she feels his dick push deeper.
For a moment, they just lay there, him inside of her and Rachel breathing softly. He turns his head up and his mouth finds hers. He flicks his tongue against her teeth and she catches it, letting her teeth rub lightly. She rolls her hips just a little, just to see, and ends up swallowing his moan.
“This is so wrong,” she breathes.
He laughs, but it’s strangled and her hips arch, just a little, twisting when his fingers dig into her leg. She feels herself stretch around him and it feels so achingly familiar now, knowing that he can stretch her and that when she comes, he’s going to feel thick and hot and it’s going to be that kind of mess.
His teeth brush over her ear. “It’s always been,” he says.
Kurt catches her at school on Monday, his arm linking through hers. The bruise on her cheek is fine with a little cover-up, but she’s more aware of the teeth marks on her breast and her fingers seem to find that one, soft spot that only becomes a little red when she rubs it too hard almost absently.
"I can smell the secret," he hums. She rolls her eyes. "Seriously though, did Jesse St. James -"
"Nothing," she says. "Nothing happened."
She waits for her cheeks to flush, waits for her heart to start racing, but she finds herself far too calm and almost amused at the whole thing. It's different when the secret is hers.
Her heels are still in his car.
Jesse arrives sometime between fourth and lunch, leaning against the lockers just outside of her French class. She doesn't smile. She smoothes a hand against her skirt and steps to the side to let everyone else pass by.
When the hallway quiets, she sighs and moves to lean against the locker next to him.
"You give me a headache," she says.
He laughs. "So you've told me."
Her mouth twists and she drags her fingers through her hair, twisting them through the ends. She doesn’t expect an apology, she thinks. It won’t come either. There is no different to either thought.
"You should go."
He laughs again. "Schue wants to see me. Nationals could be my show choir whisperer debut."
Rachel snorts. "So we're a social experiment again," she says. Her voice is sharp. Another time, another place, the bitterness might have been heavier.
“No,” he says. His fingers brush against her arm. “Walk me there?”
She wants to laugh, but she doesn’t and finds herself nodding, anyway, despite any initial misgivings about anything that’s happening. It’s that prom is still fresh, outside of everything else, and there’s still that part of her that is just a girl and that need of wanting people to just let her be.
They’re quiet until Jesse tucks his hand into his arm. She looks up in surprise and he shrugs, dragging her to Mr. Schuester’s office. The flush comes slowly, crawling along her neck and then her throat. She can’t help the shaky sigh either.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“Liar.”
“I am,” he says.
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t look at him. “Jesse,” she says. “I’m not that girl anymore, you know.”
He laughs and they walk into the office, catching Mr. Schuester as he’s packing up his things into a bag. She forgets that he’s got this lunch free and that sometimes, most times he’s off and leaving for a small break from the school.
He looks surprised to see Jesse, but when his gaze turns to her, his eyes darken. She watches the slight catch in his mouth, not quite a smile but not quite anything else; she feels the knots in her stomach unravel and her hand drops to her skirt again, picking at the hem as she licks her lips.
“Jesse,” he says. His voice softens. “Rachel.”
“I brought company,” Jesse says lazily. “Hope you don’t mind - Rachel did coin the phrase after all.”
“Leave me out of this,” she says quietly.
Rachel ignores Jesse’s amusement and the weight of Mr. Schuester’s gaze. She still sits in front of his desk and tries not to be too aware of who shuts the door. Jesse stretches out in the chair next to her, crossing his legs and eyeing the other man.
She is aware of them talking. She makes no attempt to pick out phrases and names as they talk about Nationals. Her hands keep to her knees and her skirt, her fingers curling against her knees. She tries not to wander back to her bedroom, to the suddenness of waking up and how everything, everything was so real and so sudden. It’s how she touches her throat though, and then drags her fingers along her shoulder.
“Rachel?”
Both of them are watching her. There’s a question and she feels it; maybe, this is her first mistake. When she flushes, she can’t stop herself from agreeing.
“Yes,” she says. “Sure.”
It isn’t until they have a late rehearsal at Mr. Schuester’s apartment, later in the week, that she catches the intention. Quinn and Finn are the last to leave, along with Kurt, and she makes some stupid excuse to clean up and doesn’t bother to correct everybody’s assumption that it’s probably because of Jesse.
She is in the kitchen when he corners her, presses against her back and slides a hand over her hip. Her mouth curls and she rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t turn around. The nerves will come later anyway; Jesse is still Jesse.
“You have a secret,” he sings into her ear, and she slides her hand underneath the water, scrubbing at the plate. She can hear the door in the other room shut and she wonders if Mr. Schuester’s come back inside.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” she says.
It’s true. He still has the ability to make everybody squirm. Even in practice, Puck sat too close to her and Santana was extra sharp while Kurt managed to land some kind of dig every time Jesse had something to say. She wasn’t uncomfortable, but she was surprised and kept quiet through most of it.
“I am,” he says. “I think there’s an endearing quality to watching some people squirm. You, however, were as impressionable as ever and I do enjoy listening to the occasional pick-me-up speech from your mentor.”
“Jesse,” she warns.
He waves a hand. “It’s an interesting headspace, anyway.”
“Stop it,” she says.
She draws back from him. Her hands are wet and her eyes narrow. He laughs, studying her. She can’t look away now and she can feel him pick her apart, piece by piece. If there’s ever anyone else, she thinks. Jesse would know.
“What are you hiding?” he asks softly, and reaches forward, brushing his fingers against her cheek. She doesn’t flinch. “Rachel.”
“Jesse,” she says.
There was no plan, she thinks, coming here. She could make all sorts of excuses as to why what happened after prom happened as neither she nor Mr. Schuester have managed to say something to each other since.
But she’s in his space and the heat starts to pool in her belly. The kitchen is sudden and small and she knows, knows that it won’t because she confesses it and that somehow, Jesse won’t be surprised. But this isn’t about him. It’s never been about him.
Rachel is the first to notice Mr. Schuester.
They stay in the kitchen. His fingers sink into her hair as he kisses her; her neck twisted back, her head resting against his shoulder. She can taste the sweetness of his beer and can’t remember if she saw him open one, if that matter if anything at all.
When his thumb slips between their mouths, Rachel lets herself have a sigh and then bites at the pad of his thumb. From somewhere next to them, Jesse makes a low sound, not heavy enough to be a growl or anything but. It’s then that she realizes that Mr. Schuester’s arm has settled around her waist.
“This is my house,” Mr. Schuester says. He’s calm. “You should sit at the table, Jesse,” he says too, and turns her so that she’s tight and flushed against his back. Jesse meets her gaze and she manages to bite back a moan as Mr. Schuester’s fingers start rub over her throat. They drag over her skin and then stop, rubbing just over the crook of skin that peeks out from a few buttons.
“How quaint,” Jesse drawls and she can barely watch move to the table. The chair seems to scratch against the floor as he drags it out.
It’s then that she meets Jesse’s gaze and one of the buttons just pops. There’s no sound but her, her breath catching as Mr. Schuester’s fingers circle against the top of her breast. But she’s not without cause either; the curve of her ass fits against him and she can feel how hard he is, rubbing lightly against her skirt.
“You should sit,” he says, and Jesse seems to comply, stretching out in front of them, lazy and amused. He seems unfazed.
But Mr. Schuester doesn’t wait and his hand slides over the button of her skirt, the one that rests against her hip. It comes undone with a snap and her skirt falls to the kitchen floor, pooling at her feet. She swears she hears Jesse go jesus and Mr. Schuester’s hand moves to cup her through her panties.
She hisses and he laughs, just in her ear, finding her mouth again as he pushes the fabric to the side. He bites at her lip and she feels his fingers slide against her clit. He doesn’t rub, but he teases, and they slide along her slit, pressing lightly into her entrance. She mews into his mouth and he presses his fingers against her again.
“Look at him,” he says against her mouth and it takes too much to drag herself away. Her gaze meets Jesse’s and there’s this crooked smile that just turns, that she doesn’t want to know why it’s there. She wonders if they’ve talked about her.
But Mr. Schuester slides two fingers inside of her, twisting his hand so that her hips jerk forward and she has to give him all her weight.
“Oh,” she breathes.
It doesn’t take long for her to come apart either, with his fingers pushing deep and deeper inside of her. She’s wet and when his thumb brushes over her thigh, she feels the stickiness against her skin. There’s no particular rhythm and really, really, she cannot stop arching into his hand, gasping every time his thumb and nail rub slowly over her stiff clit. She feels that ache and there’s Jesse, Jesse watching quietly.
And then when she has her orgasm, right there in the kitchen, with her skirt on the floor at her feet and her balance belonging solely to Mr. Schuester, she knows how much she likes this feeling, desperate and revealing. Rachel likes the audience.
This is the first time she says Will too.
She is stretched across Jesse’s lap in the bedroom. This is after Mr. Schuester somehow declares a look but no touching rule with him. He keeps his hands propped behind him, his eyes glued to hers as Mr. Schuester lines his dick with her pussy.
“This is my favorite,” he says to Jesse. Jesse barks out a laugh.
“I can see why,” Jesse says too, and nearly chokes on a growl, arching back as Mr. Schuester guides himself inside. “I can see why,” Jesse says again.
She ignores them both and focuses on the way Mr. Schuester’s hand starts to stroke his dick, up and down a few times, and then his fingers reach to brush over her clit. She wants him deeper though. She wants that feeling, that feeling of him stretching her, of nearly breaking into two.
He leans over her and she arches up, into him, trying to get him to move again. He laughs and the sound is too low, too thick, and she feels Jesse’s fingers try and slide into her hair. They pull lightly at the strands and Mr. Schuester grabs at her thigh, his nails digging into her skin as he slams his mouth over hers.
She kisses him first though. She’s soft, but not without some assertion. She lets her teeth graze his lip and then she sucks it, rolling her hips back into his. She feels him smile and something, some kind of reassurance passes between them, right up until he settles his weight unto her and Jesse’s fingers continue to stroke her hair.
“Please,” she breathes.
“You’re so pretty,” Mr. Schuester says, and then again, and one more time because he knows that she likes it. She is vaguely aware of Jesse shifting back, just enough so there’s some room, because Mr. Schuester starts to slide in and out of her. It may just be too much because it takes no time for him to feel like he’s fucking her so hard, that every time his dick seems to go so deep, she feels herself take him in further. She’s tight and so tight, and he thrusts his hips at a certain way like he remembers just what makes her fall apart.
There’s Jesse too, just watching, just watching as her breathing starts to get heavier and short and when she arches, back over his knee, his fingers catch her mouth, slipping along her lips. She can’t help but suck and someone moans, Mr. Schuester dropping his head and mouth against her throat.
It’s the second and third time she calls him Will, that she begs and sort of cracks out of her throat, her fingers curling tightly in his hair as she tears her mouth away from Jesse’s hand. She feels so dirty and exposed and really, it’s more than just that because when she comes, Will follows, and they’re both a mess of thrashing limbs against Jesse’s lap. She should regret this, she thinks.
Everything’s changed.
(Jesse lets her walk him out, even though she’s takes one of Mr. Schuester’s old sweatpants and a college t-shirt. Her feet are bare and the grass is kind of cold as he turns and studies her, reaching to take some of her hair behind her ear.
“I’m coming back,” he says, and her lips curl, shaking her head as she kind of looks off to the side. She doesn’t know what to say to him, even when he leans in and presses his mouth against her cheek, even when he looks back, over her shoulder, and she knows exactly what he’s trying to do.
There is a light that follows them though, standing with the two of them at Jesse’s car. She doesn’t have to look - Mr. Schuester is at the door. And in some ways the choses are far too clear because this is about power and control and the very thing the three of them seem to thrive on in different ways.
But Rachel takes the step back. And in some ways, she’s already chose.)
In the morning, she is back in Mr. Schuester’s kitchen. There is school in a few hours and she’s already watched the early, early morning crowd start to comb out of the sleepy neighborhood.
Her hair is a mess, unraveling against her shoulders and the t-shirt that sinks low, just over her thighs. She pours herself a glass of water and watches one of his neighbors as he squints and picks up the paper. There is a noise behind her and she feels an arm wrap around her waist, Mr. Schuester’s mouth brushing over her shoulder.
“You did that on purpose,” she says quietly.
There may or may not be some humor in her voice and she knows, knows that the worst kind of qualities are already exposed because of this - she keeps her own secrets and keeps them well, something she knows that he’s well-aware of. And maybe that’s it, maybe it’s not Finn or Jesse, maybe it’s not Puck or Kurt or any number of her friends; there’s always an allure to any kind of balance, but there’s more of a pull to this kind of chaos that has dropped right in front of her.
Maybe it’s just been him all along.
She lets her neck drop back though, against his shoulder as his mouth trails over her skin and then bites lightly at a spot he found the night before. It’s just another mark to hide.
“You called me Will,” he murmurs finally. She knows he doesn’t care either.
Also, fair warning (and I definitely should have put this up earlier), if May/December, Student/Teacher anything isn't your thing, you should keep on, keep on scrolling on.
by summer and fall
in many ways she is just a girl. this is where it gets complicated.
glee | will/rachel (will/rachel/jesse) | general spoilers for prom | 4,521 words, adult.
-
Mr. Schuester finds out about prom, only because she sits with Jesse just outside the school, holding an ice pack to his face as she tries not to cry. There is a soft bruise under her cheek and she supposes she should really be crying about that and her bathroom encounter with Quinn, but she keeps alternating between feeling numb and completely and utterly exhausted.
“Rachel,” he says gently, and she looks up, meeting his gaze and then Coach Sylvester’s, who stands with Finn and his parents off to the side. There’s Kurt too and there’s endearing need to start quoting John Hughes.
Somehow though, in the middle of it, she finds her voice.
“I’m going to go back inside,” she says.
It all happens too fast to really follow; Kurt gets the crown, she and Quinn take awkward prom pictures with the other girls, and she ignores her phone every time she passes her bag, not really wanting to find out if it’s Jesse or Finn. Either way, she still ends up at her locker and pulls off her heels with a wince, hoping that she’s left some pair of extra flats to take her home.
All she wants to do is curl up in bed, she thinks. She remembers that she’s got to call her dads too, who expect her to come up and make the drive to her grandmother’s that Sunday, an hour away. She hasn’t decided whether she’ll tell them or not, or if she’ll let it all depend on how bad the bruise turns out.
“You need a ride?”
Mr. Schuester comes up from behind her. He touches her elbow and she watches some of the other kids as they pass, disappearing back into the parking lot to go off to parties and home, if there’s nothing else.
“Yeah,” she hears herself say. “Probably. I don’t know.”
He laughs a little and holds up his keys. She manages to fake a smile and decides to forego looking in her locker, grabbing her heels off the floor and starting to walk with him outside.
It’s cooler than she remembers. The goose bumps crawl over her arms and she must look so ridiculous, she thinks. The curls are starting to come undone against her neck, there’s taffeta and satin everywhere, and she’s back into wanting to crawl into bed again.
“What happened to your cheek, Rachel?” Mr. Schuester asks, and his hand on her arm causes her to jump. He rubs his thumb over her skin and then draws his fingers along the crook of her elbow, just before his hand drops at his side.
She bites her lip and looks away. She manages to watch a couple of cars disappear from the lot. The lights are getting heavy too and she must’ve walked out with the last of the students, her shoulders sagging with relief as she leans against his car.
“Quinn,” she says quietly.
He sighs like he’s not surprised and she purses her lips, folding her hands tightly against the front of her dress. She feels small and it’s sudden, just before his fingers brush against her arm again. It feels like a reassurance and part of her wants to laugh, but the corners of her mouth decide to turn instead.
It’s so odd, standing here with him, and for once, for once, she doesn’t think he’s bothered by the fact either. She knows that she could have walked home with Mercedes and Sam, or tagged along with Blaine and Kurt in some kind of show of support. But neither was in her, and she manages to meet Mr. Schuester’s gaze again.
He opens the car door for her. “I’m sorry,” he says.
The lights in her house are all off with the exception of the few in the front and the garage, a sure sign that her parents are not home. She wrings her hands in her lap again and sighs out loud, catching herself with a soft laugh.
“Sorry,” she says. She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to think that I’m ungrateful too, on top of everything else.”
Rachel’s voice is dry and he laughs, reaching over and brushing his hand over her leg. It moves to her shoulder and then her hair, as his fingers tuck a few of the loose strands back behind her ear.
“You had a rough night.”
She snorts.
“You know what I mean,” he says with a laugh. She turns her cheek into his fingers and watch as he brings them to brush against the bruise. She’s sure that she looks like a mess now, watching the frown that drops against his mouth.
“I should probably go in,” she says.
“I know.”
“My dads -” she bites her lip and stops herself - what could she say? They’re not home. They’re not going to be home for most of the weekend. It’s the entire heat of the night and the sudden, unwelcome notion that he holds just as much unpredictability as everyone else that was part of her night.
But somehow, he gets to say walk you to your door and it’s as if he’s said the most sensible thing. The truth is somewhere between stepping into prom and not coming out, more close to the reality of her night than anything else.
So Rachel lets him. She forgets her shoes in his car.
How his fingers find the zipper of her dress, in the dark hallway, is lost with the decision to ask him to come in and his lazy acceptance of her offer. She can’t remember the exact wording, or if it was her hand on his arm that led to him nudging her inside, but what she does know is that his mouth slides over the back of her neck and she’s making this sound that she’s never heard herself do before.
The dress falls too.
Her bra digs into her skin. She feels his hands move to cup her breasts, then pick at the fabric. She swears she hears him mutter lace just by her ear, just as his teeth scrape against her shoulder.
“I wanted to look pretty,” she says breathlessly.
He laughs behind her. She likes that sound, low and worrying. All pretenses of him being her teacher, of she being his student, seem to stumble back outside. She turns into him too, her hands curling in his coat.
“I did,” she says. Her hands move to his collar and then his shoulders, pushing the jacket to the floor. “I wanted to feel pretty too,” she murmurs. “And - ”
“You don’t,” he says.
She nods. “I don’t.”
It’s too dark to really see him and she wishes that she had left more lights on before she left for the night. It’s just that there was Jesse and he smiled and for a moment, just a slight moment, it was nice to be walking into something without the history.
But Mr. Schuester cups her cheek, then his fingers drag against her jaw, until she’s forced to draw herself onto her toes to reach him.
His mouth grazes hers. “You’re very pretty, Rachel,” he murmurs. She bites back a gasp and he lets his teeth brush over her lip. “Too pretty,” he says, and his tongue brushes into to her mouth, rolling lightly into hers. She moans and his hand drops to her hip.
It’s different, so different, when she can feel his hand against her skin, when there are no pretenses of rehearsals, but then it still feels as it should: so very, very wrong. She’s a big girl and this is a stupid decision, maybe one of her worst.
But he calls her a pretty girl again.
It’s not okay, him in her bedroom, in her pretty girl bedroom, on her knees and with a hand flat against his stomach. His dick is in her mouth and she’s watching as he throws his head back, his hand tight in her hair, tightening as she works her fingers along his shaft too.
“Oh god,” he breathes, and she laughs against his skin, letting her tongue flatten against the tip. She wraps her lips around it too and sucks, her eyes fluttering close. She’s deliberate with how she touches him, makes sure drag out each move her hands and fingers take, and her mouth opens wide enough to take him inside again, her tongue running along the underside of his dick.
He fists both hands in her hair and she rocks back against her knees. She keeps herself still, her eyes wide and open as he starts to jerk his hips forward, his dick sliding in and out of her mouth. She moves her hands to his thighs, running her nails against his skin, and then to curl her fingers around the base of his dick.
“Did you plan this?” she teases.
Her voice is too soft and she blows air against his dick, watching his hips arch. He grunts too and she’s back to stroking him with her hand.
“Do I ever?” he asks.
That morning, her dad calls and she explains to him that prom was more than sort of a bust, as Mr. Schuester crawls between her legs as she watches. His dick is in his hand and her eyes are wide and dark.
“I think I’m going to stay,” she says, and she spreads her legs slowly, sliding a hand between them. It’s so wrong, but he’s in her house and he hasn’t exactly left and she hasn’t exactly told him to. Her fingers brush over her clit as she watches him stroke himself right there, between her legs and in front of her.
“We’ll see you on Monday,” her dad says.
She can’t remember if she throws out a goodbye or her voice is heavy enough to get away with just not feeling well. But she drops the phone and Mr. Schuester sinks forward, guiding himself inside of her.
“Baby,” he breathes, and she feels his hips jerk forward. She feels tight and he feels so heavy, his mouth sliding over her throat. She tastes her whimper and feels him smile against her skin. “Baby,” he says. “You look so pretty in the morning.”
Her laughter is soft and his palm curves along her thigh, drawing her leg up to wrap around his hip. He shifts and she feels his dick push deeper.
For a moment, they just lay there, him inside of her and Rachel breathing softly. He turns his head up and his mouth finds hers. He flicks his tongue against her teeth and she catches it, letting her teeth rub lightly. She rolls her hips just a little, just to see, and ends up swallowing his moan.
“This is so wrong,” she breathes.
He laughs, but it’s strangled and her hips arch, just a little, twisting when his fingers dig into her leg. She feels herself stretch around him and it feels so achingly familiar now, knowing that he can stretch her and that when she comes, he’s going to feel thick and hot and it’s going to be that kind of mess.
His teeth brush over her ear. “It’s always been,” he says.
Kurt catches her at school on Monday, his arm linking through hers. The bruise on her cheek is fine with a little cover-up, but she’s more aware of the teeth marks on her breast and her fingers seem to find that one, soft spot that only becomes a little red when she rubs it too hard almost absently.
"I can smell the secret," he hums. She rolls her eyes. "Seriously though, did Jesse St. James -"
"Nothing," she says. "Nothing happened."
She waits for her cheeks to flush, waits for her heart to start racing, but she finds herself far too calm and almost amused at the whole thing. It's different when the secret is hers.
Her heels are still in his car.
Jesse arrives sometime between fourth and lunch, leaning against the lockers just outside of her French class. She doesn't smile. She smoothes a hand against her skirt and steps to the side to let everyone else pass by.
When the hallway quiets, she sighs and moves to lean against the locker next to him.
"You give me a headache," she says.
He laughs. "So you've told me."
Her mouth twists and she drags her fingers through her hair, twisting them through the ends. She doesn’t expect an apology, she thinks. It won’t come either. There is no different to either thought.
"You should go."
He laughs again. "Schue wants to see me. Nationals could be my show choir whisperer debut."
Rachel snorts. "So we're a social experiment again," she says. Her voice is sharp. Another time, another place, the bitterness might have been heavier.
“No,” he says. His fingers brush against her arm. “Walk me there?”
She wants to laugh, but she doesn’t and finds herself nodding, anyway, despite any initial misgivings about anything that’s happening. It’s that prom is still fresh, outside of everything else, and there’s still that part of her that is just a girl and that need of wanting people to just let her be.
They’re quiet until Jesse tucks his hand into his arm. She looks up in surprise and he shrugs, dragging her to Mr. Schuester’s office. The flush comes slowly, crawling along her neck and then her throat. She can’t help the shaky sigh either.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“Liar.”
“I am,” he says.
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t look at him. “Jesse,” she says. “I’m not that girl anymore, you know.”
He laughs and they walk into the office, catching Mr. Schuester as he’s packing up his things into a bag. She forgets that he’s got this lunch free and that sometimes, most times he’s off and leaving for a small break from the school.
He looks surprised to see Jesse, but when his gaze turns to her, his eyes darken. She watches the slight catch in his mouth, not quite a smile but not quite anything else; she feels the knots in her stomach unravel and her hand drops to her skirt again, picking at the hem as she licks her lips.
“Jesse,” he says. His voice softens. “Rachel.”
“I brought company,” Jesse says lazily. “Hope you don’t mind - Rachel did coin the phrase after all.”
“Leave me out of this,” she says quietly.
Rachel ignores Jesse’s amusement and the weight of Mr. Schuester’s gaze. She still sits in front of his desk and tries not to be too aware of who shuts the door. Jesse stretches out in the chair next to her, crossing his legs and eyeing the other man.
She is aware of them talking. She makes no attempt to pick out phrases and names as they talk about Nationals. Her hands keep to her knees and her skirt, her fingers curling against her knees. She tries not to wander back to her bedroom, to the suddenness of waking up and how everything, everything was so real and so sudden. It’s how she touches her throat though, and then drags her fingers along her shoulder.
“Rachel?”
Both of them are watching her. There’s a question and she feels it; maybe, this is her first mistake. When she flushes, she can’t stop herself from agreeing.
“Yes,” she says. “Sure.”
It isn’t until they have a late rehearsal at Mr. Schuester’s apartment, later in the week, that she catches the intention. Quinn and Finn are the last to leave, along with Kurt, and she makes some stupid excuse to clean up and doesn’t bother to correct everybody’s assumption that it’s probably because of Jesse.
She is in the kitchen when he corners her, presses against her back and slides a hand over her hip. Her mouth curls and she rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t turn around. The nerves will come later anyway; Jesse is still Jesse.
“You have a secret,” he sings into her ear, and she slides her hand underneath the water, scrubbing at the plate. She can hear the door in the other room shut and she wonders if Mr. Schuester’s come back inside.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” she says.
It’s true. He still has the ability to make everybody squirm. Even in practice, Puck sat too close to her and Santana was extra sharp while Kurt managed to land some kind of dig every time Jesse had something to say. She wasn’t uncomfortable, but she was surprised and kept quiet through most of it.
“I am,” he says. “I think there’s an endearing quality to watching some people squirm. You, however, were as impressionable as ever and I do enjoy listening to the occasional pick-me-up speech from your mentor.”
“Jesse,” she warns.
He waves a hand. “It’s an interesting headspace, anyway.”
“Stop it,” she says.
She draws back from him. Her hands are wet and her eyes narrow. He laughs, studying her. She can’t look away now and she can feel him pick her apart, piece by piece. If there’s ever anyone else, she thinks. Jesse would know.
“What are you hiding?” he asks softly, and reaches forward, brushing his fingers against her cheek. She doesn’t flinch. “Rachel.”
“Jesse,” she says.
There was no plan, she thinks, coming here. She could make all sorts of excuses as to why what happened after prom happened as neither she nor Mr. Schuester have managed to say something to each other since.
But she’s in his space and the heat starts to pool in her belly. The kitchen is sudden and small and she knows, knows that it won’t because she confesses it and that somehow, Jesse won’t be surprised. But this isn’t about him. It’s never been about him.
Rachel is the first to notice Mr. Schuester.
They stay in the kitchen. His fingers sink into her hair as he kisses her; her neck twisted back, her head resting against his shoulder. She can taste the sweetness of his beer and can’t remember if she saw him open one, if that matter if anything at all.
When his thumb slips between their mouths, Rachel lets herself have a sigh and then bites at the pad of his thumb. From somewhere next to them, Jesse makes a low sound, not heavy enough to be a growl or anything but. It’s then that she realizes that Mr. Schuester’s arm has settled around her waist.
“This is my house,” Mr. Schuester says. He’s calm. “You should sit at the table, Jesse,” he says too, and turns her so that she’s tight and flushed against his back. Jesse meets her gaze and she manages to bite back a moan as Mr. Schuester’s fingers start rub over her throat. They drag over her skin and then stop, rubbing just over the crook of skin that peeks out from a few buttons.
“How quaint,” Jesse drawls and she can barely watch move to the table. The chair seems to scratch against the floor as he drags it out.
It’s then that she meets Jesse’s gaze and one of the buttons just pops. There’s no sound but her, her breath catching as Mr. Schuester’s fingers circle against the top of her breast. But she’s not without cause either; the curve of her ass fits against him and she can feel how hard he is, rubbing lightly against her skirt.
“You should sit,” he says, and Jesse seems to comply, stretching out in front of them, lazy and amused. He seems unfazed.
But Mr. Schuester doesn’t wait and his hand slides over the button of her skirt, the one that rests against her hip. It comes undone with a snap and her skirt falls to the kitchen floor, pooling at her feet. She swears she hears Jesse go jesus and Mr. Schuester’s hand moves to cup her through her panties.
She hisses and he laughs, just in her ear, finding her mouth again as he pushes the fabric to the side. He bites at her lip and she feels his fingers slide against her clit. He doesn’t rub, but he teases, and they slide along her slit, pressing lightly into her entrance. She mews into his mouth and he presses his fingers against her again.
“Look at him,” he says against her mouth and it takes too much to drag herself away. Her gaze meets Jesse’s and there’s this crooked smile that just turns, that she doesn’t want to know why it’s there. She wonders if they’ve talked about her.
But Mr. Schuester slides two fingers inside of her, twisting his hand so that her hips jerk forward and she has to give him all her weight.
“Oh,” she breathes.
It doesn’t take long for her to come apart either, with his fingers pushing deep and deeper inside of her. She’s wet and when his thumb brushes over her thigh, she feels the stickiness against her skin. There’s no particular rhythm and really, really, she cannot stop arching into his hand, gasping every time his thumb and nail rub slowly over her stiff clit. She feels that ache and there’s Jesse, Jesse watching quietly.
And then when she has her orgasm, right there in the kitchen, with her skirt on the floor at her feet and her balance belonging solely to Mr. Schuester, she knows how much she likes this feeling, desperate and revealing. Rachel likes the audience.
This is the first time she says Will too.
She is stretched across Jesse’s lap in the bedroom. This is after Mr. Schuester somehow declares a look but no touching rule with him. He keeps his hands propped behind him, his eyes glued to hers as Mr. Schuester lines his dick with her pussy.
“This is my favorite,” he says to Jesse. Jesse barks out a laugh.
“I can see why,” Jesse says too, and nearly chokes on a growl, arching back as Mr. Schuester guides himself inside. “I can see why,” Jesse says again.
She ignores them both and focuses on the way Mr. Schuester’s hand starts to stroke his dick, up and down a few times, and then his fingers reach to brush over her clit. She wants him deeper though. She wants that feeling, that feeling of him stretching her, of nearly breaking into two.
He leans over her and she arches up, into him, trying to get him to move again. He laughs and the sound is too low, too thick, and she feels Jesse’s fingers try and slide into her hair. They pull lightly at the strands and Mr. Schuester grabs at her thigh, his nails digging into her skin as he slams his mouth over hers.
She kisses him first though. She’s soft, but not without some assertion. She lets her teeth graze his lip and then she sucks it, rolling her hips back into his. She feels him smile and something, some kind of reassurance passes between them, right up until he settles his weight unto her and Jesse’s fingers continue to stroke her hair.
“Please,” she breathes.
“You’re so pretty,” Mr. Schuester says, and then again, and one more time because he knows that she likes it. She is vaguely aware of Jesse shifting back, just enough so there’s some room, because Mr. Schuester starts to slide in and out of her. It may just be too much because it takes no time for him to feel like he’s fucking her so hard, that every time his dick seems to go so deep, she feels herself take him in further. She’s tight and so tight, and he thrusts his hips at a certain way like he remembers just what makes her fall apart.
There’s Jesse too, just watching, just watching as her breathing starts to get heavier and short and when she arches, back over his knee, his fingers catch her mouth, slipping along her lips. She can’t help but suck and someone moans, Mr. Schuester dropping his head and mouth against her throat.
It’s the second and third time she calls him Will, that she begs and sort of cracks out of her throat, her fingers curling tightly in his hair as she tears her mouth away from Jesse’s hand. She feels so dirty and exposed and really, it’s more than just that because when she comes, Will follows, and they’re both a mess of thrashing limbs against Jesse’s lap. She should regret this, she thinks.
Everything’s changed.
(Jesse lets her walk him out, even though she’s takes one of Mr. Schuester’s old sweatpants and a college t-shirt. Her feet are bare and the grass is kind of cold as he turns and studies her, reaching to take some of her hair behind her ear.
“I’m coming back,” he says, and her lips curl, shaking her head as she kind of looks off to the side. She doesn’t know what to say to him, even when he leans in and presses his mouth against her cheek, even when he looks back, over her shoulder, and she knows exactly what he’s trying to do.
There is a light that follows them though, standing with the two of them at Jesse’s car. She doesn’t have to look - Mr. Schuester is at the door. And in some ways the choses are far too clear because this is about power and control and the very thing the three of them seem to thrive on in different ways.
But Rachel takes the step back. And in some ways, she’s already chose.)
In the morning, she is back in Mr. Schuester’s kitchen. There is school in a few hours and she’s already watched the early, early morning crowd start to comb out of the sleepy neighborhood.
Her hair is a mess, unraveling against her shoulders and the t-shirt that sinks low, just over her thighs. She pours herself a glass of water and watches one of his neighbors as he squints and picks up the paper. There is a noise behind her and she feels an arm wrap around her waist, Mr. Schuester’s mouth brushing over her shoulder.
“You did that on purpose,” she says quietly.
There may or may not be some humor in her voice and she knows, knows that the worst kind of qualities are already exposed because of this - she keeps her own secrets and keeps them well, something she knows that he’s well-aware of. And maybe that’s it, maybe it’s not Finn or Jesse, maybe it’s not Puck or Kurt or any number of her friends; there’s always an allure to any kind of balance, but there’s more of a pull to this kind of chaos that has dropped right in front of her.
Maybe it’s just been him all along.
She lets her neck drop back though, against his shoulder as his mouth trails over her skin and then bites lightly at a spot he found the night before. It’s just another mark to hide.
“You called me Will,” he murmurs finally. She knows he doesn’t care either.