A/N: Thank you so much to everyone that reads my fics (and especially to those that like them, favorite, follow and, especially especially those who review)—it truly makes my day to see people reading my writing.

Also, IMPORTANT: I forgot to mention that this is a collaboration with my very good friend, inadreamstate, who will be writing the third and final installment of the series. I will post a link, or notification, or something when she posts it so those of you who are being updated with a new chapter will still get notified of its existence.

So, look forward to her next piece—she's fantastic!


He wakes up exhausted, his head pounding. He feels like he hasn't slept at all but when he looks at the clock it reads 12:10, and he can't stay in bed any longer, can't hide from himself because his dreams were all nightmares.

He can still see the images his subconscious had inflicted on him: Rachel in his arms and Rachel in his bed, and Rachel splayed on his desk like he told her he wants so badly.

He closes his eyes, puts his hand to his throbbing head and aches; they're nightmares not dreams because she's smiling at him, kissing him and touching him back and whispering how much she needs him and wants him and loves him; they're nightmares because they're everything he can't have.

Standing makes his headache instantly worse, and he knows that it's partly a hangover but mostly it's his own guilt.

He blinks slowly as he reaches his living room, reaches his liquor cabinet and pours himself a shot, tips it back easily. Will knows it won't cure everything, that it can only ease his hangover, but he also thinks it can ease the guilt, and right now that's all he wants.

The shot isn't immediate and he's been sleeping for hours, sleeping off the alcohol, and he's painfully lucid right now as he flops down onto his couch, onto the couch where he'd had sex with Rachel hours ago.

Not sex, exactly, he hasn't even touched her but his head throbs as he tries to pinpoint the degree to which he violated his moral code, violated his student.

His laptop is sitting where he'd left it, on the coffee table, and he remembers that Rachel wants to talk to him, had made him agree. He's nervous, he doesn't know what she wants to say but he's pretty sure that it's going to make his head throb more now that she's had hours to think about what they've done, what he'd said to her.

It's late in the day for both of them, he's heard her say she's an early riser, and usually he's the same. It probably means she's online, she's waiting for him and he should bite the bullet, log on and find out just how bad the fallout is going to be.

But he's a mess, he can't do this when he feels so grimy physically, if he's going to feel grimy because of this, too.

He decides on a run, he needs to get his head together and it's the only thing he can think to do right now besides down another shot, but he knows where that got him yesterday.

Rachel sleeps well, she's a little surprised to find. After logging off she'd felt strange, and she still does, a little. It feels like her skin is vibrating, pulsing. She thinks it's power, she feels powerful, she's still riding the high from yesterday.

But that isn't it, fully, there's something more, something like regret. She wouldn't take back what happened, what they said to each other, did to themselves while they said it, but she thinks she's supposed to want that. She's supposed to want to end it, now, deem it a mistake and vow to double check her phone before she sends anything.

Part of the vibration, the pulsing is the thrill from admitting to herself that she doesn't want to do that. But the other part, the low rumbling in her stomach that she wants to label as hunger and move on, part of it is guilt, a sharp edge of shame because she doesn't deem it a mistake.

Shame because she wants this again, wants to log on and start it all over.

She's been killing hours, trying to fill time until he logs on and she's starting to get nervous. He'd so readily said things to her last night, but now he's offline, and she wonders if he's deemed this a mistake.

Of course, he has more on the line than she does, he's her teacher and this is dangerous for both of them, but she realizes that for her it can result in social disapproval and for him it could cost him his job, his license.

It's not like she'll tell anyone, not like she'd broadcast this because he's her teacher, and, more importantly, she has a boyfriend. A boyfriend she's wanted for over two years, and they're together, again, and she desperately wants to keep things the way they are.

But she can't refute that she's waiting online right now, hoping Mr. Schue will log on, too, and tell her he wants this again, wants her again.

Except he hasn't logged on, it's afternoon and she can't wait any longer, she needs to know, either way.

She needs to talk to him.

Will's run is pathetic—he gets a few blocks before his entire body aches and nausea sets in. It's understandable, really; he's so dehydrated from last night, from this morning, his head is pounding and there's fresh alcohol in his system, albeit a small amount.

When he runs down an empty block his stomach clenches, and he dips into an alley, leans his hand against a plain brick wall and dry heaves, his system rejecting the neglect of the past few hours.

He calls it a day, then, and walks back to his apartment pale-faced and shaking.

A shower is next, low activity, fortunately, and he wants to wash everything away, today, last night, Rachel, and start over. He'll have their conversation sober this time and he won't lose track of what they are at school, of what they can't be now, ever.

He washes himself slowly, not anxious to log on, to see the lie that bornforbroadway is available because she isn't and he doesn't need help with mental confusion now.

When he finally steps out he feels better, much better, cleaner, and more like the professional, upstanding man he likes to think he is.

He hasn't shaved, he's a little stubbly, but when he reaches for his razor he sees his phone, illuminated on the sink.

A text message from Rachel.

Will drops the razor, picks up his phone and goes into his room to put on clothes, get dressed before he replies because it somehow feels really wrong to text her when he's naked and trying to fix them.

Fix himself.

Jeans, a t-shirt and he feels better, so he grabs a glass of water and sits on his couch again.

He opens the text and it's simple, asking him please to go online, and it's her politeness that throws him.

All of his false calm is leaving again, the sheen of grime is covering him as he stares at his computer, imagines Rachel on her bed, her fingers between her thighs thinking about him, imagining he was doing what he told her he wanted to.

The water isn't cold enough but he gulps it down and opens the laptop. He has to do this quickly, talk to her, because there's a bottle of scotch with just enough left to get him drunk and it's calling his name.

She's staring at her phone, waiting for him to text her back and with every passing second she's getting more and more worried. She has no way of telling how he's feeling, but she thinks she's getting a better idea the longer it takes him to message her back.

Rachel sighs, tugs at the scoop neckline of her dress and spins slightly in her desk chair. She's been in front of her computer, logged on since the breakfast she hadn't been able to eat, at an hour that was most certainly too early considering the events of last night.

Her phone is still in her hand, she's staring at it, willing it to beep with a message so hard that it takes a moment for her to place the beeping coming from her computer.

When she does she nearly drops the phone she'd been cradling so carefully, and she rests it on the desk next to her laptop so she can read his message.

wjschue: Hi.

It's simple, and frustrating because it tells her nothing of what he's feeling, but she supposes hello would have been too formal all things considering, and hey would have been too casual and what's up would have made him sound like he was trying to act her age.

She's not quite sure how to respond, if he wants to just dive right in or if they need to tip-toe around everything. She's hoping it's the former, because she feels fine about it all. In fact, she's kind of hoping there can be a repeat.

bornforbroadway: Hi. What does the "J" stand for?

It's not private, really, and it shouldn't make him want to reach for that bottle so far away but it does. Her question is prodding at something personal, as insignificant as his middle name might be, but he's debating if he should tell her.

There's nothing for a few seconds until he lets out a shallow breath and replies.

wjschue: Joshua.

She doesn't respond right away and he doesn't blame her. He doesn't know how to respond to his IM either and he feels a little bad about it but he did that on purpose—he isn't sure how she wants this to play out and she has the power right now.

It worries him when he sees the typing message on the screen.

bornforbroadway: My middle name is Rebecca :)

bornforbroadway: How was your morning?

When he sighs in relief it's audible and completely due to the stupid smiley face icon or emoticon or whatever it's called. He thinks she could have said a lot of things to make him feel better or worse, but this is the quickest, and the relief that she isn't going to call him a disgusting abusive authority is almost intoxicating.

What's worrisome, he soon realizes, is the anticipation he feels when he learns that she's not upset, that she's actually speaking with him like she usually does, except a little nicer, a little more like he sees her treat Finn.

That anticipation worries him a lot, because along with the light feeling comes images from his dreams, from his sick mind that's created what she looks like when she's climaxing, falling apart beneath him and over him and around him.

It's short lived because then the red hot shame is back, and he eyes that scotch a moment before he calms himself and types back to her.

He considers lying for a moment, but he isn't sure what he'd tell her or which fake morning story makes him look less pathetic.

wjschue: It was uneventful. I went for a run.

It's short and sweet and tells her that he didn't sleep in to avoid just this, or that he was so sick he could only run half a mile, even though it's all the truth.

bornforbroadway: That sounds nice. It was beautiful this morning.

He wouldn't know, considering he slept until noon. He doesn't tell her this, and as he considers how to respond, how long they can avoid discussing things, the screen notifies him that she's still typing.

His eye starts twitching just a little and he's used to the spasms but he hasn't had them in a long time. He's worried about the contents of her next IM and the wait is killing him as he wonders how much she could possibly be saying to him.

He's not being very communicative, and it doesn't surprise her too much; this is one of the reactions she's been expecting. It's not her favorite (him jumping right back into their conversation from the night before tops that list), but it's better than yelling at her for throwing herself at him again (it wasn't her intention but it turned out to be true) or accusing her of using him (also true) or telling her that he didn't have much fun last night and she should learn what to do in this area (this one's her least favorite).

But him being quiet she can work with, since it probably means he is attracted to her (this seemed very true last night) and that he does want to do this again (also true from last night's experience) and that he just doesn't know how to ask her for more, how to ask her to let him imagine her like he did.

She's not a seductress by any means, she's not Quinn or Santana or Brittany, but last night she'd made this very man lose control with desire, and that means she was doing something right.

It feels strange, as she types a response to him, knowing that she's putting herself out there, but he'd succumbed so readily last night that she thinks she can do this again, that maybe she's an acquired taste and he's learning that she's worth more than what Jesse or Puck or even Finn give her credit for.

bornforbroadway: A run sounds nice. I just did my usual workout routine on the elliptical. It was a really good session this morning, and I had to get into a cold shower just to cool down. Although memories of last night made me heat right back up again, and I had to do something about it right after ;)

He's focusing on the winking face thing because he's kind of surprised she likes them so much, these emotiwhatevers because he can't focus on the rest of the sentence that puts the images in his head again, the images of her lying on her bed, her toned body cool but heating quickly as her fingers trail over her skin dotted with water droplets that he wish he could lap up because suddenly his throat is very very dry.

He takes a drink of his water and clenches his jaw as he swallows, still staring at the screen. The image of the scotch so close is still in his mind and he wants it more than before, because he wants to do this again, whatever this is, this thing with Rachel, and he thinks if he does it sober his soul will be lost for good.

Still, he's promised to have this talk with her sober and if that keeps him from making the same mistake with her again then he'll deserve the drink after, deserve to numb himself until he doesn't feel this anticipation, this gnawing feeling like what he wants is right here and if he really wants it he can just take it.

Because he can't, because what he really wants right now, in this moment, is Rachel to say all those things again.

None of this is helping him think of what to say to her and before he can form a response he gets another message.

She's sending him a file attachment.

She's pretty sure she knows why he's not responding, and she's pretty sure it's the reason she thought—this just strengthens her previous suspicion that he wants whatever this is again, but he's thinking about it too much.

Her new laptop has the webcam in it, so she just stands up, in front of the computer as her skin tingles with the thought of doing this again.

She slips the buttons to the top half of her dress through the holes quickly, until the material falls open, gaping at her chest but not enough to show more than the smooth skin between her breasts, and the subtle rise of them if she turns enough to show shadows.

Rachel stands in front of the camera and has to lean forward just a little to take the picture. It turns out fine, though you can't see above her mouth or below her hip, only made out by the pressure she put on it with her hand.

She sends it, deciding it'll have to do, she has to send this now when he's still so close to giving in, she just knows he is.

He doesn't want to accept it, doesn't want to see whatever it is because he's pretty sure it's a picture that he very much wants to see.

He hesitates a moment, but he starts to wonder what, exactly she's showing him that he hasn't seen, and then he thinks, maybe, it's harmless, maybe it's glee related, maybe it's a suggested song list.

The risk is worth it, he decides, and accepts the file transfer. It's quick and he sees that it's called and that doesn't sound like any of the excuses he's made but it isn't explicit, either, and he opens it as the screen chimes.

bornforbroadway: Do you remember this, by any chance?

He does. The image loads too quickly and he sees a picture of her, in front of her bed, and now he knows so much more because he can place her desk in her bedroom and no teacher should know the layout of their student's room.

They also shouldn't be seeing this, he reasons, as he takes in the loose dress on her shoulders.

The dress is blue with small white polka dots and of course he remembers it because he'd held that same material so close to his body and he'd been so happy, because of glee, because of second chances, because of Rachel's hair, and how delicate it had smelled pressed against his nose for those brief seconds he'd allowed himself.

But this is new, this is a view he hasn't seen connected to the dress, open at the top and he can see the soft swell of her left breast as she leans forward in the picture.

Now he knows, can picture her in her bedroom at her desk perfectly, her skin exposed to the screen that he talks to her through as she sits there, naked under the dress.

He wonders if she's wearing panties, either.

Fuck he wants the scotch because it means he can do this, can relapse and play along and just ask her the damn question.

Will can feel himself hardening beneath his jeans, and it's happening again anyway, sober, and that's not the plan, but he responds anyway.

wjschue: I do.

He figures it's better than the of course he thinks in his head.

He's biting, she realizes, but he's still fighting himself, and the more he caves the bigger rush she gets.

She thinks about her webcam, realizes how easy it would be to give him the full visual, to send him a video message or ask for a video chat.

The last thought makes her pause, because she wants to see him, right now, struggling in the apartment she can't go to as he tries not to want her.

Except she knows, she can tell, now, that he does, and it's spurring her forward. The power rush is worth the effort and she's doing this.

bornforbroadway: I could barely sit still while you sang. All I could think about what how close you'd pulled me, right between your thighs.

She's putting on a show again, she can feel it, different from those early messages to Finn because she still means what she's saying but it feels different, it's all for a different reason, to serve a different need.

Rachel bites her lip, crosses her fingers as she waits for his reply, wants him to tell her he felt the same, all those months ago, that he's thought about it since, and survived only on the few hugs he's managed when it was appropriate because he couldn't keep his hands off of her completely.

wjschue: I saw you during the song. You barely looked away.

It's a yes, for all intents and purposes and she lets out a short breath, shifts in her seat and replies.

He can't do this, he can't fall back into them playing at intimacy like it's nothing, but he also can't move. He knows it's because it's taboo, partly, he knows that his cock is pressing uncomfortably against his jeans because of it.

But the fact that she wants him still, that this is wrong and he's so damaged and she still wants this with him is part of it, too. She's pushing, she's actively working for this and that's why he stands up, gets his scotch because it's too late, he should have known the moment he logged on that this is how they're going to end.

bornforbroadway: How could I look away? You were so happy, and all I could see was your smile and your long fingers, playing so easily over the strings.

He swallows quickly because he knows what's next and he sits down again.

bornforbroadway: I could only imagine how they would feel on my bare skin, playing along the hem of my dress, stroking my hair back away from my neck.

He doesn't think he wanted it then, not the way he wants it now, to trail his fingers just like she imagined.

He takes another drink, his throat burning in a small scale punishment of the thoughts and words forming in his mind.

wjschue: Your hair felt so soft under my hand and smelled so good.

It's worse, them talking like this, sexualizing a real moment from their past. It feels like they're trying to rewrite things, trying to justify this with memories of suppressed desire that he isn't sure exist.

It is true, though, that her hair was so soft beneath his fingers, and she'd fallen so easily against his bigger frame, let him pull her close just like she'd said, between his legs. Honestly, reviewing the moment now he wonders if he's exaggerating or if the rest of the club had seen them like this.

He isn't sure which one he thinks it is, but a part of him doesn't want to be exaggerating, doesn't want that to mean that he really is perverting innocence, perverting a simple moment together.

But she's saying this, too, she'd felt something, and he's pretty sure that it means he's not.

Rachel's heart is pounding because it's happening again, he's giving her so little but it's all just a hint of what he will give, what he'll tell her by the end of their conversation.

bornforbroadway: I wanted to stay later, I wanted to hug you again before I left, but Finn was pushing me towards his car.

Once it's sent she wants to take it back. Putting Finn's name in writing, putting it out there feels wrong, and she wonders if Mr. Schue knows that she and Finn are together again. If he knows that on top of everything else she's an adulterer.

She wonders if he even cares—he knows what she's capable of, knows how little she'd minded Terri's presence as she tried to seduce him. She hopes he isn't thinking about it, about how embarrassingly naïve she was.

She's always thought she was adult and sophisticated and mature beyond everyone else, but those words don't fit with how she's playing now, how she's passing time exchanging intimate messages like nothing.

wjschue: I wish you would have.

Rachel isn't sure if he actually means it but she's going to accept it at face value, assume that he does, and keep this going.

bornforbroadway: What would you have done? If everyone was gone, it's just us in the choir room, and I put my arms around your neck?

He would have wished her a good summer and put himself in his office, far away from her because back then, all those months ago he was still a good man, he still had the sense to avoid this feeling because he knew what would happen.

But is he really a good man if he knew what would happen between them, all that time ago?

He takes a drink of water and then scotch because he can't fool himself anymore.

wjschue: I would have put my arms around your waist and held you close, Rach. Felt your tiny waist under my palm and felt terrible because I wanted to feel more of you.

bornforbroadway: Mmm, my face would be buried in your neck wishing for the same. You smell so good, feel so strong with your arms around me, and I lean in further, moan a little into your neck and wait to feel your arms pull me closer.

bornforbroadway: Just a little, enough to let me know you want this, too.

The picture she's painting is so enticing and he thinks when she types it like this that he did want it, back then, even, and if she'd done this, really done this, he might have pulled her tighter.

wjschue: I do, my arms tighten around you, and my mouth isso close to your ear.

bornforbroadway: Do you whisper my name? I can feel your arms, your hands are on my hips and there's no space between us. What do you say to me?

wjschue: Your name, Rachel, we can't ddo this.

It gives her pause, that last part. They're both playing the same game, rewriting history, but now she doesn't know if he's playing or telling her, now, that they need to stop.

wjschue: we can't do this in hte choir room, anyone could come in

Her sigh of relief is audible and she leans back in her chair, the cool air of her room reminding her of her chest, exposed to the screen. She wishes he could see her again, like this, now that she knows the effect her body has on him.

It would be easy, to turn on the webcam as he tells her these things. The thought makes her pause, hesitate as she thinks about his webcam, thinks about what he must look like, his pants down around his knees, his hardness in his hand as he talks to her, pictures her body, thinks about them, in the choir room.

bornforbroadway: We should go into your office then. You lead me in there, your hand on my lower back, so close to my ass as you close the door and face me.

wjschue: you sit on my desk, your lega over the edge and slightly pparted. Your skirt is sosh ort…

His typing is getting sloppier and she thinks it must be what she imagined, him, hard, on his couch or his bed or at his desk as he gets off thinking about her this way.

Bornforbroadway: My skirt is so short. If we made this a video chat you could see…

He doesn't like what she's suggesting for the mere fact that he thinks it sounds like a much better idea than it is. He does want to see her, the skirt, the insanely long legs on such a short stature. He wants to see her, responding to him more than he wants to have a Nationals trophy, but the thought reminds him that they've got a year left, of them seeing each other at school and this is it, them cyberchatting is the line.

It's strange, he thinks, that having a line, allowing himself something with Rachel, lightens the pressure in his stomach. It's wrong, but it could be worse, and he decides not to think about that, instead he sets the bottle down and replies.

wjschue: Your skirt is so short, asnd I set my hands on your thighs, so smooth,, and I tug behind your knees, pull you clsoer to me.

He's ignoring the video mention and she's disappointed, but he's biting back, giving her more so she lets it go for now.

bornforbroadway: My skirt is by my hips, you can see my white panties, can't you?

wjschue: yes, snd I put my fingers to the front, I can feel howwet you are through them.

Rachel's fingers follow his imaginary ones and he's right, she's wet, but her fingers slip right over her clit, she's not wearing anything under her dress hoping it would end this way again.

bornforbroadway: It's from watching you play, from wanting you for so long, and now you're finally touching me. Where else do you want to touch me?

wjschue: everywhere.

He does, he wants to touch her everywhere, but more than that he wants to touch her anywhere, for real. He wants to brush his fingers over the smooth skin of her thighs, her shoulders, her lower back. He wants to trace the curve of her spine with his tongue and he wants to be able to feel her falling apart rather than relying on her telling him she is.

He wants to see her fall apart, and she's offering just that, but he's drawn the line, he's said no, and this has to be enough, telling her what it is he wishes he could really do, what he could have really done months ago.

wjschue: I want to lift your dress up and slide your panties off and stroke you, bring you closer and closer.I want to taste you, and I want to take your dressoff, put my mouth on your nipples.

Rachel can feel her cheeks heating, partly because of her arousal and partly because she's falling into this fantasy, she can almost remember it this way, remember him wanting her this much when his arms were around her.

Mostly she's heating because she's starting to think about what this means for next year, for her future, if he hugs her again. She's wondering if it's possible for them to touch without it becoming this and she thinks that it isn't, that by the words he's saying and the fact that he agreed to this again that he won't be able to keep himself away from her for a year.

wjschue: Are they hard/ thinking about us like this, in muy office, your legs spread for me so quikly?

They are, her nipples are tightening under her dress and the friction is pleasant but more than that she wants her dress off, wants the air on her skin to cool her down.

bornforbroadway: Yes, they are…I'm taking off my dress.

wjschue: Are you wearing panties?

He needs the full visual if he can't actually have it. Part of him wants her to say yes, because it fits better with their new version of the past, but he also wants to imagine that the only things stopping him from her soft skin is the distance and his few morals left.

bornforbroadway: No.

Fuck those morals.

bornforbroadway: What do you do to me, in your office?

Her words bring him back and he shakes his head. He hasn't been touching himself, he wants stay in control, but there are so many things that he wants to do to her that his hand falls against his jeans, and he presses his hand against his cock through the material.

wjschue: I sit down in my chair, wheeel it closer to you, your legs spread and I can see your pussy, wet and tempting, and I tug at your knees again.

bornforbroadway: I grip your shoulders, I'm watching your face and your eyes are so dark…

wjschue: I lick your pussy, I put my mouth on you clit and I suck, nibble and your thighs are closing arou\nd my head, you like this so much.

His fly is open now, he's taking himself into his hand because he can't not anymore, and he's regretting denying the video message because his morals mean nothing right now, nothing in comparison to her.

bornforbroadway: Yes, Mr. Schue, I do…I'm clawing at your shirt, you're still wearing so many clothes, but I'm so close with your mouth on me.

He hopes she means now, really, because the thought of her falling apart is far more appealing than it should be.

wjschue: I pu;l back, tease u and lick my lips…you taste amazing. I take m y shirt off, and you reach for me, pull me back to u until I'm standing between your thighas.

bornforbroadway: I'm anxious, I tug at your belt because I want to see you, I want to see how hard I make you…

Will wonders if she means then or now and he can't send a video, he can't do it because he's drawn a line he can't cross.

His words are becoming so hard to type, they're replying slower and he imagines her having the same trouble he is.

wjschue: I am hrd, I'm so hard and yiur little hands on my belt are makinh me hotter, I can't stand it and I pull your hands away.

He pulls his own hand away a moment, takes a drink of water because his mouth is so dry and his head is so fuzzy.

bornforbroadway: You take over for me, you pull them down and you lean forward, lean into me.

wjschue: i can feel your heat I want to slide into you, youre going to be \so tight around my cock and my heart is racing

She wants to see this, feel this, but she knows they can't, that he won't do that, at least not yet. Still, she wants to know how he looks, his face, know what he sounds like and she tells him that.

bornforbroadway: I want to see, I want to see you like this, I want you to see me like this.

Rachel isn't sure of what his response will be, but she has to take a chance, offer this again because he's caving to her more and more and she wonders if he'll fall just a little more.

wjschue: yes,

It isn't exactly a yes to what she's asking she knows, but she takes it anyway and she sends a video chat request. It loads forever, she's waiting desperately for a response, fears rejection from him but she hopes it won't come.

A screen is loading, it's hers, and she can see herself on the screen, her naked chest visible, her hair loose around her shoulders and she's wondering if he can see this, can see her.

The thought is startling and she shifts, her back stiffens as she fights to keep her arms from covering herself.

The picture was one thing, but now he's a little pissed at her, because she's dragging him across the line he'd made. He's trying, he thinks, but she can't send him video, live video of her naked, in her bedroom, and not expect him to accept.

He wants to be a good man, but part of that is man, and Rachel wants him, wants him to see her like this, and he can't say no to that again.

It doesn't mean he caves immediately. He wars for a moment, watching her, so at ease, in her room, and she looks so anxious, like she's waiting for his answer, and he knows she is.

He's still watching, his mouse hovering over the button to accept her call when he sees her back straighten, and she looks into the camera, looks at him.

At once it's intense, seeing her see him when he's so close to losing it all, and she smiles, shakes her hair off of her shoulder and he can see her breast, her body unobstructed by the thick brown hair.

It's a bit of a show, then, and the thought settles uneasily in the back of his mind. He knows it should set off alarm bells but this is Rachel Berry and performing is par for the course, so he licks his lips and clicks accept.

He can see his own video loading and he takes his hand off of his cock, tries to decide if he should cover himself, thinks she shouldn't see what he was doing, but then he gulps as he realizes she knows what he was doing, that she's doing this because she wants to see him, and he sets his hand on his thigh.

Being able to do this without the keyboard is freeing, and he shifts as his video matches hers on the screen.

It feels like a lifetime before his video starts to load, signaling he's accepted. She isn't sure what she was expecting his response to be, she knows how badly he wants this now, but she also knows what kind a man he is and his video loading, the grainy image she can't yet make out is flesh colored and the surprise she feels is intense, settling low in her belly.

She wanted this, wants this, and she's not going to back out but she isn't sure how she feels right now. The only thing she knows is that he is willing to risk everything for her, because she's worth it, because he can see what boys her age can't, and she remembers why she went after him all those months ago, why she wanted him back them.

She wasn't naïve, she isn't, she just knows what she wants, she sees what others her age can't and she's more proud of herself in this moment than she has been in a while.

The image is clearing, she can make out the bottom of the screen, his thighs, a t-shirt, and, oh. She's suddenly shy with the word cock now that this is visual, and she realizes that he can see her right now, her teacher can see her breasts, and she shivers but looks up to the camera.

She can see that he's licking his lips, not moving, but his hand moves to cover himself a few times in a stuttering motion. His hand finally settles out of the camera, and she figures he's gripping his knee now, that he's holding on tight to stop himself from many things.

The sound of rustling draws her attention to their situation as he moves slightly on his couch, a couch she's sat on before, and she can imagine herself next to him, right now. He's not saying anything but she thinks she can hear him panting and she realizes they can talk now, no more typing, no more distractions—just them, now.


She's speaking, he can hear her voice and it sounds exactly the way it does in his classroom.

It turns him on at the same time it causes a jolt of guilt he can't combat.

Her voice is sweet and a little tentative and if he wasn't seeing her out of her schoolgirl clothes the word would be stuck in his head.


He doesn't know what to say, it's like they're starting all over again but they can't ease into this because they're both exposed, figuratively and literally.

"You should take off your shirt, Mr. Schue," and God help him he does, partly for the way she lingers on his formal name but mostly because he wants to keep this going and she's offering him an answer.

His shirt is dropped by the end of the couch on the floor, and she slides her hands over her collarbones, behind her neck and gathers her hair up, away from her neck.

He's seen her hair this way so few times, a performance here or there because her hair is usually down, around her shoulders. He's always liked that, her long hair, curled and tousled and hinting at things it shouldn't.

But God, her neck, is all he can think, wisps of her hair falling from her hands to gently brush the dip of her collarbones, and he wants to trace the motion with his fingers, his tongue.

"Brush your hands over your chest, Rachel."

She hesitates a moment before she smiles, looks directly into the camera and licks her lips before she drops her hair and caresses the swell of her breasts, her forefingers stroking her nipples quickly.

"No, higher, Rachel." She looks up, confused, and he is too, he can barely think right now, but he gestures to his own neck and she smirks this time, fucking smirks, and he kind of wishes she felt this mischievous more often because she looks damn good like that, like she knows all of his secrets.

She sort of does, too.

When she does as he commands he takes a drink of the scotch nearby, and when he looks up she's biting her lip, and trailing her fingers between her breasts.

He's drinking. Alcohol. With all of the situations she's considered around him doing this drinking wasn't a part of any of them, and she's disappointed. Disappointed that he maybe doesn't want her the way she thought. Disappointed that this conquest wasn't quite as difficult now.

She thinks he seems pretty coherent, though, so maybe it was just a quick sip, and that makes her feel better, allows her to continue this, even as she realizes it's just a little before two in the afternoon.

"What now, Mr. Schue?"

She asks because she wants to listen to his speech, to gauge if he's drunk, if he has to be intoxicated to do this with her, and also because she likes it, when he tells her to do things.

He shuffles a bit on his couch, and if his jeans weren't still up by his waist she thinks she'd be able to see him, hard, in front of her. He's trying not to touch himself so desperately, it seems, and that helps her, makes her feel a little better about the alcohol nearby.

Mr. Schue's eyes are moving, they won't settle, and he doesn't look at the camera like she's trying to, trying to make that connection with him that she can't have in person. He clears his throat before his hands slide on his thighs, up and down and he presses his lips together like he's holding in a secret.

"L-lick your fin-ger, slide it down between your breasts."

He stutters and she remembers Tina's fake stutter, how she hasn't heard it in ages. His own stutter is genuine, he seems so flustered, but not because of her, really. Because of what he's feeling, she thinks.

With a smile she follows his order, closes her eyes as she reaches her navel, towards the bottom of the screen. Her hips are the last thing in frame and she wonders if he'll tell her to fix that.

He doesn't think he can do this, look at her and say these things.

But God damn it, she's fucking responding, and he can see her mouth parted slightly, her eyelashes fluttering as her hand falls out of the frame.

"Tilt," he stops, realizes what he was going to say and looks up to see her biting her lip and reaching for the camera. "No, don't." She freezes, looks into the camera, into him, and he almost forgets his new directive. "Stand up, Rachel."

She does, slowly, and he can see more and more of her come into view, but slowly he loses sight of her, of her face and her eyes and that fucking smirk and looking at a faceless teen body seems grimier than looking at Rachel.

He can't take in more than the curve of her waist before more words fall from him mouth. "Tilt the screen up, Rachel, I want to see you, your face."

There's a slight pause before she reaches, tilts the screen like he says, and he thinks over his words. Before he can process what startled her she's looking into the camera again, and he can see her, now, all of her, like she's there with him.

Her breasts are small but topped by hard, dusky nipples, and he remembers the image form seconds ago of her touching herself. She'd brushed them quickly, harshly, and he thinks that might be how it would be between them; intense and fleeting, stolen moments.

That's what this is, really.

He wants to see her face, and that throws her. She's pretty, in her own way, but this isn't about romance and sweetness and dating. What she and Mr. Schuester are right now is passion and intimacy and sex, and she knows later she'll try to decipher just why her face was so important when he could see her body.

It's unexpected, and she thinks part of the reason a flash of heat runs along her spine. "Can you see me?"

Her question is stilted, she's forgotten for a moment, the performance aspect, and that's strange, but she feels a little different at the thought, like her skin is tingling.

"Yes, Rach, I can." She wonders what he wants her to do now, but before she can ask she hears him, swallowing harshly, and his next words are rough. "Turn around."

Her own breath catches and she does, slowly. Her back is turned and she can't see, but she's almost certain she hears his breath catch.

"What now, Mr. Schue?" She tosses it over her shoulder but it's weak, and she isn't certain he'll hear her.

Trust. The word returns to his mind when she asks him, again. It's fundamental and what he's been missing, this implied trust that comes with bringing yourself into this situation—that she's asking him what to do, what he wants, because she trusts she'll want to do it.

His cock swells at the thought, the power rush, and he takes himself in his hand, for just a moment. Her back is still turned and he can see the deep dip of her spine and her perfectly rounded ass, right in front of him.

It's wrong, touching himself like that with her not knowing, and it's stupid because she knows and he's really too far gone to care at this point.

Still, he pulls his hand away and tells her, "C'mere, Rach," and she turns back, smiles at him, and he's done for, because Rachel's smile is much sexier than he's let himself realize.

He doesn't say anything as she sits back down in her chair. He watches as she scoots it back, until he can see most of her, can see to her thighs.

"Spread your legs for me."

Rachel's breath catches and she closes her eyes a moment, licks her lips. Her knees fall apart, and she's realizing that Mr. Schue can see her, can see everything, and the thought just makes her wetter.

"What now?"

There's more breathing noises, her eyes are closed, and then, "Touch yourself, Rach. Tell me what you feel like."

Oh, God… Her chest starts heaving as she does what he says. Her eyes stay closed, and she reaches her right hand for her thigh, slides her fingers along the delicate skin there, before she inches closer to her core.

Her fingers are trembling slightly as she slides them between her lips, and she moans. "I'm wet, Mr. Schue…" she drags out the last part of his name as he curses, low.

Her voice is torture and reward and he thinks this is the moment he should stop, apologize and leave but the idea sounds forced and hollow in his own mind, so instead he just presses his fingers harder into his knee to stop from touching himself again.

"Are—" he isn't quite sure what he wants to ask but none of it can be good so he stops, watches as she slides her small fingers against her clit and her mouth drops open.

With her eyes closed it feels better and worse, and he thinks maybe, just a quick stroke because he can't not touch himself anymore.

"Rachel, keep—" her moan drowns out his empty command as his eyes stay focused on her, on her rising and falling chest as he circles his cock in his hand. The pressure is such a relief and he thinks he can breathe again, until he glances back up and sees her eyes, open.

His breath catches and his chest tightens, not sure if he's done this wrong, not sure what, exactly, she was offering him but thinking that this might have been taking more than she was giving.

Her tongue darts out, licks her lips, and he watches as her legs fall open further.

"Tell me, Mr. Schue," and she's throwing the words back, asking for what he had asked for, and he can't look at her anymore so his head falls back against the back of the couch.

"I'm so hard, ba—Rachel, my hand doesn't, it doesn't feel—"

"As good as I would?"

Exactly, he thinks, and his strokes get harder.

He'd caught himself before he slipped into honey and baby and other things a married man is allowed to say, but that isn't him, he hasn't been that guy in a year, and he used to think that was a good thing. Only now he's jacking off in front of his underage student at two in the afternoon, and now he's questioning the idea.

"No, not as good, Rach, I wish," too many things he wishes, but her gasp causes his eyes to shoot open and his jaw clenches at the image.

He seems drifty, she's wondering again about the drink she'd caught him take, but he's talking to her and saying her name and she thinks that means it's nothing, that he wants her and needs her, and it's really her he's picturing as his hand slides up and down his length.

The naked male form isn't completely new to her, but this is definitely not her area of knowledge and she finds she can't stop watching, following the movement of his long fingers, the way his wrist moves, or the tense muscles underneath the slightly hairy forearms bared to her.

Everything about him right now is hot and she's doubling her efforts before she knows it. His head is tilted back and his eyes are closed—the latter would give her a sharp sting of hurt if it didn't look so much like he was trying to keep himself in control.

Instead she takes it as a compliment and applies more pressure to her slick flesh with a gasp.

The jolt is unexpected and her head drops, her shoulders roll back and her eyes slam shut.

The purity of her reaction, the raw lust and pleasure on her face kicks it up a notch and Will's eyes are focused on the screen again. He'd missed it, something, when he'd been trying to save himself, and he realizes now that it's not worth it, that he'd much rather have the image of her, spread before him in ecstasy to cuddle up with at night.

(He'd rather have other things, too, but his line has shifted enough and it'll have to do.)

They're both breathing heavily, and Rachel's gasps are melodic and rich and filling the air between them, but he thinks he can feel the end of this approaching and he wants more from her before reality sinks back in.

"Rachel? Tell me something you want, anything you want."

"You, Mr. Schue," he knows it's what she thinks he wants to hear but it still sends fire through his veins and he realizes that maybe she's right.

"More, Rach," she's not watching him and it's a bit of a challenge, something he has to earn back, her face, her eyes, the look in them.

"Rachel," he moans and grips his cock tighter, imagines that it's her hand, that she wants to touch him, guide him into her, and he can feel the wet heat she's touching in front of him right now.

"I want you to single me out in Glee, pull me into your office because you can't stand it anymore and kiss me, press me against your desk."

By all standards of what has been said between them it's tame, but he still moans and whispers, "Fuck, Rachel, I want it, I want it, too," before he can see her look at him.

She's starting to forget, her fingers slick as she imagines them longer and thicker and attached to those beautiful forearms, that she's supposed to be saying erotic things to him, supposed to be seducing him like before, that she has a way to say things to him that's not the same as Finn.

Except she opens her eyes and sees his, hooded as he licks his lips. They're not making eye contact, they're both looking low, at the screen, at each others' naked bodies, and it feels like a disconnect but also a pact.

"I want that, I want to put you on my desk, Rach," his eyes flutter like he's going to close them but he doesn't, he looks up at the webcam, looks her in the eye and she gasps, she can feel her muscles fluttering and her mouth drops open again, her back arches, she's pressing down hard on her clit to ride out the last few waves and she's gasping.

"Oh, oh God, Will, oh," her other hand is between her legs, too, clutching at the edge of the desk chair as she leans forward, tries to regain her breath.

He's coming with her, watching her face open and close at the same time, and it's the most honest thing he thinks he's ever seen.

His balls are tightening and he's milking his cock as he comes down, as his back sinks against the couch and his eyes are closed and his chest is heaving.

Will's hearing is filtering in through the sound of his blood rushing in his ears and he catches his name, his first name, and the sound on her lips is out of place and wrong and feels like something he's not ready for.

His heart is pounding like in nightmares of exams not studied, and he opens his eyes quickly only to find Rachel's sated, sleepy smile.

Her eyes are still closed and he thinks it's good because he thinks the feeling of his face is panic and he needs to leave this, leave her before she sees, before she can process why there's panic and what they've done and what this means for them.

She's hesitant to open her eyes, she's said his first name and that wasn't part of this, wasn't what they were doing and she feels strange as the smile on her lips twitches from the effort to keep it there.

"Hmmm," she murmurs, and hope it'll start something, that he'll tell her what they do next because she's not sure.

Her sweet murmur startles him, he sees her eyes start to open and he licks his lips, tries to look fine and not terrified and guilty or anything and he sees the forgotten scotch beside the laptop and he wants to reach for it but he realizes he's a mess right now (in more ways than one).

He looks down and processes all of it and his heart starts racing.

He dives for the mouse and clicks "end video call" and he hears a beep that signals it's over.

She can't see him and he feels like a coward but he types a quick message because he needs to think about all of this.

She hears a beep before she can open her eyes and when she does she's greeted with a white screen with a runtime of their conversation and no image of Mr. Schue.

She's relieved but also disappointed and a little worried.

wjschue: I'm sorry, I have to go Rachel.

wjschue is unavailable.

The messages are shocking because it feels so abrupt and this doesn't fit with what happened two minutes ago.

Honestly, she's hurt. His quick log-off hurts, his short message hurts, and she suddenly feels a chill on her skin.

She wants to text him, to ask him what happened, if she did something wrong, but she also wants to jump in the shower and see if that can warm her up.

She stands on legs that are shaky and picks up her dress, drops it in her hamper on her way to the bathroom.

Rachel's movements are slow and she thinks about what she'd said, what she'd told him, and goosebumps break on her skin beneath the hot water.

Her words implied a lot, too much, and she thinks it's fear, that he'd panicked out at her message and logged off because it sounded like she was asking for more than she was.

Except she did want that, does want that, for him to want her so much he can't stand it, that he needs to bring her aside and touch her and taste her and have her.

She wonders about the alcohol he'd had, wonders what it meant that it was two and he was doing this, with her, and he needed it.

Her chest is aching by the time she steps out of the shower, her skin is red and hot to the touch but she's thinking about too many things to notice.

There are just a few pages of that novel Brittany had wanted her to read and she slips on her fuzziest pajamas before lying down on her bed and staring blankly at the pages.

When her dads come home they ask her what she's been doing and she gives a stiff smile.

"Just reading, daddy."