A/N: For loveliacd, who wanted a RHGS fic about rehearsing the "Touch-a, Touch-a, Touch-a, Touch Me," scene. Hope this is what you wanted!

Rachel stared at Mr. Schue, opened mouthed, as he told the club that Finn was sent home for the day. "We're doing a run-through, Mr. Schue! A dress rehearsal is supposed to be public performance quality, and we are down two cast members!"

Her teacher frowned and nodded, walking up to the stage and addressing the students again. "Rachel's right. I think we're going to have to call it quits for tonight. There isn't a reason to rehearse the rest of the show without Finn. But this means we meet at two o'clock tomorrow, OK? And we might have to push opening night back until next Friday."

The rest of the club sighed and nodded, before picking up their things and heading out of the auditorium. Rachel remained in the glass tank stage right, the sheet clenched in her fist as she gaped at him. Some director, she scoffed, as she realized they had under a week before they were supposed to perform.

Mr. Schuester started straightening papers and putting them into his bag, his back to her as Sue got out of her Criminologist chair and stepped down, leaning into him and whispering. Rachel watched as his shoulders tensed, before he bit out, "Leave, Sue."

She ruffled his hair cruelly before following the students out the door. As his shoulders tensed up she felt a jolt of sympathy. Still, she looked down at the tank beneath her feet and sighed. "Mr. Schuester?"

He didn't turn but responded, "Yes?" his voice airy and unfocused, a casual response he wasn't thinking about. She dropped the sheet, crossing her arms in front of her, just under her chest.

"We haven't rehearsed the Creature of the Night scene at all," she watched the muscles of his back move under his shirt and she wondered why he seemed so tense all of a sudden. "In fact, I haven't seen Sam all day."

Mr. Schue flipped the flap of his bag over before shouldering it and turning to look at her. From her position on the stage he seemed very far away. A terrible thought hit her and she asked, "He isn't backing out, is he?" They'd had enough troubles trying to cast and recast and if they didn't choose someone soon she wouldn't be able to practice with him at all.

He shifted by the edge of the stage, before shrugging his shoulders. "Actually, he did. He just wasn't comfortable in those gold shorts." Rachel furrowed her brows and pouted just a little.

"We perform in a week, Mr. Schue. I can't perform with someone for the first time a day before, you know." He was rolling his eyes and so she pushed a step further: "Do you even have any idea for a replacement?"

He huffed and gave her an incredulous smirk, which only made her feel a little guilty. "Actually, Rachel, I'm going to take over for Sam."

"Oh." She wasn't sure how to respond to him other than that, and so she just gripped the edge of the tank and bit her lip. It was surprising to her that he would volunteer for such a role, based on the odd relationship they'd always had. Before she could fully process what this change meant, she stated, confidently, "We should rehearse, then."

He was looking away from her, and she suddenly wondered why he'd take the role if it made him so uncomfortable. "I don't—you'll be fine, Rach. We don't need to practice."

Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. "I am not going to wing it in front of an audience of my peers, Mr. Schuester. That's just unprofessional." She realized it was a school play, but it was still no reason not to practice a good work-ethic. Those Broadway shows were going to be quite demanding, and she might as well start now.

"Fine, we can run through it tomorrow." Rachel shook her head, walking over to the ladder and climbing out of the tank.

As she did so, she pursed her lips and said, "I think we should do it now—we were scheduled to rehearse for another hour and a half, anyway." He was looking back at the auditorium door and his reluctance to practice was starting to aggravate her. Wasn't he supposed to be the one to push them to work?

"I sent Brad home."

"Fine," she said as she reached the edge of the stage, not willing to give up so easily. "We can just run through the blocking." She knew she was ordering him around, and he was the teacher, the director, but she was right. So Rachel just dropped her hands in front of her and softened her expression. "I'll feel much better if we can just run through it once."

He was still clutching his bag like she was going to take it from him, so she added a soft, "Please?" and watched him until he made eye contact with her and sighed.

"All right, we can run through it," his tone wasn't decisive but his words were, so she smiled as he dropped his bag on the chair and walked up the stairs to the stage.

"Good. Go change and I'll set the tank up again." She was walking back to pull the sheets around, so when he questioned her, it was aimed at her back. "The shorts, go put them on so we can run through. We did a dress rehearsal today, Mr. Schue. You have to catch up—this is an important scene, and I don't want to make a fool of myself."

He must have relented, because as she pulled the sheet back down and looked over her shoulder, he was gone. Finishing with the tank she pulled her sweater off before unzipping her dress and pulling it off. As she laid the dress over a chair, she adjusted her slip and heard, "What are you doing?"

He was standing in the wings, his eyes wide as she adjusted the strap of her bra. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the sight of her teacher—her very attractive teacher—in nothing more than the tiniest gold shorts she'd ever seen. They'd been snug on Sam—more than snug, actually—but they were somehow even smaller on the muscular man before her. Mr. Schue was taller, of course, so it would stand to reason that they'd have to hug his thighs so tight.

"Rachel?" She stopped openly leering at those shorts and blushed, looking up at his face.

"What?" She wished her cheeks didn't feel like she was in a sauna and tried to focus on his words.

"Where's you, um, dress?" He was shifting, putting his hands in front of himself like Sam had done just a few days ago, and he looked to the side, clearing his throat awkwardly.

Rachel shook her head, her curled hair brushing her bare shoulders. "Janet's in her underwear in this scene," she blinked as she spoke, unsure why he was so oblivious to the basis of their scene. Wasn't he the one that chose this musical? Was directing this musical? Cast himself?

"Rachel, I don't think it's necessary—" and before he could tell her to wing it, she walked over to the tank and gestured for him.

"OK, get in. We'll take it from my entrance." Because if he wasn't going to do his job and direct them, she'd have to. This musical would not flop through any fault of her own.

Mr. Schue hesitated, but at her look he moved forward, his bare feet padding on the wood floor. When he reached the tank he dropped his hands to his sides and started to climb the ladder. While he was distracted, she bit her lip and stole the moment to watch him, her eyes sliding over his muscular thighs, his strong back, hard chest, and, gulp, the very visible contents of those very, very small shorts.

He was in the tank, turning back around, and she smiled at him, hoping he didn't catch that last glimpse at his ass. Reaching for the sheet she'd flipped over the side, she pointed at the bottom of the tank. "OK, Mr. Schue, uh, Rocky, lay down in the tank." With a blush she started to realize just how awkward this was going to be. She gave him a last show of teeth as he followed her instructions, before she started to cover him with the sheet. Pausing, she asked quickly, "You know what you're supposed to do, right?"

"Of course, Rach." He sounded angry at her assumption that he didn't so she rolled her eyes and dropped the sheet over him. Walking back to the wings, she ran her tongue over her teeth and wrung her hands together, the reality of what was to come playing behind her eyes.

Her voice wavering with anticipation and nerves, she called out from offstage, "Action!" She waited there a moment for his cue, shifting in her mary-janes. After a moment, she narrowed her eyes and called, "You're supposed to moan."

After a beat the sheet ruffled, and he started to—oh. Rachel was blushing more than ever, and she cleared her throat, a jolt of anticipation running up her spine. "Um, moan in pain, actually." And then there was silence before more ruffling.

Finally he was moaning and wincing the way he should be, and she started to walk over to him slowly. Nearing the tank she felt a rush of panic, as she realized what would be happening the moment she brought that sheet back.

She thought about her embarrassing crush on the man under those sheets, how she'd thrown herself at him and gotten nothing but a soft rebuff. She didn't want to embarrass herself again, but when his moan of pain sounded tinged with longing, she realized that more than that, she wanted to look at him in those gold shorts again, and she reached in, pulled the sheet away.

He was lying in the tank like she'd expected, his hands crossed over his chest and his eyes closed tightly. She waited a moment, but he wasn't moving, wasn't getting up like he was supposed to. She waited a beat before whispering, "Mr. Schue, you have to get up."

His eyes opened, then, and he coughed, looking away as he knelt, throwing his forearms over the edge of the tank. They were almost the same height, so when she furrowed her brow and touched his hand, she realized just how close together they were.

Catching herself, Rachel looked down at the back of his hand under her palm, and pulled away. Her breath catching, she gasped, "Oh, you're hurt!" He watched her face, his eyes meeting hers as she asked, "Did they do this to you?"

He cleared his throat but nodded, jumping when she leaned away from him. Mumbling, "Here, I'll dress your wounds," she reached for the cut she'd made in the slip skirt and pulled, the tearing noise echoing in the open auditorium.

When she looked up at him, silk in hand, he swallowed harshly, and she watched his Adam's apple bob beneath the thin skin of his neck. Sucking in her breath, she draped the material over his hand, her fingertips brushing his softly. She pressed the skirt against him, looking up at his eyes and urging his action.

He just stared back at her until she directed him, "You touch my hand, now," and when he did she murmured, "Oh, baby, there." She shook her head, her hair falling around her eyes, and she met his. Mr. Schue was watching her, his mouth open just a little before he closed it and his eyebrows rose in question. "It's in the script, Mr. Schue. Stop breaking character."

Her command was hypocritical because she very much felt like Rachel Berry as she spoke Janet's words and touched his skin. His hand against hers twitched and his thumb started to gently stroke her wrist.

Her gasp was unexpected to both of them, and she looked down, blushing. Afraid to see his reaction, she closed her eyes and started to sing, anxious for the safe ground, the end of the song, something. "I was feeling done in, couldn't win." With the fabric she'd torn she was stroking her hand, and when she chanced a glance at his face she saw that he looked almost terrified.

"Geez, Mr. Schue, Rocky's supposed to smile, at this, all right?" And after a guilty look crossed his face he complied, his smile small but there. She responded in kind and held his gaze as she sang, "I'd only ever kissed before."

His smile was starting to slip so she pressed a little harder on his hand and let the fabric drop so it was just her hand on his. "I thought there's no use getting," she paused a moment, nervous, before she started to draw his hand closer to her, ready to press his fingers against the swell of her breast. "Into heavy petting," she pressed down, held his hand against her chest and watched his face as conflict played across his features.

"Heavy sweating, Rach." He cleared his throat, "We changed it to sweating," before he pulled his hand back.

"Oh." She stepped back, walking along the edge of the tank, her hand trailing along the cool metal. "It only leads to trouble, and seat-wetting," she heard a hybrid choke/cough, and when she turned to him he was shaking his head.

"Bad fretting. It's bad fretting now, please." And she thought his plea was out of place but at the same time it fueled her forward as she turned back to him, her actions now in reverse.

"It only leads to trouble, and bad fretting," the words felt wrong, she'd seen the movie too many times, but he was the director and she could only take so much from him before he realized it. "Now all I want to know," she reached her hand out, hesitating a moment before she hovered over his chest.

She felt his eyes shoot up and watch her before she twitched, her palm landing on his shoulder, which was better than his chest but was still his hot skin beneath hers. "Is how to go. I've tasted blood and I want more."

"More, more, more." She watched the curve of his mouth, surprised as he sang the other part, a jolt of white hot flame now in her veins at his low voice. She smiled, happy to see him start to take this seriously and interact with her (even if he wasn't supposed to be singing those words). Her right hand rose and rested over his other shoulder, and pulled herself against the edge of the tank, her stomach cold against the metal.

The tank was high, and she couldn't pull herself up, so she tugged on his shoulders and said, "Pull me up," surprised when he didn't hesitate. He gripped her waist and lifted her, and she couldn't dwell on his strength, the shift of his muscles under his hands, because she had to focus on swinging her leg over the edge, had to focus on not falling on top of him.

The metal was cool between her thighs and she dug her hands into his flesh, gasping as his hand trailed down her hip to tug her other leg over the metal. She helped him and sat on the edge, placing her legs on either side of him.

She watched her hands tear at her skirt again, "I'll put up no resistance, I want to stay the distance." Dropping the material between them, she placed her hands on her legs near his sides, and finished, "I've got an itch to scratch, I need assistance!"

Mr. Schue was licking his lips but he was pressing himself back against the other side of the tank, so she grabbed him by the shoulders again and leaned back, bringing him with her. His hands flew to her waist to keep her on the thin edge, as she sang, "Touch-a, touch-a, touch-a, touch me," but pulled herself back up by his shoulders so she could watch him at, "I wanna be dirty."

Wrapped up in the song, Rachel blinked at the dark color of Mr. Schue's eyes, and processed the way he was digging his fingers into her sides.

She moaned, taken aback, and bit her lip at her mistake. Mr. Schue just gulped and watched her as he stepped forward almost imperceptibly. There was a pause, neither of them moving, until Rachel sighed, "Touch me."

He shook his head, "That's not the next—"

"Touch me, Mr. Schue."

She figured it was a mistake, she'd moved too quickly, asked for too much, but there was only a groan of indecision before he slid his hands up her waist, resting on either side of her breasts.

She closed her thighs around him and smiled when his nostrils flared slightly. "Touch me," and she slid her hands to the back of his neck as he gently cupped her breasts in his hands. The plain white bra was thin against the hot press of his hands and Rachel's head dropped back, barring her neck.

She wanted him to kiss her there, press soft kisses along the curve of her jaw, but she wasn't sure how to ask. So she just shook her hair out behind her, hoping he would press his lips to her, and moaning when he did just that.

His fingers were skilled and quick, tugging at her bra, and she gasped as air hit her exposed nipples. He smiled against her skin and moved his lips from her neck to hers, and swallowed the sound. He tasted like coffee and mint, and she wasn't surprised but it also somehow made it all more real, made him more real than just the sweet slide of skin on skin.

He reached behind her to unclasp her bra, so she slid her hands from the soft curls at his nape to the hard indent in the center of his back. As she pressed into him she slid her mouth from under his, looking him in the eye. The proximity was startling, but not as much as the wide spread of his pupils, their size making her clench her inner muscles as she realized he looked almost shaking with want.

Remembering their purpose, she whispered, "Kneel down," so he could duck under her leg and they could at least pretend to wrap up rehearsal. He didn't spare a moment following her direction, however he must have misunderstood because before she could finish her instruction she felt a wet heat against the front of her plain cotton Janet panties.

"Oh!" She was gasping and clutching madly at the tank, his shoulders, his hair for support. She felt like she was about to fall off the tank, that she was going to slip to the floor, but as she felt the combined wetness of herself and his tongue, she realized she was about to fall off a completely different edge.

"Rachel," was buried between growls and her core, and she felt herself unraveling right then. With a keening noise she sunk her hands into his hair, pulling gently as she rode the wave of her orgasm. As she sucked in air he stood up in front of her and her hands fell back down to his chest. When she could open her eyes she saw him above her, watching her face, her lips, before he met her gaze.

She saw a flicker across his face and she got the sudden worry the he was processing that this was no longer practice, hadn't been for a while, and so she slid down from the edge, her knees weak from her climax and her head rushing from lack of blood.

He bit his lip and she smiled, before dropping to the bottom of the tank and pulling on his hand, bringing him down with her. He was sitting across from her and they were taking a break, a pause, so she brushed the damp hair from her forehead. He was breathing heavily, panting almost, so she decided to slow things down.

Rachel smiled, gently, not moving toward him until he let out a choked laugh and rested his hands on his thighs. Her attention was brought to the gold shorts, and she realized it as the source of some of his discomfort. With a tentative breath she reached out and hooked her fingers in the front, watching as his head rolled back and he closed his eyes.

"Mr. Schue, lean back," because he wasn't taking her nudges as a hint, and finally he was listening to her. She was getting to be the director and it gave her a surge of pride, so she watched him lay down, propping himself up on his strong forearms and watching as she crawled on top of him, dragging the shorts completely off.

She dropped them behind her, and watched as Mr. Schue looked at her from hooded eyes. She left his face to take him in, finally look at him like she'd been wanting to for so long. Her fingertips glided over his stomach before she reached his cock, and she let her hand encircle him.

His gasp and tightened face threw her, and she loosened her grip on him just a little, just enough to get him to look at her. He felt hard and soft and hot under her hand, and she thought about how unfair it was that'd she'd come and he hadn't.

She let her fist slide along his flesh a few times before he said, "Rachel," and she let go, crawling back over him. Not sure exactly what to do, she tugged on his shoulder until he got the hint and she laid back, his weight now shadowing her.

The bottom of the tank was surprisingly soft, and the sheets slid around her skin as he shifted, holding himself above her by his forearms. She pushed off her panties, the ruined slip still encircling her hips, and dropped them beside her.

Now bare to him, she brought her knees up around his hips, cradling him, and shifting under him until he was above her completely. He was watching her movements, and he didn't look anything but hungry to her, so she swallowed and smiled, circling her arms around his neck. She leaned up to kiss him, trailing her lips from his to his ear before she whispered, "Chill me, thrill me, fulfill me," and breathed a sigh of relief when he buried his face in her neck and smiled against her.

His fingertips brushed her arm before he lined himself up and guided himself inside her. He was pushing inside of her for the first time, ever for her, and she thought that it felt good, even though it was hurting, too.

His lips pressed against her felt good, their hips held together, and the sighs he made when she tangled her fingers in his hair, it all felt so good, so she focused on that as he eased himself inside her, further and further until he froze.

His shuddering breaths against her were hot and wet, and made the rest of her break out in goosebumps in the cool air. She was trying to relax, trying to calm her muscles and finally they listened, and he breathed a sigh of relief before he started to move again.

She'd never known it would feel this strange, like this was how she was meant to feel, but also like the sensations were completely foreign. His teeth ghosted against her skin and she gasped, digging her fingers deeper into his hair and thrusting her hips up, so he did it again, harder.

She was certain the more she did it the more he would, too, and when that theory proved true she wondered how she was going to cover the hickey before she sighed, not caring in the moment. The thought of afterwards bounced in her head, and she grasped desperately at her side for the top sheet, pulling it over them despite the heat they were creating between themselves.

He left his spot at her neck to ask her, "Fuck, Rachel, what are you—" and she just shushed him, and started meeting his thrusts more harshly as she neared a second peak.

Suddenly, the auditorium door slammed, and they both froze, eyes opening wide as the edge of the crest they were riding disappeared and reality came flooding around them. "Will?" It was Dr. Howell, she realized, and the weirdness of the whole casting process hit her.

She wanted to laugh but thought that would be the absolute worst way to get caught screwing your teacher, so she leaned up and buried her face in said teacher's neck. Mr. Schue leaned down, whispering, "Don't move, Rach" and she thought it was the most obvious direction ever, but when her hips started to itch with a need to do just that she shut her mouth from her retort.

Rachel wondered how he could possibly hold himself up through this, but she realized his job depended on it, so she kept absolutely still despite her body's urges.

Dr. Howell was nearing the stage, and she was praying for anything to change, for him to leave, so Mr. Schue could just move in her again.

"Will? You here, pal?" At that she was certain he let out a little huff, and bit her tongue to keep from scolding him. It felt like an eternity, but finally they heard boots walking away on the carpeted floor, and the slam of the door again.

Rachel didn't move, wanting him to be the one to do it, so instead she let her muscles flutter around his cock until he groaned and bit down on her neck, even harder than before. Her yelp was of surprise and glee, before it turned to a moan when he started to thrust faster than before.

Her head was thrashing side to side and her fingers had abandoned him to clench at the sheets until she could feel that wave approaching again. "Please, Mr. Schue," was all she could get out before he was tensing above her, freezing, and she was following him as he gasped her name.

He dropped down, finally, and she figured his arms must be killing him, so she just stroked along his back and shoulders, letting him rest his face hotly against her neck. He weighed a lot, all boneless dead weight pressed against her, but she also felt very contented, so she just squeezed her thighs around his hips and ran one of her hands from his shoulders to his hair, threading her fingers through softly.

Mr. Schue didn't move for a few minutes, and Rachel was sure he was already trying to figure out how to explain this to her, how to tell her that it was a mistake. Steeling herself when he began to shift, she bit her lip and rolled them over, so she was sitting astride him.

They were tangled even more in the sheet, and she couldn't help but giggle softly at how disheveled he looked wrapped in the bedding beneath her. She rested her hands on his chest and smiled gently, before tucking her hair behind her ear. "I know, this wasn't…" she wasn't sure how to phrase it without sounding like she was prompting him for a denial, a reassurance, so she took his chin in her hand. Watching as she leaned down, she gave him a gentle kiss, smiling and deepening it just a little when she felt his palm on her bare thigh.

She pulled back and off of him, rolling to his other side and lifting the sheet a little, to make sure the coast was clear. They both sighed in relief, and Rachel let the sheet drop to her waist as she dug around to find her bra.

She could feel his eyes on her, so when she clasped it together, she turned around, looking from his lips to his eyes, not wanting to stare at either for too long. When he said nothing she turned around again, finding his gold shorts on top of her panties in the corner of the tank. She leaned forward, feeling the cool air against her skin, and grabbed both, standing to put on her panties and dropping his shorts on his lap with a shy grin.

Rachel climbed out of the tank, moving to where she'd set her dress down and slipping it on, giving him a moment to get his tight shorts back on. As she was zipping up the side, she turned to see Mr. Schue climbing out of the tank, too. She couldn't help but blush at the view of his ass again, realizing that this time she actually sort of had a right to look.

He turned around and she blushed, before walking toward him. "So…" he was palming the back of his neck and looking at his bag on the auditorium seats. "Maybe I should find someone else to take that role."

She wanted to be hurt at those words, but as he shifted, glancing at the hickey that she could already feel forming, she smiled. "I don't know, a repeat performance would definitely be boundary-pushing."

He looked up at her, then, and let out a deep breath before laughing. She thought that meant that he was relieved, but she still wasn't sure if it was because she wasn't upset at what they'd done, or because she wasn't making proclamations of love and assuming they were meant to be together forever.

They were silent for a moment, as Rachel watched him, trying to figure out which it was. Before she could, Mr. Schue spoke. "Well, I better go change." Glancing back at the tank, he added, "And maybe wash those sheets." He laughed when she did, and she thought it could have sounded crass. Instead, she realized, it sounded like a promise that whatever happened between them wasn't going to be brought up again. Unless, of course, they couldn't find anyone else to be Rocky. Rachel smiled when she realized that there were no other volunteers for the role.