Finn thinks Rachel's trying to seduce him.
Which is ridiculous. It's ridiculous, right? Like Rachel would ever want to – or could ever seduce anyone, or that she would like him in the first place! He's a football player and she likes to bring up how uncultured he is every so often, whenever he doesn't understand a reference she makes to Eponine or Elphaba. Rachel isn't the type of girl to go around seducing people either, he thinks, because she's very focused on her career. Rachel isn't the type of girl to get distracted. Then again, he thinks with a small frown, Rachel is the type of girl to go after what she wants…hard. Aggressive is not aggressive enough for Rachel Berry.
It's not that he was suspicious, but she started to hang out with him a lot more. At first, he thought it might be because she was having a knee-jerk reaction to Quinn's being on the team. After all, she and Quinn are hardly BFFs, and Rachel doesn't take any motions to remove her from power easily. Mr. Schuester's been having a really tough time with it all. Like last week, when Quinn yelled at Rachel for flirting with Finn too much, and Rachel yelled back that this was acting, and clearly, Quinn shouldn't involve herself in show choir if she has no idea where to draw the line between performance and reality, and Quinn appealing, Mr. S, isn't Rachel's character like a lesbian anyway? Finn's starting to realize how hard Mr. Schue's job is. (Will starts to question whether Glee is worth the three divas constantly bitching each other out.)
Rachel's always been nice to him, even when his friends have been less than civil to her, and he's always appreciated that. He doesn't do that well in school, and she's always ready to sit with him for a while and explain why there's three kinds of triangles. She smiles at him, even if her reactions to him are a little less than patient sometimes. He catches her with this weird look on her face sometimes, eyes turned up towards him, lips parted, shoulders set, and he wonders what it is she expects him to do. He gives her a little quirk of a smile and a shrug and she always goes back to being Rachel again, not weird, infringing-on-space Rachel, who he doesn't know how to deal with.
She calls him on Friday night and he half-expects it to be some kind of complaint against the musical the school's drama program has chosen to do this year. Rachel and Kurt don't involve themselves with the drama club, if only because they have a terrible reputation, and their precious time simply cannot be wasted on something that will contribute nothing to their future careers. Instead, she just blurts, "Finn, I'm going to the football game and I have no idea what to wear. Clearly, argyle is out – I mean, it's a bunch of men running at each other in the mud – but what kind of casual is it?"
He blinks dumbly for a few seconds, before it hits him that she can't see him. "Um, what?"
"The football game," she repeats, enunciating each word. "High school is supposed to represent a plethora of experiences and I realize that missing out on something uncultured like this could come up again in my midlife crisis. My therapist said I should at least give it a try and my acting coach agreed – if I'm ever approached to do a teen film where I have to play a cheerleader or one of those inspiring female figures who join the football team despite their crushing lack of ability because of their love of the sport and end up emotionally charging the entire town to take the discrimination experienced to the Supreme Court, I have to be prepared to take some kind of experience and bring it to a whole other level. What should I wear?"
Honestly, he questions whether he understands half the things that leave Rachel's mouth. "It's not a big deal, Rachel. Like a t-shirt or something. Jeans?"
He hears her sigh heavily. "And this isn't some kind of ironic commentary on the state of '90s fashion nostalgia, right? You really mean…a t-shirt and jeans."
"Um, yeah."
"Okay. Thank you," she says. "I'll see you on Saturday." Rachel at a football game? Well, that should be interesting.
It turns out she overdresses for the game, but not as much as he thought she would. She's wearing a fitted blouse and a pair of slacks, but her hair looks a little perfect and the way she crinkles her nose at the guy sitting next to her on the bleachers who is messily squirting ketchup on his French fries? He kind of gets the vibe that she's not having the greatest of times. He doesn't really have time to worry about it though. Coach hauls them all into the locker room and gives a half-hearted speech that he's pretty sure he heard on Friday Night Lights the other night, so it all just fades in and out. Puck slams his hand down forcefully against his back. "Try to remember what it's like being a man, okay?" he snickers.
Finn exhales. They're playing one of the charter schools tonight, and not one of the better ones. Overall, it should be a pretty average game.
Rachel watches from the stands, half-comprehending what's going on. The man next to her is so disgusting, ketchup dripping onto the stands and himself. If he gets any on her, she's going to lose it. Football is a lot of rushing back and forth, she realizes, and from her position in the stands, the football itself is kind of hard to see. The thing is that every time Finn gets tackled, and she can hear his grunt of pain, practically, she clenches her hands a little bit and bounces to try and see what's going on (why are people so tall?).
At halftime, they run into each other at the concession stand. He gets four hot dogs and she gets a drink. She holds some of his food for him as he scarfs it down, trying to hold back a look of distaste. He almost wants to laugh. They're standing at the top of the stadium so the wind blows a bit harsher, and when it does, he sees her cringe. Her shirt is practically sleeveless and he doesn't think she brought a jacket.
"You okay, Rachel?"
"Fine," she says.
"Come on," he says, grabbing her hand and tugging her behind him as he starts to run down the thousands of steps back down towards the ground of the stadium.
"Where are we going?"
"I just need to grab something."
He brings her his letterman's jacket then, and she smiles, sliding it on. He's a foot taller than her, so the sleeves are way too long and the jacket goes down to her mid-thigh, but it's warm and it smells like him.
The timer counts down then, the marching bands almost done with the halftime show. "I have to go back," he says, quickly grabbing the two other hot dogs from the tray in her hand. "See you later."
When she walks back up to her seat, Rachel can practically feel Quinn's glare. She smirks.
-
Rachel gets a little creative when she goes to return his jacket. When he comes home one day, he finds a message on the machine from her, telling him to pick up his jacket at such-and-such a time. He figures he'll stop by after school that day and it won't be that big of a deal.
The thing is Rachel knows how to play with fire. The moment he's through the door, he can't really breathe. She's sitting on her bed, legs tucked neatly beneath her, wearing his letterman's jacket and not that much else.
He can see a hint of the curve of her breast and he swallows hard. Her hair is down and loose, face clean, and she looks up at him from beneath her lashes. "Hi, Finn."
"Rach-Rachel," he stammers, "What are you doing?"
"Thanks for giving me your jacket, Finn. It was really thoughtful of you." She stands then, and he tries not to follow her legs up to – he tries to keep his eyes on her eyes.
"Rachel, I have Quinn, and you should – " put more clothes on, he thinks. "…get dressed."
She blinks innocently. "Finn, nothing's going on here that would make Quinn upset. I'm just…giving you your jacket back." She steps closer to him and he keeps backing up, until he knocks against a table of her knick-knacks, and she's right in front of him, practically on his toes. She stands on her tiptoes then, looks up at him. "Don't you want to take your jacket back?" And he can swear she's doing something to her voice because she is normally never so raspy and – God, he needs to think of baseball or Tanaka or something, because he's starting to get hard.
She cups him through his jeans and he groans, eyes slamming closed. "Rachel," he tries, but it comes out strangled, half of it higher than he thought he'd be able to speak.
She rubs him slowly through the fabric of his jeans and he can't think, can't push back, because God, he wants this, and Rachel's hand is so warm against him. "It's okay," she whispers. "No one has to know. It's a private thank you."
She removes her hand and he opens his eyes, and her eyes are so dark – she stands on her tiptoes again and he leans in, just an inch, but then she is grabbing him, hands sliding around his neck to crash his lips against hers. His lips bruise hers, hands roughly picking her up. She wraps her legs around his waist. "God," he hisses, her hands sliding underneath his shirt, tossing it on the floor.
"My dads won't be home for days," she whispers in between fierce kisses. "They're at a –" And he could care less where they are as he slides his jacket off of her, hands going to cup her breasts. He brushes his thumb over her nipples as she arches into his touch, moaning. He kisses her neck, collarbone, shoulder, before his mouth slides down, lips closing over her breast, tongue flicking against her. She makes these harsh grunts, body twitching as his hands glide over her, hand teasing the nipple of the breast he isn't working with his mouth. When he comes up to kiss her again, she smiles against his mouth. "You are really good at this," she says. He smirks against her skin.
She presses her chest against him as her hands undo the button of his jeans, pushing them off of his legs with his boxers. She wraps her hand around him, stroking him a few times, watching as his eyes close and his tongue comes out to dart against his lips with desire. He grinds up into her touch, moving with her. He pushes her hand away then, moving to pull her panties off. She's breathing hard, and as he pushes two fingers into her, he realizes how hot and wet she is, just as her hips arch off the bed and her breathing picks up. "Finn," she whispers, as he pumps his fingers in and out, "I need you."
He stammers helplessly for a bit before she points at a drawer, the furniture shaking as he tugs a little too hard. Rachel always comes prepared, he should have known. She takes the foil packet from him, tearing it with ease, before she slides the condom over him (he can still feel the heat of her fingers). He braces his arms on either side of her before he pushes into her, her teeth snagging her bottom lip as she pushes back against him.
She's hot and tight against him, and it takes him a second to get his bearings. Hands at her hips, her leg hooked around him, he moves, thrusting his hips. She grinds against him, panting, as he tries to keep the rhythm. Looking up at him, she whimpers, urging him deeper. He speeds up then, leaning in to close his mouth over a spot on her neck, slick with sweat. Her whimpers grow louder and he watches as she reaches down with one hand to rub at her clit. (It turns him on so much.) Her hips rocking against his, she clenches, head tilting back as her hips slam down, muscles tightening against him.
He's so close, so close, and when she rakes her nails against his back, he slams into her with a loud groan, body spasming against her. He pulls out then, tosses the condom in her trash bin before he lies back down. She moves against him, tossing a leg around his as her arm moves across his waist. Her eyelashes flutter a few times, and she's making these soft, contented noises, and just before she falls asleep, she murmurs, "You might want to get your jacket dry-cleaned."