Fic: Here Endeth the Lesson (Glee, Puckleberry) NC-17
Title: Here endeth the lesson
Author: JaqofSpades
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Noah Puckerman/Rachel Berry
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1953
Summary: "Sorry I'm late for detention, Mr Puckerman," Rachel gasps, and he stares back impassively, feeling out the character. Hardass math teacher, he decides. One of those douchebags with a highlighter in his pocket, and a faux-hawk. Huge fucking hard-on for her, but he's sick and tired of her teasing."
Author's note: Written for Porn Battle XIV, to the prompts: Noah Puckerman/Rachel Berry, pigtails, suave, stiff, NYC, LA, transcontinental, visits, easy, lessons, needy, pull, ribbon, socks, tease, scandal, loft, coriander, unicorn, superman, plaid, highlighter, battery, faux-hawk, drumstick, leotard
She opens the door in pigtails and plaid. He's been stiff since LA, lurching from one wild scenario to another, but yeah, his imagination has nothing on her. Miss Rachel Berry, star of stage and fucking screen, back in her knee socks and tiny skirts.
Baby, you did it again, he thinks with a smirk.
He drops his luggage in the corner and prays no one is pointing a telephoto lens through her window. "What do we have here then?" he growls, spinning her around to push her up against the door.
She shrinks in terror, both hands flying to her mouth. The pose makes her lush breasts strain against the too-small white shirt, knotted several inches above her navel. The skirt is one of those pleated numbers that seems custom-designed to fly up at the first provocation, and he needs to get his hands underneath it, right fucking now.
But it's her game, and she makes the play.
"Sorry I'm late for detention, Mr Puckerman," Rachel gasps, and he stares back impassively, feeling out the character. Hardass math teacher, he decides. One of those douchebags with a highlighter in his pocket, and a faux-hawk. Huge fucking hard-on for her, but he's sick and tired of her teasing.
Shit was going to be fun.
"Not good enough, Miss Berry. You simply refuse to learn your lesson," he says sternly, glaring down at her.
"Now you're gonna learn the hard way!"
He frogmarches her over to the expensive leather couch and points to the low arm. "Down!"
She splutters in outrage, but folds herself over the end anyway, head buried in her arms on the seat, and straight legs ensuring her ass waves high in the air.
His mouth goes dry at the picture, and ... holy shit, yes. Her pigtails are tied up with thick red ribbon, an exact match to the red in her skirt. Pretty, he smirks, and with one long pull whips it free.
"Hands," he demands.
"But sir ..."
"Your hands, Miss Berry!"
She proffers them silently, and he feels her shiver as he loops the ribbon tightly around her wrists, before tying it off with a bow nearly as neat as the one in her hair.
He walks around the side of the couch to bend over and whisper directly into her ear.
"You're mine, now. And there's not a goddamned thing you can do about it."
Her frightened squeak is so convincing he worries for a second, but when he makes his way back around the couch, the crotch of her panties is already wet with excitement.
"First lesson. Patience," he growls, and trails his finger back and forth along the point where her knee sock ends and her silky, bare thigh begins. The other hand toys with the pleats on her skirt, not quite lifting it, and certainly not delving underneath.
She manages to quiet her whimpers, eventually. He rewards her by flipping the skirt over her back to admire the virginal white panties. They're silk, of course - Rachel doesn't even play act in cotton these days - but cut relatively modestly.
"Such a good girl," he scoffs. "Lying here with her ass in the air, practically begging to be touched. Little tease."
She moans her protest, but he can hear the delight in it, too. He wanders one hand up, lingering teasingly as it nears the apex of her thighs, then moving it around to slide over the fullness of that glorious ass, stroking in endless circles, sensitising the flesh even through the silky barrier. Then brings his palm down in a sharp smack.
"Oh fuck. Oh ... God. Please," she begs, and he pretends she's asking him to stop.
"It's for your own good, Missy," Puck lectures as he brings his hand down twice more, wishing he could see the flesh as it pinks up. She'll make it up to him, he thinks. She already is, he discovers when he slides his hand up the inside of one leg. Her thighs are already slippery from the wetness seeping through the silk.
"You dirty little bitch. You're soaked," he crows, sopping his fingers in her moisture. The compulsion to taste her is so strong he doesn't even try to resist. He positions himself in front of her so she can see him licking his fingers clean, and when her needy moan is too hard to resist, offers her his hand.
She sucks his fingers so greedily he nearly comes.
"Lesson number two. Don't bite off more than you can chew," he says gruffly, even as her gaze wanders to his cock, increasingly uncomfortable inside his denim jeans. He still unzips, though, and gives himself a few lazy pumps as she watches beseechingly. Maybe it's because those hungry eyes make him feel like Superman, Captain America and Han Solo all rolled into one. Maybe it's just the rush of having a bound, half-naked schoolgirl suck his cock.
She's gonna do herself her damage from that position, but he lets her slide her lips over his head and suck as hard as she can while her tongue darts around to lick at anything she can reach. It's starting to feel a bit too fucking good despite the angle, so he gathers his wits and tries to get back into the play.
"One day, I'll teach you to suck me off," he taunts. "But it's a different set of lessons today. This time, you're gonna learn what it's like to be teased."
He eases out of her mouth and hides his smile at the angry little pout. Rachel's damn fierce about not breaking character, so he'll follow the rules. She tenses when he brushes his hand over her ass and he wonders for a minute if she's sore, then dismisses the idea. Last time, he paddled her with a fucking hairbrush, and she begged for more. That's not pain. It's anticipation.
He drags in a steadying breath as he walks his fingers back and forth across the waistband of the silky panties. Her skin ripples with tension, and he sees the effort she puts in to making herself to relax under his hand. That's the moment he chooses to slide his hand into the back of her panties, tickling a line down between her cheeks all the way to the tight pucker of her anus. Her entire body shakes as he circles it a few times, and when his fingers retreat, she blows out her frustration in an angry huff.
He plasters himself to her back then, and whispers in her ear. "Not much fun, is it, Miss Berry? Wanting something so fucking bad ya feel like you'll burst if you don't get it?" He drives the point home with a few thrusts of his ridiculously hard cock, pushing into her silken panties over and over again.
She is moaning continuously by the time he crouches down between her legs to admire his handiwork. The silk is almost transparent now, clinging to engorged red lips in adoration. Even from behind he can see the bump of her clit, and when he leans in close to blow a stream of warm air across it, she begins to shiver uncontrollably.
"Oh, Miss Berry. You want me to touch you, don't you? You gonna ask for it? Huh?" he taunts, and nudges her with his nose. He wants to rip her fucking panties off and bury his face in her pussy, but he'll follow Rachel's rules as long as he can.
She thrashes her head backwards and forwards, telling him no even as she pushes back into his face.
"Those little boys ever gone down on you? Anyone ever sucked that little button? See how it's standing up for me, all hard and throbbing," he growls, praying she doesn't catch the edge of desperation in his voice.
He flicks his tongue out to catch the very tip of her clit, then drags it all over her saturated pussy, sucking the juices from the wet silk like a starving man.
She breaks, bucking up into his face and contorting herself so that he is clamped between her thighs, unable to move his face away. But she needs to say it, needs to say the word ...
"Fuck my face all you like, girl, but you gotta ask for it," he begs, feeling his balls draw up tight as the smell and taste of her eats away at his resolve.
"Caroline! Oh God, Caroline," she screams, and he hooks his hand in the silk and simply tears it away, not even bothering to remove the tatters from her hips before he drives inside of her. He's two and a half seconds away from losing his load and too desperate to do anything about it. She's coming, though, rippling around him as he pistons into her, and fuck, there's nothing for it now but to fill her, make her drip with him, make her his, so everybody will know, she's mine, mine ...
He was chanting it, she will tell him later, once they've made it out of the living room and into her wide, white bed. One word, over and over again.
"Mine."
Which is kinda awkward, considering.
It's not even been ten months of this transcontinental ... whatever. (He'd called it a hook-up, once, and she cried for a week. She'd said how much she was enjoying their 'courtship' and he had laughed until he fell off the bed.) All he knows is that he visits her whenever he's in NYC, and she visits him when she's in LA, and it's finally easy, this thing they have. It's finally just them, and everyone else can fuck off.
Here, behind the double-steel door to her fancy loft, he doesn't have to be the suave motherfucker the rest of the world expects. She can relax a little, and let go of the diva. And if their way of relaxing involves props and costumes, well, that ain't so weird. He knew one girl who liked to pretend he was a fucking unicorn (and you know where that's going) and another who used to demand he get her off with her friggin' drumsticks. (Apparently the old rule 'never date the drummer' applies to dudes too.)
Hell, he'd be happy if she answered the door in a sweaty leotard, but she believes in "making an effort", and "keeping it interesting" and all that chick stuff. But, fuck. He's not complaining, he thinks, as he watches her sleep. She's every fantasy he's ever had, rolled up into a kickass woman he's been half in love with since he was 16.
Maybe even more than half, he's finally ready to admit.
Two days later, the scandal breaks over breakfast.
He's nibbling on a cheese and coriander muffin and wondering why the battery on his phone is dead when the headline catches his eye. Then he sees the pictures.
"Broadway's sweetheart plays schoolgirl for millionaire industrialist," the Times tells him, and there they are, up against the door. He winces when the words "schoolgirl slut" make him throw away the Enquirer, and smiles at the front page of the Post.
The photographer had gone for maximum zoom on that one, and you can't tell that they're naked, lying is a sweaty heap on the couch. They're just two people, bodies inclined to each other, eyes soft with emotion.
He stares a moment longer, then surrenders.
Caroline, he thinks. Caroline, and grabs his laptop to figure out how he can relocate head office to New York City.
fin