Dominated Hand [4/?]
Title: Dominated Hand
Chapter: 4/?
Warning: NC-17
Pairing: Puck/Rachel
Summary: He doesn't expect Rachel to be good at poker, and there's no way he's going to let her beat him. Turns out that when the stakes are high, Puck comes to play. "Whoever loses has to be the other's slave."
Word Count: 4,559
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Rachel is fairly certain on Tuesday that, since he hasn't sought her out by noon, she might just be off the hook for any ridiculous chores for the day. She's thrilled about it. Especially when she sees him in the hall and they're both alone, and all he does is cast a smile in her direction. He doesn't stop her or back her against a wall (which, if she's being honest, she wouldn't actually hate). He doesn't leer at her or make any comments or hand over a list of things to do.
So she's fairly certain she's in the clear.
He actually shows up to Calculus class, which is about a once a week occurrence, and that's when she starts getting nervous. There are two potential reasons for him to show up. One, he actually wants to learn (she nearly laughs when she thinks it) or two, he has something for her to do.
It's clear to her what's going on, especially when he sits down right next to her, flipping open his notebook and tugging her textbook towards him, setting it between them on the table.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Lost mine. Share."
She's about to argue, but she knows it wouldn't make any difference. It's her place in the world this week to do whatever he tells her to do (within reason), so she says nothing, turns to the front of the class, and pays attention to the start of the lesson.
He almost misses her fighting him on everything. It's kind of fun, this trading barbs thing they've had going on. It's fun to get her all riled up. Her cheeks get kind of red and she narrows her eyes at him, and then sometimes she lets out this little huff, like she's two seconds away from slapping him or something. It's totally hot.
The only reason he showed up to class is because he heard from Santana that like, the biggest boatload of homework of the year got handed out, and he's pretty sure that he can't pass the class if he doesn't complete it.
Well, if Rachel doesn't complete it for him.
God, he loves having a slave.
It's their last class of the day, and they don't have glee rehearsal on Tuesdays, so as she's packing up her books, he hangs behind so he can walk with her to her locker.
"What do you want?" she asks, sighing as she opens her locker, realizing that he's following her for a reason.
"Do my Calc homework."
He figures asking isn't really necessary, because it's not really a choice, now, is it?
She actually laughs. "Noah, I'm not going to do your homework for you. How do you expect to learn if you don't do the work?"
"I don't need to learn, sugar, I need to pass," he insists. She does that thing where she squints at him. "C'mon. You can't say no."
She slams her locker door closed and turns to him. "Fine. But I'm getting some of the answers wrong on purpose, because there's no way anyone would believe that you're anywhere near as smart as me."
"Ouch," he says seriously. "You're so fucking mean to me."
She laughs and slings her bag over her shoulder. "I'm mean to you? Master?"
As soon as she's said it, she blushes. The smirk on his face makes her squirm in her place.
"This is getting so good. You're finally understanding," he says, tapping the tip of her nose with his index finger. "Come on. Mom works late tonight."
"I can't. I have to get home. My fathers had the day off and they're making their famous cannelloni."
"I love cannelloni," he insists, grinning at her.
She sighs at his self-extended invitation. "You're not staying for dinner." She starts walking towards the door and he follows behind her. "I'll do your work and then you're leaving."
He pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the doors to his truck when they get to the parking lot. See, she's crazy if she thinks her dads won't invite him to stay. And besides, if he tells her to let him stay, she has to let him. And her dads are cool enough. He's met them a few times through Temple and some glee stuff. They don't seem to think he's some hooligan, or if they do, they don't let on, which is pretty awesome.
He throws her shit into the back of the truck and laughs (she is pissed) when he watches her climb inside. She's got this little skirt on and he's pretty sure that if he, you know, didn't love his balls so much, he could totally sneak a peek at her panties. And as awesome as he's sure that would be, he kind of wants the first time he sees her that way to be because she's like, getting ready to ride him or something. And, you know, maybe that's a bit of a pipe dream, given that she looks out the window the entire drive to her place and doesn't open her mouth once.
When they get to the house, she taps her foot, waiting for him to pull her bag from the truck bed. He just looks at her as if to ask what the fuck she's holding out for. He can practically smell the marinara from the goddamn driveway, and he is going to enjoy that shit.
And he knows that she's too tiny to reach in and get it herself. His truck is jacked up and she's approximately three and a half feet tall, so, you know. He grins at her as he gestures to the truck bed, and she literally growls as she stomps over and tries to reach for her bag.
It's just too cute, the way she gets up on her tip toes to try to reach over the side and catch the handle of her bag. Her skirt hikes up and her legs look endless, and her ass? Shit. That's worth the price of admission alone.
"Christ," he mumbles, laughing softly. He walks over and grabs her stupid pink bag, hoisting it onto the ground. "Here."
"Thank you," she says bitterly. "You're too kind."
"You know it. Let's do this," he says, starting towards the house.
The thing is, she knows her fathers are going to invite him to stay for dinner. She knows it. And actually, she loves that they're polite like that, that they have no problem inviting people into their home. Not that Rachel has a lot of people over, but still.
She doesn't want Noah to stay and say anything to her fathers that could reflect badly upon her. Like she gambled frivolously and now is being forced into this life of absolute misery (not really, but it's not necessarily pleasant) because she lost when the stakes were high.
Sure enough, as soon as they're in the house, her fathers come out from the kitchen with big, happy smiles on their faces, making small talk with Puck and kissing Rachel on the cheek like Puck's pretty sure they do every day. It's weird for him to see a family with a normal routine. His mom's shifts are all messed up and she's pretty much hardly ever at the house when he comes home from school. If she is, she's usually sleeping or whatever. This routine the Berry's have is weird.
"Noah and I have to work on some Calculus assignments," Rachel says. Puck wonders how hard it is for her to keep things from her dads. "We'll be upstairs, okay? With the door open."
Puck wants to laugh. He wonders if that's her dads' rule or hers.
"We'll call you two for dinner," Mark, the tall one says. "Noah, you're staying. No arguments."
Puck laughs and looks at Rachel, who's stomping towards the stairs. "Smells amazing. No complaints, here," he says. Her dads laugh and Rachel looks at him over her shoulder, rolling her eyes.
He follows her up to her room, and she's already unpacking her books at her desk. Her room is always like, freaky clean. Seriously. There's no way she ever even eats in here. He's surprised she does anything more than just sleep, actually. And she probably sleeps right in the middle of the bed, flat on her back with her arms at her sides or something so it's not a big chore to make her bed.
Fuck. He's thinking about her in her bed. Not the worst visual ever. (At all.)
He lays down on the bed, scoots up so he's laying against the pillows, and watches as she pulls her hair into a ponytail before sitting down at her desk.
"'Member the last time I was here?" he asks, grinning mischievously.
"You mean when you attempted to kiss me twice even though you had a girlfriend?" she says, not even bothering to look up from her work.
"No," he says. He doesn't think she's ever been this feisty with anyone in her life. He loves it. "I mean when you almost let me kiss you twice even though you had a boyfriend." She throws him a withering glance and he laughs again. God, she's cute when she's pissed. "That was fun, though."
"Hmm."
She's hunched over her books. He's bored. And he's trying to tell her he actually liked making a jackass of himself because it was a good time, watching her talk about 'artistic integrity' while working on the worst song in the history of fucking ever.
God, that thing was a piece of shit.
But whatever.
"You were awesome. I mean, that song was shit awful, and I knew when you were telling me to be more animated that I'd end up looking like a fucking loser, but it was fun."
She looks up at him, the slightest of smiles tugging at her lips. "It was," she admits. "And there's nothing wrong with being animated and trying to sell your performance to your audience."
"Whatever," he mumbles.
"If you'd like to watch television, you can. Or put on music," she says, gesturing to the little (seriously tiny) television sitting at one end of her dresser, her stereo on one of her bookshelves.
"You get ESPN up here?" he asks, reaching for her remote.
"Mhmm."
"Sweet. Yanks and Sox are playing. Should be a gooder."
She laughs and looks at him again. "Gooder? What on earth does that mean?"
"You know. Good one," he says, shrugging his shoulder as he gets a little more comfortable. "Damn, I'm thirsty."
The way he says it lets her know that he expects her to go get him something. Truth be told, she probably would have (should have) anyway. He's her guest, and any good hostess offers. She's just been preoccupied, wanting to get her work done so she can start on his and hopefully finish before dinner. That way he can leave directly afterward and won't have to stay any longer. She has an incredibly difficult aria to rehearse for her private lessons, and she was hoping to have the evening to herself to work on it.
Him sprawled out on her bed is far more distracting than it should be. Really, he's just a boy. It doesn't matter that his shirt is riding up, showing a sliver of his stomach that she shouldn't even be noticing. He has this permanent grin on his lips that she has to admit is so...well, the only word for it is sexy. Which, actually, is probably the word best used to describe him on the whole.
And she is sitting here doing calculus homework instead of...instead of...
Instead of what? It's not like he has any interest in her whatsoever, other than his run-of-the-mill, I-say-this-to-every-girl comments. And she doesn't really think she has any interest in him, either. She just happens to find him insanely attractive. It's really not a big deal. She's not the only one.
"What would you like?" she asks as she stands up and stretches her arms over her head. Her shirt rides up and her back arches a little.
You, naked and spread eagle? he thinks.
"Fruit smoothie would be fucking amazing," he says, grinning at her. She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling, as she makes her way to the door.
"Any particular kind?" she asks. She's being facetious.
He smirks and raises his brow, locking eyes with her. "I like any kind of berry," he says, his voice low.
She leaves the room, hoping he doesn't see the way she has to take a deep breath to regain her composure.
What in the world is he trying to accomplish by saying things like that? She's sure he's just trying to get a rise out of her, and she won't give him the satisfaction of letting on that he affects her at all.
As soon as she's out of the room, he's itching to do something that'll piss her off. What, he's not sure. He's pretty close to her dresser, and he's sure he can peek into her underwear drawer, but again, he doesn't want to see 'em until she says it's okay. Not because he's a pussy and needs permission. Mostly because it'd be more of a surprise that way. And a fucking hot one at that.
So he just lays there on her bed with his hand behind his head, watching Lester pitch a gem and absolutely fuck the Yanks, which is always fun. Fucking Yanks. A-Rod can suck a dick. Fucking jackass. He lines out to second and Puck's smirking when Rachel walks back into the room with a big glass full of a very pink (fuck) smoothie and a plate of garlic bread with some fancy kind of butter. He sits up in her bed and he's pretty surprised when she hands him the plate. He would have thought for sure that she'd, like, make him eat on the floor or something so he wouldn't get crumbs on her bed.
"Thanks, muffin," he says, winking at her as he sips his drink.
"Muffin?" she giggles. "Really?"
All he does is grin in return.
She shakes her head as she sits back down at her desk. She starts in on her (their?) work again as he crunches on his garlic bread. She finds herself smiling when he talks to the television and curses the players and the refs. Her favourite, surprisingly, is "Fuck yeah! Dustin Fucking Pedroia!" There's something about the passion he has for the game that tells her something about him. There's more to him than just curses, sexual comments and inappropriate behaviour. She doesn't know why she needs the reminder. She knows he cares about things, though he likes to pretend he doesn't. The annoying 'future crazy' part of her wonders what he wants to do with his life. She feels it's not her place to ask, so she says nothing.
But after about forty minutes, she finds she needs a break before starting on her next task (attempting to do his assignment so it doesn't look like she's done it. He's going to have to transpose it in his own printing.)
"Who's winning?" she asks, craning her neck to look at the television.
"Sox. 5-3."
"Is that good? You like the Red Sox?" she inquires. She stands and walks over, sitting down at the edge of her bed.
"Like 'em better than the Yankees," he says, and she chuckles at him. "You probably love the Yanks, since you're all about New York or whatever."
"Actually, I like the Mets. Next to the Indians, of course."
"You're an Indians fan?" he asks, surprised. The Indians are his team. The only lasting good memory he has of his dad is the bastard taking him to an Indians game. She nods. "Nice. Mets suck, though."
She swats his side as he laughs, and he grabs her hand, pulling her towards him quickly. She ends up half on top of him, wide eyed and surprised.
"What are you doing?" she asks, though suddenly her voice is hard to find. His hand is splayed across the small of her back, fingers brushing the skin between her skirt and shirt, and his thigh is hot, positioned between hers. "Noah."
"Shh."
"This is inappropriate." But she's already relaxed, watching the way he's laying there with his eyes closed, smile on his face.
"I wanna cuddle. I'm not against it," he says.
She scoffs. "There's a genuine surprise," she mumbles.
"C'mon. I'm not like that, really," he insists.
"Like what?"
"Don't fuckin' tell anyone," he says, opening his eyes to look at her. She's sure his expression is supposed to be menacing, but it's not. "I totally dig spooning."
Rachel laughs softly and his other hand comes up to rest on her shoulder, sliding around to her back. "This isn't spooning," she tells him.
"No? Show me." He smirks when she looks away. He wonders if she realizes she's playing with the button of his shirt.
"I'm not going to fall for your thinly-veiled attempts to..."
"I own you. Do what I say," he says. She pulls away a little bit, narrows her eyes at him.
She sighs and makes it seem like it's a big chore, but the truth is she can think of about a million worse places to be than in his arms on her bed. And she'd swear she's about to blush. She's glad she's turning so her back is to him. When she lays down, she reaches for his wrist and gives it a gentle tug, and he turns so he's on his side, his chest to her back. She rests his hand on her thigh. She's not surprised at all when he moves it a little bit, pushing her skirt up a little more. She is surprised when she doesn't chastise him for it.
He's not an idiot. He knows what spooning is. He also knows that he wants her pert little ass pressed up against him. He also knows that when he drags her skirt up a little bit so his fingertips are resting on her thigh, she doesn't seem to mind. A lesser man would totally be hard right now. Thank god he knows how to keep his shit in check.
And then she lets out this little sigh, like she likes laying with him like this, and he wonders if just maybe there's hope for him yet.
(You know, hope that she'll bang him.)
"This is kinda nice," he says, speaking low right next to her ear. "You're so little."
"I'm petite."
"You're fuckin' tiny," he chuckles. "'S'pretty hot, actually."
She rolls her eyes and moves away from him, standing from the bed. She didn't necessarily want to, but she knows that if she doesn't, she'll do something stupid like hold his hand. (Or worse, kiss him.)
"Are you even capable of going more than ten minutes without making some lascivious comment?" she asks, hands on her hips.
He shrugs, rolls onto his back and clasps his hands behind his head. "Dunno. Never tried."
She lets out a huff and stomps back over to her desk. During a commercial break, when she's still scribbling away and he's curious, he glances at her closet. There's something strangely forbidden about looking inside it. Maybe it's because all her clothes are so fucking innocent, and he wonders if that's all there is in there, or if she's got some hot stuff hiding in there.
So of course, he walks over and pulls open the doors. It's one of those crazy, girly walk-in closets.
So he walks in.
"What are you doing?" she asks worriedly, rushing in behind him. "Noah!"
"Checkin' stuff out," he says. Everything's colour coordinated. No surprise there. All her tops are hung neatly on the top railing, her skirts and other bottoms on the lower railing. The back wall is covered in shoes. "It's totally scary how organized you are. You probably have day of the week panties."
"I do not!" she cries.
He turns to her with his brow raised and looks her up and down, eyes lingering somewhere near her hips. "No? What kinda panties do you wear?"
"I refuse to humour you by providing even one of the myriad of reasons why I won't tell you."
He smirks at her and shakes his head. Then something catches his eye. There are a few shiny, shimmery things hanging at the back of the closet. Actually, there's a bunch of stuff there that he's never seen her wear. He never actually thought she'd ever be caught buying shit like that.
"What do we have here?" he asks, walking over.
"Noah..."
"Is this...The fuck do you have this for?" he asks, holding up a black corset-type shirt. Fucking hot is what it is.
She walks over and snatches it from his hands. "I was in a play. It was part of my costume."
"Shit. What kinda play and why didn't I see you in it?" He starts looking through the clothes again, and she's going on and on about artistic integrity and bringing authenticity to a role or some shit. "Damn," he says, letting out a low whistle as he plucks a black dress off the rack. "This is totally hot."
She actually smiles as she takes it from him. "Every woman has to have a little black dress, Noah," she says.
Goddamn.
"Wear it," he commands. Her eyes go wide. "Tomorrow. To school."
"It's practically a cocktail dress!" She looks back to the strapless dress in her hands. It's tight through the body, hugs her hips and hangs to mid thigh. "I can't wear this to school."
"So wear something over it," he says, shrugging his shoulder. "Something like..." He pulls a short white little short sleeved sweater (she later calls it a bolero, whatever the fuck that is) and hands it to her. "This."
"Noah, I..."
"C'mon, Rach," he says, grinning as he steps towards her. He runs the back of his index finger from her elbow to her shoulder, then back down again. "For me."
She knows he's just reminding her of his pull over her, but it sounds like a lot more than that to her. Maybe she just wants it to be more than that.
But that's just crazy thinking.
"I'm going to be ridiculed," she says, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
"You're going to be fucking stared at by every dude in school," he argues. God, he can't wait to see her in that dress.
He doesn't necessarily love the idea of everyone else ogling her, but it's a side-effect he's sure he can handle. He'll just make sure he's around her lots and other dudes won't openly stare. At least they'll just glance.
Fuck it. They'll probably openly stare. He probably won't be able to blame then. But he'll probably stick around her most of the day anyway.
You know, because he'll have things for her to do.
She hangs both items on the back of her closet door, then walks over to her wall of shoes and bites her lip as she tries to pick something. She settles on a little red pair of strappy sandal things with a short heel. He approves, though he's sure she doesn't care. Then her dad is calling up the stairs telling them dinner is ready, and Puck winks at her before gesturing for her to leave the room.
And yeah, he's not doing it to be polite. He's doing it so he can watch her ass in that little skirt. God, she felt good pressed against him. He's fucking horny as hell and spending all his time with a girl who's not gonna give it up.
...
He leaves after (delicious) dinner. Sort of. She tells him he'll have to copy all the answers she provided in his own printing, and he figures her bedroom is as good a place as any for that shit. She actually looks surprised when he calls her on a couple of the wrong answers, asks her if she's trying to fail him or something, but he's totally joking, and he actually does the work so the answers are correct. He's not an idiot, he just hates school.
"Thanks, doll," he says, shooting her a wink when she walks him to the front door. He's already thanked her fathers. He isn't a complete heathen. (She's very aware that this is the first time he's thanked her for anything she's done for him.) "Seeya tomorrow. Can't wait."
She rolls her eyes and closes the door on his face.
As soon as he gets home, after he's shrugged off his shirt and changed into a pair of sweats, he texts her.
Don't forget your Wednesday panties. ;)
He's watching a rerun of Family guy when she texts back, and he nearly chokes on his fucking drink.
I won't elaborate, but surely panty lines would take away from the appeal of the dress, don't you think?
Instant boner. Is she...? Does she mean...?
No panties at all, then? Pls.
He holds his phone in his hand as he waits for a response.
Goodnight, Noah.
Well, fuck.
This? Rachel always getting the last word?
He kinda likes it.
Chapter: 4/?
Warning: NC-17
Pairing: Puck/Rachel
Summary: He doesn't expect Rachel to be good at poker, and there's no way he's going to let her beat him. Turns out that when the stakes are high, Puck comes to play. "Whoever loses has to be the other's slave."
Word Count: 4,559
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Rachel is fairly certain on Tuesday that, since he hasn't sought her out by noon, she might just be off the hook for any ridiculous chores for the day. She's thrilled about it. Especially when she sees him in the hall and they're both alone, and all he does is cast a smile in her direction. He doesn't stop her or back her against a wall (which, if she's being honest, she wouldn't actually hate). He doesn't leer at her or make any comments or hand over a list of things to do.
So she's fairly certain she's in the clear.
He actually shows up to Calculus class, which is about a once a week occurrence, and that's when she starts getting nervous. There are two potential reasons for him to show up. One, he actually wants to learn (she nearly laughs when she thinks it) or two, he has something for her to do.
It's clear to her what's going on, especially when he sits down right next to her, flipping open his notebook and tugging her textbook towards him, setting it between them on the table.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Lost mine. Share."
She's about to argue, but she knows it wouldn't make any difference. It's her place in the world this week to do whatever he tells her to do (within reason), so she says nothing, turns to the front of the class, and pays attention to the start of the lesson.
He almost misses her fighting him on everything. It's kind of fun, this trading barbs thing they've had going on. It's fun to get her all riled up. Her cheeks get kind of red and she narrows her eyes at him, and then sometimes she lets out this little huff, like she's two seconds away from slapping him or something. It's totally hot.
The only reason he showed up to class is because he heard from Santana that like, the biggest boatload of homework of the year got handed out, and he's pretty sure that he can't pass the class if he doesn't complete it.
Well, if Rachel doesn't complete it for him.
God, he loves having a slave.
It's their last class of the day, and they don't have glee rehearsal on Tuesdays, so as she's packing up her books, he hangs behind so he can walk with her to her locker.
"What do you want?" she asks, sighing as she opens her locker, realizing that he's following her for a reason.
"Do my Calc homework."
He figures asking isn't really necessary, because it's not really a choice, now, is it?
She actually laughs. "Noah, I'm not going to do your homework for you. How do you expect to learn if you don't do the work?"
"I don't need to learn, sugar, I need to pass," he insists. She does that thing where she squints at him. "C'mon. You can't say no."
She slams her locker door closed and turns to him. "Fine. But I'm getting some of the answers wrong on purpose, because there's no way anyone would believe that you're anywhere near as smart as me."
"Ouch," he says seriously. "You're so fucking mean to me."
She laughs and slings her bag over her shoulder. "I'm mean to you? Master?"
As soon as she's said it, she blushes. The smirk on his face makes her squirm in her place.
"This is getting so good. You're finally understanding," he says, tapping the tip of her nose with his index finger. "Come on. Mom works late tonight."
"I can't. I have to get home. My fathers had the day off and they're making their famous cannelloni."
"I love cannelloni," he insists, grinning at her.
She sighs at his self-extended invitation. "You're not staying for dinner." She starts walking towards the door and he follows behind her. "I'll do your work and then you're leaving."
He pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the doors to his truck when they get to the parking lot. See, she's crazy if she thinks her dads won't invite him to stay. And besides, if he tells her to let him stay, she has to let him. And her dads are cool enough. He's met them a few times through Temple and some glee stuff. They don't seem to think he's some hooligan, or if they do, they don't let on, which is pretty awesome.
He throws her shit into the back of the truck and laughs (she is pissed) when he watches her climb inside. She's got this little skirt on and he's pretty sure that if he, you know, didn't love his balls so much, he could totally sneak a peek at her panties. And as awesome as he's sure that would be, he kind of wants the first time he sees her that way to be because she's like, getting ready to ride him or something. And, you know, maybe that's a bit of a pipe dream, given that she looks out the window the entire drive to her place and doesn't open her mouth once.
When they get to the house, she taps her foot, waiting for him to pull her bag from the truck bed. He just looks at her as if to ask what the fuck she's holding out for. He can practically smell the marinara from the goddamn driveway, and he is going to enjoy that shit.
And he knows that she's too tiny to reach in and get it herself. His truck is jacked up and she's approximately three and a half feet tall, so, you know. He grins at her as he gestures to the truck bed, and she literally growls as she stomps over and tries to reach for her bag.
It's just too cute, the way she gets up on her tip toes to try to reach over the side and catch the handle of her bag. Her skirt hikes up and her legs look endless, and her ass? Shit. That's worth the price of admission alone.
"Christ," he mumbles, laughing softly. He walks over and grabs her stupid pink bag, hoisting it onto the ground. "Here."
"Thank you," she says bitterly. "You're too kind."
"You know it. Let's do this," he says, starting towards the house.
The thing is, she knows her fathers are going to invite him to stay for dinner. She knows it. And actually, she loves that they're polite like that, that they have no problem inviting people into their home. Not that Rachel has a lot of people over, but still.
She doesn't want Noah to stay and say anything to her fathers that could reflect badly upon her. Like she gambled frivolously and now is being forced into this life of absolute misery (not really, but it's not necessarily pleasant) because she lost when the stakes were high.
Sure enough, as soon as they're in the house, her fathers come out from the kitchen with big, happy smiles on their faces, making small talk with Puck and kissing Rachel on the cheek like Puck's pretty sure they do every day. It's weird for him to see a family with a normal routine. His mom's shifts are all messed up and she's pretty much hardly ever at the house when he comes home from school. If she is, she's usually sleeping or whatever. This routine the Berry's have is weird.
"Noah and I have to work on some Calculus assignments," Rachel says. Puck wonders how hard it is for her to keep things from her dads. "We'll be upstairs, okay? With the door open."
Puck wants to laugh. He wonders if that's her dads' rule or hers.
"We'll call you two for dinner," Mark, the tall one says. "Noah, you're staying. No arguments."
Puck laughs and looks at Rachel, who's stomping towards the stairs. "Smells amazing. No complaints, here," he says. Her dads laugh and Rachel looks at him over her shoulder, rolling her eyes.
He follows her up to her room, and she's already unpacking her books at her desk. Her room is always like, freaky clean. Seriously. There's no way she ever even eats in here. He's surprised she does anything more than just sleep, actually. And she probably sleeps right in the middle of the bed, flat on her back with her arms at her sides or something so it's not a big chore to make her bed.
Fuck. He's thinking about her in her bed. Not the worst visual ever. (At all.)
He lays down on the bed, scoots up so he's laying against the pillows, and watches as she pulls her hair into a ponytail before sitting down at her desk.
"'Member the last time I was here?" he asks, grinning mischievously.
"You mean when you attempted to kiss me twice even though you had a girlfriend?" she says, not even bothering to look up from her work.
"No," he says. He doesn't think she's ever been this feisty with anyone in her life. He loves it. "I mean when you almost let me kiss you twice even though you had a boyfriend." She throws him a withering glance and he laughs again. God, she's cute when she's pissed. "That was fun, though."
"Hmm."
She's hunched over her books. He's bored. And he's trying to tell her he actually liked making a jackass of himself because it was a good time, watching her talk about 'artistic integrity' while working on the worst song in the history of fucking ever.
God, that thing was a piece of shit.
But whatever.
"You were awesome. I mean, that song was shit awful, and I knew when you were telling me to be more animated that I'd end up looking like a fucking loser, but it was fun."
She looks up at him, the slightest of smiles tugging at her lips. "It was," she admits. "And there's nothing wrong with being animated and trying to sell your performance to your audience."
"Whatever," he mumbles.
"If you'd like to watch television, you can. Or put on music," she says, gesturing to the little (seriously tiny) television sitting at one end of her dresser, her stereo on one of her bookshelves.
"You get ESPN up here?" he asks, reaching for her remote.
"Mhmm."
"Sweet. Yanks and Sox are playing. Should be a gooder."
She laughs and looks at him again. "Gooder? What on earth does that mean?"
"You know. Good one," he says, shrugging his shoulder as he gets a little more comfortable. "Damn, I'm thirsty."
The way he says it lets her know that he expects her to go get him something. Truth be told, she probably would have (should have) anyway. He's her guest, and any good hostess offers. She's just been preoccupied, wanting to get her work done so she can start on his and hopefully finish before dinner. That way he can leave directly afterward and won't have to stay any longer. She has an incredibly difficult aria to rehearse for her private lessons, and she was hoping to have the evening to herself to work on it.
Him sprawled out on her bed is far more distracting than it should be. Really, he's just a boy. It doesn't matter that his shirt is riding up, showing a sliver of his stomach that she shouldn't even be noticing. He has this permanent grin on his lips that she has to admit is so...well, the only word for it is sexy. Which, actually, is probably the word best used to describe him on the whole.
And she is sitting here doing calculus homework instead of...instead of...
Instead of what? It's not like he has any interest in her whatsoever, other than his run-of-the-mill, I-say-this-to-every-girl comments. And she doesn't really think she has any interest in him, either. She just happens to find him insanely attractive. It's really not a big deal. She's not the only one.
"What would you like?" she asks as she stands up and stretches her arms over her head. Her shirt rides up and her back arches a little.
You, naked and spread eagle? he thinks.
"Fruit smoothie would be fucking amazing," he says, grinning at her. She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling, as she makes her way to the door.
"Any particular kind?" she asks. She's being facetious.
He smirks and raises his brow, locking eyes with her. "I like any kind of berry," he says, his voice low.
She leaves the room, hoping he doesn't see the way she has to take a deep breath to regain her composure.
What in the world is he trying to accomplish by saying things like that? She's sure he's just trying to get a rise out of her, and she won't give him the satisfaction of letting on that he affects her at all.
As soon as she's out of the room, he's itching to do something that'll piss her off. What, he's not sure. He's pretty close to her dresser, and he's sure he can peek into her underwear drawer, but again, he doesn't want to see 'em until she says it's okay. Not because he's a pussy and needs permission. Mostly because it'd be more of a surprise that way. And a fucking hot one at that.
So he just lays there on her bed with his hand behind his head, watching Lester pitch a gem and absolutely fuck the Yanks, which is always fun. Fucking Yanks. A-Rod can suck a dick. Fucking jackass. He lines out to second and Puck's smirking when Rachel walks back into the room with a big glass full of a very pink (fuck) smoothie and a plate of garlic bread with some fancy kind of butter. He sits up in her bed and he's pretty surprised when she hands him the plate. He would have thought for sure that she'd, like, make him eat on the floor or something so he wouldn't get crumbs on her bed.
"Thanks, muffin," he says, winking at her as he sips his drink.
"Muffin?" she giggles. "Really?"
All he does is grin in return.
She shakes her head as she sits back down at her desk. She starts in on her (their?) work again as he crunches on his garlic bread. She finds herself smiling when he talks to the television and curses the players and the refs. Her favourite, surprisingly, is "Fuck yeah! Dustin Fucking Pedroia!" There's something about the passion he has for the game that tells her something about him. There's more to him than just curses, sexual comments and inappropriate behaviour. She doesn't know why she needs the reminder. She knows he cares about things, though he likes to pretend he doesn't. The annoying 'future crazy' part of her wonders what he wants to do with his life. She feels it's not her place to ask, so she says nothing.
But after about forty minutes, she finds she needs a break before starting on her next task (attempting to do his assignment so it doesn't look like she's done it. He's going to have to transpose it in his own printing.)
"Who's winning?" she asks, craning her neck to look at the television.
"Sox. 5-3."
"Is that good? You like the Red Sox?" she inquires. She stands and walks over, sitting down at the edge of her bed.
"Like 'em better than the Yankees," he says, and she chuckles at him. "You probably love the Yanks, since you're all about New York or whatever."
"Actually, I like the Mets. Next to the Indians, of course."
"You're an Indians fan?" he asks, surprised. The Indians are his team. The only lasting good memory he has of his dad is the bastard taking him to an Indians game. She nods. "Nice. Mets suck, though."
She swats his side as he laughs, and he grabs her hand, pulling her towards him quickly. She ends up half on top of him, wide eyed and surprised.
"What are you doing?" she asks, though suddenly her voice is hard to find. His hand is splayed across the small of her back, fingers brushing the skin between her skirt and shirt, and his thigh is hot, positioned between hers. "Noah."
"Shh."
"This is inappropriate." But she's already relaxed, watching the way he's laying there with his eyes closed, smile on his face.
"I wanna cuddle. I'm not against it," he says.
She scoffs. "There's a genuine surprise," she mumbles.
"C'mon. I'm not like that, really," he insists.
"Like what?"
"Don't fuckin' tell anyone," he says, opening his eyes to look at her. She's sure his expression is supposed to be menacing, but it's not. "I totally dig spooning."
Rachel laughs softly and his other hand comes up to rest on her shoulder, sliding around to her back. "This isn't spooning," she tells him.
"No? Show me." He smirks when she looks away. He wonders if she realizes she's playing with the button of his shirt.
"I'm not going to fall for your thinly-veiled attempts to..."
"I own you. Do what I say," he says. She pulls away a little bit, narrows her eyes at him.
She sighs and makes it seem like it's a big chore, but the truth is she can think of about a million worse places to be than in his arms on her bed. And she'd swear she's about to blush. She's glad she's turning so her back is to him. When she lays down, she reaches for his wrist and gives it a gentle tug, and he turns so he's on his side, his chest to her back. She rests his hand on her thigh. She's not surprised at all when he moves it a little bit, pushing her skirt up a little more. She is surprised when she doesn't chastise him for it.
He's not an idiot. He knows what spooning is. He also knows that he wants her pert little ass pressed up against him. He also knows that when he drags her skirt up a little bit so his fingertips are resting on her thigh, she doesn't seem to mind. A lesser man would totally be hard right now. Thank god he knows how to keep his shit in check.
And then she lets out this little sigh, like she likes laying with him like this, and he wonders if just maybe there's hope for him yet.
(You know, hope that she'll bang him.)
"This is kinda nice," he says, speaking low right next to her ear. "You're so little."
"I'm petite."
"You're fuckin' tiny," he chuckles. "'S'pretty hot, actually."
She rolls her eyes and moves away from him, standing from the bed. She didn't necessarily want to, but she knows that if she doesn't, she'll do something stupid like hold his hand. (Or worse, kiss him.)
"Are you even capable of going more than ten minutes without making some lascivious comment?" she asks, hands on her hips.
He shrugs, rolls onto his back and clasps his hands behind his head. "Dunno. Never tried."
She lets out a huff and stomps back over to her desk. During a commercial break, when she's still scribbling away and he's curious, he glances at her closet. There's something strangely forbidden about looking inside it. Maybe it's because all her clothes are so fucking innocent, and he wonders if that's all there is in there, or if she's got some hot stuff hiding in there.
So of course, he walks over and pulls open the doors. It's one of those crazy, girly walk-in closets.
So he walks in.
"What are you doing?" she asks worriedly, rushing in behind him. "Noah!"
"Checkin' stuff out," he says. Everything's colour coordinated. No surprise there. All her tops are hung neatly on the top railing, her skirts and other bottoms on the lower railing. The back wall is covered in shoes. "It's totally scary how organized you are. You probably have day of the week panties."
"I do not!" she cries.
He turns to her with his brow raised and looks her up and down, eyes lingering somewhere near her hips. "No? What kinda panties do you wear?"
"I refuse to humour you by providing even one of the myriad of reasons why I won't tell you."
He smirks at her and shakes his head. Then something catches his eye. There are a few shiny, shimmery things hanging at the back of the closet. Actually, there's a bunch of stuff there that he's never seen her wear. He never actually thought she'd ever be caught buying shit like that.
"What do we have here?" he asks, walking over.
"Noah..."
"Is this...The fuck do you have this for?" he asks, holding up a black corset-type shirt. Fucking hot is what it is.
She walks over and snatches it from his hands. "I was in a play. It was part of my costume."
"Shit. What kinda play and why didn't I see you in it?" He starts looking through the clothes again, and she's going on and on about artistic integrity and bringing authenticity to a role or some shit. "Damn," he says, letting out a low whistle as he plucks a black dress off the rack. "This is totally hot."
She actually smiles as she takes it from him. "Every woman has to have a little black dress, Noah," she says.
Goddamn.
"Wear it," he commands. Her eyes go wide. "Tomorrow. To school."
"It's practically a cocktail dress!" She looks back to the strapless dress in her hands. It's tight through the body, hugs her hips and hangs to mid thigh. "I can't wear this to school."
"So wear something over it," he says, shrugging his shoulder. "Something like..." He pulls a short white little short sleeved sweater (she later calls it a bolero, whatever the fuck that is) and hands it to her. "This."
"Noah, I..."
"C'mon, Rach," he says, grinning as he steps towards her. He runs the back of his index finger from her elbow to her shoulder, then back down again. "For me."
She knows he's just reminding her of his pull over her, but it sounds like a lot more than that to her. Maybe she just wants it to be more than that.
But that's just crazy thinking.
"I'm going to be ridiculed," she says, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
"You're going to be fucking stared at by every dude in school," he argues. God, he can't wait to see her in that dress.
He doesn't necessarily love the idea of everyone else ogling her, but it's a side-effect he's sure he can handle. He'll just make sure he's around her lots and other dudes won't openly stare. At least they'll just glance.
Fuck it. They'll probably openly stare. He probably won't be able to blame then. But he'll probably stick around her most of the day anyway.
You know, because he'll have things for her to do.
She hangs both items on the back of her closet door, then walks over to her wall of shoes and bites her lip as she tries to pick something. She settles on a little red pair of strappy sandal things with a short heel. He approves, though he's sure she doesn't care. Then her dad is calling up the stairs telling them dinner is ready, and Puck winks at her before gesturing for her to leave the room.
And yeah, he's not doing it to be polite. He's doing it so he can watch her ass in that little skirt. God, she felt good pressed against him. He's fucking horny as hell and spending all his time with a girl who's not gonna give it up.
...
He leaves after (delicious) dinner. Sort of. She tells him he'll have to copy all the answers she provided in his own printing, and he figures her bedroom is as good a place as any for that shit. She actually looks surprised when he calls her on a couple of the wrong answers, asks her if she's trying to fail him or something, but he's totally joking, and he actually does the work so the answers are correct. He's not an idiot, he just hates school.
"Thanks, doll," he says, shooting her a wink when she walks him to the front door. He's already thanked her fathers. He isn't a complete heathen. (She's very aware that this is the first time he's thanked her for anything she's done for him.) "Seeya tomorrow. Can't wait."
She rolls her eyes and closes the door on his face.
As soon as he gets home, after he's shrugged off his shirt and changed into a pair of sweats, he texts her.
Don't forget your Wednesday panties. ;)
He's watching a rerun of Family guy when she texts back, and he nearly chokes on his fucking drink.
I won't elaborate, but surely panty lines would take away from the appeal of the dress, don't you think?
Instant boner. Is she...? Does she mean...?
No panties at all, then? Pls.
He holds his phone in his hand as he waits for a response.
Goodnight, Noah.
Well, fuck.
This? Rachel always getting the last word?
He kinda likes it.