Dominated Hand [7/?]
Title: Dominated Hand
Chapter: 7/?
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: 4,760
Disclaimer: Don't own.
So, after Rachel leaves his house, Puck lays in bed and thinks about her.
This is nothing new. He's gotten used to it.
The new part? It's not even a bunch of sexual thoughts that have him hard and groaning her name.
She just fell asleep on his shoulder like...like a fucking girlfriend or something. And he didn't even push her away or wake her up or tell her to get the fuck off. (He really does like to cuddle, okay?)
And shit, the idea of her actually being his girlfriend really, really isn't the worst thing ever. At all. She'd be an awesome one. He knows this week doesn't really count for anything, because he's like, forcing her to do stuff instead of her wanting to. But he's pretty sure that if they were actually together, she'd do awesome stuff for him. Just like, girlfriendy stuff.
And sex. She'd probably do that, too. (Not that it's the only reason she'd want to date her or whatever.)
The closest thing he's ever had to a girlfriend was Santana, really. And she was shit awful. Fucking terrible. Selfish and bitchy and she didn't do shit all for him. And she wanted him to do everything for her, which he said no to (obvs), and that just pissed her off and made her withhold the one thing he actually found her useful for. So yeah, that was pretty fucking brutal.
And then there was Quinn, but they were more like friends who held hands than anything else. They didn't even kiss or whatever. She certainly didn't take care of his manly needs, and she got all pissed and preachy when he asked.
Mercedes? Well, he didn't even make out with her. That was for appearances only, that whole thing.
But when he dated Rachel? Shit. They kissed like crazy and talked (her) and tried to get under the clothes (him) and she was totally sweet and stuff. She cleaned him off when he got slushied, and cared about what he thought and felt. It was like she actually liked him.
It wasn't so bad, really.
He thinks it'd be even better this time around. (And only partly because she's not a blushing virgin anymore.)
Anyway. He's got an idea.
Not to get Rachel. He can work that out when he's not trying so hard to take advantage of the fact that she's his slave.
He texts Matt, Mike and Finn, then he figures he can text Artie and shit, even Kurt, too.
Boy's night.
And how does Rachel factor into this?
Oh, he's got it all figured out.
...
Rachel wakes up in the middle of the night from a dream about Noah.
It's not the first time.
This time, for the first time, she's awake long after. She refuses to do what he's so inappropriately suggested she do. (She's given in to that before.)
Anyway, it wasn't that kind of dream.
In this dream, they were just sleeping. Sleeping. Together on her bed. She was in a satin nightgown and he was wearing just his boxers, and she was laying in his arms with her head on his chest. Her leg was over his and they were in the middle of the bed. It wasn't even like it was her in the dream. She wasn't feeling it. It was like she was watching the dream from above or something. Very strange.
It takes her ages to fall asleep, because she can't stop thinking about how badly she wants that, him, in that real, big way.
It's scary how much things have changed in less than a week.
...
Puck's pretty surprised when he walks into school on Friday and sees Rachel and Santana talking. Again.
Shit. He's trying to decide if them being friends is good or bad for him. He honestly doesn't know.
"Get the fuck outta here, Lopez," he says, smacking Santana's ass as he approaches. Rachel looks appalled. Santana just narrows her eyes (he can tell when she means it and when she doesn't; she's totally faking), then snaps her wrist towards his crotch in a way that makes him turn his torso so she doesn't actually hit him. "Bitch."
"Dick."
"You know you want it," he says.
"Been there, done that. Got the clean bill of health from the clinic," she says, turning back to Rachel. "See you in history."
Rachel's still too stunned to talk. Puck just laughs. He kind of digs that he and Santana bust each others' balls like this. They're friends or whatever. They work better this way than they have any other way.
"Brought you something," he tells Rachel. He sees the little smile on her lips. He pulls his bright red football jersey from his backpack and hands it to her. She looks at it like it's some weird, foreign object.
"What is this?" she asks. She likes it, this red fabric, the number 20 on the back and arms.
"Your uniform," he tells her. Now she's even more confused. She gets this little dimple right between her eyebrows when she's confused. Fucking adorable. "My house. 6:00. Don't be late."
"Noah."
"Later, doll," he says quietly, running his hand over her elbow before he walks away.
Shit. That totally felt like another boyfriend/girlfriend moment.
He didn't hate that one either.
He needs to make her his. Needs to.
...
He's halfway to the parking lot to fuck around with Mike and Matt when he hears little footsteps coming up behind him, then a girly voice saying his name.
But he's not lucky enough for it to be Rachel.
"Puck!"
He turns around. "'Sup, Kurt?" Puck asks.
"So, I received your text. I must say..."
Puck rolls his eyes. He honestly doesn't know how Kurt and Rachel aren't friends. They're practically the same person. "You coming tonight or what?"
"Yes. Do I need to bring anything? Face masks? Magazines?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake. We're watching a game, dude."
Kurt giggles. Fucking giggles. "I know. I was joking."
"Don't worry about bringing shit. I've got it covered," Puck says.
He walks away before Kurt can ask any more fucking questions.
Besides, he's got a girl who's gonna make sure the guys have everything they could possibly need.
And she's gonna look hot doing it.
He gets to his truck and sees Mike and Matt already there. Since it's just the middle of the morning, they've got coffees instead of slushies, and Mike hands him one, which he takes happily. He takes a long sip and pulls down the tailgate of his truck so he has somewhere to sit.
"So what's with the sudden guy's night? Rachel a little harder to bed than you thought?" Mike asks with a grin.
Puck rolls his eyes. "Fuck you. It's only been a few days. Mom's working. Hannah's gonna be in her room, whether she likes it or not. Indians are playing and I just happen to have someone who can make sure we're well fed."
"Dude," Matt says, shaking his head. "You're such an ass. You're really putting Rachel through all this?"
"Come on," Puck scoffs. "I'm not making her do anything crazy. Just like, chores and stuff. And taking care of me and my boys on a Friday night."
Mike starts laughing. "You realize how that sounds, right?"
"It's not like that," Puck insists. His jaw clenches at the thought of anyone else touching her.
Fuck. He's got a problem. Seriously.
"Should be fun," Matt says. "Just don't expect me to boss her around or anything. I just can't do that."
Puck looks at Matt, wondering if the dude actually has feelings for Rachel or something, if that's going to become a problem. Because honestly, Puck and Matt are close. Closer than most people probably think. Matt kind of became a surrogate (then not-so-surrogate) best friend when Finn wasn't talking to Puck. They've bonded and shit, and Puck would never steal a girl Matt was interested in.
He'd like to think Matt wouldn't steal a girl Puck was interested in, either.
And besides, Puck saw Rachel first. And he called dibs. That shit counts.
But he wants to make sure, and he kind of wants to get this off his chest, that he like, actually wants Rachel, wants her to be his girlfriend.
"So, look," Puck says. He realizes he sounds nervous. He is a little nervous. He doesn't usually (ever) talk about his feelings and shit. "I uh...I'm kind of into her."
Mike looks over. "Rachel?"
"Yeah, Rachel," Puck says, rolling his eyes. Who else have they been talking about? "She's cool, you know? She's a fucking sweetheart."
He makes a mental note to add that to the list of nicknames he uses.
"You want to be with her or whatever?" Mike asks. He doesn't make it sound like it's a terrible idea, so Puck is pretty happy about that.
"Yeah. I think so," Puck admits. "Which is really fucking weird, because she's like, Rachel and stuff. She's bossy and annoying and she talks all the fucking time."
"Don't say all this in your pitch to get her," Matt laughs. He doesn't seem pissed or anything. That's another good thing.
"I'm just saying. It shouldn't make sense, but it totally does," Puck insists. "She doesn't take my bullshit and dude, she's hilarious when she wants to be. I just like her."
"So you don't just want to fuck her and chuck her," Mike states for clarification.
Puck glares. But yeah, that was kind of his philosophy for a while. "No."
Matt shrugs, drinks the last of his coffee. "Go for it." Mike nods in agreement. "Think about it, man. A bet's a bet, but she wouldn't be putting up with all this if she didn't like hanging out with you, too. She's dealt with a ton of your shit and she doesn't seem to hate you yet."
Puck thinks about it. They're right. Rachel could say no and there'd be nothing he could do to get her to change her mind. He knows all this. She's fucking stubborn, just like him. She's got a ton of pride and fuckin'...gumption. (SAT word, and no, he's not a total slacker with that stuff; just 'cause he hates high school doesn't mean he doesn't want to make something of himself.)
Then he remembers her being asleep next to him. Running his hands over her back as she wore a bikini. Almost kissing her. The look on her face when she jokes around with him.
Now he's got some kind of fucked up confirmation from his buddies that it's not a terrible idea. All signs point to this being a real thing. He's a little fucking terrified and it hasn't even happened yet.
...
Santana laughs when Rachel asks about the jersey. She laughs so hard her cheeks turn pink.
"What?" Rachel asks in frustration, practically stomping her foot. They're in the girl's bathroom between classes, and Santana is twirling the ends of her ponytail around her finger, making sure the curls stay up to Coach Sylvester's standards.
"You really know nothing about guys, do you?" Santana asks.
"I do too!"
"Honey," Santana says patronizingly. "Pretty much the number one thing all guys have in common that girls plus sports equals hot."
"So his jersey is..."
"Is his way of dressing you up. It's practically the same as lingerie," Santana says.
Rachel blanches. She suddenly has a horrible image in her head that she needs to erase.
"You never wore his jersey, did you?" she asks quietly. They're the only two in the room, but still.
Santana laughs again. "No. Our team is fucking terrible. It's bad enough I have to cheer for them. I don't need to wear a loser's jersey." She's smiling, so Rachel is pretty sure at least half of that was a joke. "Just relax, alright? Puck hasn't put this much effort into getting a girl since he bought Quinn a four pack of wine coolers." Rachel glares in the mirror. "Okay, bad example."
"You think?" Rachel mumbles.
"Rachel, if you actually like Puck? Just...I can't believe I'm going to say this to you...but be yourself."
"Myself in his clothes, acting out some twisted fantasy he has," Rachel says.
Santana turns so they're facing one another. "Trust me," she says seriously. "Puck will make it worth your while." Rachel blushes. "Wait, you aren't...You're not a virgin, are you?"
"What? No!" Rachel says laughingly. She doesn't know why she's laughing, exactly. Sex is no laughing matter.
The warning bell rings as Santana nods. "Well, we'll talk about that later. I have to get to geo. Just relax, alright? There are worse things he can do than wear his jersey. You'll probably look hot in it anyway."
She leaves the room, and Rachel wonders if all girls' friendships consist of comments like that, or if it's just a Santana thing.
...
Puck spends the better part of his business class (which is total horseshit, but they use computers, so he generally just plays Free Cell and pretends to pay attention) working on a little something of his own. He's hovered over his notebook, his hand working to get everything just right.
He slips the piece of paper into Rachel's locker when he passes it in the hall on his way to the caf for lunch. This is going to be great.
...
Rachel and Finn are talking, walking from their shared physics class, and they stop at her locker. She's a little surprised when a piece of paper falls out onto the floor. It's folded up like the popular kids always do, into a tight little triangle with her name scrawled on the front in all caps. Finn touches her shoulder, tells her he has to go and he'll see her later. She nods distractedly as she unfolds the note and smoothes out the paper.
It's a drawing of a girl, Rachel's name on the bottom of the page, her hair long and, apparently, very curly at the bottoms (it's basically just scribbles). She's wearing a jersey with the number 20 on it, and a pair of criminally tiny shorts. They're practically underwear. There's another likeness which shows her from behind, backside barely covered and jersey tied in a knot at the small of her back. The word Uniform is printed and underlined twice, pointing to the shorts.
She could kill him. She really could.
Every time she thinks she might see something more in him than just the over-sexed teenaged boy, he does something to prove her wrong.
...
She marches into the caf and over to the table he's sitting at with Mike, Matt and Finn. Santana and Brittany are there, too, and Rachel is pissed. Visibly pissed.
Puck smirks. She got his note.
She slams the paper down on the table in front of him, and he basically loves the way her boobs press against his back as she leans down behind him.
"What is this?" she asks, jabbing sharply at the paper with her index finger.
"Pretty self-explanatory," he says as he turns his head to look at her.
She lets out a growl of frustration, grabs the back of his collar, and leans down, speaking in his ear. "You are a dirty, disgusting boy, Noah, and I cannot wait until I no longer have to deal with this absurdity."
But she's pressed against his back, and her breath is on his skin, and he's pretty sure he felt her lips on his ear once or twice in there. And she called him a dirty boy.
That was fucking hot.
"Whatever you say, babe," he says, because he doesn't really know what else to say, and his thought process at the moment is basically limited to things he wants to do with his dick.
She grabs the piece of paper, crumpling it in her fist, and turns on her heel, hair and skirt swishing around as she struts off.
He looks back his friends. Santana is just shaking her head. Brittany is oblivious. Finn is confused. Matt is laughing.
"Smooth," Mike says.
Puck shrugs his shoulders and eats a fry. He doesn't need to be smooth. He thinks if he can get her all pissy like that, then seduce her, the tension will make for a mind blowing orgasm, and he is all over that shit.
(But fuck. Is she really pissed?)
...
She ignores him him for the rest of the day. Seriously. When he passes her in the hall and he tries to even make eye contact, she looks the other way, grabs Quinn's arm and starts talking about fucking whatever. Puck just rolls his eyes. When Santana laughs at him and tells him he's an idiot, he flips her off and tells her to mind her fucking business.
Apparently (or so she tells him) now that she and Rachel are friends, it is her business. Well, fuck. That complicates things, even if he thinks it's bullshit. Mostly because it means that Santana is constantly going to be all up in his business, and frankly, he'd just gotten rid of her.
Whatever. If she's going to be a fucking pain in his ass, he's at least going to try to get her to be useful.
"Yo!" he calls after her. She's on her way to the library because she has study hall this period. He has...something. Whatever.
"Can I help you? Or do you have an art class to get to?" Santana asks. He rolls his eyes. Fucking women. They always talk about everything.
"Yeah, whatever. Is she seriously that pissed?" He's got his hands tucked into his pockets and his head kind of down. He's sure he looks like some kind of nervous douchebag trying to get back on his girl's good side. But fuck, he kind of is.
"Yeah, she is," Santana says, as if it should be that obvious. "Look, you idiot, Rachel isn't like...she's not like me. She's more innocent and a little clueless, but in like, an adorable way."
"Are you into her?" he asks. He's only partly joking. He's got enough competition as it is.
She rolls her eyes. "No. But, you know...she's cool or whatever."
"So you don't want to bang her." (What? He's just being thorough!)
"Well," she says with a sly little smile. "I didn't say that."
He gapes at her.
Too. Many. Visuals.
"Fuck off, perv," she mutters, punching his chest. He realizes she was probably joking. "Just apologize, you moron."
"Right," he says. She sighs and turns to keep walking. "Wait! How do I do that!"
She starts laughing again, stares at him as she pushes the door open. "Usually the words 'I'm sorry' are involved."
Fuck.
He sucks at this.
...
He decides he'll get her a present. Well, them. He gets them a present.
After school (since she's still not fucking talking to him) he goes to the mall - alone - and goes into a totally girly store. Seriously, it's fucking bullshit. There are dresses, and sparkly shirts, and he's pretty sure the two chicks in the corner are talking about the fucking Jonas Brothers. But he needs to get something, and it has to be here, you know, so it'll fit her. (And yeah, he tried a less fucking terribly lame store first, but they didn't have what he needs in a small enough size.)
So fuck. He spends his hard earned money on something for her and doesn't even feel like a pussy when he walks out of the store carrying a goddamn purple bag.
He's going to get Rachel to stop being pissed. He is. Whatever it takes.
(He'll just hand her his balls in the process, because apparently that's where he's headed anyway.)
...
Santana offers to come to Rachel's after school to 'help' her or something, but Rachel knows she can get dressed on her own, especially when the outfit is, apparently, predetermined.
The thing is, as angry as she is, there's also this annoying, irresponsible part of her that just wants to please him.
And yes, she means that in a multitude of ways, including the way he probably wants most.
She doesn't know why. He has yet to do anything at all that would let her know he's worth it. (That's not exactly the truth, but it's not necessarily a lie either). He's never given her any reason to believe he wants to do anything for her other than just have some kind of physical relationship. She's not crazy enough to engage in that without some kind of commitment.
But then, she thinks, maybe she is. It's Noah. Puck. He's built for encounters like that. As long as they practice safe sex, why couldn't she just let herself have an evening with him like that? She can't even deny anymore that it's what she wants. She doesn't need him to be her boyfriend, she could, in theory, just use him to scratch an itch.
She pulls on a pair of dark denim shorts with a white tank top, then pulls his jersey over her head. She actually smiles. It looks good on her, she thinks. She ties it in a knot at the back, not because his stupid drawing dictated it, but because the jersey hangs down past her shorts and she can't very well have people thinking that's all she's wearing. Her hair covers up the number at her back, and she gathers that's not necessarily the idea behind her wearing this particular piece of clothing, so she parts it and makes two long French braids so they hang over her shoulders. She touches up her mascara, swipes on some lip gloss, then pulls on a lightweight sweater so her dads won't ask questions. The shorts, they won't care about. The jersey, they'll certainly find suspect.
She doesn't know what's going to happen tonight. She heard Kurt saying something about going to Noah's house, but that doesn't seem quite right to her.
And she can't deny that she quite likes the idea of she and Noah in an empty house, him enjoying the outfit she's wearing and...
Well, she'll just have to wait and see.
When she pulls up to the house, she's not surprised to see that the only vehicle in the driveway is his. She parks next to it and hops out of her car, walks to the door and knocks.
His heart doesn't race, okay? His body is just gearing up to seeing her in that outfit.
He pulls the door open, and lord help him, he can't help but see her legs before seeing the rest of her. Legs, shorts, jersey. In that order.
"Pigtails?" he asks, eyebrow raised. She walks into the house, but he doesn't move. He takes one of the braids in his hand and runs his thumb over it slowly. "Sexy." And then her hand is on his stomach and she's smiling, and apparently she's not pissed anymore. "You look awesome," he says, his hand finding the smooth skin at the small of her back.
"Thanks," she says far too casually. She pushes into the house and he somehow remembers to close the door, even though his eyes are glued to her ass in those little shorts.
As much as she hated that note, she still followed its instructions.
Tonight might be difficult.
"So why am I here, exactly?" she asks. "And where is your sister?"
"She's upstairs watching movies," he explains. "She's fine." Rachel smiles and kicks off her flip flops. "And you're here because the guys are coming over and I need someone to, you know, cook and get us drinks and shit."
She rolls her eyes, but she's still grinning as she shakes her head. "You're a walking cliché, you know that?"
"Is that a bad thing?" he asks.
She seems to think about it for a moment. "Depends on what the cliché is, I suppose," she says.
God. Why does that sound so hot?
And he can't help himself. He's looking at her stomach, and she's so fucking amazing, standing there in his living room.
"You look so fucking hot. Seriously."
She actually laughs a little. "I wondered what this whole thing was about, but I assume it's some kind of sports gathering between you guys, right?" she asks.
"Yeah," he says. He spots the purple bag by the door and he's a little surprised she hasn't said anything yet. He walks over and picks it up. "I got you something."
She thinks she might be blushing or something stupid like that. "Really?" He shrugs his shoulder and hands her the bag, and she's just looking at him until he gestures for her to open it. She pulls out a pair of tall white socks with two thick red stripes around the top. "Tube socks?"
"Yup."
"You got me tube socks," she states doubtfully. He nods and she finds herself smiling. "I suppose you want me to wear these now."
"Damn right. Though it's kind of a shame to cover up those legs of yours, sweetheart," he says, looking down again. He thinks she's trying to torture him when she flexes her calf muscle, turns, and walks into the kitchen. "What are you doing?"
She hops up onto the counter, grabs a pair of scissors from the drawer, snips the little plastic tags off the socks, and pulls them on.
And yeah, he watches that all with a certain amount of appreciation. Especially when she crosses her legs one over the other and leans forward a little bit.
"So, where do you want me to start?" she asks.
There's a sly grin on his lips that makes her stomach flutter and her heart race, and little does she know that they're both wishing it was just going to be the two of them alone tonight.
Chapter: 7/?
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: 4,760
Disclaimer: Don't own.
So, after Rachel leaves his house, Puck lays in bed and thinks about her.
This is nothing new. He's gotten used to it.
The new part? It's not even a bunch of sexual thoughts that have him hard and groaning her name.
She just fell asleep on his shoulder like...like a fucking girlfriend or something. And he didn't even push her away or wake her up or tell her to get the fuck off. (He really does like to cuddle, okay?)
And shit, the idea of her actually being his girlfriend really, really isn't the worst thing ever. At all. She'd be an awesome one. He knows this week doesn't really count for anything, because he's like, forcing her to do stuff instead of her wanting to. But he's pretty sure that if they were actually together, she'd do awesome stuff for him. Just like, girlfriendy stuff.
And sex. She'd probably do that, too. (Not that it's the only reason she'd want to date her or whatever.)
The closest thing he's ever had to a girlfriend was Santana, really. And she was shit awful. Fucking terrible. Selfish and bitchy and she didn't do shit all for him. And she wanted him to do everything for her, which he said no to (obvs), and that just pissed her off and made her withhold the one thing he actually found her useful for. So yeah, that was pretty fucking brutal.
And then there was Quinn, but they were more like friends who held hands than anything else. They didn't even kiss or whatever. She certainly didn't take care of his manly needs, and she got all pissed and preachy when he asked.
Mercedes? Well, he didn't even make out with her. That was for appearances only, that whole thing.
But when he dated Rachel? Shit. They kissed like crazy and talked (her) and tried to get under the clothes (him) and she was totally sweet and stuff. She cleaned him off when he got slushied, and cared about what he thought and felt. It was like she actually liked him.
It wasn't so bad, really.
He thinks it'd be even better this time around. (And only partly because she's not a blushing virgin anymore.)
Anyway. He's got an idea.
Not to get Rachel. He can work that out when he's not trying so hard to take advantage of the fact that she's his slave.
He texts Matt, Mike and Finn, then he figures he can text Artie and shit, even Kurt, too.
Boy's night.
And how does Rachel factor into this?
Oh, he's got it all figured out.
...
Rachel wakes up in the middle of the night from a dream about Noah.
It's not the first time.
This time, for the first time, she's awake long after. She refuses to do what he's so inappropriately suggested she do. (She's given in to that before.)
Anyway, it wasn't that kind of dream.
In this dream, they were just sleeping. Sleeping. Together on her bed. She was in a satin nightgown and he was wearing just his boxers, and she was laying in his arms with her head on his chest. Her leg was over his and they were in the middle of the bed. It wasn't even like it was her in the dream. She wasn't feeling it. It was like she was watching the dream from above or something. Very strange.
It takes her ages to fall asleep, because she can't stop thinking about how badly she wants that, him, in that real, big way.
It's scary how much things have changed in less than a week.
...
Puck's pretty surprised when he walks into school on Friday and sees Rachel and Santana talking. Again.
Shit. He's trying to decide if them being friends is good or bad for him. He honestly doesn't know.
"Get the fuck outta here, Lopez," he says, smacking Santana's ass as he approaches. Rachel looks appalled. Santana just narrows her eyes (he can tell when she means it and when she doesn't; she's totally faking), then snaps her wrist towards his crotch in a way that makes him turn his torso so she doesn't actually hit him. "Bitch."
"Dick."
"You know you want it," he says.
"Been there, done that. Got the clean bill of health from the clinic," she says, turning back to Rachel. "See you in history."
Rachel's still too stunned to talk. Puck just laughs. He kind of digs that he and Santana bust each others' balls like this. They're friends or whatever. They work better this way than they have any other way.
"Brought you something," he tells Rachel. He sees the little smile on her lips. He pulls his bright red football jersey from his backpack and hands it to her. She looks at it like it's some weird, foreign object.
"What is this?" she asks. She likes it, this red fabric, the number 20 on the back and arms.
"Your uniform," he tells her. Now she's even more confused. She gets this little dimple right between her eyebrows when she's confused. Fucking adorable. "My house. 6:00. Don't be late."
"Noah."
"Later, doll," he says quietly, running his hand over her elbow before he walks away.
Shit. That totally felt like another boyfriend/girlfriend moment.
He didn't hate that one either.
He needs to make her his. Needs to.
...
He's halfway to the parking lot to fuck around with Mike and Matt when he hears little footsteps coming up behind him, then a girly voice saying his name.
But he's not lucky enough for it to be Rachel.
"Puck!"
He turns around. "'Sup, Kurt?" Puck asks.
"So, I received your text. I must say..."
Puck rolls his eyes. He honestly doesn't know how Kurt and Rachel aren't friends. They're practically the same person. "You coming tonight or what?"
"Yes. Do I need to bring anything? Face masks? Magazines?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake. We're watching a game, dude."
Kurt giggles. Fucking giggles. "I know. I was joking."
"Don't worry about bringing shit. I've got it covered," Puck says.
He walks away before Kurt can ask any more fucking questions.
Besides, he's got a girl who's gonna make sure the guys have everything they could possibly need.
And she's gonna look hot doing it.
He gets to his truck and sees Mike and Matt already there. Since it's just the middle of the morning, they've got coffees instead of slushies, and Mike hands him one, which he takes happily. He takes a long sip and pulls down the tailgate of his truck so he has somewhere to sit.
"So what's with the sudden guy's night? Rachel a little harder to bed than you thought?" Mike asks with a grin.
Puck rolls his eyes. "Fuck you. It's only been a few days. Mom's working. Hannah's gonna be in her room, whether she likes it or not. Indians are playing and I just happen to have someone who can make sure we're well fed."
"Dude," Matt says, shaking his head. "You're such an ass. You're really putting Rachel through all this?"
"Come on," Puck scoffs. "I'm not making her do anything crazy. Just like, chores and stuff. And taking care of me and my boys on a Friday night."
Mike starts laughing. "You realize how that sounds, right?"
"It's not like that," Puck insists. His jaw clenches at the thought of anyone else touching her.
Fuck. He's got a problem. Seriously.
"Should be fun," Matt says. "Just don't expect me to boss her around or anything. I just can't do that."
Puck looks at Matt, wondering if the dude actually has feelings for Rachel or something, if that's going to become a problem. Because honestly, Puck and Matt are close. Closer than most people probably think. Matt kind of became a surrogate (then not-so-surrogate) best friend when Finn wasn't talking to Puck. They've bonded and shit, and Puck would never steal a girl Matt was interested in.
He'd like to think Matt wouldn't steal a girl Puck was interested in, either.
And besides, Puck saw Rachel first. And he called dibs. That shit counts.
But he wants to make sure, and he kind of wants to get this off his chest, that he like, actually wants Rachel, wants her to be his girlfriend.
"So, look," Puck says. He realizes he sounds nervous. He is a little nervous. He doesn't usually (ever) talk about his feelings and shit. "I uh...I'm kind of into her."
Mike looks over. "Rachel?"
"Yeah, Rachel," Puck says, rolling his eyes. Who else have they been talking about? "She's cool, you know? She's a fucking sweetheart."
He makes a mental note to add that to the list of nicknames he uses.
"You want to be with her or whatever?" Mike asks. He doesn't make it sound like it's a terrible idea, so Puck is pretty happy about that.
"Yeah. I think so," Puck admits. "Which is really fucking weird, because she's like, Rachel and stuff. She's bossy and annoying and she talks all the fucking time."
"Don't say all this in your pitch to get her," Matt laughs. He doesn't seem pissed or anything. That's another good thing.
"I'm just saying. It shouldn't make sense, but it totally does," Puck insists. "She doesn't take my bullshit and dude, she's hilarious when she wants to be. I just like her."
"So you don't just want to fuck her and chuck her," Mike states for clarification.
Puck glares. But yeah, that was kind of his philosophy for a while. "No."
Matt shrugs, drinks the last of his coffee. "Go for it." Mike nods in agreement. "Think about it, man. A bet's a bet, but she wouldn't be putting up with all this if she didn't like hanging out with you, too. She's dealt with a ton of your shit and she doesn't seem to hate you yet."
Puck thinks about it. They're right. Rachel could say no and there'd be nothing he could do to get her to change her mind. He knows all this. She's fucking stubborn, just like him. She's got a ton of pride and fuckin'...gumption. (SAT word, and no, he's not a total slacker with that stuff; just 'cause he hates high school doesn't mean he doesn't want to make something of himself.)
Then he remembers her being asleep next to him. Running his hands over her back as she wore a bikini. Almost kissing her. The look on her face when she jokes around with him.
Now he's got some kind of fucked up confirmation from his buddies that it's not a terrible idea. All signs point to this being a real thing. He's a little fucking terrified and it hasn't even happened yet.
...
Santana laughs when Rachel asks about the jersey. She laughs so hard her cheeks turn pink.
"What?" Rachel asks in frustration, practically stomping her foot. They're in the girl's bathroom between classes, and Santana is twirling the ends of her ponytail around her finger, making sure the curls stay up to Coach Sylvester's standards.
"You really know nothing about guys, do you?" Santana asks.
"I do too!"
"Honey," Santana says patronizingly. "Pretty much the number one thing all guys have in common that girls plus sports equals hot."
"So his jersey is..."
"Is his way of dressing you up. It's practically the same as lingerie," Santana says.
Rachel blanches. She suddenly has a horrible image in her head that she needs to erase.
"You never wore his jersey, did you?" she asks quietly. They're the only two in the room, but still.
Santana laughs again. "No. Our team is fucking terrible. It's bad enough I have to cheer for them. I don't need to wear a loser's jersey." She's smiling, so Rachel is pretty sure at least half of that was a joke. "Just relax, alright? Puck hasn't put this much effort into getting a girl since he bought Quinn a four pack of wine coolers." Rachel glares in the mirror. "Okay, bad example."
"You think?" Rachel mumbles.
"Rachel, if you actually like Puck? Just...I can't believe I'm going to say this to you...but be yourself."
"Myself in his clothes, acting out some twisted fantasy he has," Rachel says.
Santana turns so they're facing one another. "Trust me," she says seriously. "Puck will make it worth your while." Rachel blushes. "Wait, you aren't...You're not a virgin, are you?"
"What? No!" Rachel says laughingly. She doesn't know why she's laughing, exactly. Sex is no laughing matter.
The warning bell rings as Santana nods. "Well, we'll talk about that later. I have to get to geo. Just relax, alright? There are worse things he can do than wear his jersey. You'll probably look hot in it anyway."
She leaves the room, and Rachel wonders if all girls' friendships consist of comments like that, or if it's just a Santana thing.
...
Puck spends the better part of his business class (which is total horseshit, but they use computers, so he generally just plays Free Cell and pretends to pay attention) working on a little something of his own. He's hovered over his notebook, his hand working to get everything just right.
He slips the piece of paper into Rachel's locker when he passes it in the hall on his way to the caf for lunch. This is going to be great.
...
Rachel and Finn are talking, walking from their shared physics class, and they stop at her locker. She's a little surprised when a piece of paper falls out onto the floor. It's folded up like the popular kids always do, into a tight little triangle with her name scrawled on the front in all caps. Finn touches her shoulder, tells her he has to go and he'll see her later. She nods distractedly as she unfolds the note and smoothes out the paper.
It's a drawing of a girl, Rachel's name on the bottom of the page, her hair long and, apparently, very curly at the bottoms (it's basically just scribbles). She's wearing a jersey with the number 20 on it, and a pair of criminally tiny shorts. They're practically underwear. There's another likeness which shows her from behind, backside barely covered and jersey tied in a knot at the small of her back. The word Uniform is printed and underlined twice, pointing to the shorts.
She could kill him. She really could.
Every time she thinks she might see something more in him than just the over-sexed teenaged boy, he does something to prove her wrong.
...
She marches into the caf and over to the table he's sitting at with Mike, Matt and Finn. Santana and Brittany are there, too, and Rachel is pissed. Visibly pissed.
Puck smirks. She got his note.
She slams the paper down on the table in front of him, and he basically loves the way her boobs press against his back as she leans down behind him.
"What is this?" she asks, jabbing sharply at the paper with her index finger.
"Pretty self-explanatory," he says as he turns his head to look at her.
She lets out a growl of frustration, grabs the back of his collar, and leans down, speaking in his ear. "You are a dirty, disgusting boy, Noah, and I cannot wait until I no longer have to deal with this absurdity."
But she's pressed against his back, and her breath is on his skin, and he's pretty sure he felt her lips on his ear once or twice in there. And she called him a dirty boy.
That was fucking hot.
"Whatever you say, babe," he says, because he doesn't really know what else to say, and his thought process at the moment is basically limited to things he wants to do with his dick.
She grabs the piece of paper, crumpling it in her fist, and turns on her heel, hair and skirt swishing around as she struts off.
He looks back his friends. Santana is just shaking her head. Brittany is oblivious. Finn is confused. Matt is laughing.
"Smooth," Mike says.
Puck shrugs his shoulders and eats a fry. He doesn't need to be smooth. He thinks if he can get her all pissy like that, then seduce her, the tension will make for a mind blowing orgasm, and he is all over that shit.
(But fuck. Is she really pissed?)
...
She ignores him him for the rest of the day. Seriously. When he passes her in the hall and he tries to even make eye contact, she looks the other way, grabs Quinn's arm and starts talking about fucking whatever. Puck just rolls his eyes. When Santana laughs at him and tells him he's an idiot, he flips her off and tells her to mind her fucking business.
Apparently (or so she tells him) now that she and Rachel are friends, it is her business. Well, fuck. That complicates things, even if he thinks it's bullshit. Mostly because it means that Santana is constantly going to be all up in his business, and frankly, he'd just gotten rid of her.
Whatever. If she's going to be a fucking pain in his ass, he's at least going to try to get her to be useful.
"Yo!" he calls after her. She's on her way to the library because she has study hall this period. He has...something. Whatever.
"Can I help you? Or do you have an art class to get to?" Santana asks. He rolls his eyes. Fucking women. They always talk about everything.
"Yeah, whatever. Is she seriously that pissed?" He's got his hands tucked into his pockets and his head kind of down. He's sure he looks like some kind of nervous douchebag trying to get back on his girl's good side. But fuck, he kind of is.
"Yeah, she is," Santana says, as if it should be that obvious. "Look, you idiot, Rachel isn't like...she's not like me. She's more innocent and a little clueless, but in like, an adorable way."
"Are you into her?" he asks. He's only partly joking. He's got enough competition as it is.
She rolls her eyes. "No. But, you know...she's cool or whatever."
"So you don't want to bang her." (What? He's just being thorough!)
"Well," she says with a sly little smile. "I didn't say that."
He gapes at her.
Too. Many. Visuals.
"Fuck off, perv," she mutters, punching his chest. He realizes she was probably joking. "Just apologize, you moron."
"Right," he says. She sighs and turns to keep walking. "Wait! How do I do that!"
She starts laughing again, stares at him as she pushes the door open. "Usually the words 'I'm sorry' are involved."
Fuck.
He sucks at this.
...
He decides he'll get her a present. Well, them. He gets them a present.
After school (since she's still not fucking talking to him) he goes to the mall - alone - and goes into a totally girly store. Seriously, it's fucking bullshit. There are dresses, and sparkly shirts, and he's pretty sure the two chicks in the corner are talking about the fucking Jonas Brothers. But he needs to get something, and it has to be here, you know, so it'll fit her. (And yeah, he tried a less fucking terribly lame store first, but they didn't have what he needs in a small enough size.)
So fuck. He spends his hard earned money on something for her and doesn't even feel like a pussy when he walks out of the store carrying a goddamn purple bag.
He's going to get Rachel to stop being pissed. He is. Whatever it takes.
(He'll just hand her his balls in the process, because apparently that's where he's headed anyway.)
...
Santana offers to come to Rachel's after school to 'help' her or something, but Rachel knows she can get dressed on her own, especially when the outfit is, apparently, predetermined.
The thing is, as angry as she is, there's also this annoying, irresponsible part of her that just wants to please him.
And yes, she means that in a multitude of ways, including the way he probably wants most.
She doesn't know why. He has yet to do anything at all that would let her know he's worth it. (That's not exactly the truth, but it's not necessarily a lie either). He's never given her any reason to believe he wants to do anything for her other than just have some kind of physical relationship. She's not crazy enough to engage in that without some kind of commitment.
But then, she thinks, maybe she is. It's Noah. Puck. He's built for encounters like that. As long as they practice safe sex, why couldn't she just let herself have an evening with him like that? She can't even deny anymore that it's what she wants. She doesn't need him to be her boyfriend, she could, in theory, just use him to scratch an itch.
She pulls on a pair of dark denim shorts with a white tank top, then pulls his jersey over her head. She actually smiles. It looks good on her, she thinks. She ties it in a knot at the back, not because his stupid drawing dictated it, but because the jersey hangs down past her shorts and she can't very well have people thinking that's all she's wearing. Her hair covers up the number at her back, and she gathers that's not necessarily the idea behind her wearing this particular piece of clothing, so she parts it and makes two long French braids so they hang over her shoulders. She touches up her mascara, swipes on some lip gloss, then pulls on a lightweight sweater so her dads won't ask questions. The shorts, they won't care about. The jersey, they'll certainly find suspect.
She doesn't know what's going to happen tonight. She heard Kurt saying something about going to Noah's house, but that doesn't seem quite right to her.
And she can't deny that she quite likes the idea of she and Noah in an empty house, him enjoying the outfit she's wearing and...
Well, she'll just have to wait and see.
When she pulls up to the house, she's not surprised to see that the only vehicle in the driveway is his. She parks next to it and hops out of her car, walks to the door and knocks.
His heart doesn't race, okay? His body is just gearing up to seeing her in that outfit.
He pulls the door open, and lord help him, he can't help but see her legs before seeing the rest of her. Legs, shorts, jersey. In that order.
"Pigtails?" he asks, eyebrow raised. She walks into the house, but he doesn't move. He takes one of the braids in his hand and runs his thumb over it slowly. "Sexy." And then her hand is on his stomach and she's smiling, and apparently she's not pissed anymore. "You look awesome," he says, his hand finding the smooth skin at the small of her back.
"Thanks," she says far too casually. She pushes into the house and he somehow remembers to close the door, even though his eyes are glued to her ass in those little shorts.
As much as she hated that note, she still followed its instructions.
Tonight might be difficult.
"So why am I here, exactly?" she asks. "And where is your sister?"
"She's upstairs watching movies," he explains. "She's fine." Rachel smiles and kicks off her flip flops. "And you're here because the guys are coming over and I need someone to, you know, cook and get us drinks and shit."
She rolls her eyes, but she's still grinning as she shakes her head. "You're a walking cliché, you know that?"
"Is that a bad thing?" he asks.
She seems to think about it for a moment. "Depends on what the cliché is, I suppose," she says.
God. Why does that sound so hot?
And he can't help himself. He's looking at her stomach, and she's so fucking amazing, standing there in his living room.
"You look so fucking hot. Seriously."
She actually laughs a little. "I wondered what this whole thing was about, but I assume it's some kind of sports gathering between you guys, right?" she asks.
"Yeah," he says. He spots the purple bag by the door and he's a little surprised she hasn't said anything yet. He walks over and picks it up. "I got you something."
She thinks she might be blushing or something stupid like that. "Really?" He shrugs his shoulder and hands her the bag, and she's just looking at him until he gestures for her to open it. She pulls out a pair of tall white socks with two thick red stripes around the top. "Tube socks?"
"Yup."
"You got me tube socks," she states doubtfully. He nods and she finds herself smiling. "I suppose you want me to wear these now."
"Damn right. Though it's kind of a shame to cover up those legs of yours, sweetheart," he says, looking down again. He thinks she's trying to torture him when she flexes her calf muscle, turns, and walks into the kitchen. "What are you doing?"
She hops up onto the counter, grabs a pair of scissors from the drawer, snips the little plastic tags off the socks, and pulls them on.
And yeah, he watches that all with a certain amount of appreciation. Especially when she crosses her legs one over the other and leans forward a little bit.
"So, where do you want me to start?" she asks.
There's a sly grin on his lips that makes her stomach flutter and her heart race, and little does she know that they're both wishing it was just going to be the two of them alone tonight.