HSN Exchange Fic: The Path to Receiving the Love you Deserve..., for totally_loca
Title: The Path to Receiving the Love you Deserve in Three Simple Steps.
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Rachel/Puck
Warnings: N/A
Word count:5031
Disclaimer:This Glee fanfiction is based upon the television show of the same name. All characters and situations other than my own are sole property of Ryan Murphy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.
Summary: In Rachel's mind, finding love comes down to three simple steps, the method as irrefutable and as undeniable as Pythagoras' theorem.
A/N:I just want to say a huge thank you to my beta andbless_mybaby . Seriously, the best beta ever:)
Rachel Berry wants Noah Puckerman with a desperation that would be wholly embarrassing if it wasn't for the fact that nobody in the world other than Ms. Armstrong, her therapist and the writer of the Dear Abby column in the McKinley High newspaper knew. (She'd cleverly used the pseudo name Fantine to cover her tracks.)
During Glee club she sneaks glimpses of Puck when she knows he isn't looking, her eyes greedily tracing the outline of his well-defined chest through his sweaty football jersey. Rachel daydreams about him constantly, thoughts of Puck and the sweet memories of the brief romance they had shared sneaking into her every thought and action. She keeps a photograph of him performing in Sectionals under her pillow and has even experimented with Photoshop; the result being that she now has a vague idea of what the Berry-Puckerman children will look like ten years from now, when Rachel has graduated summa cum laude from Juilliard and has performed her first stint as Elphaba on Broadway.
That's how certain Rachel Berry is of their future. Puck just doesn't know it yet.
Since Rachel Berry was almost-five-years-old and scrawling the names of her fellow kindergarten students that would have the undeniable privilege of attending her princess themed birthday party, she had adopted the kind of organizational prowess that Blair Waldorf herself would be proud of. Nothing was left to chance. Her perfect size-six body isn't a product of haphazard chance or borne out of good genes as the Elle Macphersons and Heidi Klums of the world claim. It is rather the result of a hefty timetable of dance classes (color-coded, of course and taped to her bedroom door) compounded with hours spent on the elliptical trainer, that blitz away every imagined ounce of fat.
People speak of love at first sight, making declarations of Romeo and Juliet proportions about their beloved. Every movie she has ever seen and every book she has ever read depict finding love as being as precious and as rare as the Hope diamond. Rachel, however is far too practical for all that. Rachel Berry wants Puck and she will get him. It's as simple as that. In Rachel's mind, finding love comes down to three simple steps, the method as irrefutable and as undeniable as Pythagoras' theorem.
The Path to Receiving the Love you Deserve in Three Simple Steps.
Rachel had discovered the article years before in a Cosmo magazine left stupidly unattended by a wayward babysitter, who was at the time making out with her spotty-faced boyfriend on the sofa downstairs. Her eyes wide as saucers, Rachel had flicked through the pages of the magazine under the sanctuary of her Barbie comforter, her mind eagerly consuming an article on the perils of early stardom. Her expression twisted a little in confusion when the magazine delved into the delights of the female orgasm but not one to be deterred, Rachel persevered, turning swiftly onto the next page. Then her heart had almost stopped, seeing the article about how to snag the perfect guy. It had been exactly what she'd been looking for.
Starring as Nala in the McKinley elementary school production of The Lion King, Rachel had desperately wanted to attract the attentions of a certain Jake Rex who was playing opposite her in the role of Simba. Rachel finally was a star and a star needed her arm candy. Everyone was doing it. Vanessa Hudgens had Zac Efron and Rachel needed Jake. Badly.
In the end, the answer hadn't been down to bludgeoning hormones or an ice-cream-sweetened kiss by the local pool. It had, in fact stemmed from the article in the magazine, which Rachel had so carefully cut out, while the babysitter had been downstairs and utterly distracted, making strange noises from the living room.
Rachel had slavishly followed the three easy steps, and, true to the word of the article, Jake Rex was being paraded on her arm within a week.
Rachel had never even considered for a single second that the plan wouldn't work with Puck. It had worked with every guy she had ever even considered dating. (Just ask Finn Hudson.)
Step 1: Make him crave you. Make him want you.
Blessed with a superior sense of dress and possessing the skin of an antique porcelain doll, making Puck crave and want Rachel Berry isn't something she is very worried about. Besides, she is the most talented member of glee club, and that has to count for something.
Not one to get complacent and take the possibility of Puck's affections for granted, however, Rachel is acutely aware of the importance of raising the game. There are a lot of pretty sophomores in McKinley High and though it's true that they aren't as mathematically advanced as Rachel (and obviously not as vocally talented), the threat of another girl winning Puck's affections isn't something she can afford to mess with.
Crossing her long, tanned legs with a dramatic sigh, Rachel carefully plucks a perfumed letter from its heavily-embossed envelope and starts to gush openly as she reads the silver printed letters.
“I can't believe that Pierre is still writing to me after all this time,” Rachel confides in Quinn dreamily as she holds the piece of paper to her chest. “I mean, I told him I had moved on and had a host of other suitors vying for my attentions, but he obviously just can't get that hot week we spent in Paris out of his mind.”
Quinn looks like she thinks Rachel is insane, but Rachel doesn't care. Puck is sitting two seats across from her, a pen dangling lazily from his fingers, and she can see him looking over. His brown eyes take in the scene with a vague semblance of interest.
“I didn't know you went to Paris,” Quinn comments curiously, reaching into her shoulder bag and placing her textbook carefully on the desk. “I thought you spent your vacation with your dads in New York. You didn't stop telling us that Andrew Lloyd Webber thought you would be a far better choice as the lead of Hair than that infuriating Diana DeGarmo."
“Well, Quinn, you know me. I'm modest to a fault.” Rachel sighs knowingly, running her fingers purposefully through her luscious brown locks. (The article had reiterated the importance of drawing attention to one's best features, and though Rachel has been blessed with enviable bone structure and especially good skin tone, her hair is definitely her crowning glory.) “I hardly thought it was fair to brag about my five-star, luxury trip of a lifetime to the City of Romance when you were stuck here in Lima, probably lucky to get a guy to take you to Breadsticks on a Saturday night.”
Quinn rolls her eyes irritably in response, but at least she lets the subject drop. For that, Rachel is relieved. Cher Horowitz might have perfected the art of sending elaborate arrangements of flowers and expensive boxes of chocolates to herself, but Rachel has far more dignity than that. Sure, she might have created a fake boyfriend that she met on a fake holiday, who apparently sends her fake love letters. But nobody knows that. (Though Quinn does look a little suspicious.)
“He calls me his love genie, you know,” she beams, openly ignoring Quinn and turning around to regale a horrified Kurt with the information. Rachel raises her voice purposefully, and is gratified when Puck steals an openly curious look in her direction. “Apparently, no woman has ever made him feel like I did, the day we I dragged him into the restroom in the Musee D'Orsay, pulled off his jeans and...”
Kurt cuts her off at that, his face aghast and his hands clamped firmly over his ears as he tries to block the offending words. “Make it stop,” he pleads, his expression one of abject horror as he turns to Quinn for support.
It works though. Now Puck is hanging onto her every word. He casts one last frankly interested look in her direction before Ms. Sylvester storms into the classroom and silences the class with one roar into her legendary bullhorn.
The next day, Rachel is sitting in class. Her brown hair hangs in a gleaming cape around her shoulders, and her skin is slathered in a sweet strawberry-scented cream.
There would be no talk of fake Pierre today or the fake sexual acts she supposedly performed on him. If her performance yesterday had gone according to plan, there would be no need for that.
Flicking through the pages of her carefully highlighted textbook, Rachel feigns surprise when Puck throws himself into the seat opposite her, his bag slung lazily at his feet.
“Why aren't you sitting with your usual crew of jock cronies?” Rachel demands primly as she crosses her long legs. Her purposely-chosen short skirt reveals acres of tempting, tanned flesh.
“I need the answers to last night's math assignment,” Puck replies blithely, his arms folded in a cocky display behind his head. His eyes stray then to her bare legs, and Rachel smiles inwardly. This was almost too easy. “Ms. Cohen is giving me hell about my grades. Says if I don't pull them up, she's going to flunk me and then I'll get kicked off the football team.”
That is a lie, Rachel knows. For one, Puck rarely makes an appearance in maths class anyway. As far as she knows, he has already flunked out several times. For another, Puck was one of the only members of the football team who could kick in a straight line, and Figgins wouldn't risk the team becoming even more of a horrendous embarrassment than it already was, by kicking him off.
“I suppose,” Rachel relents in a charitable tone, sighing dramatically as she hands over the perfectly completed assignment. (There is a note at the end of the page commending Ms. Cohen on her clear and concise delivery of the class lecture on vector fields.) “I don't normally approve of cheating, but in the interests of school spirit I will accommodate you just this once.”
“Thanks, Rachel,” Puck grins cheekily, reaching out and swiping the assignment out of her hand. “You're a star.”
Three forgotten assignments and two ridiculously short skirts later, Puck is hers. Rachel can see it, and hardly allows herself to look surprised when Puck asks her to accompany him (well he doesn't say "accompany" exactly, but she likes how it sounds) to a party at Karofsky's house.
“That would be perfectly lovely, Puck,” Rachel beams, already mentally ticking off in her head that she has Step One accomplished. “Pick me up at eight.”
Step 2 - Ration the Flesh. Tease him. Tease him. Tease him but never, ever appease him.
As a ten-year-old child, Rachel hadn't entirely understood this second step. She had equated flesh with meat, and since Jake was a vegetarian, it had appeared to be entirely redundant.
As a sixteen-year-old young woman, however, Rachel would like to believe that she is a lot more worldly than she was in the days when seeing Jasmine and Aladdin kiss on screen was enough to send her blushing and cringing beneath the first cushion she could lay her hands on.
At ten minutes to eight on the night of the Karofsky party, Rachel's normally spotlessly clean bedroom is a disaster zone. The entire contents of her wardrobe are dumped out on the bed and trailing a colorful mess onto the floor.
Staring into the mirror, Rachel holds the skimpy, pale blue dress self-consciously to her slim figure. The color compliments her brown eyes, and the draping front of the dress certainly fits the criteria of Step Number Two. Her hair is freshly washed and arranged in a loose bun, and she has dabbed a hint of what she knew is Puck's favorite perfume on her wrists.
Rachel is about to dust a little more blusher onto her cheeks, when she hears Puck's pick up truck screech to a noisy halt on the pebble dashed driveway outside. It's a lucky thing her dads aren't home, as Rachel knows that if they even caught sight of Puck's obnoxious mohawk (without mentioning his atrocious manners), there would be no party and she would be locked into her bedroom for the entire weekend. There is no brightly wrapped bunch of flowers offered to her or no nervous kiss on the cheek when Rachel finally emerges from the house, twenty minutes later. (Every woman knows the importance of keeping a man waiting on the first date.) Instead Puck honks the horn irritably, throwing the car door open and muttering something about women and timekeeping.
“You said 'pick me up at eight' and I've been sitting out here for the last twenty minutes,” Puck grumbles, his face flushed as he pulls the car erratically out onto the road.
“I know,” Rachel beams brightly, tossing her long locks dramatically over her shoulder. “But it was so worth it, wasn't it? I took my inspiration for my look tonight from Gossip Girl. This dress is almost identical to the one Blair wore when she went on her first date with Chuck, the resident bad-boy of the show. I thought it was very befitting of the occasion. Don't you?”
Puck's expression is blank, as though he's just blocked out the previous twenty seconds of his life. “What?” he demands in utter confusion, the relief on his face obvious as they pull up outside Karofsky's house.
“Never mind,” Rachel sighs, not expecting Puck to be able to keep up with her extensive bank of vocabulary, nor her in-depth knowledge of both Gossip Girl and Grey's Anatomy.
Music is already streaming out the house, Mrs. Karofsky's immaculately planted garden of primroses and irises long trampled by the hordes of McKinley High students who'd carelessly passed through.
“Hey Puck, what's up?” Max and Dave call out in greeting as they gesture over to where the beer is swimming in a foul-looking trashcan filled with a slush of ice and water.
Max and Dave don't actively acknowledge Rachel, but they don't slushie her either. It's a relief. (Her plan with the skimpy dress would lose all effectiveness if it was dripping with red corn syrup.)
The decrepit state of the trashcan doesn't seem to bother Puck, because he's immediately plunging his hand into the depths of the icy water. Rachel storms over, and clamps her hand authoritatively over his wrist.
“You don't want to drink that disgusting beer, now do you, Puck?” she beams, her Wonderbra-enhanced breasts spilling over the too-tight dress. “I have a far better idea of something we can do.”
Puck grunts something unhappy in response, but he drops the can of beer back all the same. He's obviously distracted by her newly plumped-up chest. “What?” he demands. “And it better not be singing some crappy gay song from glee club. I have an image to keep up here, you know. These younger guys think I'm like God or Jesus or something,”
“No, this is something much better,” Rachel promises, taking Puck's hand and leading him upstairs.
Rachel can feel the weight of Puck's gaze on her and when she looks over and catches his eye, he turns away embarrassed. “You look really hot in that dress, Rachel,” he finally admits and Rachel beams a smile at him in response. She's already making progress with him and it's only their first date.
Dave's room smells foul and revolting, and Rachel is certain she'll contract both lice and scabies if she even so much as touches the bed linen, so that room is hastily evacuated. Even a kiss on the lips would feel like a violation in Dave's little sister's pink-and-silver papered bedroom, so in the end Rachel settles on Mr. and Mrs. Karofsky's master suite. She can't help but feel a little weirded-out by the huge family portrait smiling at them from its proud position over the double bed, however.
Rachel sits down primly on the bed, and Puck practically races across the room to sit beside her. His enthusiasm is flattering (and Puck is looking incredibly hot), but Rachel reminds herself sternly that she has a plan to follow. Nothing short of a fire or Dave's parents returning can get in the way of that.
Wrapping an arm tightly around her shoulder, Puck presses his lips softly against hers. At his touch, Rachel is almost undone. She's wanted this, wanted Puck for so long, and now he is finally hers.
“You're pretty cool, Rachel, you know that?” Puck murmurs, taking her face in her hands and kissing her long and deep. “Normally it takes me about three to four dates before I get a girl upstairs. But you,” he sighs, shaking his head reverently, “are the one dragging me upstairs after only seconds of being on our first date.”
Gently disentangling herself from his arms, Rachel forces a patient smile onto her face. “I think you've misunderstood the situation, Noah. I haven't brought you up here to engage in whatever sexual relations the Cheerios are always so eager to embroil you.”
“You haven't?” Puck replies unhappily. He's already looking towards the door, probably wondering if he's not better off taking his chances with the house full of girls downstairs.
She'll have to be careful, Rachel realizes, hoisting her dress up another inch and uncrossing her legs pointedly to give Puck a teasing glance of the garters she'd purposely worn for this very event. Step Two is always risky.
“No, silly,” Rachel laughs, relieved when Puck's attention is firmly focused on the lacy garters. His eyes run up and down the length of her bare thigh. “I've brought you up here to learn more about you, Puck. I mean, you already know that I have the vocal capabilities of a thirty-year-old and that I'm an accredited choreographer, but I don't know anything about you. You have to understand that I can't get involved physically with someone who is virtually a stranger to me.”
“You know I'm on the football team,” Puck answers with a bored shrug, staring at Rachel as though she's inexplicably grown an extra head. “And that I'm pretty hot on the guitar. I mean, what else is there to know?”
“Well, to start, what has been the most emotionally fulfilling experience of your life?” Rachel cuts in immediately.
“The day I got the pick-up truck,” Puck answers back, something close to fear shining in his eyes.
It wasn't what she was looking for, but it would have to do. Puck's emotional depth might need a little work, but Rachel was always up for a challenge.
“You're a good guy, you know, Puck,” Rachel smiles and surprises him by leaning in and kissing him softly on the lips. The kiss gets more heated after that, Puck pushing her down onto the bed, his fingers entangled in her long brown hair. His tongue exploring her mouth, Puck reaches under the tight dress, and even when he cups her left breast with his hand, Rachel doesn't pull away. (Admittedly, this had been a slight violation of Step Number Two but Rachel doesn't care. It had been totally worth it, just to feel Puck's expert touch on her skin.)
Step 3 - Make him tell you he loves you and he'll be yours forever.
They have been dating for months now, Rachel finding any excuse to sneak out of dance class to watch Puck out on the hockey field during practice. It's painfully cold, the temperatures hovering way below what is comfortable to be loitering on the bleachers, but Rachel hardly feels it. The mere sight of Puck, his muscles rippling through his sweat drenched jersey, fuels enough excitement in Rachel to sustain her through any type of weather.
He winks up at her, and Rachel smiles widely in response, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest. She loves Puck. My God, she loves him! After practice, they share the hot chocolate that Rachel has so thoughtfully packed in her bag, his fingers warm over hers. (Though Puck did warn her that he would have to kill her, if that information were somehow to leak out.) He's sweet to her on dates, and though he's still Puck and she often catches him checking out other girls, Rachel's not worried.
They've kissed hundreds of times, and she's seen him naked twice. Puck's explored her semi-naked body (she still can't bring herself to remove her admittedly sexy panties) on countless occasions, and he's made her orgasm once. Rachel wants to go further. She wants to feel him inside of her, but she needs to hear him say those three important words first.
I love you.
Puck hasn't even approached making this all important step. Not that she'd expect him to. Noah Puckerman isn't the most comfortable person with his emotions, and Rachel should know. She'd forced him to watch the movie Titanic twice in a vain attempt at prompting some emotional response in him, but that had been a failed experiment. Puck hadn't cried once; not even when Jack died at the end.
Valentine's Day, however, was Wednesday. Rachel was certain that the celebration would provide a safe outlet for Puck to express the feelings that she knew he possessed. The stores in town were bursting with gaudy pink-and-red cards making sappy proclamations of love, and at this point, Rachel would even accept one of these as a demonstration of Puck's affection. (Of course, she also expects a romantic dinner for two at a restaurant other than Breadsticks and a Valentine's Day surprise, and Puck has been briefed on both of these Valentine's Day requirements by a surprisingly-helpful Finn.)
“This isn't a restaurant,” Rachel comments uncertainly as Puck slows his pick-up to a noisy halt outside the rusted gate of an old farmstead.
There hadn't been a card either. Rachel spent her entire day in school obsessively checking her locker and the mailbox when she arrived home for a sight of her precious Valentine's Day card.
“Finn didn't talk to you about Valentine's Day, did he?” Rachel sighs knowingly, trying to swallow the disappointment of her dreams of a perfect Valentine's Day being dashed.
“Rachel, we're dudes,” Puck shoots back indignantly, throwing open the door of his truck and walking over to open her door as she's carefully trained him to do. “We don't talk about stuff like that.”
Taking Rachel's hand, Puck opens the creaking gate and guides her into a dilapidated old farmhouse, the windows broken and cracked and a sheet of plywood masquerading as a door. A full moon is shining down from the inky-black sky ominously, and there's an owl hooting somewhere in the shadows.
“Where are we going?” Rachel demands worriedly, the night rapidly disintegrating from the downright disappointing to a scene from The Blair Witch Project.
“Sheesh, Rachel, relax,” Puck murmurs. The crush of his fingers is reassuring over hers. “I'm your boyfriend. I'm not going to kill you or anything. Now close your eyes.”
When Rachel opens her eyes, they are in the old farmhouse and the whole place is aglow with the light of hundreds of twinkling candles. There is a linen tablecloth spread out on the ground, laid with plates of cheese and strawberries and chocolate.
“All my favorite foods,” she recognizes, glancing at Puck in happy surprise. “You do listen to me!” She leans in and kisses Puck softly on the lips.
“Sometimes,” Puck admits proudly, and is rewarded by a long and deep kiss from Rachel, who pulls him down beside her and starts working on the buttons of his shirt. Puck has an awesome body, and if Rachel can't have a Valentine's Day card, she can at least treat herself to a well-earned visual of his tanned, lean chest.
“Someone's eager,” Puck comments playfully. In truth, he's just as impatient, his fingers pulling at the ties of Rachel's silk dress. She's not wearing a bra, her nipples erect and pointed through the thin fabric of the dress betraying that fact.
“Interesting choice of underwear,” Puck grins cheekily at her and then he's pulling them impatiently off, eager to explore what Rachel has promised to be his Valentine's Day surprise underneath.
“I like to wear holiday appropriate outfits, including underwear,” Rachel explains with an offhand shrug, not certain what Puck finds so amusing about her glittering, heart-strewn panties. “In fact, I'm a little disappointed that you haven't made more of an effort yourself. Next year, I'll have to pencil you in for some pre-Valentine's Day shopping.”
Lying down in the warmth of Puck's arms, Rachel is unashamedly naked. She smiles in sheer contentment at the feel of his fingers running lightly over her skin.
“Strawberry?” Puck asks softly, and at her nod, reaches over and pops the sweet fruit into her mouth. Touched by the tenderness of his action, Rachel pulls down her boyfriend's face to meet his. As the kiss, Puck's cock hardens in response and digs into her stomach.
“What can I say, babe?” He grins cheekily at her. “My penis thinks you're hot.”
Rachel can only laugh at that, but then she grows serious. Gazing up at Puck, her cheeks slightly redden. “You say that your penis likes me, but what about you, Puck? We've been dating for months now, and I have no idea of your feelings for me. I like you, Puck. I really, really like you, and maybe I'm jeopardizing what we have by saying that to you, but it's the truth. If you don't feel the same, well, then maybe it's better that we go our separate ways.”
“Rachel, if I didn't like you would I have gone to see Wicked? Twice?” he demands with a tender smile, reaching out and tracing a finger over her cheek. “Or would I have shaved off my mohawk?”
“You said that was to help your football helmet fit better,” Rachel retorted with quizzical eyes.
“I wanted to make a good impression the first time I met your dads, Rachel,” he informed her, with a shy shrug. “I was worried they wouldn't dig the mohawk, so I made a quick pit stop at Supercuts before I went to your house.”
“That's the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me,” Rachel gushes delightedly as she pulls Puck to her and presses her lips to his again. Who needs fancy declarations of love, when a shaved head and a thoughtful, caring boyfriend are so much better?
“I really like you, Puck and I want to do this,” Rachel tells him, imbued with a strange mixture of both nerves and excitement as Puck pushed her down onto the tablecloth and continued kissing her. The press of his erect penis against her thigh is positively scandalous, as is the expert fluttering of his fingers against the soft folds of flesh between her legs.
“That feels so good,” Rachel moans, her eyes squeezed shut in a display of ecstasy as Puck edges his fingers deep inside of her.
She is close to coming almost immediately, such is the frustrating build up of emotions and pent-up feelings that have led up to this very moment, but Rachel holds on. Instead, she reaches out to tentatively take Puck's rigid cock in her hand.
Puck groans at that, urging her on and guiding her motions so soon she's expertly stroking and massaging his erection. “Fuck, Rachel, keep going,” Puck pleads with a desperation that is unlike him and is almost undone when Rachel reaches out and delicately touches his balls. They have always fascinated her.
“You really want to do this?”
Though Puck has to ask the question, they both know that it's not a matter of if they'll have sex but rather how quickly Puck can whip the condom out of his wallet and roll it onto his cock.
Rachel answers Puck by pressing her lips softly to his and straddling her long legs over his splayed thighs, her crotch teasingly brushing against his.
In her life, Rachel has wanted to do a lot of things; to play Eponine in Les Miserables, date Chace Crawford, and own a pony, if she is to be specific, but Rachel Berry has never wanted anything like the way she wants to feel Puck inside of her now.
“Fuck me,” she whispers softly in his ear. For a minute, Puck looks shocked hearing the crude word emanating from Rachel's mouth, and gazes at his girlfriend as though he's only just begun to really know her.
He enters her then, slipping his cock slowly and cautiously inside. “You doing okay, babe?” he murmurs to Rachel softly, brushing a hand gently against her cheeks.
“Kind of,” Rachel admits in a choked voice, the crease etched into her forehead deepening as Puck thrusts for the first time inside of her.
I can stop if you want me to, babe,” Puck informs her worriedly, his performance slightly compromised by the pained look on his girlfriend's face.
“No, keep going,” Rachel urges him on, her eyes squeezed shut in both pain and ecstasy as Puck flicks his finger against the moist flesh.
Puck trails kisses down Rachel's neck before his mouth finds her breast and starts sucking her nipple eagerly. “You have such perfect tits,” he murmurs in awe, running his tongue across the surface of the taut flesh.
When Puck runs a finger down by her ass, Rachel almost screams.
Puck can't hold on much longer, and with one final, thrust, he comes hard and deep inside of her.
Afterwards, Rachel lies happy and contented in Puck's arms. Her entire being is steeped in the wonderment of what had just happened between them. Glancing up at Puck, Rachel can see that his eyes are growing heavier by the second, his dark lashes sweeping magnificently against his skin, and she almost thinks he's fallen asleep when the low murmur of his voice stirs her.
“I love you, Rachel.”
And she loves him too. Though admitting that fact would be in complete violation of the next plan Rachel has decided to follow.
The Art of Getting a Guy to Propose to you in Five Easy Steps.
-
Original prompt: Strawberries
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Rachel/Puck
Warnings: N/A
Word count:5031
Disclaimer:This Glee fanfiction is based upon the television show of the same name. All characters and situations other than my own are sole property of Ryan Murphy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.
Summary: In Rachel's mind, finding love comes down to three simple steps, the method as irrefutable and as undeniable as Pythagoras' theorem.
A/N:I just want to say a huge thank you to my beta andbless_mybaby . Seriously, the best beta ever:)
Rachel Berry wants Noah Puckerman with a desperation that would be wholly embarrassing if it wasn't for the fact that nobody in the world other than Ms. Armstrong, her therapist and the writer of the Dear Abby column in the McKinley High newspaper knew. (She'd cleverly used the pseudo name Fantine to cover her tracks.)
During Glee club she sneaks glimpses of Puck when she knows he isn't looking, her eyes greedily tracing the outline of his well-defined chest through his sweaty football jersey. Rachel daydreams about him constantly, thoughts of Puck and the sweet memories of the brief romance they had shared sneaking into her every thought and action. She keeps a photograph of him performing in Sectionals under her pillow and has even experimented with Photoshop; the result being that she now has a vague idea of what the Berry-Puckerman children will look like ten years from now, when Rachel has graduated summa cum laude from Juilliard and has performed her first stint as Elphaba on Broadway.
That's how certain Rachel Berry is of their future. Puck just doesn't know it yet.
Since Rachel Berry was almost-five-years-old and scrawling the names of her fellow kindergarten students that would have the undeniable privilege of attending her princess themed birthday party, she had adopted the kind of organizational prowess that Blair Waldorf herself would be proud of. Nothing was left to chance. Her perfect size-six body isn't a product of haphazard chance or borne out of good genes as the Elle Macphersons and Heidi Klums of the world claim. It is rather the result of a hefty timetable of dance classes (color-coded, of course and taped to her bedroom door) compounded with hours spent on the elliptical trainer, that blitz away every imagined ounce of fat.
People speak of love at first sight, making declarations of Romeo and Juliet proportions about their beloved. Every movie she has ever seen and every book she has ever read depict finding love as being as precious and as rare as the Hope diamond. Rachel, however is far too practical for all that. Rachel Berry wants Puck and she will get him. It's as simple as that. In Rachel's mind, finding love comes down to three simple steps, the method as irrefutable and as undeniable as Pythagoras' theorem.
The Path to Receiving the Love you Deserve in Three Simple Steps.
Rachel had discovered the article years before in a Cosmo magazine left stupidly unattended by a wayward babysitter, who was at the time making out with her spotty-faced boyfriend on the sofa downstairs. Her eyes wide as saucers, Rachel had flicked through the pages of the magazine under the sanctuary of her Barbie comforter, her mind eagerly consuming an article on the perils of early stardom. Her expression twisted a little in confusion when the magazine delved into the delights of the female orgasm but not one to be deterred, Rachel persevered, turning swiftly onto the next page. Then her heart had almost stopped, seeing the article about how to snag the perfect guy. It had been exactly what she'd been looking for.
Starring as Nala in the McKinley elementary school production of The Lion King, Rachel had desperately wanted to attract the attentions of a certain Jake Rex who was playing opposite her in the role of Simba. Rachel finally was a star and a star needed her arm candy. Everyone was doing it. Vanessa Hudgens had Zac Efron and Rachel needed Jake. Badly.
In the end, the answer hadn't been down to bludgeoning hormones or an ice-cream-sweetened kiss by the local pool. It had, in fact stemmed from the article in the magazine, which Rachel had so carefully cut out, while the babysitter had been downstairs and utterly distracted, making strange noises from the living room.
Rachel had slavishly followed the three easy steps, and, true to the word of the article, Jake Rex was being paraded on her arm within a week.
Rachel had never even considered for a single second that the plan wouldn't work with Puck. It had worked with every guy she had ever even considered dating. (Just ask Finn Hudson.)
Step 1: Make him crave you. Make him want you.
Blessed with a superior sense of dress and possessing the skin of an antique porcelain doll, making Puck crave and want Rachel Berry isn't something she is very worried about. Besides, she is the most talented member of glee club, and that has to count for something.
Not one to get complacent and take the possibility of Puck's affections for granted, however, Rachel is acutely aware of the importance of raising the game. There are a lot of pretty sophomores in McKinley High and though it's true that they aren't as mathematically advanced as Rachel (and obviously not as vocally talented), the threat of another girl winning Puck's affections isn't something she can afford to mess with.
Crossing her long, tanned legs with a dramatic sigh, Rachel carefully plucks a perfumed letter from its heavily-embossed envelope and starts to gush openly as she reads the silver printed letters.
“I can't believe that Pierre is still writing to me after all this time,” Rachel confides in Quinn dreamily as she holds the piece of paper to her chest. “I mean, I told him I had moved on and had a host of other suitors vying for my attentions, but he obviously just can't get that hot week we spent in Paris out of his mind.”
Quinn looks like she thinks Rachel is insane, but Rachel doesn't care. Puck is sitting two seats across from her, a pen dangling lazily from his fingers, and she can see him looking over. His brown eyes take in the scene with a vague semblance of interest.
“I didn't know you went to Paris,” Quinn comments curiously, reaching into her shoulder bag and placing her textbook carefully on the desk. “I thought you spent your vacation with your dads in New York. You didn't stop telling us that Andrew Lloyd Webber thought you would be a far better choice as the lead of Hair than that infuriating Diana DeGarmo."
“Well, Quinn, you know me. I'm modest to a fault.” Rachel sighs knowingly, running her fingers purposefully through her luscious brown locks. (The article had reiterated the importance of drawing attention to one's best features, and though Rachel has been blessed with enviable bone structure and especially good skin tone, her hair is definitely her crowning glory.) “I hardly thought it was fair to brag about my five-star, luxury trip of a lifetime to the City of Romance when you were stuck here in Lima, probably lucky to get a guy to take you to Breadsticks on a Saturday night.”
Quinn rolls her eyes irritably in response, but at least she lets the subject drop. For that, Rachel is relieved. Cher Horowitz might have perfected the art of sending elaborate arrangements of flowers and expensive boxes of chocolates to herself, but Rachel has far more dignity than that. Sure, she might have created a fake boyfriend that she met on a fake holiday, who apparently sends her fake love letters. But nobody knows that. (Though Quinn does look a little suspicious.)
“He calls me his love genie, you know,” she beams, openly ignoring Quinn and turning around to regale a horrified Kurt with the information. Rachel raises her voice purposefully, and is gratified when Puck steals an openly curious look in her direction. “Apparently, no woman has ever made him feel like I did, the day we I dragged him into the restroom in the Musee D'Orsay, pulled off his jeans and...”
Kurt cuts her off at that, his face aghast and his hands clamped firmly over his ears as he tries to block the offending words. “Make it stop,” he pleads, his expression one of abject horror as he turns to Quinn for support.
It works though. Now Puck is hanging onto her every word. He casts one last frankly interested look in her direction before Ms. Sylvester storms into the classroom and silences the class with one roar into her legendary bullhorn.
The next day, Rachel is sitting in class. Her brown hair hangs in a gleaming cape around her shoulders, and her skin is slathered in a sweet strawberry-scented cream.
There would be no talk of fake Pierre today or the fake sexual acts she supposedly performed on him. If her performance yesterday had gone according to plan, there would be no need for that.
Flicking through the pages of her carefully highlighted textbook, Rachel feigns surprise when Puck throws himself into the seat opposite her, his bag slung lazily at his feet.
“Why aren't you sitting with your usual crew of jock cronies?” Rachel demands primly as she crosses her long legs. Her purposely-chosen short skirt reveals acres of tempting, tanned flesh.
“I need the answers to last night's math assignment,” Puck replies blithely, his arms folded in a cocky display behind his head. His eyes stray then to her bare legs, and Rachel smiles inwardly. This was almost too easy. “Ms. Cohen is giving me hell about my grades. Says if I don't pull them up, she's going to flunk me and then I'll get kicked off the football team.”
That is a lie, Rachel knows. For one, Puck rarely makes an appearance in maths class anyway. As far as she knows, he has already flunked out several times. For another, Puck was one of the only members of the football team who could kick in a straight line, and Figgins wouldn't risk the team becoming even more of a horrendous embarrassment than it already was, by kicking him off.
“I suppose,” Rachel relents in a charitable tone, sighing dramatically as she hands over the perfectly completed assignment. (There is a note at the end of the page commending Ms. Cohen on her clear and concise delivery of the class lecture on vector fields.) “I don't normally approve of cheating, but in the interests of school spirit I will accommodate you just this once.”
“Thanks, Rachel,” Puck grins cheekily, reaching out and swiping the assignment out of her hand. “You're a star.”
Three forgotten assignments and two ridiculously short skirts later, Puck is hers. Rachel can see it, and hardly allows herself to look surprised when Puck asks her to accompany him (well he doesn't say "accompany" exactly, but she likes how it sounds) to a party at Karofsky's house.
“That would be perfectly lovely, Puck,” Rachel beams, already mentally ticking off in her head that she has Step One accomplished. “Pick me up at eight.”
Step 2 - Ration the Flesh. Tease him. Tease him. Tease him but never, ever appease him.
As a ten-year-old child, Rachel hadn't entirely understood this second step. She had equated flesh with meat, and since Jake was a vegetarian, it had appeared to be entirely redundant.
As a sixteen-year-old young woman, however, Rachel would like to believe that she is a lot more worldly than she was in the days when seeing Jasmine and Aladdin kiss on screen was enough to send her blushing and cringing beneath the first cushion she could lay her hands on.
At ten minutes to eight on the night of the Karofsky party, Rachel's normally spotlessly clean bedroom is a disaster zone. The entire contents of her wardrobe are dumped out on the bed and trailing a colorful mess onto the floor.
Staring into the mirror, Rachel holds the skimpy, pale blue dress self-consciously to her slim figure. The color compliments her brown eyes, and the draping front of the dress certainly fits the criteria of Step Number Two. Her hair is freshly washed and arranged in a loose bun, and she has dabbed a hint of what she knew is Puck's favorite perfume on her wrists.
Rachel is about to dust a little more blusher onto her cheeks, when she hears Puck's pick up truck screech to a noisy halt on the pebble dashed driveway outside. It's a lucky thing her dads aren't home, as Rachel knows that if they even caught sight of Puck's obnoxious mohawk (without mentioning his atrocious manners), there would be no party and she would be locked into her bedroom for the entire weekend. There is no brightly wrapped bunch of flowers offered to her or no nervous kiss on the cheek when Rachel finally emerges from the house, twenty minutes later. (Every woman knows the importance of keeping a man waiting on the first date.) Instead Puck honks the horn irritably, throwing the car door open and muttering something about women and timekeeping.
“You said 'pick me up at eight' and I've been sitting out here for the last twenty minutes,” Puck grumbles, his face flushed as he pulls the car erratically out onto the road.
“I know,” Rachel beams brightly, tossing her long locks dramatically over her shoulder. “But it was so worth it, wasn't it? I took my inspiration for my look tonight from Gossip Girl. This dress is almost identical to the one Blair wore when she went on her first date with Chuck, the resident bad-boy of the show. I thought it was very befitting of the occasion. Don't you?”
Puck's expression is blank, as though he's just blocked out the previous twenty seconds of his life. “What?” he demands in utter confusion, the relief on his face obvious as they pull up outside Karofsky's house.
“Never mind,” Rachel sighs, not expecting Puck to be able to keep up with her extensive bank of vocabulary, nor her in-depth knowledge of both Gossip Girl and Grey's Anatomy.
Music is already streaming out the house, Mrs. Karofsky's immaculately planted garden of primroses and irises long trampled by the hordes of McKinley High students who'd carelessly passed through.
“Hey Puck, what's up?” Max and Dave call out in greeting as they gesture over to where the beer is swimming in a foul-looking trashcan filled with a slush of ice and water.
Max and Dave don't actively acknowledge Rachel, but they don't slushie her either. It's a relief. (Her plan with the skimpy dress would lose all effectiveness if it was dripping with red corn syrup.)
The decrepit state of the trashcan doesn't seem to bother Puck, because he's immediately plunging his hand into the depths of the icy water. Rachel storms over, and clamps her hand authoritatively over his wrist.
“You don't want to drink that disgusting beer, now do you, Puck?” she beams, her Wonderbra-enhanced breasts spilling over the too-tight dress. “I have a far better idea of something we can do.”
Puck grunts something unhappy in response, but he drops the can of beer back all the same. He's obviously distracted by her newly plumped-up chest. “What?” he demands. “And it better not be singing some crappy gay song from glee club. I have an image to keep up here, you know. These younger guys think I'm like God or Jesus or something,”
“No, this is something much better,” Rachel promises, taking Puck's hand and leading him upstairs.
Rachel can feel the weight of Puck's gaze on her and when she looks over and catches his eye, he turns away embarrassed. “You look really hot in that dress, Rachel,” he finally admits and Rachel beams a smile at him in response. She's already making progress with him and it's only their first date.
Dave's room smells foul and revolting, and Rachel is certain she'll contract both lice and scabies if she even so much as touches the bed linen, so that room is hastily evacuated. Even a kiss on the lips would feel like a violation in Dave's little sister's pink-and-silver papered bedroom, so in the end Rachel settles on Mr. and Mrs. Karofsky's master suite. She can't help but feel a little weirded-out by the huge family portrait smiling at them from its proud position over the double bed, however.
Rachel sits down primly on the bed, and Puck practically races across the room to sit beside her. His enthusiasm is flattering (and Puck is looking incredibly hot), but Rachel reminds herself sternly that she has a plan to follow. Nothing short of a fire or Dave's parents returning can get in the way of that.
Wrapping an arm tightly around her shoulder, Puck presses his lips softly against hers. At his touch, Rachel is almost undone. She's wanted this, wanted Puck for so long, and now he is finally hers.
“You're pretty cool, Rachel, you know that?” Puck murmurs, taking her face in her hands and kissing her long and deep. “Normally it takes me about three to four dates before I get a girl upstairs. But you,” he sighs, shaking his head reverently, “are the one dragging me upstairs after only seconds of being on our first date.”
Gently disentangling herself from his arms, Rachel forces a patient smile onto her face. “I think you've misunderstood the situation, Noah. I haven't brought you up here to engage in whatever sexual relations the Cheerios are always so eager to embroil you.”
“You haven't?” Puck replies unhappily. He's already looking towards the door, probably wondering if he's not better off taking his chances with the house full of girls downstairs.
She'll have to be careful, Rachel realizes, hoisting her dress up another inch and uncrossing her legs pointedly to give Puck a teasing glance of the garters she'd purposely worn for this very event. Step Two is always risky.
“No, silly,” Rachel laughs, relieved when Puck's attention is firmly focused on the lacy garters. His eyes run up and down the length of her bare thigh. “I've brought you up here to learn more about you, Puck. I mean, you already know that I have the vocal capabilities of a thirty-year-old and that I'm an accredited choreographer, but I don't know anything about you. You have to understand that I can't get involved physically with someone who is virtually a stranger to me.”
“You know I'm on the football team,” Puck answers with a bored shrug, staring at Rachel as though she's inexplicably grown an extra head. “And that I'm pretty hot on the guitar. I mean, what else is there to know?”
“Well, to start, what has been the most emotionally fulfilling experience of your life?” Rachel cuts in immediately.
“The day I got the pick-up truck,” Puck answers back, something close to fear shining in his eyes.
It wasn't what she was looking for, but it would have to do. Puck's emotional depth might need a little work, but Rachel was always up for a challenge.
“You're a good guy, you know, Puck,” Rachel smiles and surprises him by leaning in and kissing him softly on the lips. The kiss gets more heated after that, Puck pushing her down onto the bed, his fingers entangled in her long brown hair. His tongue exploring her mouth, Puck reaches under the tight dress, and even when he cups her left breast with his hand, Rachel doesn't pull away. (Admittedly, this had been a slight violation of Step Number Two but Rachel doesn't care. It had been totally worth it, just to feel Puck's expert touch on her skin.)
Step 3 - Make him tell you he loves you and he'll be yours forever.
They have been dating for months now, Rachel finding any excuse to sneak out of dance class to watch Puck out on the hockey field during practice. It's painfully cold, the temperatures hovering way below what is comfortable to be loitering on the bleachers, but Rachel hardly feels it. The mere sight of Puck, his muscles rippling through his sweat drenched jersey, fuels enough excitement in Rachel to sustain her through any type of weather.
He winks up at her, and Rachel smiles widely in response, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest. She loves Puck. My God, she loves him! After practice, they share the hot chocolate that Rachel has so thoughtfully packed in her bag, his fingers warm over hers. (Though Puck did warn her that he would have to kill her, if that information were somehow to leak out.) He's sweet to her on dates, and though he's still Puck and she often catches him checking out other girls, Rachel's not worried.
They've kissed hundreds of times, and she's seen him naked twice. Puck's explored her semi-naked body (she still can't bring herself to remove her admittedly sexy panties) on countless occasions, and he's made her orgasm once. Rachel wants to go further. She wants to feel him inside of her, but she needs to hear him say those three important words first.
I love you.
Puck hasn't even approached making this all important step. Not that she'd expect him to. Noah Puckerman isn't the most comfortable person with his emotions, and Rachel should know. She'd forced him to watch the movie Titanic twice in a vain attempt at prompting some emotional response in him, but that had been a failed experiment. Puck hadn't cried once; not even when Jack died at the end.
Valentine's Day, however, was Wednesday. Rachel was certain that the celebration would provide a safe outlet for Puck to express the feelings that she knew he possessed. The stores in town were bursting with gaudy pink-and-red cards making sappy proclamations of love, and at this point, Rachel would even accept one of these as a demonstration of Puck's affection. (Of course, she also expects a romantic dinner for two at a restaurant other than Breadsticks and a Valentine's Day surprise, and Puck has been briefed on both of these Valentine's Day requirements by a surprisingly-helpful Finn.)
“This isn't a restaurant,” Rachel comments uncertainly as Puck slows his pick-up to a noisy halt outside the rusted gate of an old farmstead.
There hadn't been a card either. Rachel spent her entire day in school obsessively checking her locker and the mailbox when she arrived home for a sight of her precious Valentine's Day card.
“Finn didn't talk to you about Valentine's Day, did he?” Rachel sighs knowingly, trying to swallow the disappointment of her dreams of a perfect Valentine's Day being dashed.
“Rachel, we're dudes,” Puck shoots back indignantly, throwing open the door of his truck and walking over to open her door as she's carefully trained him to do. “We don't talk about stuff like that.”
Taking Rachel's hand, Puck opens the creaking gate and guides her into a dilapidated old farmhouse, the windows broken and cracked and a sheet of plywood masquerading as a door. A full moon is shining down from the inky-black sky ominously, and there's an owl hooting somewhere in the shadows.
“Where are we going?” Rachel demands worriedly, the night rapidly disintegrating from the downright disappointing to a scene from The Blair Witch Project.
“Sheesh, Rachel, relax,” Puck murmurs. The crush of his fingers is reassuring over hers. “I'm your boyfriend. I'm not going to kill you or anything. Now close your eyes.”
When Rachel opens her eyes, they are in the old farmhouse and the whole place is aglow with the light of hundreds of twinkling candles. There is a linen tablecloth spread out on the ground, laid with plates of cheese and strawberries and chocolate.
“All my favorite foods,” she recognizes, glancing at Puck in happy surprise. “You do listen to me!” She leans in and kisses Puck softly on the lips.
“Sometimes,” Puck admits proudly, and is rewarded by a long and deep kiss from Rachel, who pulls him down beside her and starts working on the buttons of his shirt. Puck has an awesome body, and if Rachel can't have a Valentine's Day card, she can at least treat herself to a well-earned visual of his tanned, lean chest.
“Someone's eager,” Puck comments playfully. In truth, he's just as impatient, his fingers pulling at the ties of Rachel's silk dress. She's not wearing a bra, her nipples erect and pointed through the thin fabric of the dress betraying that fact.
“Interesting choice of underwear,” Puck grins cheekily at her and then he's pulling them impatiently off, eager to explore what Rachel has promised to be his Valentine's Day surprise underneath.
“I like to wear holiday appropriate outfits, including underwear,” Rachel explains with an offhand shrug, not certain what Puck finds so amusing about her glittering, heart-strewn panties. “In fact, I'm a little disappointed that you haven't made more of an effort yourself. Next year, I'll have to pencil you in for some pre-Valentine's Day shopping.”
Lying down in the warmth of Puck's arms, Rachel is unashamedly naked. She smiles in sheer contentment at the feel of his fingers running lightly over her skin.
“Strawberry?” Puck asks softly, and at her nod, reaches over and pops the sweet fruit into her mouth. Touched by the tenderness of his action, Rachel pulls down her boyfriend's face to meet his. As the kiss, Puck's cock hardens in response and digs into her stomach.
“What can I say, babe?” He grins cheekily at her. “My penis thinks you're hot.”
Rachel can only laugh at that, but then she grows serious. Gazing up at Puck, her cheeks slightly redden. “You say that your penis likes me, but what about you, Puck? We've been dating for months now, and I have no idea of your feelings for me. I like you, Puck. I really, really like you, and maybe I'm jeopardizing what we have by saying that to you, but it's the truth. If you don't feel the same, well, then maybe it's better that we go our separate ways.”
“Rachel, if I didn't like you would I have gone to see Wicked? Twice?” he demands with a tender smile, reaching out and tracing a finger over her cheek. “Or would I have shaved off my mohawk?”
“You said that was to help your football helmet fit better,” Rachel retorted with quizzical eyes.
“I wanted to make a good impression the first time I met your dads, Rachel,” he informed her, with a shy shrug. “I was worried they wouldn't dig the mohawk, so I made a quick pit stop at Supercuts before I went to your house.”
“That's the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me,” Rachel gushes delightedly as she pulls Puck to her and presses her lips to his again. Who needs fancy declarations of love, when a shaved head and a thoughtful, caring boyfriend are so much better?
“I really like you, Puck and I want to do this,” Rachel tells him, imbued with a strange mixture of both nerves and excitement as Puck pushed her down onto the tablecloth and continued kissing her. The press of his erect penis against her thigh is positively scandalous, as is the expert fluttering of his fingers against the soft folds of flesh between her legs.
“That feels so good,” Rachel moans, her eyes squeezed shut in a display of ecstasy as Puck edges his fingers deep inside of her.
She is close to coming almost immediately, such is the frustrating build up of emotions and pent-up feelings that have led up to this very moment, but Rachel holds on. Instead, she reaches out to tentatively take Puck's rigid cock in her hand.
Puck groans at that, urging her on and guiding her motions so soon she's expertly stroking and massaging his erection. “Fuck, Rachel, keep going,” Puck pleads with a desperation that is unlike him and is almost undone when Rachel reaches out and delicately touches his balls. They have always fascinated her.
“You really want to do this?”
Though Puck has to ask the question, they both know that it's not a matter of if they'll have sex but rather how quickly Puck can whip the condom out of his wallet and roll it onto his cock.
Rachel answers Puck by pressing her lips softly to his and straddling her long legs over his splayed thighs, her crotch teasingly brushing against his.
In her life, Rachel has wanted to do a lot of things; to play Eponine in Les Miserables, date Chace Crawford, and own a pony, if she is to be specific, but Rachel Berry has never wanted anything like the way she wants to feel Puck inside of her now.
“Fuck me,” she whispers softly in his ear. For a minute, Puck looks shocked hearing the crude word emanating from Rachel's mouth, and gazes at his girlfriend as though he's only just begun to really know her.
He enters her then, slipping his cock slowly and cautiously inside. “You doing okay, babe?” he murmurs to Rachel softly, brushing a hand gently against her cheeks.
“Kind of,” Rachel admits in a choked voice, the crease etched into her forehead deepening as Puck thrusts for the first time inside of her.
I can stop if you want me to, babe,” Puck informs her worriedly, his performance slightly compromised by the pained look on his girlfriend's face.
“No, keep going,” Rachel urges him on, her eyes squeezed shut in both pain and ecstasy as Puck flicks his finger against the moist flesh.
Puck trails kisses down Rachel's neck before his mouth finds her breast and starts sucking her nipple eagerly. “You have such perfect tits,” he murmurs in awe, running his tongue across the surface of the taut flesh.
When Puck runs a finger down by her ass, Rachel almost screams.
Puck can't hold on much longer, and with one final, thrust, he comes hard and deep inside of her.
Afterwards, Rachel lies happy and contented in Puck's arms. Her entire being is steeped in the wonderment of what had just happened between them. Glancing up at Puck, Rachel can see that his eyes are growing heavier by the second, his dark lashes sweeping magnificently against his skin, and she almost thinks he's fallen asleep when the low murmur of his voice stirs her.
“I love you, Rachel.”
And she loves him too. Though admitting that fact would be in complete violation of the next plan Rachel has decided to follow.
The Art of Getting a Guy to Propose to you in Five Easy Steps.
-
Original prompt: Strawberries