Fic: The Way We Are 2/?
Title: The Way We Are [2/?]
Author: Unequivocally / une_fille
Characters/Pairings: Puck/Rachel, Finn/Brittany, Puck and Rachel being whores.
Rating: Hard R for language and sexual situations. Dude, it’s Puck.
Word Count: 11523 (LOL OMG WE’RE SORRY)
Spoilers: None
Summary: They'd said forever, once, as teenagers and they'd both meant it. It turns out, they can't really put up with each other for more than a few weeks at a time. But fuck, she always came back. Before now. Chapter 2: A pair of Jimmy Choos, a ginormous pink cake and a game of hoops. Wackiness ensues. (Lies, it's mostly angst)
Disclaimer: Don't own Glee. Or The Way We Were.
Author's Notes: The return of Barbie! Sorry this took so long, folks. Real life sort of ate us. Thank you to becca_radcgg for the beta. And thank you to gubeldood208 for reading through this one thousand times and being the best bb two girls could have.
Chapter 1: Katie, it was never uncomplicated.
-----
You never give up, do you?
Only when I'm absolutely forced to.
-----
Rachel isn't the only one with back-up ass on speed dial, not by a long shot.
A week passes after the chocolate fountain disaster before he finally calls her on a Thursday night, and he's half-buzzed when she picks up the phone on the second ring. "Hey, Sophia," he purrs, taking a long swig of his beer before he continues, "Come over."
"I've been wondering where you've been," is her reply but she doesn't sound mad and she doesn't say no, so he just repeats himself and she says she'll be over soon before the line goes dead.
Puck met her a few months ago (after Rachel kicked him out for breathing or something, shit, he doesn't remember) when he'd brought Barbie to her dentist's appointment during one of her summer visits. She laughed when he asked if she liked having things put in her mouth and they had dinner at her place that night.
He only ever calls her when he and Rachel are on a break. She's cool enough to not ride his ass when he's gone for long periods of time--of course he hasn't told her about his girlfriend, he's not fucking stupid--and hot enough to keep coming back to.
She looks like Rachel, even though he'd never admit it out loud.
She's not nearly as loud or bossy or annoying and she laughs when he says something completely stupid like "time for your oral exam" when she's going down on him and it makes him think yes, I am totally hilarious and Berry is just an idiot.
But that night he tangles his fingers in her hair while she's blowing him and he calls her Berry and then she spends the next hour talking about what an adorable nickname it is.
He doesn't call her back for a week.
Not until one night he's at Finn's house and he overhears Brittany on the phone asking, "Well how big is big?" so he mutters some excuse about needing to get some sleep before leaving and heading to her house.
Sophia answers the door in her nightgown and when he says, "I'll only call you Berry when we fuck," she just smiles and says fine.
-
He feels like a fuckin' cliche when he invites Finn down to shoot hoops with him on Saturday morning, but he sort of loves the fact that he can just play and not think about Rachel or Richard the Dick or anything other than beating Finn's ass.
"How's preggo?" He's not that interested, but Finn is shit-awful at dribbling and talking.
“Oh, the baby’s awesome,” Finn gushes, looking up to shoot him a soppy grin just as the ball hits his foot and rolls away to group of high school girl who’d been watching them and giggling like fucking idiots.
He jogs up to them, hands out. “Ladies,” he grins, because if there’s one thing he knows how to handle, its fucking idiot high school girls. For the most part. Sorta. Shut the fuck up.
For all his uncoordinated fumbling, Finn didn’t make captain just because of his shit dumb luck. The fucker’s built like a Redwood so Puck finds himself scrambling to keep up. “Time out,” he grunts, wiping the sweat from his bow and arching his back, hearing his joints pop.
"Fuck, old man," Finn teases, dodging the fist Puck swings his way, "You sound like bubble wrap."
"Whatever, you coming to Barbie's party next weekend?"
"Of course." Finn dribbles the ball lazily a few times while Puck hunches over, his hands on his knees, "Quinn's been going all out for the thing, it's supposed to be really cool this year."
He rolls his eyes and swats the ball from Finn's grip with a sneer, "It better be fuckin' awesome, considering she doesn't do shit else with her time."
Finn stoops to pick the ball up, shooting him a glare. "Hey, she does the best she can, dude," he defends, and he is too preoccupied with attempting to land the ball in the net to see the bewildered look Puck shoots his way. "Anyways, she said she's getting a clown. Pretty sure it's to get back at you for the gay porn you bought David for his birthday. It'll be like your seventh birthday party all over again."
Puck scoffs, although he can't help the shivers that go up his spine at the thought. "Bitch," he mutters, spitting onto the ground, "And anyways, how the fuck do you know more about this than I do, dude?" Off of Finn's shrug, he rolls his eyes again. "Whatever. 10 bucks to go hit on the high school girls."
"Dude, I teach high school."
"What's your point?" Finn shoots him a disgusted look that he is 99% sure he learned from Rachel, and Puck grins at him. "If you won't, I will," he threatens but his friend just shakes his head and sinks another basket.
He goes to the one who'd kicked their ball back; obviously their leader and the only one who'd have the balls to actually talk to him. She sort of reminds him of Santana, but he doesn't know her well enough to give her the title Heinous Bitch just yet.
It takes less than four minutes of conversation before he's slinking back to Finn, and he tries to snatch the ball from his friend without even bringing up any of the shit that just went down.
"What happened, Puckerman? They hear your knees popping from all the way over there?"
"Fuck off," he shoots back, and he decides then and there that nobody, nobody, has to ever find out how they'd all asked for Hudson's number.
Finn takes the hint and swiftly changes the subject, pushing sweat off of his forehead when he asks, "What'd you get Barbie, anyways?"
"Fucked if I know, I gave Carmen a hundred bucks and a three-hour lunch break. So, I'll see how she did next Saturday, I guess. What'd you get her?"
"No way, ass, I'm not telling you," he insists, nearly elbowing Puck in the nose as he shoves past him, "You'll just tell her and ruin the surprise."
"What? No, I won't, I promise." He attempts to push passed him, but the dude is solid ok? So shut the fuck up.
"Promise?"
"Yeah promise. Whatever. Stop being a girl."
Finn studies him momentarily as he dribbles the ball slowly, as if he's trying to determine if he can be trusted. Finally, he sighs and takes a shot. "Got her a dollhouse, ok?"
"She already has like, a hundred of those things, dude."
"It's what she asked me for!" He takes another shot, pointedly ignoring the baffled look on Puck's face.
"When did you talk to Barbie?"
Finn shakes the question off, glancing off towards the distance where the high school girls had found some soccer players to ogle. "I was in Jersey last week, stopped by to say hey. Whatever, what's going on with this girl you're seeing?"
Puck shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, attempting to knock the ball from Finn's hands, but he holds fast. "Who says I'm seeing anyone?"
"Please. It's the same shit every time Rachel leaves you. You haunt my house for a few weeks before you disappear off the radar, no doubt cause you've found some girl. Since you haven't been over for a few days..." he trails off, looking at Puck knowingly.
"I haven't been around 'cause your wife always eats all the food. She's a fucking hoover, dude." He ducks to avoid the punch Finn swings at his head with a grin. "Fine, whatever. She's just some chick. She's a solid 8. Nothing special."
"God, you're such an asshole."
He tries to steal the ball from Finn again, and succeeds. "You love it," he scoffs as he shoots it towards the hoop, swearing when it bounces off the rim.
"It's not so much love as nobody else will put up with you."
"Some people will put up with me."
"Yeah, but she's ten years old and doesn't know any better."
-
Unlike Rachel, she can cook. Not as well as him, but definitely much better than her. It took him a while to get used to, having someone else do the cooking for him instead of perpetually ordering take-out.
On a Thursday night she is in his kitchen with her sleeves around her elbows while she fries pirogies and he leans against the counter, staring silently at a hole in the wall.
(Rachel threw the telephone at it seven months ago after they got into a fight over... what was it? Money? Then they went to Home Depot to buy plaster to fix it up because they didn't want to lose their security deposit, but they ended up having sex in the car and then going for ice cream.)
It's not an uncomfortable silence but the kitchen feels oddly heavy without conversation, and it is his cell phone on the counter that cuts through the quiet. The name Carmen flashes across the LED screen and he flips it open, hitting the speaker phone button as he does so.
(he likes to impress people with his important business calls, so what?)
"Yeah," he says dully, eying the food on the stove.
Carmen's voice floats through the kitchen in her usual, bored tone. "Sir, your seven a.m. just called and cancelled tomorrow's appointment."
"Right on, sleeping in."
"And Rachel called. She said, and I quote, Tell that Neanderthal that I left my Jimmy Choos at his place and I want them back."
Fuck.
It doesn't take a chick on the rag like Finn to see the way Sophia tenses up at the name of another woman, but he can't help the next words that come out of his mouth.
"You tell her that I'm the one who paid nine-hundred fuckin' dollars for those shoes and if she wants them, she can pry them from my cold, dead hands."
"She said you'd say that and told me to tell you that if you refuse to give them back, she's telling Finn that you're the one that got drunk and peed in his closet and--really, do I have to do this?"
"Call her back and tell her that I refuse to negotiate with terrorists."
"She told me you'd say that, too. She said Do you really think you have a chance against us, Mister Cowboy?"
He can't help it, he's kind of proud of her and he lets out a bark of laughter before he murmurs into the phone, "Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker. Fine, whatever. I'll bring them to the office tomorrow. And don't forget my muffins."
The voice on the other side just sighs derisively before the line goes dead. He sets the phone back onto the counter, crossing his arms as they plunge into an awkward silence.
He watches Sophia sag against the edge of the stove, gripping the spatula in her hand tightly. She's not stupid, he knows she's put two and two together; sudden disappearances and unanswered phone calls.
"Who's Rachel?" She finally asks, and her voice doesn't have that strained, angry quality that Berry's used to take. She's oddly cool and collected and it sorta impresses him, so he feels the least he could do is offer her some version of the truth.
"She's my ex-girlfriend," he says flatly, and she turns to face him.
"How long has she been your ex?"
"Cumulatively?" He scoffs, folding his arms across his chest, "It's, I don't know, Sophia. It's been an on and off thing for..." he trails off.
"Months?" She supplies and she clings to the counter to support herself.
Since high school.
"Something like that, yeah."
"It's why you would disappear for so long." It's not a question.
"But it's done this time," he lies, "for good."
He doesn't know why he feels the need to assure her, especially when he knows none of it is true, no matter what Rachel says. But he sort of doesn't want her to leave. Not when dinner isn't finished cooking and he's pretty sure he's finally gotten her comfortable enough to let him fuck her somewhere new and exciting tonight.
But then she drops the spatula and throws her arms around him, burying her face in his neck, and he knows he’s made a gross miscalculation. When she pulls back, her eyes are bright and she’s smiling widely, running her hands up and down his back. He should probably set her straight --
“Did you tell her about me? Did she take it badly? Should I lock my windows at night?” she asks half-teasingly, but she drops the little grin at the look on his face. "You're right, that was uncalled for. I shouldn't be a sore winner," as though there is any universe in existence where Rachel Berry is somehow her inferior.
"Let's just forget about her," he says as she tucks her hands into his back pockets, smiling up at him brightly.
"You're right," she agrees and she lifts her petite frame to plant an open-mouthed kiss on his lips, tugging him closer to her as she does so. When her hands slip from his pockets and make their way to his belt buckle, he pulls away with a start, eying the hole in the wall over her shoulder.
"Wait," he says, and the word feels so weird in his mouth he can barely get it out. He grabs her wrists and gently removes her hands from his belt, stepping away from her slightly. Puck motions to the stove as he chokes out, "should probably keep an eye on dinner. Don't want to burn the place down."
"You're right," she agrees again (Rachel would've challenged him to get her off before it was time to turn them) and steps away from him with a sly smile. "We have all night."
"Right, maybe." Bottles clang as he pops the fridge door open, and he grabs a beer without another look at her. "I've got a lot of work to do before tomorrow and all."
-
As he pulls up to Quinn's place, he hears the party before he sees it. When he walks around to the back of the house, the sight of it nearly gives him a seizure. They've always gone all out for Babs' birthday (who wouldn't want to celebrate the day Quinn pelted him with ice cubes while he sobbed like a little bitch?), but this year's theme looks like some weird Candyland Redux.
He spots Finn and Brittany near the punchbowl, both of them sporting party hats and obviously having the time of their fucking lives. He considers busting their balls about their terrifying choice of costume play and he's about to open his mouth to shout, "You can keep the hats, just save it for the bedroom," when something slams into his legs.
"DADDY!"
He leans down to hoist Barbie up but when he gets her in front of him he just stares at her in bewilderment. "Holy fucking Christ," he exclaims, holding her up at arms length, "what are you wearing?" She looks like a giant pink fluffy marshmallow ate her.
"It's a dress," she says defensively, arms crossed and doing her frighteningly accurate imitation of Quinn.
"Sure it is," he scoffs, bringing her close to plant a big sloppy kiss on her cheek and grinning at her squeals. "We gotta let David stop dressing you."
"Mommy picked this out," she tells him, her face obviously confused and he rolls his eyes, just dying for the day she's old enough for him to tell her what a fucking fruit her stepfather is without worrying about her running to Q to repeat it.
“Happy birthday, Babs baby,” he tells her, ruffling her hair before she ducks out from under his hand and grumbles about her ’do. He lets her drag him into the thick of the party, past balloon animals, insane amounts of candy-colored streamers and the creepiest fucking clown he’s seen since his own seventh birthday party. He does his best to keep up with her, avoiding stepping on her tiny friends easily; he lived with Berry, after all. He's had a lot of practice.
He drops a kiss to Quinn’s forehead and opens his mouth to compliment her on the fucking insane party but she just shoves a stack of paper cups in his arms and throws a harried “Shut up and help,” before scurrying off to yank some kid off the banister of the new gazebo and slam a pile of coasters down on a table full of five-year olds in one smooth movement.
A seven-year old boy scurries past him, screaming about dragons, and he watches the chubby kid nearly trip and fall over Q's cobblestone walkway (he shouldn't laugh, but he does). His eyes follow the kid as he runs towards the opposite side of the backyard, and it's then that he sees Rachel, leaning over a table full of various snacks.
"Janice said that after today she wants to be my best friend because my mom throws the best parties," Barbie prattles as she grabs his hand and tugs him towards the food, "but then I said that she can shove it because if she only wants to be my friend because my mom rented a pony then she's a pretty crap friend."
He lets out a snort of laughter and squeezes her hand affectionately. "Atta girl," he says, "but don't let your mom hear you talk like that. She'd probably blame my ass."
Barbie comes to a stop at the snacks, tugging on his hand excitedly as she continues to yammer about all the food her mom bought. "She even got me the puffy cheetos even though she hates those, she's such a good mom," she says before shoving a handful of chips into her mouth. He gathers breath to tell her to chew her food before she swallows it but she is already jogging towards her friends, calling a quick, "See you later, Daddy!" over her shoulder.
He just watches her flounce away and it's Rachel who finally calls back at her to stop running and chew her food before she chokes. He's only half-amazed when she actually does, smiling back at them before swallowing hard for dramatic effect (where the hell did she get that from, he wonders) and running off.
With Barbie gone, the tension at the table is palpable and he opens his mouth to say, "Hey, Rach," but what comes out is, "You looking to score or something?" as he flips up the back of her inappropriately-short skirt.
(fuck, fuck, fuck that was NOT hello)
Wheeling on him, Rachel's jaw pops open in an obvious display of disbelief and he's pretty sure her nostrils flare when she snarls, "You pig!"
She whirls around dramatically and she's about to stomp off, he's sure of it, so he reaches out and catches her around the wrist, spinning her around to face him. "Look, it was a joke," he says and she narrows her eyes at him but makes no attempt to snatch her hand from his.
"It wasn't very funny, Noah."
"Give you ten dollars if you hit on the clown." Fuck, why can't he stop talking?
"That's right, Noah. Pimp me out at a child --your child's-- birthday party."
"Whatever, I'm sure I can get Finn to do it for five." He lowers his voice and tugs her closer to him, dropping his mouth to her ear to whisper, "Hey, think he paints his cock?"
She scoffs disgustedly and pushes him away from her, murmuring a particularly nasty swear word under her breath. "You're nauseating," she calls over her shoulder as she turns and walks away.
"You think he draws a happy face?"
She's almost at the other end of the table before she pauses and whirls back to face him, stomping back to thrust a napkin at his chest, a sarcastic smile on her face. "I'll let you know."
After she flounces off a second time, he looks down at the cocktail napkin that flutters in his hand, and notes the messily scrawled Gerald: (201) 963-3160 call me, beautiful and the distinct swipe of white makeup.
--
When Gerald the Fucking Clown comes by to ask Quinn for his break and makes his way toward Rachel as soon as he gets the okay, Puck finds himself following him without even making the conscious decision to do so. He walks right by Babs and her loud, annoying friends, scooping her up onto his shoulders despite her protests.
“Daddy, I was just about to --”
“Hey, shut up a second,” he tells her lightly, ducking his head when she tries to biff him with her small fist. “Daddy needs a favour.”
He tells her what he needs from her exactly and gives her a slight nudge on the butt with the toe of his boot. She throws a dark look over her shoulder, but scampers off towards Rachel and the clown, anyway.
Whatever conversation Gerald the Fucking Clown and Berry are having (and God help him, but his mind goes to a dark, scary place pretty much right away) is interrupted by Barbie tugging on the clown’s pants.
At first he thinks Puckerman: 1, Creepy-Ass Fucking Clowns: 1 (he’s yet to find a way to payback that son of a bitch from his seventh birthday) when that asshole actually jerks his thumb in a get lost motion and turns away from his daughter to go back to visually molesting Berry.
He barely registers the look of outrage on Rachel’s face when Barbie comes running back to fling herself in his arms, her bottom lip quivering in a fierce pout. “That clown SUCKS,” she shrieks in his ear and he’d tell her to calm the fuck down if he didn’t agree with her completely.
“What did he say to you?” The asshole has been a total douche around Berry and pissed his daughter off in one fell swoop, and he isn't sure which one makes him angrier. It seems like she’s already forgotten the whole incident, though, since she’s straining to leap out of his grasp towards some shiny new thing that got her attention. “Baby, what did he say?”
“He called me a brat and said I should run off to play with the other kids because he’s busy having grown up time with Rachel,” she rambles off distractedly. She looks back down at him and sighs, “Can I go play now?” and he lets her down, tugging her ponytail gently as she scurries off.
Whatever Gerald the Clown says, Rachel is having none of it. Her face contorts into a look he knows well--complete repulsion--as she steps away from the brightly colored asshole; she's barely taken two steps away from him before Gerald's fucking hand shoots out and grabs her wrist.
He sees his feet walking across the grass without remembering to actually decide to go over there, and he's next to them in a few long strides. "Fuckin' problem?" he grumbles and he considers flinging an arm over Rachel's shoulder like he's had to do so many times before.
"Nothing that concerns you, friend," Gerald replies, shooting him a look, but it's hard to be threatening when you're wearing fuckin' lipstick.
Puck exchanges a glance with Rachel before dropping his gaze down to Gerald's hand, still clasped around her wrist. "Yo, Berry," he says, "You interested in this freak?"
"Decidedly not," she huffs, yanking her hand back and stepping away slightly.
"I thought so. Beat it," and as Gerald starts to walk away, he reaches out and grabs him by the fruity-looking collar. "And if you even look at her again today, I'm gonna tell Mr. and Mrs. Casella what I caught you doing with some kid in the bushes."
"You wouldn't..."
"You're right. I'll just kick your fucking ass, you creepy sack of shit. Off limits, get it?"
As the shithead creeps off, he turns to Rachel with a wide grin on his face. "You alright, Berry? I totally accept blow jobs as payment, you know."
Her relieved face is replaced in a flash, and she narrows her eyes at him as she shoves past him. "I could have handled that myself, Noah."
"Right!" He calls out, trailing after her, "Cause that's totally what it looked like when I saw that fucker towering over your midget ass."
He follows her back to the snack table, and whatever he's about to say to her (and it was going to be good) has to be swallowed cause he sees Quinn walk over with a cake the size of fucking Manhattan, candles lit and ready for Barbie.
They sing happy birthday (he shares a here we go again look with Quinn when Berry's voice drowns out everybody else) and Babs manages to blow out half her candles in her first blow. Some kid makes some smart ass remark about doing a better job but he takes it back when Puck's elbow clips him on the side of the head during the applause.
Once the cake is divvied up among the party (and don't think he doesn't notice that Quinn gives him the smallest fucking piece) there's still over half of that monster left.
Still pissed that she refuses to acknowledge the fact that he totally saved her ass (on top of the fact that she left him and he's basically been half-dead since she's been gone) he glowers at Rachel as she nibbles on the fluffy chocolate and starts fuming when she ignores his pointed looks to lick pink icing off her fork.
"I wouldn't eat that if I were you," he mutters under his breath at her, "You know it'll go straight to your ass and no one'll want to do a fat chick, no matter the things you're willing to do in the sack."
Obviously, his snark doesn't have the intended effect because instead of stabbing him with her fork, she just laughs sardonically and rolls her eyes. "Please," she scoffs, forking another bite into her mouth. "My ass is perfect."
He can't argue with that, even if he wanted to, so he's about to turn the conversation to how batshit insane she is when he hears Quinn gasp; Barbie's thrown her cake onto the floor, her eyes wide with fear.
"Barbara," Q chides, pulling his daughter away from the pink mess at her feet, "What are you thinking?"
"I don't wanna get fat," she says breathlessly and fuck, are her eyes are watering? "Daddy won't like me."
Things get out of hand pretty quickly after that--one by one, the rest of the children drop their cake to the floor and he's fairly certain that after the seventh piece hits the ground, they've stopped throwing their cake out of fear of obesity and started because Quinn's face is getting steadily redder.
The adults look on perplexed before word starts spreading and the buzzing of their angry muttering is giving him cold sweats. He's not scared of them or anything; he just knows he's going to be paying for this one for years. There is no power on this Earth that can compel him to look over at the expression on Berry's face right now.
(Although, he can't help grinning when he sees that some moms have dropped their cake, too, when they hear that Barbara's dad doesn't like big women.)
Pretty soon no one is eating the damn cake anymore. Whether it's because they're worried about getting fat, feel uncomfortable about the whole situation or just want to blow this whole damn thing so out of proportion, he has no idea.
He spots Finn still munching happily on piece and he throws him a Thanks, bro nod but Finn just inhales the rest of his bites and throws the plate over his shoulder, as though the smears of chocolate on his face won't give him away.
"Way to go, Noah," Rachel murmurs under her breath and he'd make some shitty remark back at her but Quinn swoops down on him, fisting his collar in the palm of her hand to pull him down to eye level.
"Do you know how much I paid for that cake," she growls softly, tugging forcefully on his shirt for emphasis. He could swat her off easily (and he should cause damn, this shirt was expensive) but the truth of the matter is that she scares the shit out of him.
"It was a fucking joke," he throws back weakly. "Meant for Berry," he explains, cocking his head in her direction. "Do you remember? Jokes about Berry?" he pleads to whatever small nostalgic bone she might possess in her body. "You would've laughed at this 10 years ago."
"I would've let you touch me 10 years ago," she snarls, dropping his collar and stomping off to start cajoling the kids to eat the damn cake!
Soon David and Berry get in on the act, but there's no hope for it. The cake might as well be the ugly girl at a frat party (he mutters "Berry at homecoming" to himself because needs to let that one out) 'cause nobody wants to touch it. Not even after David's sadsack pleas, Berry's overenthusiastic "MMMMMMMMMMMM YUM!"s and Quinn's not-so-veiled threats.
Barbie's watching the whole thing in warped fascination and he'll be damned if he ruins another one of her parties (he has a thing with farm animals, ok?) and just exclaims, "Fuck it. More cake for me." He grabs a spoon while everyone's eyes swivel to him and he sits in front of the pink behemoth and digs in.
At first they're all disgusted by his audacity and his complete disregard for decorum --well, at least Berry is-- but he ignores them and keeps shoveling the cloyingly over-sweetened icing in his mouth. But then the some kid just breathes, "Shit, he's gonna eat the whole thing," and their stares become ones of interest instead of hatred.
Somewhere between just trying to make a point and the heart attack he knows is waiting for him at the end of this bite, the cheering starts. At first he thinks great, they're fucking yelling again, awesome but then he hears a very shrill, very enthusiastic GO DADDY, GO! and he realizes he's officially become the party's main entertainment.
In your big, ugly fucking face Serial Killer Gerald.
-
At the risk of sounding like a girl, the bathroom in the Casella house is pretty choice. Then again, why wouldn't it be when Quinn's a chick and David's a flaming homo (which Puck still insists to this day, regardless of the nutchecks Quinn has sent his way when she caught him saying it).
The linen cabinet in the corner of the bathroom catches his eye momentarily before he reaches for the pristine white designer towels hanging just behind him, cause fuck Quinn for wrinkling his favorite shirt, seriously. No homo.
He wipes his face roughly and he's practically giddy at the thought of Q's face when she sees the fluffy pink frosting embedded into the embroidered Casella. The only thing that could possibly be better than the way her nostrils flare when she's pissed is the thought of David's face when he sees these towels; Quinn can say what she wants, they both know David decorated 99% of the house.
By the time he's set to work on his arms, he's nearly chuckling to himself and this is totally almost as good as last year when Rachel used the same towels to clean up her tits after he convinced her to give him a blow job before Barbie opened her presents.
(she about passed out giggling as they tried to find a place to hide the towels, at least until the party was over; when Quinn called the next week and said they absolutely were not allowed behind closed doors ever again, you fucking deviants they figured she must have found it)
He's contemplating taking the last clean towel left in the bathroom and wiping his ass with it when he hears a soft knock on the door. "Takin' a dump, come back later," he hollers, slumping his shoulders as he peers into the mirror and takes in the melting icing still sticking to most of his face.
Rolling his eyes at the opening door - doesn’t anybody believe in fucking privacy anymore? - he gives up on salvaging his appearance and figures he’ll just ask Barbie to hose him down out back. The little runt would probably get a kick out of it anyway.
“That’s a good color on you.”
Rachel's reflection stares back at him in the mirror, over his shoulder.
"Everything's a good color on me," he grunts back, flipping the hot water onto full blast to fill the sink, "What are you doing in here?"
"Wanted to congratulate you on your impressive feat."
"You mean bitch and moan about how I ruin everything."
"Actually, Barbara told me it was one of the best parties she'd had. She said, and I quote, 'This is better than the time Daddy got Finn stuck in the inflatable ball pit and we had to call the firemen, but not as good as that time he spooked that pony and mommy and David had to get a new living room.' So you're off the hook where she's concerned."
"Good to know," he says, not unkindly, and dips the towel into the sink. She crosses her arms and leans against the wall, staring at him in the mirror.
"Not so sure it was such a smart idea though, Noah" she teases, "your middle is already expanding from all of that take-out."
A snort works its way from his throat and he throws her a look over his shoulder. "Well, maybe if someone would learn to cook, I wouldn't have to rely on take-out nightly."
"Maybe," she muses, suddenly very interested in her nails, "but you don't see my ass expanding, do you?"
"Does that tool cook for you like I did?" It's out before he can stop himself, and really, he doesn't wanna hear the answer.
Sticky silence settles on them and he half expects her to just leave when she finally clears her throat and says, "No. No, he doesn't. I think he may be worse than I am, actually."
He laughs, and in the mirror he can see her lips work their way into a grin. "I didn't know that was possible."
"Oh, please. My cooking wasn't that bad. You're just a giant child."
"You're a giant child."
"You're so mature."
"Hey, Berry," he says, running his fingers down his forearms scooping up as much icing as he can, "shut the fuck up."
The glob of icing lands in her face with a loud splat and the surprised look shouldn't turn him on. But it does. Her mouth is opened into a perfect O of shock, and he is instantly reminded of knee-high socks and wet t-shirts.
She sputters indignantly, her arms flailing and face turning a bright red; long enough to lob more icing at her. This time it hits her squarely on the chest.
"You're a riot, Noah, really." She wipes at the front of her blouse feebly, effectively smearing topping across the front of her shirt. "I loved this shirt," she protests weakly, glaring up at him to emphasize the point.
"Oh, relax, it'll come out."
"It better," she threatens, but it makes him snort because they both know she's never been very threatening, try as she might. Tentatively, she licks her lips clean and the sight of it nearly makes him groan out loud. "I'm not sure how you ate so much of this, Noah," she continues, oblivious to his stares, "I feel as if my teeth are going to fall out."
He wants to say something sleazy like I just thought of eating you the whole time but instead he sort of coughs and shifts his weight a bit before croaking, "Hey, c'mere." Off her suspicious look, he rolls his eyes and dangles the wet towel between them, raising his eyebrows at her until she finally relents.
There’s no way he’s not going to make her walk the whole way to him, so he just leans back against the sink, grinning at the loud creaks it emits under his weight. Rachel steps between his legs and leans forward to reach for the towel, but he holds it back. “Let me,” he tells her, bringing the towel to her chest.
She rolls her eyes but indulges him and Puck makes a show of wiping every last bit of icing off her fantastic rack. When he cops a feel (or ten) she huffs but makes no attempt at stopping him.
It feels good, so good, to be with her like this, again. Even if he knows it’s not real and won’t last on the other side of that bathroom door. But he figures that if he’s gonna go down, he’ll go down swinging.
He drops the towel and it lands with a wet plop! at their feet. Her eyes drop to the floor, the question on her lips but he doesn’t give her the chance to ask because he puts his hands behind her head and tugs forward until she trips onto him.
The gasp he feels against his neck makes his skin hum, and when she pulls back to stare at him, bottom lip caught between her teeth, he knows there’s no stopping him now.
Slowly, he traces his tongue across her jawline and she shudders against him before pulling herself away from his body with a soft noise that sounds oddly like a chuckle.
Her mouth parts slightly to speak and fuck, he can't bear to listen to another of her no, Noah, we can't speeches, so he cuts her off with a scoff and a shake of his head. "Sorry," he says, wiping a bit of icing off of the corner of his mouth, "Dunno what came over me."
Rachel doesn't reply, instead reaching towards her own face to swipe some icing onto her fingers. He watches, mystified, as she smears the pink confection across her lower lip--goddamn is she actually doing this to him?--before raising it to his own lips. She grazes his lips with her finger and he can't help parting his lips to take it in his mouth, sucking the last bit off frosting off of her fingertip.
When she pulls her finger from his mouth, there is a long moment where he just takes in the sight of her, all wide-eyed and bright pink lips. He lowers his face to hers and traces her bottom lip with his tongue, and just as she sighs against his mouth, the sound of Barbie's voice comes from the other side of the door.
"DADDY?"
He groans as Rachel pulls away from the kiss, sucking the last bit of icing off of her lip and sighing deeply. Fuck, he hates when she sighs like that.
Frantic banging comes from the other side of the door and he can barely make out Barbie's rants about Mom and Presents and Clown before he finally calls back, "Barbie, damn, I'll be right out, ok?"
Foreheads touching, he watches her take ragged breaths before she stiffens her back and looks down at the mess they’d made with a look of steely resolve.
“Hey,” he whispers, grabbing onto her arm as whirls around the room, wiping down the sink and towelling the last of the icing off her face. “Hey, it’s cool, she’ll get lost soon...”
“Your daughter’s waiting for you, Noah,” she mutters, throwing all the dirty towels into the laundry bin and slamming it closed.
That’s when he knows they’re back to... whatever. Back to this isn’t working out and I don’t want you anymore.
"Fine." He says, suddenly so tired that he actually aches, and she looks up at him with a mixed look. "I'll see you around then."
She doesn't answer, just checks her hair in the mirror before pulling the bathroom door open. Barbie's gaze travels from Rachel to Puck before she crosses her arms, shifting her weight onto one hip.
"Were you guys alone in here?" She demands with a tap of her toe, "Mom says you're not allowed behind closed doors anymore. House rules."
Rachel smiles at Barbie sadly, putting her hand on the younger girl's head to smooth her blonde hair. "I needed to talk to your dad," she says softly, "it's ok. Promise." She glances at him one last time before heading through the door and down the hall.
They both watch her walk off and once she’s out of sight, he sighs and rubs his hands over his face tiredly. Barbie skips up to him, her arms stretched up high.
He quirks an eyebrow at her and she gives him a gap-toothed grin, “You look like you need a hug.”
He turns his head to peer left and right, skimming his eyes right over her. "Yeah?" He asks, "Well where do you think I could get one of those?"
The little squirt lowers one of her arms to punch him in the knee and he almost buckles at the force of it. “Fuck, Barbie,” he wheezes, “that was awesome. C’mere.” He swings her up and grips her in a tight hug until she gives a yelp and laughs, “Daddy, let goooo!”
"Hey, brat," he says, lowering her to the floor and fuck, he's just gotta hear it from someone, "You love me, right?"
"Of course!" She says, furrowing her eyebrows at him, "Don't be stupid."
Whatever, at least there's one chick in his life he can count on.
-
The rest of the party goes off without a hitch, although there’s one bright, shining moment when Finn decides to show these kids how to break a piñata and ends up nailing one of them in the head with the stick. Puck can’t even tell which of the two cried the hardest.
He makes sure Barbie sticks by him ‘til the end of it, and he figures he should kinda feel bad for keeping her from her friends but she doesn’t complain and hell, he’s way cooler than any snot-nosed, smelly 8-year-old. He watches in rapt fascination as she puts away 4 hotdogs and 2 slices of pizza, and he bounces her on his knee when he and Finn start trashtalking the loser kids Quinn obviously had to invite to cement her place as Mom of the Year at Bab’s prep school.
When it’s all said and done, the back yard looks like a fucking disaster. The last of the rugrats go home and Quinn comes out of the house carrying garbage bags, which is his cue to get the fuck out of there. He begs off clean-up duty with some bullshit work-related emergency and he slaps David on the back before running from Quinn’s enraged roars.
Whatever, he knows Berry’s gonna stay to help and there’s no way he’s sticking around for that.
He gives Finn and Britt a lift home and they don’t give him too much of a hard time when he has to pull over to puke pink icing on the side of the road.
When he finally crawls back into the apartment, he feels like his stomach is trying to eat itself. Wrapped in a blanket and shivering, he starts to rethink eating that cake, no matter how fucking hilarious it was. He briefly contemplates calling Sophia to come take care of him but luckily, that train of through is interrupted by a heavy knock on the door.
Whoever’s on the other side obviously doesn’t get that he is fucking ignoring them cause the banging continues and he groans pitifully into the pillow. When he hears the sound of a key turning the locks, his heart jumps to his throat. He leaps from the bed and runs out of the room, ready to yell at her for waiting so long to come back but skids to a halt when he finds Carmen standing in the doorway, waving a bottle of Pepto Bismol.
Turns out Carmen’s bedside manner is about as good as her sense of humour, even though she makes him a bowl of soup and gets him settled on the couch, she does it all while chewing him for being the biggest dumbass she knows. “Of all the asinine things...” she mutters, fetching the remote he asked for and throwing it in his direction before grabbing her bags to leave.
She makes the mistake of looking at him one last time on her way out and he gives her the sad puppy face (Britt’s words, not his). Within 10 minutes, she’s on the couch with him and they’re watching Gladiator. She’s halfway through her rant on the obvious anachronisms in the movie when he interrupts her with a poke to the shoulder, “Hey, how’d you know I wasn’t feeling well?”
“Finn called Rachel and she called me,” she answers, her eyes never leaving the screen. “When does the fighting start?"
He taps his fingers against his pocket where he knows his phone is for about a minute before he yanks it out and sends a quick “Thank you” text to Berry.
They're halfway through the movie and Carmen’s now swearing up and down that this is the best movie ever made, anachronisms be damned and they’re both rolling around on each other in awe of the fucking epic badassery on the screen when his phone rattles on the coffee table.
You’re welcome.
Well, that's pretty good, isn't it? It's a start, at least. And maybe he can convince her to stop by tomorrow so he can make it up -- his thoughts trail off as he peers down to read a second message. I want my shoes back.
God damn.
-
They used to call Monday nights Fuck, Finally (that's a lie; he called them that. Rachel called them Monday nights but Rachel's kinda lame) because after a weekend of having Barbie at the apartment and keeping everything confined to their bedroom, they'd finally be free to just go at it wherever they wanted again.
Like fuck, finally.
Now his Monday evening is being spent playing Call of Duty, the ashtray piled high with cigarette butts and the filters from a couple of joints, and trying not to feel like a dumb teenager who just got dumped.
Rachel Berry has a way of making history repeat itself.
A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts and his first reaction is, of course, to ignore it. Then the knock comes again, more insistent this time and he takes a final pull off of his cigarette before croaking out a, "Fuck, fine," and smashing it out in his ashtray.
He flings the door open and almost drops the controller when he sees her standing there. She doesn’t have any bags with her, just a light jacket wrapped tightly around herself, hair loose and crazy, so she’s probably not here to stay but still, he can’t fight the hope that blooms in his chest as she moves to stand in their doorway.
“I’m here for my shoes,” she explains after a long beat of silence.
He quirks an eyebrow at her, folding his arms across his chest, “I think we need to work on teaching you the definition of the word my.”
"They're mine. They were a gift to me. And unless I'm mistaken, I thanked you profusely. In more ways than one." She flicks her eyes to the couch momentarily before turning back on him, steeling her gaze. "I want my shoes."
He'd bought them for her after seeing her prance around the store in them for an hour, sticking her feet out to admire them in the mind-bogglingly high heels and sighing at how pretty they were before deeming them too expensive.
So he'd just whipped out his credit card silently, sliding it across the counter and nodding to the cashier without a word who rang them up while Rachel packed the shoes back into the box delicately, a wistful frown on her face.
“You’re a fantastic... boyfriend? Husband?” the cashier asked, biting her lips as she stapled receipts together and signaled to the salesclerk with Rachel not to put the shoes away.
“I know, right?” he said, ignoring her question completely.
As they left the store, Rachel had her new shoes in her hands and he had the cashier’s number in his back pocket.
After she thanked him profusely on the couch that night, he’d thought about throwing it away. But then Rachel dumped him again the following week and he fucked the Jimmy Choo girl in the bathroom of some shitty club.
He's too tired to figure any of the specifics out but he's sure these shoes are some kind of metaphor. Still, he grabs them off the floor and thrusts them at her, telling her gruffly, "Here, then."
It's only when she claps her hands around them that he yanks them back, pulling her into the apartment along with them.
"I'm not in the mood for these games," she sighs, attempting to tug the shoes from his hands weakly.
"Who's playing, Berry?" He lets go of the shoes, leaning past her to push the door of the apartment closed with a slam.
"Thank you for returning my shoes to me, but I really must go." She starts to turn away from him and he reaches out, stopping her with a hand on her arm.
"What, need them for a hot date with Richard?" He leaves the douche unspoken, but his tone conveys it easily and she narrows her eyes at him.
"Not that it's any of your business, but yes, we have plans this evening."
Jealousy claws at him, but somehow he manages to keep his cool when he replies, "Whatever, have fun tonight, then."
A startled look flashes across her face and she softens her glare, leaning against his hand on her arm. "Thanks," she says with a smile, "I will."
"Hey," he says softly, pulling her back towards him, "lemme see 'em. One last time."
"What?"
“The shoes, Berry. Lemme see em,” he repeats, and before she can say Noah, they’re right here and dangle them in his face, he clarifies, “on you.”
His request is totally lame and they both know it, but still, she flushes a little, most likely remembering her habit of modelling different purchases for him all over the apartment.
Anything and everything was tested thoroughly by him. Clothes, shoes, furniture; the day she’d came home with a new blender, they had ended up naked on the kitchen floor trying to get rid of more crushed ice than anyone could ever need.
He’s waiting for the shoot-down, or at the very least a look that’ll tell him just how sad and creepy she finds him now, so the thump of the shoes hitting the floor between them is startling. He watches in disbelief as she toes off the flats she came in and starts slipping her feet into the heels.
“Never took you for a guy with a shoe fetish,” she snarks mildly, teetering slightly as she puts the second one on.
“Hey,” he murmurs, grabbing onto her upper arms to steady her, “I just like keeping an eye on my investments.”
When she stands up fully, she’s not at eye-level with him but still, she’s much closer than she was before. “Oh my god, hi! How long have you been here, Berry? I thought I heard something scurrying around down there,” he prattles, earning himself a weak slap on the chest.
He grabs the hand that hit him, and whatever retort she had ready for him dies on her lips when he brings her knuckles up to his lips. “I wanna see you wear them like that first night you had them,” he says thickly.
“Wh-what?” She pulls her hand back from him feebly, but there’s no real effort behind it so it stays clasped in his. “Noah, no. This was a bad idea --” she trails off, reaching down to take the shoes off. Still, the idea is in his head now and he can’t let her leave the apartment. (Again.)
He cups his hands around her face and gently pulls her back up to look him in the eyes. “C’mon,” he whispers, doing his damn best not to sound like he’s begging, which he is. “I just wanna see you one last time,” he explains but he takes the decision out of her hands when he reaches behind her to slowly pull the zipper of her dress down her back. He takes the fact that she doesn’t stop him as consent.
She protests weakly as the zipper reaches the small of her back, and he shushes her as he slides hand inside the fabric and down her spine. "I can't do this," she starts but she's already shaking the material off her shoulders as he closes the space between them and pulls her against him.
The dress lands in a heap and the sound of it hitting the hardwood floor is amplified in the silent apartment. She steps out of it delicately, leaning against him for support in those ridiculously high heels, and he takes the opportunity to run his hands down her body and slide his fingers under the waist of her panties. He pushes them over the curve of her ass and they drop to the floor next to her dress.
"This is a bad idea," she whispers and he dips his head down to nip at her jaw.
"Stop fuckin' saying that."
He begins to back her up towards the living room; he sees her frown slightly as she looks from him to his (their) bedroom behind his shoulder. The shoes don't make it easy for her and she stumbles twice before he drops his hands to her ass and carries her there. She tugs at his clothes desperately, and by the time he's reached the middle of the room, she's untucked his shirt and popped the buttons open. Her hands travel over his bare shoulders and when she snakes one arm around his neck and drags her fingernails over his scalp he actually moans because jesus she always knew what to do to him.
He drops her unceremoniously to her feet and she is already panting as her hands slide down his torso towards his belt, nimble fingers pulling the buckle open easily. He takes a brief moment to enjoy the way her hands work over his body before he steps away from her; he backs up until he feels the couch collide with the back of his knees and he lets himself fall backward onto it.
She moves to join him, grinning widely at him and fuck he knows that grin so well, but he holds up his hand to stop her, shaking his head slightly. Rachel looks at him quizzically, tilting her head to the side just slightly and crinkling her eyebrows but he can't bring himself to answer the unspoken question; it's just hit him that this may actually be the last time he sees her like this and fuck, he just needs a moment to take it all in.
Rachel's never been shy about her body (he's angrily wrung and torn his share of playbills in a jealous rage as she pranced around naked on stage for hundreds of strangers to see) but there must be something in his gaze now because she starts to shift, unnerved and hesitant.
"What are you --" she finally blurts, her hands going to her hips defiantly.
"Shhhh," he cuts her off, and he leans back again, drinking in the sight of her. Her legs, her hips, her tits, her stomach... his eyes roam all over her body and it's only when he takes a deep, shaking breath that he knows she's realized exactly what it is he's doing, because her whole body flushes and the modest pose is long forgotten.
A sigh escapes her lips as she shifts slightly and squares her shoulders, taking a tiny step closer to him and he can't help it when he breathes, "God, you're beautiful," cause she is and he's only now realizing that he didn't tell her nearly enough. He lifts his gaze to meet hers and she stares at him knowingly as she works her bottom lip between her teeth.
He's always thought that she was easily the smartest person he knows. But she doesn't understand anything, not if she thinks that either of them are better off without each other.
He might be a complete moron sometimes, but even he can see how wrong she is.
She attempts to cross the room again and this time, he doesn't stop her. When she stands in front of him, he finally breaks her gaze and lets his eyes travel down her body for a second before she is on him, straddling his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. She moves against him slightly and when she dips down to kiss him he admits to himself that maybe she was right, this was a huge fucking mistake; after having her like this after a month--a month-there is no way he can go without again.
He groans into her mouth and she smiles against his lips, adjusting herself over him. "Fuck. Wait, Rach," he says thickly, pulling away from her, "you don't have to do this. Just go home."
The sound of her breathing echoes loudly in his ears and he almost doesn't hear her when she says his name. "Do you want me to leave?" she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she stares down at him.
"Fuck, B, of course I don't want you to leave. But I don't want this..." Pity fuck; the words rattle around in his head.
She seems to understand 'cause she dips down and traces his lower lip with her tongue. "I want to," she breathes and his grip on her hips tightens.
"Say it again," he demands and he grinds her against him, enjoying the tiny sounds she makes in the back of her throat as she moves.
"I want you."
He stands, enjoying the sound of her gasping into his ear as he pulls her up with him, cupping her ass to support her. Her legs wrap around his waist as she buries her face into his neck and he nearly falls right the fuck over when she runs her mouth over the stubble on his jaw, scraping her teeth against his skin. He's barely rounded the sofa when he feels her breath on his skin as she pants his name against his ear and it's then that he's absolutely positive there is no way he's going to make it to the damn bed.
Instead he sets her on the back of the couch and she pulls him closer to her, and fuck he forgot how perfectly he fit between her thighs, and then she's finally pushing his jeans off of his hips; they've barely hit the ground before she is sliding her hands into his briefs, gripping him firmly. He sucks his teeth sharply and she laughs against his neck, apologizing for her cold hands but he can't find his voice to tell her it has nothing to do with the cold.
His eyes slam shut as she strokes him once, twice and then he is stilling her hand with his own as he chokes out, "Stop."
He kisses her briefly before he drags his mouth down her jaw to her collarbone, down her chest, swirling his tongue around a nipple deftly before continuing across her belly. She giggles slightly when he traces a circle around her navel before kneeling in front of her and she's already way ahead of him because she props one of her legs over his shoulder, balancing herself on the back of the couch.
It's when he feels the heel of her shoe digging into his back that he remembers what she said when she’d first showed up: plans with Richard tonight.
He can almost feel the blood vessel in his forehead burst at the thought of Richard seeing her like this, of her wearing these shoes for him and spread out for him and letting him put his - no, ok? Just no. He pulls down on her legs and she falls straight into his hands, gasping breathlessly as he holds her up on his face, burying his tongue inside her.
She’s balanced precariously on the back of the couch, with only the hands he has under her ass stopping her from falling back but she hardly seems worried, instead tangling one of her hands in her hair while the other digs into his scalp. He trails his mouth away from her pussy, going down the inside of her thigh and even though she’s scratching at his ears to go back, he starts sucking and biting until he’s sure he’s left a mark.
If Richard’s going to be here later, he’s making damn well sure he knows who’s been there first.
It's only when she buckles over him and pleads in a strained whisper to "please, Noah," that he finally pulls his mouth off of her skin with a wet pop. He takes a second to admire the dark bruise before she is nearly crying for him to put his tongue on her, shifting over him in a vain attempt to guide him back to her.
"Christ Berry, patience," he murmurs against her skin and he can hear her gather breath for some comeback, but he presses a kiss against her and whatever comment she was preparing is cut off with a gasp. He needs to be inside of her and he shrugs her leg off of his shoulder as he stands, smoothing kisses along her body as he goes.
He doesn't give her time to complain before he is pulling her off the couch, startling her enough to gasp. She nearly topples over in those heels and he steadies her with his hands on her waist and she actually laughs but he doesn't even care 'cause he's kind of missed the sound.
He doesn't even need to ask before she is turning around and--fuck--bending over the back of the couch, looking over her shoulder at him and God, he's missed her.
Puck's never been one for schmaltzy, sentimental shit but when he's finally inside her, the apartment starts to feel like home again and he takes his first real, satisfying breath in days. And then she rolls her hips and he groans, leaning over her to drop a kiss to the back of her shoulder. He stops thinking for a while and just enjoys the way she her breathing quickens to match his pace; it's hard to focus on anything other than the breathless sounds she makes and the way her heels scrape against the floor with each thrust.
He traces his fingers languidly down her spine and she arches into the touch, breathing his name with a sigh as she does so and the sound is nearly enough to finish him. His hands finally settle at her hips, and he thumbs the small of her back as his fingers grip her tightly, little white circles blooming on her skin under them.
A low whimper escapes her throat and he can feel her shake under him as she arches and moans, "fuck, Noah," and whatever last bit of restraint he had snaps. The couch shakes with every movement as his thrusts become frantic and he loses his rhythm and all he can focus on is the inexplicable need to be as deep inside her as he possibly can.
She looks at him over her shoulder, her hair all mussed and her mouth parted slightly and god, he loves when she looks at him like that. Then her eyes slam shut as he moves inside of her particularly hard and he can barely hear her when she mewls "touch me."
He slides a hand around her body, brushing his fingers across her belly and she gasps slightly cause oops, she's always been so ticklish and he finds himself whispering an apology that she chuckles off. She tightens around him and it causes him to suck in a breath of air before he groans, "Rachel, God," and the words have barely left his mouth before he feels her clench and buckle under him without even touching her.
She throws her head back and bites into her lip, and when she says his name in a breathy whimper--god she sounds so good--he digs his fingers into her hips and comes with a groan, repeating her name under his breath.
He pulls out of her with a hiss and she wheels on him, pressing herself against him and he's barely had time to react before her lips are on his. He wants to say, "I'll miss you," or "Please just stop being so stupid and just come home," but the only thing he can bring himself to do is drop his hands to her ass to pull her flush against him.
"I forgot how good you felt," she says with a sigh as he works his lips over her neck. He sucks her skin gently and when she laughs, "Don't give me a hickey!" he just slaps her ass playfully in return.
'Cause seriously? Fuck Richard.
-
When she flops back onto the couch, she has a dreamy look on her face.
It's one he hasn't seen in a while.
She stretches her arms up over her head, reaching out and letting out little mewling sounds of relaxation, and he knows that if he stays quiet enough she will drift off to sleep.
He doesn’t say a word.
Pushing her gently towards the back of the couch, he scoots down and spreads himself alongside her, running his fingers up her sides and watching her squirm under his touch.
“This is a good couch,” she murmurs, her eyelids drooping down, hair spread out everywhere for him to use as a pillow and breathe her in.
"This is the best couch,” he corrects her. They’d picked it out together, one of the few things they’d ever really agreed on. They’d almost gotten kicked out of the furniture store, trying to see if it could withstand the rough treatment they were going to put it through.
She jerks suddenly, shifting her weight once or twice, as though trying to get comfortable. “This couch used to be less lumpy,” she teases, and he sees her hand rooting around in the cracks of the pillows, about to pull up some remote or god knows what else.
It’s a hairbrush. Not one of hers.
They both stare at it in her hand for a beat before she drops it and mumbles an apology, scrambling to get up from the couch and start putting her clothes back on.
"It's Barbie's." The lie slips out easily enough; despite everything he's never had any problem lying to her face, especially if it meant keeping her happy.
She slips her dress back on, flailing her arms behind her to reach the zipper. When she answers, her voice isn't upset or angry, just matter-of-fact, "No, it's not."
The rustling of her dress breaks the awkward silence and he watches as she finally finds the zipper and pulls it up her back. He opens his mouth to argue his innocence but she cuts him off quietly.
"Barbara has her purple unicorn brush and it's all she'll use."
Of course she would know that; while Puck knew all of the important things about Barbie, like her favorite ice cream flavor or her high scores on video games, he easily admits that Rachel handled the finer details of raising his daughter. Allergies and her favorite dresses and the way she liked her hair brushed.
He's still too proud to use his daughter as a bargaining chip, to tell Rachel that he needs her to help him raise Babs, but he knows that it won't last too much longer.
"I should go," her voice cuts into his thoughts. She's already at the door, those damn shoes dangling from her fingers. "I don't think whoever owns that brush would want me hanging around."
"She doesn't matter," he blurts.
"Goodbye, Noah."
Next chapter: Puck and Barbie's wild and crazy adventures in Lima, OH. A stripper, a night at the club, FELONY, a wedding proposal and fun with voicemails.
Author: Unequivocally / une_fille
Characters/Pairings: Puck/Rachel, Finn/Brittany, Puck and Rachel being whores.
Rating: Hard R for language and sexual situations. Dude, it’s Puck.
Word Count: 11523 (LOL OMG WE’RE SORRY)
Spoilers: None
Summary: They'd said forever, once, as teenagers and they'd both meant it. It turns out, they can't really put up with each other for more than a few weeks at a time. But fuck, she always came back. Before now. Chapter 2: A pair of Jimmy Choos, a ginormous pink cake and a game of hoops. Wackiness ensues. (Lies, it's mostly angst)
Disclaimer: Don't own Glee. Or The Way We Were.
Author's Notes: The return of Barbie! Sorry this took so long, folks. Real life sort of ate us. Thank you to becca_radcgg for the beta. And thank you to gubeldood208 for reading through this one thousand times and being the best bb two girls could have.
Chapter 1: Katie, it was never uncomplicated.
-----
You never give up, do you?
Only when I'm absolutely forced to.
-----
Rachel isn't the only one with back-up ass on speed dial, not by a long shot.
A week passes after the chocolate fountain disaster before he finally calls her on a Thursday night, and he's half-buzzed when she picks up the phone on the second ring. "Hey, Sophia," he purrs, taking a long swig of his beer before he continues, "Come over."
"I've been wondering where you've been," is her reply but she doesn't sound mad and she doesn't say no, so he just repeats himself and she says she'll be over soon before the line goes dead.
Puck met her a few months ago (after Rachel kicked him out for breathing or something, shit, he doesn't remember) when he'd brought Barbie to her dentist's appointment during one of her summer visits. She laughed when he asked if she liked having things put in her mouth and they had dinner at her place that night.
He only ever calls her when he and Rachel are on a break. She's cool enough to not ride his ass when he's gone for long periods of time--of course he hasn't told her about his girlfriend, he's not fucking stupid--and hot enough to keep coming back to.
She looks like Rachel, even though he'd never admit it out loud.
She's not nearly as loud or bossy or annoying and she laughs when he says something completely stupid like "time for your oral exam" when she's going down on him and it makes him think yes, I am totally hilarious and Berry is just an idiot.
But that night he tangles his fingers in her hair while she's blowing him and he calls her Berry and then she spends the next hour talking about what an adorable nickname it is.
He doesn't call her back for a week.
Not until one night he's at Finn's house and he overhears Brittany on the phone asking, "Well how big is big?" so he mutters some excuse about needing to get some sleep before leaving and heading to her house.
Sophia answers the door in her nightgown and when he says, "I'll only call you Berry when we fuck," she just smiles and says fine.
-
He feels like a fuckin' cliche when he invites Finn down to shoot hoops with him on Saturday morning, but he sort of loves the fact that he can just play and not think about Rachel or Richard the Dick or anything other than beating Finn's ass.
"How's preggo?" He's not that interested, but Finn is shit-awful at dribbling and talking.
“Oh, the baby’s awesome,” Finn gushes, looking up to shoot him a soppy grin just as the ball hits his foot and rolls away to group of high school girl who’d been watching them and giggling like fucking idiots.
He jogs up to them, hands out. “Ladies,” he grins, because if there’s one thing he knows how to handle, its fucking idiot high school girls. For the most part. Sorta. Shut the fuck up.
For all his uncoordinated fumbling, Finn didn’t make captain just because of his shit dumb luck. The fucker’s built like a Redwood so Puck finds himself scrambling to keep up. “Time out,” he grunts, wiping the sweat from his bow and arching his back, hearing his joints pop.
"Fuck, old man," Finn teases, dodging the fist Puck swings his way, "You sound like bubble wrap."
"Whatever, you coming to Barbie's party next weekend?"
"Of course." Finn dribbles the ball lazily a few times while Puck hunches over, his hands on his knees, "Quinn's been going all out for the thing, it's supposed to be really cool this year."
He rolls his eyes and swats the ball from Finn's grip with a sneer, "It better be fuckin' awesome, considering she doesn't do shit else with her time."
Finn stoops to pick the ball up, shooting him a glare. "Hey, she does the best she can, dude," he defends, and he is too preoccupied with attempting to land the ball in the net to see the bewildered look Puck shoots his way. "Anyways, she said she's getting a clown. Pretty sure it's to get back at you for the gay porn you bought David for his birthday. It'll be like your seventh birthday party all over again."
Puck scoffs, although he can't help the shivers that go up his spine at the thought. "Bitch," he mutters, spitting onto the ground, "And anyways, how the fuck do you know more about this than I do, dude?" Off of Finn's shrug, he rolls his eyes again. "Whatever. 10 bucks to go hit on the high school girls."
"Dude, I teach high school."
"What's your point?" Finn shoots him a disgusted look that he is 99% sure he learned from Rachel, and Puck grins at him. "If you won't, I will," he threatens but his friend just shakes his head and sinks another basket.
He goes to the one who'd kicked their ball back; obviously their leader and the only one who'd have the balls to actually talk to him. She sort of reminds him of Santana, but he doesn't know her well enough to give her the title Heinous Bitch just yet.
It takes less than four minutes of conversation before he's slinking back to Finn, and he tries to snatch the ball from his friend without even bringing up any of the shit that just went down.
"What happened, Puckerman? They hear your knees popping from all the way over there?"
"Fuck off," he shoots back, and he decides then and there that nobody, nobody, has to ever find out how they'd all asked for Hudson's number.
Finn takes the hint and swiftly changes the subject, pushing sweat off of his forehead when he asks, "What'd you get Barbie, anyways?"
"Fucked if I know, I gave Carmen a hundred bucks and a three-hour lunch break. So, I'll see how she did next Saturday, I guess. What'd you get her?"
"No way, ass, I'm not telling you," he insists, nearly elbowing Puck in the nose as he shoves past him, "You'll just tell her and ruin the surprise."
"What? No, I won't, I promise." He attempts to push passed him, but the dude is solid ok? So shut the fuck up.
"Promise?"
"Yeah promise. Whatever. Stop being a girl."
Finn studies him momentarily as he dribbles the ball slowly, as if he's trying to determine if he can be trusted. Finally, he sighs and takes a shot. "Got her a dollhouse, ok?"
"She already has like, a hundred of those things, dude."
"It's what she asked me for!" He takes another shot, pointedly ignoring the baffled look on Puck's face.
"When did you talk to Barbie?"
Finn shakes the question off, glancing off towards the distance where the high school girls had found some soccer players to ogle. "I was in Jersey last week, stopped by to say hey. Whatever, what's going on with this girl you're seeing?"
Puck shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, attempting to knock the ball from Finn's hands, but he holds fast. "Who says I'm seeing anyone?"
"Please. It's the same shit every time Rachel leaves you. You haunt my house for a few weeks before you disappear off the radar, no doubt cause you've found some girl. Since you haven't been over for a few days..." he trails off, looking at Puck knowingly.
"I haven't been around 'cause your wife always eats all the food. She's a fucking hoover, dude." He ducks to avoid the punch Finn swings at his head with a grin. "Fine, whatever. She's just some chick. She's a solid 8. Nothing special."
"God, you're such an asshole."
He tries to steal the ball from Finn again, and succeeds. "You love it," he scoffs as he shoots it towards the hoop, swearing when it bounces off the rim.
"It's not so much love as nobody else will put up with you."
"Some people will put up with me."
"Yeah, but she's ten years old and doesn't know any better."
-
Unlike Rachel, she can cook. Not as well as him, but definitely much better than her. It took him a while to get used to, having someone else do the cooking for him instead of perpetually ordering take-out.
On a Thursday night she is in his kitchen with her sleeves around her elbows while she fries pirogies and he leans against the counter, staring silently at a hole in the wall.
(Rachel threw the telephone at it seven months ago after they got into a fight over... what was it? Money? Then they went to Home Depot to buy plaster to fix it up because they didn't want to lose their security deposit, but they ended up having sex in the car and then going for ice cream.)
It's not an uncomfortable silence but the kitchen feels oddly heavy without conversation, and it is his cell phone on the counter that cuts through the quiet. The name Carmen flashes across the LED screen and he flips it open, hitting the speaker phone button as he does so.
(he likes to impress people with his important business calls, so what?)
"Yeah," he says dully, eying the food on the stove.
Carmen's voice floats through the kitchen in her usual, bored tone. "Sir, your seven a.m. just called and cancelled tomorrow's appointment."
"Right on, sleeping in."
"And Rachel called. She said, and I quote, Tell that Neanderthal that I left my Jimmy Choos at his place and I want them back."
Fuck.
It doesn't take a chick on the rag like Finn to see the way Sophia tenses up at the name of another woman, but he can't help the next words that come out of his mouth.
"You tell her that I'm the one who paid nine-hundred fuckin' dollars for those shoes and if she wants them, she can pry them from my cold, dead hands."
"She said you'd say that and told me to tell you that if you refuse to give them back, she's telling Finn that you're the one that got drunk and peed in his closet and--really, do I have to do this?"
"Call her back and tell her that I refuse to negotiate with terrorists."
"She told me you'd say that, too. She said Do you really think you have a chance against us, Mister Cowboy?"
He can't help it, he's kind of proud of her and he lets out a bark of laughter before he murmurs into the phone, "Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker. Fine, whatever. I'll bring them to the office tomorrow. And don't forget my muffins."
The voice on the other side just sighs derisively before the line goes dead. He sets the phone back onto the counter, crossing his arms as they plunge into an awkward silence.
He watches Sophia sag against the edge of the stove, gripping the spatula in her hand tightly. She's not stupid, he knows she's put two and two together; sudden disappearances and unanswered phone calls.
"Who's Rachel?" She finally asks, and her voice doesn't have that strained, angry quality that Berry's used to take. She's oddly cool and collected and it sorta impresses him, so he feels the least he could do is offer her some version of the truth.
"She's my ex-girlfriend," he says flatly, and she turns to face him.
"How long has she been your ex?"
"Cumulatively?" He scoffs, folding his arms across his chest, "It's, I don't know, Sophia. It's been an on and off thing for..." he trails off.
"Months?" She supplies and she clings to the counter to support herself.
Since high school.
"Something like that, yeah."
"It's why you would disappear for so long." It's not a question.
"But it's done this time," he lies, "for good."
He doesn't know why he feels the need to assure her, especially when he knows none of it is true, no matter what Rachel says. But he sort of doesn't want her to leave. Not when dinner isn't finished cooking and he's pretty sure he's finally gotten her comfortable enough to let him fuck her somewhere new and exciting tonight.
But then she drops the spatula and throws her arms around him, burying her face in his neck, and he knows he’s made a gross miscalculation. When she pulls back, her eyes are bright and she’s smiling widely, running her hands up and down his back. He should probably set her straight --
“Did you tell her about me? Did she take it badly? Should I lock my windows at night?” she asks half-teasingly, but she drops the little grin at the look on his face. "You're right, that was uncalled for. I shouldn't be a sore winner," as though there is any universe in existence where Rachel Berry is somehow her inferior.
"Let's just forget about her," he says as she tucks her hands into his back pockets, smiling up at him brightly.
"You're right," she agrees and she lifts her petite frame to plant an open-mouthed kiss on his lips, tugging him closer to her as she does so. When her hands slip from his pockets and make their way to his belt buckle, he pulls away with a start, eying the hole in the wall over her shoulder.
"Wait," he says, and the word feels so weird in his mouth he can barely get it out. He grabs her wrists and gently removes her hands from his belt, stepping away from her slightly. Puck motions to the stove as he chokes out, "should probably keep an eye on dinner. Don't want to burn the place down."
"You're right," she agrees again (Rachel would've challenged him to get her off before it was time to turn them) and steps away from him with a sly smile. "We have all night."
"Right, maybe." Bottles clang as he pops the fridge door open, and he grabs a beer without another look at her. "I've got a lot of work to do before tomorrow and all."
-
As he pulls up to Quinn's place, he hears the party before he sees it. When he walks around to the back of the house, the sight of it nearly gives him a seizure. They've always gone all out for Babs' birthday (who wouldn't want to celebrate the day Quinn pelted him with ice cubes while he sobbed like a little bitch?), but this year's theme looks like some weird Candyland Redux.
He spots Finn and Brittany near the punchbowl, both of them sporting party hats and obviously having the time of their fucking lives. He considers busting their balls about their terrifying choice of costume play and he's about to open his mouth to shout, "You can keep the hats, just save it for the bedroom," when something slams into his legs.
"DADDY!"
He leans down to hoist Barbie up but when he gets her in front of him he just stares at her in bewilderment. "Holy fucking Christ," he exclaims, holding her up at arms length, "what are you wearing?" She looks like a giant pink fluffy marshmallow ate her.
"It's a dress," she says defensively, arms crossed and doing her frighteningly accurate imitation of Quinn.
"Sure it is," he scoffs, bringing her close to plant a big sloppy kiss on her cheek and grinning at her squeals. "We gotta let David stop dressing you."
"Mommy picked this out," she tells him, her face obviously confused and he rolls his eyes, just dying for the day she's old enough for him to tell her what a fucking fruit her stepfather is without worrying about her running to Q to repeat it.
“Happy birthday, Babs baby,” he tells her, ruffling her hair before she ducks out from under his hand and grumbles about her ’do. He lets her drag him into the thick of the party, past balloon animals, insane amounts of candy-colored streamers and the creepiest fucking clown he’s seen since his own seventh birthday party. He does his best to keep up with her, avoiding stepping on her tiny friends easily; he lived with Berry, after all. He's had a lot of practice.
He drops a kiss to Quinn’s forehead and opens his mouth to compliment her on the fucking insane party but she just shoves a stack of paper cups in his arms and throws a harried “Shut up and help,” before scurrying off to yank some kid off the banister of the new gazebo and slam a pile of coasters down on a table full of five-year olds in one smooth movement.
A seven-year old boy scurries past him, screaming about dragons, and he watches the chubby kid nearly trip and fall over Q's cobblestone walkway (he shouldn't laugh, but he does). His eyes follow the kid as he runs towards the opposite side of the backyard, and it's then that he sees Rachel, leaning over a table full of various snacks.
"Janice said that after today she wants to be my best friend because my mom throws the best parties," Barbie prattles as she grabs his hand and tugs him towards the food, "but then I said that she can shove it because if she only wants to be my friend because my mom rented a pony then she's a pretty crap friend."
He lets out a snort of laughter and squeezes her hand affectionately. "Atta girl," he says, "but don't let your mom hear you talk like that. She'd probably blame my ass."
Barbie comes to a stop at the snacks, tugging on his hand excitedly as she continues to yammer about all the food her mom bought. "She even got me the puffy cheetos even though she hates those, she's such a good mom," she says before shoving a handful of chips into her mouth. He gathers breath to tell her to chew her food before she swallows it but she is already jogging towards her friends, calling a quick, "See you later, Daddy!" over her shoulder.
He just watches her flounce away and it's Rachel who finally calls back at her to stop running and chew her food before she chokes. He's only half-amazed when she actually does, smiling back at them before swallowing hard for dramatic effect (where the hell did she get that from, he wonders) and running off.
With Barbie gone, the tension at the table is palpable and he opens his mouth to say, "Hey, Rach," but what comes out is, "You looking to score or something?" as he flips up the back of her inappropriately-short skirt.
(fuck, fuck, fuck that was NOT hello)
Wheeling on him, Rachel's jaw pops open in an obvious display of disbelief and he's pretty sure her nostrils flare when she snarls, "You pig!"
She whirls around dramatically and she's about to stomp off, he's sure of it, so he reaches out and catches her around the wrist, spinning her around to face him. "Look, it was a joke," he says and she narrows her eyes at him but makes no attempt to snatch her hand from his.
"It wasn't very funny, Noah."
"Give you ten dollars if you hit on the clown." Fuck, why can't he stop talking?
"That's right, Noah. Pimp me out at a child --your child's-- birthday party."
"Whatever, I'm sure I can get Finn to do it for five." He lowers his voice and tugs her closer to him, dropping his mouth to her ear to whisper, "Hey, think he paints his cock?"
She scoffs disgustedly and pushes him away from her, murmuring a particularly nasty swear word under her breath. "You're nauseating," she calls over her shoulder as she turns and walks away.
"You think he draws a happy face?"
She's almost at the other end of the table before she pauses and whirls back to face him, stomping back to thrust a napkin at his chest, a sarcastic smile on her face. "I'll let you know."
After she flounces off a second time, he looks down at the cocktail napkin that flutters in his hand, and notes the messily scrawled Gerald: (201) 963-3160 call me, beautiful and the distinct swipe of white makeup.
--
When Gerald the Fucking Clown comes by to ask Quinn for his break and makes his way toward Rachel as soon as he gets the okay, Puck finds himself following him without even making the conscious decision to do so. He walks right by Babs and her loud, annoying friends, scooping her up onto his shoulders despite her protests.
“Daddy, I was just about to --”
“Hey, shut up a second,” he tells her lightly, ducking his head when she tries to biff him with her small fist. “Daddy needs a favour.”
He tells her what he needs from her exactly and gives her a slight nudge on the butt with the toe of his boot. She throws a dark look over her shoulder, but scampers off towards Rachel and the clown, anyway.
Whatever conversation Gerald the Fucking Clown and Berry are having (and God help him, but his mind goes to a dark, scary place pretty much right away) is interrupted by Barbie tugging on the clown’s pants.
At first he thinks Puckerman: 1, Creepy-Ass Fucking Clowns: 1 (he’s yet to find a way to payback that son of a bitch from his seventh birthday) when that asshole actually jerks his thumb in a get lost motion and turns away from his daughter to go back to visually molesting Berry.
He barely registers the look of outrage on Rachel’s face when Barbie comes running back to fling herself in his arms, her bottom lip quivering in a fierce pout. “That clown SUCKS,” she shrieks in his ear and he’d tell her to calm the fuck down if he didn’t agree with her completely.
“What did he say to you?” The asshole has been a total douche around Berry and pissed his daughter off in one fell swoop, and he isn't sure which one makes him angrier. It seems like she’s already forgotten the whole incident, though, since she’s straining to leap out of his grasp towards some shiny new thing that got her attention. “Baby, what did he say?”
“He called me a brat and said I should run off to play with the other kids because he’s busy having grown up time with Rachel,” she rambles off distractedly. She looks back down at him and sighs, “Can I go play now?” and he lets her down, tugging her ponytail gently as she scurries off.
Whatever Gerald the Clown says, Rachel is having none of it. Her face contorts into a look he knows well--complete repulsion--as she steps away from the brightly colored asshole; she's barely taken two steps away from him before Gerald's fucking hand shoots out and grabs her wrist.
He sees his feet walking across the grass without remembering to actually decide to go over there, and he's next to them in a few long strides. "Fuckin' problem?" he grumbles and he considers flinging an arm over Rachel's shoulder like he's had to do so many times before.
"Nothing that concerns you, friend," Gerald replies, shooting him a look, but it's hard to be threatening when you're wearing fuckin' lipstick.
Puck exchanges a glance with Rachel before dropping his gaze down to Gerald's hand, still clasped around her wrist. "Yo, Berry," he says, "You interested in this freak?"
"Decidedly not," she huffs, yanking her hand back and stepping away slightly.
"I thought so. Beat it," and as Gerald starts to walk away, he reaches out and grabs him by the fruity-looking collar. "And if you even look at her again today, I'm gonna tell Mr. and Mrs. Casella what I caught you doing with some kid in the bushes."
"You wouldn't..."
"You're right. I'll just kick your fucking ass, you creepy sack of shit. Off limits, get it?"
As the shithead creeps off, he turns to Rachel with a wide grin on his face. "You alright, Berry? I totally accept blow jobs as payment, you know."
Her relieved face is replaced in a flash, and she narrows her eyes at him as she shoves past him. "I could have handled that myself, Noah."
"Right!" He calls out, trailing after her, "Cause that's totally what it looked like when I saw that fucker towering over your midget ass."
He follows her back to the snack table, and whatever he's about to say to her (and it was going to be good) has to be swallowed cause he sees Quinn walk over with a cake the size of fucking Manhattan, candles lit and ready for Barbie.
They sing happy birthday (he shares a here we go again look with Quinn when Berry's voice drowns out everybody else) and Babs manages to blow out half her candles in her first blow. Some kid makes some smart ass remark about doing a better job but he takes it back when Puck's elbow clips him on the side of the head during the applause.
Once the cake is divvied up among the party (and don't think he doesn't notice that Quinn gives him the smallest fucking piece) there's still over half of that monster left.
Still pissed that she refuses to acknowledge the fact that he totally saved her ass (on top of the fact that she left him and he's basically been half-dead since she's been gone) he glowers at Rachel as she nibbles on the fluffy chocolate and starts fuming when she ignores his pointed looks to lick pink icing off her fork.
"I wouldn't eat that if I were you," he mutters under his breath at her, "You know it'll go straight to your ass and no one'll want to do a fat chick, no matter the things you're willing to do in the sack."
Obviously, his snark doesn't have the intended effect because instead of stabbing him with her fork, she just laughs sardonically and rolls her eyes. "Please," she scoffs, forking another bite into her mouth. "My ass is perfect."
He can't argue with that, even if he wanted to, so he's about to turn the conversation to how batshit insane she is when he hears Quinn gasp; Barbie's thrown her cake onto the floor, her eyes wide with fear.
"Barbara," Q chides, pulling his daughter away from the pink mess at her feet, "What are you thinking?"
"I don't wanna get fat," she says breathlessly and fuck, are her eyes are watering? "Daddy won't like me."
Things get out of hand pretty quickly after that--one by one, the rest of the children drop their cake to the floor and he's fairly certain that after the seventh piece hits the ground, they've stopped throwing their cake out of fear of obesity and started because Quinn's face is getting steadily redder.
The adults look on perplexed before word starts spreading and the buzzing of their angry muttering is giving him cold sweats. He's not scared of them or anything; he just knows he's going to be paying for this one for years. There is no power on this Earth that can compel him to look over at the expression on Berry's face right now.
(Although, he can't help grinning when he sees that some moms have dropped their cake, too, when they hear that Barbara's dad doesn't like big women.)
Pretty soon no one is eating the damn cake anymore. Whether it's because they're worried about getting fat, feel uncomfortable about the whole situation or just want to blow this whole damn thing so out of proportion, he has no idea.
He spots Finn still munching happily on piece and he throws him a Thanks, bro nod but Finn just inhales the rest of his bites and throws the plate over his shoulder, as though the smears of chocolate on his face won't give him away.
"Way to go, Noah," Rachel murmurs under her breath and he'd make some shitty remark back at her but Quinn swoops down on him, fisting his collar in the palm of her hand to pull him down to eye level.
"Do you know how much I paid for that cake," she growls softly, tugging forcefully on his shirt for emphasis. He could swat her off easily (and he should cause damn, this shirt was expensive) but the truth of the matter is that she scares the shit out of him.
"It was a fucking joke," he throws back weakly. "Meant for Berry," he explains, cocking his head in her direction. "Do you remember? Jokes about Berry?" he pleads to whatever small nostalgic bone she might possess in her body. "You would've laughed at this 10 years ago."
"I would've let you touch me 10 years ago," she snarls, dropping his collar and stomping off to start cajoling the kids to eat the damn cake!
Soon David and Berry get in on the act, but there's no hope for it. The cake might as well be the ugly girl at a frat party (he mutters "Berry at homecoming" to himself because needs to let that one out) 'cause nobody wants to touch it. Not even after David's sadsack pleas, Berry's overenthusiastic "MMMMMMMMMMMM YUM!"s and Quinn's not-so-veiled threats.
Barbie's watching the whole thing in warped fascination and he'll be damned if he ruins another one of her parties (he has a thing with farm animals, ok?) and just exclaims, "Fuck it. More cake for me." He grabs a spoon while everyone's eyes swivel to him and he sits in front of the pink behemoth and digs in.
At first they're all disgusted by his audacity and his complete disregard for decorum --well, at least Berry is-- but he ignores them and keeps shoveling the cloyingly over-sweetened icing in his mouth. But then the some kid just breathes, "Shit, he's gonna eat the whole thing," and their stares become ones of interest instead of hatred.
Somewhere between just trying to make a point and the heart attack he knows is waiting for him at the end of this bite, the cheering starts. At first he thinks great, they're fucking yelling again, awesome but then he hears a very shrill, very enthusiastic GO DADDY, GO! and he realizes he's officially become the party's main entertainment.
In your big, ugly fucking face Serial Killer Gerald.
-
At the risk of sounding like a girl, the bathroom in the Casella house is pretty choice. Then again, why wouldn't it be when Quinn's a chick and David's a flaming homo (which Puck still insists to this day, regardless of the nutchecks Quinn has sent his way when she caught him saying it).
The linen cabinet in the corner of the bathroom catches his eye momentarily before he reaches for the pristine white designer towels hanging just behind him, cause fuck Quinn for wrinkling his favorite shirt, seriously. No homo.
He wipes his face roughly and he's practically giddy at the thought of Q's face when she sees the fluffy pink frosting embedded into the embroidered Casella. The only thing that could possibly be better than the way her nostrils flare when she's pissed is the thought of David's face when he sees these towels; Quinn can say what she wants, they both know David decorated 99% of the house.
By the time he's set to work on his arms, he's nearly chuckling to himself and this is totally almost as good as last year when Rachel used the same towels to clean up her tits after he convinced her to give him a blow job before Barbie opened her presents.
(she about passed out giggling as they tried to find a place to hide the towels, at least until the party was over; when Quinn called the next week and said they absolutely were not allowed behind closed doors ever again, you fucking deviants they figured she must have found it)
He's contemplating taking the last clean towel left in the bathroom and wiping his ass with it when he hears a soft knock on the door. "Takin' a dump, come back later," he hollers, slumping his shoulders as he peers into the mirror and takes in the melting icing still sticking to most of his face.
Rolling his eyes at the opening door - doesn’t anybody believe in fucking privacy anymore? - he gives up on salvaging his appearance and figures he’ll just ask Barbie to hose him down out back. The little runt would probably get a kick out of it anyway.
“That’s a good color on you.”
Rachel's reflection stares back at him in the mirror, over his shoulder.
"Everything's a good color on me," he grunts back, flipping the hot water onto full blast to fill the sink, "What are you doing in here?"
"Wanted to congratulate you on your impressive feat."
"You mean bitch and moan about how I ruin everything."
"Actually, Barbara told me it was one of the best parties she'd had. She said, and I quote, 'This is better than the time Daddy got Finn stuck in the inflatable ball pit and we had to call the firemen, but not as good as that time he spooked that pony and mommy and David had to get a new living room.' So you're off the hook where she's concerned."
"Good to know," he says, not unkindly, and dips the towel into the sink. She crosses her arms and leans against the wall, staring at him in the mirror.
"Not so sure it was such a smart idea though, Noah" she teases, "your middle is already expanding from all of that take-out."
A snort works its way from his throat and he throws her a look over his shoulder. "Well, maybe if someone would learn to cook, I wouldn't have to rely on take-out nightly."
"Maybe," she muses, suddenly very interested in her nails, "but you don't see my ass expanding, do you?"
"Does that tool cook for you like I did?" It's out before he can stop himself, and really, he doesn't wanna hear the answer.
Sticky silence settles on them and he half expects her to just leave when she finally clears her throat and says, "No. No, he doesn't. I think he may be worse than I am, actually."
He laughs, and in the mirror he can see her lips work their way into a grin. "I didn't know that was possible."
"Oh, please. My cooking wasn't that bad. You're just a giant child."
"You're a giant child."
"You're so mature."
"Hey, Berry," he says, running his fingers down his forearms scooping up as much icing as he can, "shut the fuck up."
The glob of icing lands in her face with a loud splat and the surprised look shouldn't turn him on. But it does. Her mouth is opened into a perfect O of shock, and he is instantly reminded of knee-high socks and wet t-shirts.
She sputters indignantly, her arms flailing and face turning a bright red; long enough to lob more icing at her. This time it hits her squarely on the chest.
"You're a riot, Noah, really." She wipes at the front of her blouse feebly, effectively smearing topping across the front of her shirt. "I loved this shirt," she protests weakly, glaring up at him to emphasize the point.
"Oh, relax, it'll come out."
"It better," she threatens, but it makes him snort because they both know she's never been very threatening, try as she might. Tentatively, she licks her lips clean and the sight of it nearly makes him groan out loud. "I'm not sure how you ate so much of this, Noah," she continues, oblivious to his stares, "I feel as if my teeth are going to fall out."
He wants to say something sleazy like I just thought of eating you the whole time but instead he sort of coughs and shifts his weight a bit before croaking, "Hey, c'mere." Off her suspicious look, he rolls his eyes and dangles the wet towel between them, raising his eyebrows at her until she finally relents.
There’s no way he’s not going to make her walk the whole way to him, so he just leans back against the sink, grinning at the loud creaks it emits under his weight. Rachel steps between his legs and leans forward to reach for the towel, but he holds it back. “Let me,” he tells her, bringing the towel to her chest.
She rolls her eyes but indulges him and Puck makes a show of wiping every last bit of icing off her fantastic rack. When he cops a feel (or ten) she huffs but makes no attempt at stopping him.
It feels good, so good, to be with her like this, again. Even if he knows it’s not real and won’t last on the other side of that bathroom door. But he figures that if he’s gonna go down, he’ll go down swinging.
He drops the towel and it lands with a wet plop! at their feet. Her eyes drop to the floor, the question on her lips but he doesn’t give her the chance to ask because he puts his hands behind her head and tugs forward until she trips onto him.
The gasp he feels against his neck makes his skin hum, and when she pulls back to stare at him, bottom lip caught between her teeth, he knows there’s no stopping him now.
Slowly, he traces his tongue across her jawline and she shudders against him before pulling herself away from his body with a soft noise that sounds oddly like a chuckle.
Her mouth parts slightly to speak and fuck, he can't bear to listen to another of her no, Noah, we can't speeches, so he cuts her off with a scoff and a shake of his head. "Sorry," he says, wiping a bit of icing off of the corner of his mouth, "Dunno what came over me."
Rachel doesn't reply, instead reaching towards her own face to swipe some icing onto her fingers. He watches, mystified, as she smears the pink confection across her lower lip--goddamn is she actually doing this to him?--before raising it to his own lips. She grazes his lips with her finger and he can't help parting his lips to take it in his mouth, sucking the last bit off frosting off of her fingertip.
When she pulls her finger from his mouth, there is a long moment where he just takes in the sight of her, all wide-eyed and bright pink lips. He lowers his face to hers and traces her bottom lip with his tongue, and just as she sighs against his mouth, the sound of Barbie's voice comes from the other side of the door.
"DADDY?"
He groans as Rachel pulls away from the kiss, sucking the last bit of icing off of her lip and sighing deeply. Fuck, he hates when she sighs like that.
Frantic banging comes from the other side of the door and he can barely make out Barbie's rants about Mom and Presents and Clown before he finally calls back, "Barbie, damn, I'll be right out, ok?"
Foreheads touching, he watches her take ragged breaths before she stiffens her back and looks down at the mess they’d made with a look of steely resolve.
“Hey,” he whispers, grabbing onto her arm as whirls around the room, wiping down the sink and towelling the last of the icing off her face. “Hey, it’s cool, she’ll get lost soon...”
“Your daughter’s waiting for you, Noah,” she mutters, throwing all the dirty towels into the laundry bin and slamming it closed.
That’s when he knows they’re back to... whatever. Back to this isn’t working out and I don’t want you anymore.
"Fine." He says, suddenly so tired that he actually aches, and she looks up at him with a mixed look. "I'll see you around then."
She doesn't answer, just checks her hair in the mirror before pulling the bathroom door open. Barbie's gaze travels from Rachel to Puck before she crosses her arms, shifting her weight onto one hip.
"Were you guys alone in here?" She demands with a tap of her toe, "Mom says you're not allowed behind closed doors anymore. House rules."
Rachel smiles at Barbie sadly, putting her hand on the younger girl's head to smooth her blonde hair. "I needed to talk to your dad," she says softly, "it's ok. Promise." She glances at him one last time before heading through the door and down the hall.
They both watch her walk off and once she’s out of sight, he sighs and rubs his hands over his face tiredly. Barbie skips up to him, her arms stretched up high.
He quirks an eyebrow at her and she gives him a gap-toothed grin, “You look like you need a hug.”
He turns his head to peer left and right, skimming his eyes right over her. "Yeah?" He asks, "Well where do you think I could get one of those?"
The little squirt lowers one of her arms to punch him in the knee and he almost buckles at the force of it. “Fuck, Barbie,” he wheezes, “that was awesome. C’mere.” He swings her up and grips her in a tight hug until she gives a yelp and laughs, “Daddy, let goooo!”
"Hey, brat," he says, lowering her to the floor and fuck, he's just gotta hear it from someone, "You love me, right?"
"Of course!" She says, furrowing her eyebrows at him, "Don't be stupid."
Whatever, at least there's one chick in his life he can count on.
-
The rest of the party goes off without a hitch, although there’s one bright, shining moment when Finn decides to show these kids how to break a piñata and ends up nailing one of them in the head with the stick. Puck can’t even tell which of the two cried the hardest.
He makes sure Barbie sticks by him ‘til the end of it, and he figures he should kinda feel bad for keeping her from her friends but she doesn’t complain and hell, he’s way cooler than any snot-nosed, smelly 8-year-old. He watches in rapt fascination as she puts away 4 hotdogs and 2 slices of pizza, and he bounces her on his knee when he and Finn start trashtalking the loser kids Quinn obviously had to invite to cement her place as Mom of the Year at Bab’s prep school.
When it’s all said and done, the back yard looks like a fucking disaster. The last of the rugrats go home and Quinn comes out of the house carrying garbage bags, which is his cue to get the fuck out of there. He begs off clean-up duty with some bullshit work-related emergency and he slaps David on the back before running from Quinn’s enraged roars.
Whatever, he knows Berry’s gonna stay to help and there’s no way he’s sticking around for that.
He gives Finn and Britt a lift home and they don’t give him too much of a hard time when he has to pull over to puke pink icing on the side of the road.
When he finally crawls back into the apartment, he feels like his stomach is trying to eat itself. Wrapped in a blanket and shivering, he starts to rethink eating that cake, no matter how fucking hilarious it was. He briefly contemplates calling Sophia to come take care of him but luckily, that train of through is interrupted by a heavy knock on the door.
Whoever’s on the other side obviously doesn’t get that he is fucking ignoring them cause the banging continues and he groans pitifully into the pillow. When he hears the sound of a key turning the locks, his heart jumps to his throat. He leaps from the bed and runs out of the room, ready to yell at her for waiting so long to come back but skids to a halt when he finds Carmen standing in the doorway, waving a bottle of Pepto Bismol.
Turns out Carmen’s bedside manner is about as good as her sense of humour, even though she makes him a bowl of soup and gets him settled on the couch, she does it all while chewing him for being the biggest dumbass she knows. “Of all the asinine things...” she mutters, fetching the remote he asked for and throwing it in his direction before grabbing her bags to leave.
She makes the mistake of looking at him one last time on her way out and he gives her the sad puppy face (Britt’s words, not his). Within 10 minutes, she’s on the couch with him and they’re watching Gladiator. She’s halfway through her rant on the obvious anachronisms in the movie when he interrupts her with a poke to the shoulder, “Hey, how’d you know I wasn’t feeling well?”
“Finn called Rachel and she called me,” she answers, her eyes never leaving the screen. “When does the fighting start?"
He taps his fingers against his pocket where he knows his phone is for about a minute before he yanks it out and sends a quick “Thank you” text to Berry.
They're halfway through the movie and Carmen’s now swearing up and down that this is the best movie ever made, anachronisms be damned and they’re both rolling around on each other in awe of the fucking epic badassery on the screen when his phone rattles on the coffee table.
You’re welcome.
Well, that's pretty good, isn't it? It's a start, at least. And maybe he can convince her to stop by tomorrow so he can make it up -- his thoughts trail off as he peers down to read a second message. I want my shoes back.
God damn.
-
They used to call Monday nights Fuck, Finally (that's a lie; he called them that. Rachel called them Monday nights but Rachel's kinda lame) because after a weekend of having Barbie at the apartment and keeping everything confined to their bedroom, they'd finally be free to just go at it wherever they wanted again.
Like fuck, finally.
Now his Monday evening is being spent playing Call of Duty, the ashtray piled high with cigarette butts and the filters from a couple of joints, and trying not to feel like a dumb teenager who just got dumped.
Rachel Berry has a way of making history repeat itself.
A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts and his first reaction is, of course, to ignore it. Then the knock comes again, more insistent this time and he takes a final pull off of his cigarette before croaking out a, "Fuck, fine," and smashing it out in his ashtray.
He flings the door open and almost drops the controller when he sees her standing there. She doesn’t have any bags with her, just a light jacket wrapped tightly around herself, hair loose and crazy, so she’s probably not here to stay but still, he can’t fight the hope that blooms in his chest as she moves to stand in their doorway.
“I’m here for my shoes,” she explains after a long beat of silence.
He quirks an eyebrow at her, folding his arms across his chest, “I think we need to work on teaching you the definition of the word my.”
"They're mine. They were a gift to me. And unless I'm mistaken, I thanked you profusely. In more ways than one." She flicks her eyes to the couch momentarily before turning back on him, steeling her gaze. "I want my shoes."
He'd bought them for her after seeing her prance around the store in them for an hour, sticking her feet out to admire them in the mind-bogglingly high heels and sighing at how pretty they were before deeming them too expensive.
So he'd just whipped out his credit card silently, sliding it across the counter and nodding to the cashier without a word who rang them up while Rachel packed the shoes back into the box delicately, a wistful frown on her face.
“You’re a fantastic... boyfriend? Husband?” the cashier asked, biting her lips as she stapled receipts together and signaled to the salesclerk with Rachel not to put the shoes away.
“I know, right?” he said, ignoring her question completely.
As they left the store, Rachel had her new shoes in her hands and he had the cashier’s number in his back pocket.
After she thanked him profusely on the couch that night, he’d thought about throwing it away. But then Rachel dumped him again the following week and he fucked the Jimmy Choo girl in the bathroom of some shitty club.
He's too tired to figure any of the specifics out but he's sure these shoes are some kind of metaphor. Still, he grabs them off the floor and thrusts them at her, telling her gruffly, "Here, then."
It's only when she claps her hands around them that he yanks them back, pulling her into the apartment along with them.
"I'm not in the mood for these games," she sighs, attempting to tug the shoes from his hands weakly.
"Who's playing, Berry?" He lets go of the shoes, leaning past her to push the door of the apartment closed with a slam.
"Thank you for returning my shoes to me, but I really must go." She starts to turn away from him and he reaches out, stopping her with a hand on her arm.
"What, need them for a hot date with Richard?" He leaves the douche unspoken, but his tone conveys it easily and she narrows her eyes at him.
"Not that it's any of your business, but yes, we have plans this evening."
Jealousy claws at him, but somehow he manages to keep his cool when he replies, "Whatever, have fun tonight, then."
A startled look flashes across her face and she softens her glare, leaning against his hand on her arm. "Thanks," she says with a smile, "I will."
"Hey," he says softly, pulling her back towards him, "lemme see 'em. One last time."
"What?"
“The shoes, Berry. Lemme see em,” he repeats, and before she can say Noah, they’re right here and dangle them in his face, he clarifies, “on you.”
His request is totally lame and they both know it, but still, she flushes a little, most likely remembering her habit of modelling different purchases for him all over the apartment.
Anything and everything was tested thoroughly by him. Clothes, shoes, furniture; the day she’d came home with a new blender, they had ended up naked on the kitchen floor trying to get rid of more crushed ice than anyone could ever need.
He’s waiting for the shoot-down, or at the very least a look that’ll tell him just how sad and creepy she finds him now, so the thump of the shoes hitting the floor between them is startling. He watches in disbelief as she toes off the flats she came in and starts slipping her feet into the heels.
“Never took you for a guy with a shoe fetish,” she snarks mildly, teetering slightly as she puts the second one on.
“Hey,” he murmurs, grabbing onto her upper arms to steady her, “I just like keeping an eye on my investments.”
When she stands up fully, she’s not at eye-level with him but still, she’s much closer than she was before. “Oh my god, hi! How long have you been here, Berry? I thought I heard something scurrying around down there,” he prattles, earning himself a weak slap on the chest.
He grabs the hand that hit him, and whatever retort she had ready for him dies on her lips when he brings her knuckles up to his lips. “I wanna see you wear them like that first night you had them,” he says thickly.
“Wh-what?” She pulls her hand back from him feebly, but there’s no real effort behind it so it stays clasped in his. “Noah, no. This was a bad idea --” she trails off, reaching down to take the shoes off. Still, the idea is in his head now and he can’t let her leave the apartment. (Again.)
He cups his hands around her face and gently pulls her back up to look him in the eyes. “C’mon,” he whispers, doing his damn best not to sound like he’s begging, which he is. “I just wanna see you one last time,” he explains but he takes the decision out of her hands when he reaches behind her to slowly pull the zipper of her dress down her back. He takes the fact that she doesn’t stop him as consent.
She protests weakly as the zipper reaches the small of her back, and he shushes her as he slides hand inside the fabric and down her spine. "I can't do this," she starts but she's already shaking the material off her shoulders as he closes the space between them and pulls her against him.
The dress lands in a heap and the sound of it hitting the hardwood floor is amplified in the silent apartment. She steps out of it delicately, leaning against him for support in those ridiculously high heels, and he takes the opportunity to run his hands down her body and slide his fingers under the waist of her panties. He pushes them over the curve of her ass and they drop to the floor next to her dress.
"This is a bad idea," she whispers and he dips his head down to nip at her jaw.
"Stop fuckin' saying that."
He begins to back her up towards the living room; he sees her frown slightly as she looks from him to his (their) bedroom behind his shoulder. The shoes don't make it easy for her and she stumbles twice before he drops his hands to her ass and carries her there. She tugs at his clothes desperately, and by the time he's reached the middle of the room, she's untucked his shirt and popped the buttons open. Her hands travel over his bare shoulders and when she snakes one arm around his neck and drags her fingernails over his scalp he actually moans because jesus she always knew what to do to him.
He drops her unceremoniously to her feet and she is already panting as her hands slide down his torso towards his belt, nimble fingers pulling the buckle open easily. He takes a brief moment to enjoy the way her hands work over his body before he steps away from her; he backs up until he feels the couch collide with the back of his knees and he lets himself fall backward onto it.
She moves to join him, grinning widely at him and fuck he knows that grin so well, but he holds up his hand to stop her, shaking his head slightly. Rachel looks at him quizzically, tilting her head to the side just slightly and crinkling her eyebrows but he can't bring himself to answer the unspoken question; it's just hit him that this may actually be the last time he sees her like this and fuck, he just needs a moment to take it all in.
Rachel's never been shy about her body (he's angrily wrung and torn his share of playbills in a jealous rage as she pranced around naked on stage for hundreds of strangers to see) but there must be something in his gaze now because she starts to shift, unnerved and hesitant.
"What are you --" she finally blurts, her hands going to her hips defiantly.
"Shhhh," he cuts her off, and he leans back again, drinking in the sight of her. Her legs, her hips, her tits, her stomach... his eyes roam all over her body and it's only when he takes a deep, shaking breath that he knows she's realized exactly what it is he's doing, because her whole body flushes and the modest pose is long forgotten.
A sigh escapes her lips as she shifts slightly and squares her shoulders, taking a tiny step closer to him and he can't help it when he breathes, "God, you're beautiful," cause she is and he's only now realizing that he didn't tell her nearly enough. He lifts his gaze to meet hers and she stares at him knowingly as she works her bottom lip between her teeth.
He's always thought that she was easily the smartest person he knows. But she doesn't understand anything, not if she thinks that either of them are better off without each other.
He might be a complete moron sometimes, but even he can see how wrong she is.
She attempts to cross the room again and this time, he doesn't stop her. When she stands in front of him, he finally breaks her gaze and lets his eyes travel down her body for a second before she is on him, straddling his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. She moves against him slightly and when she dips down to kiss him he admits to himself that maybe she was right, this was a huge fucking mistake; after having her like this after a month--a month-there is no way he can go without again.
He groans into her mouth and she smiles against his lips, adjusting herself over him. "Fuck. Wait, Rach," he says thickly, pulling away from her, "you don't have to do this. Just go home."
The sound of her breathing echoes loudly in his ears and he almost doesn't hear her when she says his name. "Do you want me to leave?" she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she stares down at him.
"Fuck, B, of course I don't want you to leave. But I don't want this..." Pity fuck; the words rattle around in his head.
She seems to understand 'cause she dips down and traces his lower lip with her tongue. "I want to," she breathes and his grip on her hips tightens.
"Say it again," he demands and he grinds her against him, enjoying the tiny sounds she makes in the back of her throat as she moves.
"I want you."
He stands, enjoying the sound of her gasping into his ear as he pulls her up with him, cupping her ass to support her. Her legs wrap around his waist as she buries her face into his neck and he nearly falls right the fuck over when she runs her mouth over the stubble on his jaw, scraping her teeth against his skin. He's barely rounded the sofa when he feels her breath on his skin as she pants his name against his ear and it's then that he's absolutely positive there is no way he's going to make it to the damn bed.
Instead he sets her on the back of the couch and she pulls him closer to her, and fuck he forgot how perfectly he fit between her thighs, and then she's finally pushing his jeans off of his hips; they've barely hit the ground before she is sliding her hands into his briefs, gripping him firmly. He sucks his teeth sharply and she laughs against his neck, apologizing for her cold hands but he can't find his voice to tell her it has nothing to do with the cold.
His eyes slam shut as she strokes him once, twice and then he is stilling her hand with his own as he chokes out, "Stop."
He kisses her briefly before he drags his mouth down her jaw to her collarbone, down her chest, swirling his tongue around a nipple deftly before continuing across her belly. She giggles slightly when he traces a circle around her navel before kneeling in front of her and she's already way ahead of him because she props one of her legs over his shoulder, balancing herself on the back of the couch.
It's when he feels the heel of her shoe digging into his back that he remembers what she said when she’d first showed up: plans with Richard tonight.
He can almost feel the blood vessel in his forehead burst at the thought of Richard seeing her like this, of her wearing these shoes for him and spread out for him and letting him put his - no, ok? Just no. He pulls down on her legs and she falls straight into his hands, gasping breathlessly as he holds her up on his face, burying his tongue inside her.
She’s balanced precariously on the back of the couch, with only the hands he has under her ass stopping her from falling back but she hardly seems worried, instead tangling one of her hands in her hair while the other digs into his scalp. He trails his mouth away from her pussy, going down the inside of her thigh and even though she’s scratching at his ears to go back, he starts sucking and biting until he’s sure he’s left a mark.
If Richard’s going to be here later, he’s making damn well sure he knows who’s been there first.
It's only when she buckles over him and pleads in a strained whisper to "please, Noah," that he finally pulls his mouth off of her skin with a wet pop. He takes a second to admire the dark bruise before she is nearly crying for him to put his tongue on her, shifting over him in a vain attempt to guide him back to her.
"Christ Berry, patience," he murmurs against her skin and he can hear her gather breath for some comeback, but he presses a kiss against her and whatever comment she was preparing is cut off with a gasp. He needs to be inside of her and he shrugs her leg off of his shoulder as he stands, smoothing kisses along her body as he goes.
He doesn't give her time to complain before he is pulling her off the couch, startling her enough to gasp. She nearly topples over in those heels and he steadies her with his hands on her waist and she actually laughs but he doesn't even care 'cause he's kind of missed the sound.
He doesn't even need to ask before she is turning around and--fuck--bending over the back of the couch, looking over her shoulder at him and God, he's missed her.
Puck's never been one for schmaltzy, sentimental shit but when he's finally inside her, the apartment starts to feel like home again and he takes his first real, satisfying breath in days. And then she rolls her hips and he groans, leaning over her to drop a kiss to the back of her shoulder. He stops thinking for a while and just enjoys the way she her breathing quickens to match his pace; it's hard to focus on anything other than the breathless sounds she makes and the way her heels scrape against the floor with each thrust.
He traces his fingers languidly down her spine and she arches into the touch, breathing his name with a sigh as she does so and the sound is nearly enough to finish him. His hands finally settle at her hips, and he thumbs the small of her back as his fingers grip her tightly, little white circles blooming on her skin under them.
A low whimper escapes her throat and he can feel her shake under him as she arches and moans, "fuck, Noah," and whatever last bit of restraint he had snaps. The couch shakes with every movement as his thrusts become frantic and he loses his rhythm and all he can focus on is the inexplicable need to be as deep inside her as he possibly can.
She looks at him over her shoulder, her hair all mussed and her mouth parted slightly and god, he loves when she looks at him like that. Then her eyes slam shut as he moves inside of her particularly hard and he can barely hear her when she mewls "touch me."
He slides a hand around her body, brushing his fingers across her belly and she gasps slightly cause oops, she's always been so ticklish and he finds himself whispering an apology that she chuckles off. She tightens around him and it causes him to suck in a breath of air before he groans, "Rachel, God," and the words have barely left his mouth before he feels her clench and buckle under him without even touching her.
She throws her head back and bites into her lip, and when she says his name in a breathy whimper--god she sounds so good--he digs his fingers into her hips and comes with a groan, repeating her name under his breath.
He pulls out of her with a hiss and she wheels on him, pressing herself against him and he's barely had time to react before her lips are on his. He wants to say, "I'll miss you," or "Please just stop being so stupid and just come home," but the only thing he can bring himself to do is drop his hands to her ass to pull her flush against him.
"I forgot how good you felt," she says with a sigh as he works his lips over her neck. He sucks her skin gently and when she laughs, "Don't give me a hickey!" he just slaps her ass playfully in return.
'Cause seriously? Fuck Richard.
-
When she flops back onto the couch, she has a dreamy look on her face.
It's one he hasn't seen in a while.
She stretches her arms up over her head, reaching out and letting out little mewling sounds of relaxation, and he knows that if he stays quiet enough she will drift off to sleep.
He doesn’t say a word.
Pushing her gently towards the back of the couch, he scoots down and spreads himself alongside her, running his fingers up her sides and watching her squirm under his touch.
“This is a good couch,” she murmurs, her eyelids drooping down, hair spread out everywhere for him to use as a pillow and breathe her in.
"This is the best couch,” he corrects her. They’d picked it out together, one of the few things they’d ever really agreed on. They’d almost gotten kicked out of the furniture store, trying to see if it could withstand the rough treatment they were going to put it through.
She jerks suddenly, shifting her weight once or twice, as though trying to get comfortable. “This couch used to be less lumpy,” she teases, and he sees her hand rooting around in the cracks of the pillows, about to pull up some remote or god knows what else.
It’s a hairbrush. Not one of hers.
They both stare at it in her hand for a beat before she drops it and mumbles an apology, scrambling to get up from the couch and start putting her clothes back on.
"It's Barbie's." The lie slips out easily enough; despite everything he's never had any problem lying to her face, especially if it meant keeping her happy.
She slips her dress back on, flailing her arms behind her to reach the zipper. When she answers, her voice isn't upset or angry, just matter-of-fact, "No, it's not."
The rustling of her dress breaks the awkward silence and he watches as she finally finds the zipper and pulls it up her back. He opens his mouth to argue his innocence but she cuts him off quietly.
"Barbara has her purple unicorn brush and it's all she'll use."
Of course she would know that; while Puck knew all of the important things about Barbie, like her favorite ice cream flavor or her high scores on video games, he easily admits that Rachel handled the finer details of raising his daughter. Allergies and her favorite dresses and the way she liked her hair brushed.
He's still too proud to use his daughter as a bargaining chip, to tell Rachel that he needs her to help him raise Babs, but he knows that it won't last too much longer.
"I should go," her voice cuts into his thoughts. She's already at the door, those damn shoes dangling from her fingers. "I don't think whoever owns that brush would want me hanging around."
"She doesn't matter," he blurts.
"Goodbye, Noah."
Next chapter: Puck and Barbie's wild and crazy adventures in Lima, OH. A stripper, a night at the club, FELONY, a wedding proposal and fun with voicemails.