Fic: Sixty-Four Colors
Title: Sixty-four Colors
Author: soliloquyrain
Pairing,Character(s): Puck/Rachel
Rating: R
Word Count: 1443
Spoilers: Up to Sectionals
Summary: 64-Color boxes with a sharpener on the back; Puck gets in touch with his creative side
Author's Notes: Un-beta'd. Dedicated to the fantastic becca_radcgg who has helped me tremendously with this, and is pretty much awesome.
I have shamelessly borrowed the name Sarah from Ohladybegood's fic, Set Myself on Fire because 1.) her fic is so awesome that it feels like canon, so you should read it, 2.) it's a lovely little Hebrew name, and 3.) it was the name of my first car, so I heart it.
__________
"How do you spell Trodden?"
"W-A-L-K-E-D," Puck tells his sister before shoving a brownie into his mouth, "Talk like a human being or you'll grow up to be like Berry, here."
Both Rachel and Sarah glare at him over the giant 64-box of Crayolas, and they look so alike that Puck raises his eyebrows in amusement.
"T-R-O-D-D-E-N," Rachel says, handing the girl a Magenta crayon.
Sarah sticks her tongue out at him and continues working on her poster in silence, only poking her head up every few minutes to ask a question.
With their mother working the night shift, Puck was stuck in charge of trying to help his sister with her school project--creating a poster to visualize a poem. Which meant, of course, as soon as she was out the door, he was on the phone with Rachel.
Not only is she the only member of Glee club who is still talking to him, but she's also like, a thousand times better at this whole school thing. Once he told her he had no idea who Robert Frost was, and he couldn't care less about that road, she sighed and agreed, chastising him on his severe lack of culture. He replied with a well-timed whatever and told her to bring snacks.
Which she totally did. Brownies. So, win-win.
_____
Sarah passes out on the loveseat a little after midnight, and it takes an entire 10 minutes of convincing (nagging) before Rachel can convince Puck to get off the couch and carry her upstairs. It takes him 15 minutes, and though he'd never admit it out loud, Rachel knows he's tucking her in.
When he clambers downstairs, he tosses her a look as he throws his hands up--universal sign for, there, are you happy?--before flopping himself down on the couch next to her and setting his feet up on the coffee table.
"Brats out like a light," he says, grabbing the remote and beginning his channel surf, "talking in her sleep about the road not taken. That's what I mean when I say school work isn't good for you."
She stands up and positions herself between him and the TV, resting a hand on her hip. "We should clean up," she says, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of The Daily Show, and bending over to collect the crayons that had rolled onto the ground.
Puck takes a moment to appreciate the view down her shirt before shrugging--she can't tell if he thinks she doesn't notice, or if he just doesn't care. "I'll do it in a bit."
"Why put off for tomorrow what--"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Puck interrupts, and he reaches out and grabs the hem of her skirt, pulling her to the side and out of his line of view. "Now be quiet, our fellow Jew is on the television."
She sighs and sits down next to him, leaning over to collect the crayon box from the coffee table. She starts arranging them, humming to herself softly. Rachel always had an order to her crayons--reds with the reds, oranges with the oranges, purples with the purples. Much like high school, she supposes.
Rachel steals a glance at Puck as she places the last of the purples in their place. He was definitely a Blue. Midnight Blue, maybe; dark and guarded.
They sit in silence for a long moment as she finishes cleaning. "I should be going," she says when she's down to the last few crayons, and he reaches over and plucks Sunglow Yellow from her grip.
"Yeah, I guess," he says with a shrug, and he traces the crayon across the back of her hand; she wonders if she could be a yellow--bright, cheerful, unique. "Thanks for helping out tonight. She probably would've failed otherwise."
"You're very welcome."
He looks at her briefly as he trails the crayon up her forearm and past her elbow, drawing large, elegant circles against her bicep. He teases the hem of her sleeve with the tip, pushing the material up as he drags the crayon to her shoulder.
"You should read that poem some time," she says, "it'd do you good." Though her voice is steady, it doesn't hide the shiver that passes through her body as he draws an invisible star--she knows that shape well--against her triceps.
He is focused on the task at hand, but his lips pull upward in a tiny, secret smile. "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood," he says, his voice just barely loud enough to hear. His voice sounds thick and rich; a deep Mulberry. "That's all I remember." He falls silent when a rough finger brushes soft skin, and it makes her gasp.
"I should really go." Her voice is just above a whisper as her eyes slip closed and he draws invisible squiggling lines along her shoulder.
"Yeah," his hand reaches out to trace patterns with the crayon along her other arm. He seems so absorbed in colouring her world with the bright yellowy hue in his hand he doesn't realize that he's a breath away from her, doesn't see that the crayon (and by extension, his hand) seems to be working of it's own volition and is tracing along her lip, inch by inch, until they separate for him.
He traces her bottom lip slowly before trailing the crayon down her cheek, past the soft curve where he neck meets her shoulder, over the dip of her collarbone, bringing it to a rest in the neckline of her shirt, just above the swell of her breasts, and her breath hitches in her throat. He stares at her for a long moment, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, keeping the crayon very still against her.
She doesn't realize that she's been slowly leaning backwards until she feels the arm of the couch against her back, and Puck is hovering over her, one of his hands near her hip, supporting his weight, and the other one dragging the crayon across her chest and down the length of her side. Her eyes flutter open as he wanders across her skirt and finds bare skin, tracing his name against her thigh.
A whimper escapes her lips as she feels the stick of wax travel back up her thigh, under her skirt, and trace along the elastic band of her panties. Puck makes a noise low in his throat as he presses the crayon against her, and whatever last bit of restraint he has breaks.
He crushes her lips with his own, dropping the crayon to bring his hands up her thighs, pushing her skirt up as he does so. She kisses him back tentatively, but when he slides his right hand between them and drag his fingertips across her pelvic bone, she moans into his mouth and deepens the kiss. The couch is small and there's barely any room to move, but somehow they fit into each other perfectly, and one of her legs comes up to his waist as he pins her body against the cushions.
Rachel can feel him pressing against the inside of her thigh and before she can consider it, she's moving her body, adjusting her hips, and then yes, he's right where they both want him to be. Puck groans against her lips and it sounds deep in her ears (Navy Blue). He grips her skirt into his fists and when he rocks against her, she sees colors; yellows and blues and greens.
He drags his lips down her neck and when he licks her clavicle she moans loud enough to make him worry that his sister isn't fully asleep. They find a rhythm easily, and it doesn't take much; her hips move in tandem with his four, five, six times, and then she is arching her body up against him while he breathes heavily against her skin.
They lie against each other in a messy heap, panting heavily, and there is a long beat before Puck can bring himself to release the grip he has on the material of her skirt. He pulls himself up so he is kneeling between her thighs, and with a small chuckle (it sounds like Periwinkle, he is definitely a Blue) he leans over the side of the couch to collect the Sunglow Yellow crayon that had fallen to the floor.
Rachel props herself up against the arm of the couch and smooths her skirt; she avoids his gaze, even though she can feel him staring at her intently and it makes her cheeks flush. Puck closes the space between them, and tucks the crayon behind her ear with the tiniest of smirks.
"Yellow looks good on you," he admits after a beat. He settles back down into the couch next to her and turns back to the TV to catch the last few minutes of The Daily Show, leaving her staring at him in disbelief.
__________
Author: soliloquyrain
Pairing,Character(s): Puck/Rachel
Rating: R
Word Count: 1443
Spoilers: Up to Sectionals
Summary: 64-Color boxes with a sharpener on the back; Puck gets in touch with his creative side
Author's Notes: Un-beta'd. Dedicated to the fantastic becca_radcgg who has helped me tremendously with this, and is pretty much awesome.
I have shamelessly borrowed the name Sarah from Ohladybegood's fic, Set Myself on Fire because 1.) her fic is so awesome that it feels like canon, so you should read it, 2.) it's a lovely little Hebrew name, and 3.) it was the name of my first car, so I heart it.
__________
"How do you spell Trodden?"
"W-A-L-K-E-D," Puck tells his sister before shoving a brownie into his mouth, "Talk like a human being or you'll grow up to be like Berry, here."
Both Rachel and Sarah glare at him over the giant 64-box of Crayolas, and they look so alike that Puck raises his eyebrows in amusement.
"T-R-O-D-D-E-N," Rachel says, handing the girl a Magenta crayon.
Sarah sticks her tongue out at him and continues working on her poster in silence, only poking her head up every few minutes to ask a question.
With their mother working the night shift, Puck was stuck in charge of trying to help his sister with her school project--creating a poster to visualize a poem. Which meant, of course, as soon as she was out the door, he was on the phone with Rachel.
Not only is she the only member of Glee club who is still talking to him, but she's also like, a thousand times better at this whole school thing. Once he told her he had no idea who Robert Frost was, and he couldn't care less about that road, she sighed and agreed, chastising him on his severe lack of culture. He replied with a well-timed whatever and told her to bring snacks.
Which she totally did. Brownies. So, win-win.
_____
Sarah passes out on the loveseat a little after midnight, and it takes an entire 10 minutes of convincing (nagging) before Rachel can convince Puck to get off the couch and carry her upstairs. It takes him 15 minutes, and though he'd never admit it out loud, Rachel knows he's tucking her in.
When he clambers downstairs, he tosses her a look as he throws his hands up--universal sign for, there, are you happy?--before flopping himself down on the couch next to her and setting his feet up on the coffee table.
"Brats out like a light," he says, grabbing the remote and beginning his channel surf, "talking in her sleep about the road not taken. That's what I mean when I say school work isn't good for you."
She stands up and positions herself between him and the TV, resting a hand on her hip. "We should clean up," she says, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of The Daily Show, and bending over to collect the crayons that had rolled onto the ground.
Puck takes a moment to appreciate the view down her shirt before shrugging--she can't tell if he thinks she doesn't notice, or if he just doesn't care. "I'll do it in a bit."
"Why put off for tomorrow what--"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Puck interrupts, and he reaches out and grabs the hem of her skirt, pulling her to the side and out of his line of view. "Now be quiet, our fellow Jew is on the television."
She sighs and sits down next to him, leaning over to collect the crayon box from the coffee table. She starts arranging them, humming to herself softly. Rachel always had an order to her crayons--reds with the reds, oranges with the oranges, purples with the purples. Much like high school, she supposes.
Rachel steals a glance at Puck as she places the last of the purples in their place. He was definitely a Blue. Midnight Blue, maybe; dark and guarded.
They sit in silence for a long moment as she finishes cleaning. "I should be going," she says when she's down to the last few crayons, and he reaches over and plucks Sunglow Yellow from her grip.
"Yeah, I guess," he says with a shrug, and he traces the crayon across the back of her hand; she wonders if she could be a yellow--bright, cheerful, unique. "Thanks for helping out tonight. She probably would've failed otherwise."
"You're very welcome."
He looks at her briefly as he trails the crayon up her forearm and past her elbow, drawing large, elegant circles against her bicep. He teases the hem of her sleeve with the tip, pushing the material up as he drags the crayon to her shoulder.
"You should read that poem some time," she says, "it'd do you good." Though her voice is steady, it doesn't hide the shiver that passes through her body as he draws an invisible star--she knows that shape well--against her triceps.
He is focused on the task at hand, but his lips pull upward in a tiny, secret smile. "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood," he says, his voice just barely loud enough to hear. His voice sounds thick and rich; a deep Mulberry. "That's all I remember." He falls silent when a rough finger brushes soft skin, and it makes her gasp.
"I should really go." Her voice is just above a whisper as her eyes slip closed and he draws invisible squiggling lines along her shoulder.
"Yeah," his hand reaches out to trace patterns with the crayon along her other arm. He seems so absorbed in colouring her world with the bright yellowy hue in his hand he doesn't realize that he's a breath away from her, doesn't see that the crayon (and by extension, his hand) seems to be working of it's own volition and is tracing along her lip, inch by inch, until they separate for him.
He traces her bottom lip slowly before trailing the crayon down her cheek, past the soft curve where he neck meets her shoulder, over the dip of her collarbone, bringing it to a rest in the neckline of her shirt, just above the swell of her breasts, and her breath hitches in her throat. He stares at her for a long moment, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, keeping the crayon very still against her.
She doesn't realize that she's been slowly leaning backwards until she feels the arm of the couch against her back, and Puck is hovering over her, one of his hands near her hip, supporting his weight, and the other one dragging the crayon across her chest and down the length of her side. Her eyes flutter open as he wanders across her skirt and finds bare skin, tracing his name against her thigh.
A whimper escapes her lips as she feels the stick of wax travel back up her thigh, under her skirt, and trace along the elastic band of her panties. Puck makes a noise low in his throat as he presses the crayon against her, and whatever last bit of restraint he has breaks.
He crushes her lips with his own, dropping the crayon to bring his hands up her thighs, pushing her skirt up as he does so. She kisses him back tentatively, but when he slides his right hand between them and drag his fingertips across her pelvic bone, she moans into his mouth and deepens the kiss. The couch is small and there's barely any room to move, but somehow they fit into each other perfectly, and one of her legs comes up to his waist as he pins her body against the cushions.
Rachel can feel him pressing against the inside of her thigh and before she can consider it, she's moving her body, adjusting her hips, and then yes, he's right where they both want him to be. Puck groans against her lips and it sounds deep in her ears (Navy Blue). He grips her skirt into his fists and when he rocks against her, she sees colors; yellows and blues and greens.
He drags his lips down her neck and when he licks her clavicle she moans loud enough to make him worry that his sister isn't fully asleep. They find a rhythm easily, and it doesn't take much; her hips move in tandem with his four, five, six times, and then she is arching her body up against him while he breathes heavily against her skin.
They lie against each other in a messy heap, panting heavily, and there is a long beat before Puck can bring himself to release the grip he has on the material of her skirt. He pulls himself up so he is kneeling between her thighs, and with a small chuckle (it sounds like Periwinkle, he is definitely a Blue) he leans over the side of the couch to collect the Sunglow Yellow crayon that had fallen to the floor.
Rachel props herself up against the arm of the couch and smooths her skirt; she avoids his gaze, even though she can feel him staring at her intently and it makes her cheeks flush. Puck closes the space between them, and tucks the crayon behind her ear with the tiniest of smirks.
"Yellow looks good on you," he admits after a beat. He settles back down into the couch next to her and turns back to the TV to catch the last few minutes of The Daily Show, leaving her staring at him in disbelief.
__________