Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/578993.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Rachel_Berry/Noah_Puckerman
  Character:
      Rachel_Berry, Noah_Puckerman
  Additional Tags:
      Community:_wishlist_fic
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-01 Words: 3277
****** On eggshells ******
by JaqofSpades
Summary
     He tugs a single strand free and strokes it smooth, fingers drifting
     over her shoulder and halfway down her arm before he's done. Rachel
     forgets to breathe, in that moment. Forgets everything, then finds
     herself agreeing to let him wash her hair. Anything to break the
     hush.
Notes
     A/n: Written for wishlist_fic to arichey's prompt 'Puck washes
     Rachel's hair'. Fill-in-the-gaps fic set during “Funk” (1 x 22).
Rachel watches the muscle twitch in Puck's jaw, and the imminence of violence
pulls her out of her egg-induced stupor. “Take me home,” she blurts, and the
demand drags his murderous gaze away from Jesse, currently beating a fast
retreat.
Puck's fists unclench and his eyes soften as they move over her, and she knows
how she must look, egg yolk and albumen and broken shell in her hair and on her
skin and staining her clothes. She refuses to cry, she refuses … but the tiny
souls are fluttering against her skin, the unborn chickens screaming and
squalling inside her head.
She begins to shake, and the tears come, even though Rachel Berry most
definitely does not cry in public, not when she actually means it. But Puck's
the only one here now, she tells herself. It's just them and he'll take her
home soon - she can afford this moment of weakness. A few tears a breakdown
does not make, and his arms are warm around her, and right now she needs that.
When her sobs turn into sniffles, and her sniffles into embarrassing hiccups,
he rubs her back to signal he's letting go, then guides her to his truck. He
swings her up without the usual attempt to slide an errant hand up the back of
her thigh. It's because I'm covered in raw egg, she thinks, and her lower lip
begins to wobble again before she can get it under control. Also, jeans, her
subconscious points out drily.
“I'll get egg on your seat,” she says after they've been driving for a few
minutes. Her vocal cords, it seems, have emerged unscathed from the trauma.
He lifts his massive shoulders in a careless shrug, and his mouth twists into
that embarrassed half smile he adopts when he's caught being a good guy. Only
Puck, she finds herself thinking, would be embarrassed by his own chivalry. Her
reluctant knight, she thinks fondly, then blushes. He's not hers. That may well
be part of the problem.
She remembers Jesse's face, tight with rage after Puck's beautiful arms stole
the spotlight in Run Joey Run. He hadn't been worried about Finn, now she
thinks about it. It'd been Puck this, Puck that … as if the only thing that
mattered was the fact that someone else looked better in a leather jacket than
Jesse did. And out of a leather jacket too, she thinks uncharitably. Sprawled
on her bed ...
Rachel swallows a little, and tries to concentrate on the albumen, crusting on
her skin. Her eyes fall on a smear of yolk across her lap, already drying to an
orange smear on the denim. She mumbles a prayer for the souls of the little
chickens, and tries to find the lesson in all of this. Stick with your own
kind, she can't help thinking, her eyes returning to Puck's profile as he
stares out the windshield.
“Thought you were done with that Jesse douchebag anyway,” he says abruptly, and
there's an odd tone to his voice; anger, yes, but something else too. Normally,
she'd listen carefully and ask a few pointed questions to get to bottom of the
conundrum, but not today. Today she is feeling sad and violated and tiptoeing
around someone else's delicate emotions is beyond her.
“Please hurry up, Noah. I need to shower.”
He smirks to himself – she refuses to countenance it – and stomps on the pedal
to push the old truck up past the speed limit.
She's expecting some sleazy crack about him wanting to wash her back when he
surprises her, voice soft with compassion.
“I'm gonna need to help you get that shit out of your hair. It's all tangled in
back,” he offers, one hand leaving the steering wheel to pluck a few pieces of
eggshell free of the sodden mass. He tugs a single strand free and strokes it
smooth, fingers drifting over her shoulder and halfway down her arm before he's
done. Rachel forgets to breathe, in that moment. Forgets everything, then finds
herself agreeing to let him wash her hair. Anything to break the hush.
His touch is so gentle, she thinks. Perhaps all her bad decisions can be traced
back to that. Crude, brutish Puck touches her like she's made of spun gold, and
it makes her want to trust him.
(Makes her want other things, too, but it's better not to think about those.)
*
She turns the water right up, the pressure buffeting her as she stands
underneath and sobs. The way he looks at her when she emerges from the bathroom
tells her it was pointless. He heard anyway.
“I'll slash his tyres,” he growls, leaping up from his careless sprawl on her
bed. “Leave him a deposit on his fucking doorstep,” he says, pacing wildly.
“Break both of his legs. Like to see him dance then,” he threatens, shooting
her a wary glance. Rachel sighs. He's obviously waiting for her to jump in and
tell him off.
She should. One does not make light of a performer's obligations. But she can
still feel the sting of eggshell biting into her skin, and finds herself
wondering how serious Puck is. How far he is willing to go. (For her.)
Too far, she realises with a shudder. Puck doesn't deserve to be used like
that. Her former bully has become her truest ally - the first to offer help,
the only voice that ever speaks up to defend her. Trying to keep him out of
trouble is the least she can do.
“I don't want you involved in this,” she says curtly, and his jaw clenches. She
sighs – he would take it as a slight, her wanting to protect him - but they
don't talk about it, their strange not-relationship, so she can't explain why.
“We, Noah, are going to be the better people. Though I will be praying for
karma to intervene violently at some point in the near future,” she says
lightly. “Now. My hair. I was thinking I could wear my swimsuit in the shower,
and you could try and stand out of the way of the water?”
“Make it a bikini and you're on, Berry,” he leers, and she doesn't even bother
to roll her eyes, because, really Noah. So easy.
She'd been planning on wearing her new white bikini anyway.
*
He insists on fishing out the fragments of shell by hand, using his long
fingers to rake through the waist-length strands inch by painstaking inch. By
the time he declares her hair eggshell-free, her legs are weak and trembling,
and her fantasies running amok. And then he starts to massage her scalp,
shampooing, then rinsing, then shampooing, and rinsing again, so slowly and
carefully she wants to cry. (And touch him. Something more than the sly,
supposedly innocent touches they've both been sneaking in all along.)
The hot water is beginning run out when he abandons any pretence of washing her
hair, and settles in to play with it, wrapping it around his hands, stroking it
smooth, even attempting to braid a few strands. He's procrastinating, she
thinks, and she tries to beat it down, the outrageous idea that has been
teasing her from the minute they stepped in here.
“Shit Rach, I had no idea your hair was so long,” he says eventually, and
Rachel heaves a silent sigh, knowing it's time to get out. Something inside of
her is protesting that idea, demanding she does something to make him stay.
“It's the curl – makes it pull up. It's pretty long all wet,” she explains, and
then flushes. “Sorry – I know it's a pain to wash.”
“Don't mind.” He pauses for a moment, and she waits, wondering what she's going
to do if he goes there.
“It's fucking sexy,” he admits. She's hardly surprised - his sodden jeans are
struggling to hide the erection they've both been ignoring for the better part
of twenty minutes – but they had agreed not to do this. For both of their
sakes.
But she's struggling not move back against him, and push her body into his, and
take what he so clearly wants to offer. It wouldn't be fair, she tells herself.
He's not her leading man, and isn't prepared to be. It would be just another
way of using him.
But his fingers have been in her hair and on her scalp and sliding down her
back to part the long strands and on her shoulders to turn her into the water
to rinse, and oh God, right around her when he adjusted the faucet to cool the
water a little so she could rinse her face. Her blood is boiling, and her
breath is coming in sharp little pants that she suspects are giving her away.
“Oh,” is all she can say, but her body has its own tale to tell, the blush
blooming everywhere at once. She knows exactly where he's looking when he steps
in behind her, and can't help but look down herself - her dark olive skin is
suddenly so very, very pink, and nowhere more so than where she's spilling out
of the cups of the tiny white bikini.
Puck makes a hoarse sound of approval in the back of his throat, and he steps
forward until her back is glued to the delicious contours of his chest. She
turns her head a little, and her nose nudges the cold metal of his nipple ring,
and he's so close she can feel his reaction – the sudden intake of breath, and
the long, delicious shudder that follows. The way he needs to move in his
jeans, and just the thought of it makes her nipples rise into hard, aching
peaks, clearly visible under the wet cloth.
His groan echoes in the enclosed space, and his hands fist in her hair. He's
not being gentle, now, but she can't find it in herself to care. All those
silly little plans, silly little ideas about life and love and sex … they're
evaporating in the face of him, hot against her back as they stand under the
cool shower.
She doesn't even bother to hide her shudder when he yanks her hair aside to
whisper into her ear.
“You know what you need to forget about all this, Rach?”
She shouldn't ask. She knows the answer already, and likes the idea far too
much.
“What?” she breathes, and he moves even closer, practically pressing her up
against the wall. His free hand creeps around her hip, thumb caressing the bone
there, and fingers drawing tiny circles on the skin of her belly just above her
bikini bottoms.
“A good orgasm.”
Saying anything seems wildly inadvisable, given that a) she might beg him not
to stop, or b) he might take his hand away. So she simply blushes, and stays
very still, praying.
She should have known prayer wasn't advisable with the devil himself.
“Rach?”
Her moan is shockingly loud in the confines of the shower cubicle, and if the
wanton circle of her hips isn't a sufficiently clear invitation, the babble of
words that rushes past her lips certainly is.
“Oh yes. Please, Puck, please!” she begs, her own hand falling over his to inch
it down a little further, to the point where his long fingers have the
opportunity to slide under the edge of her bikini.
“You sure?” he pants, and she nods furiously, gnawing at her lip as need claims
her.
Her hips twitch helplessly as he slides his hand into her bikini bottoms, one
finger tracing up and down her slit while the others cup her gently. She moans,
and he laughs into her neck, licking and sucking at the skin there, marking
her.
“Open your legs a little,” he instructs, and she widens her stance, then nearly
clamps them back together when his fingers slip inside, all four of them
sliding in her wetness with shocking ease. She knows the mechanics – she's
known for years – but it's one thing to know all the names and locations, and
another to feel a boy's fingers learning those same contours.
“Gonna let me fuck you with my fingers, Rach?” he asks hoarsely, and she
glances up in confusion, because surely he is already?
“I could make you come just like this,” he explains quietly, nudging playfully
at her clit, “or ...” he tickles her a little, drawing circles around her
entrance, and his meaning is suddenly clear.
“Oh,” she gasps, and the way her hips are moving seems set to make the decision
for her. She bites down hard on her lip, because it feels so good, but … she
doesn't want to be just another of McKinley's technical virgins.
“'S okay, babe. We don't have to. Lotsa ways to make it good,” Puck whispers,
keeping his touch shallow and slow. “Relax, babe. Just want you to relax,” he
whispers, running his tongue up the curve of her neck, and using his other hand
to stroke her belly soothingly.
Her consciousness, however, has shrunk to the lazy movements of his fingers,
big circles, little circles, slow and then fast, and then occasionally, inching
higher to nudge at her clit. She gasps, at first, and he shies away, returning
to drifting his fingers everywhere but there. Then the broad circles shrink to
small ones, and his thumb nudges her once, twice, three times, making her groan
and twitch.
“Oh! Please Puck, there … stay there!”
He laughs into her neck. “Gotta trust me, Rach. We're going slow.”
“I don't want slow,” she wails, reaching up to slide her pinky into his nipple
ring. “Please!” she demands with a tiny tug.
He lets out a strangled yell, then pushes her forward into the wall, crushing
her with the weight of his body.
“Rach – you gotta behave. I'm horny as fuck and I'm hard as friggin' rock and
I'm trying to be a good guy here. So unless you wanna forget all about being a
virgin, we're gonna go slow. And ya gotta let go of me. Before ...” his voice
trails off, and she's left wondering what he would do. And how much she would
like it.
“What?” And is that seductive, teasing voice really hers?
He moves his hips in a slow circle against her lower back, and she can feel the
pressure behind the wet denim.
“Before I take these fuckin' things off and bend you over and slide right in,
Berry. And you'd like it, too. You'd beg me to fuck you, which is why we ain't
doing it, Rach.”
She turned her head to look at him, then, stung by the bitterness in his voice.
“Why? Why not?”
He looked away, easing his body backwards to let her turn around. She reaches
up to cup his chin, forcing him to look at her. “Noah?”
“Couldn't bear it if you regretted it,” he mumbles, meeting her eyes
reluctantly. “Know you're saving it for Finn or some shit.”
“I'll have you know, Noah Puckerman, that I'm saving it for myself! Nothing to
do with Finn,” Rachel says sharply. She drags in a deep breath, then shares her
biggest secret. “There's only been one boy I've ever wanted to do that with,
and it wasn't Finn, or even Jesse.”
His blank look is infuriating.
“You, numbskull! You're the only one I was ever even tempted by! Why do you
think we keep ending up like this?”
His mouth is hanging open, but he recovers quickly. “Never quite like this,
Rach.”
“No. Maybe not. But I always knew it was coming. I just thought I might be able
to hold out a little longer. Graduate high school first, perhaps. At least make
Senior year!”
He laughs at her peeved tone and gathers her close. “We don't have to do
anything you don't want to do. Ever,” he stresses, dropping a kiss in her hair.
Noah, she thinks, as she stares up at him, stretching onto her toes to bring
her lips to his. My Noah, she purrs as he strokes her tongue with his own, then
presses him back against the wall to deepen the kiss.
Mine, she decides as she undoes the button at his waist, and unzips the fly.
He looks down in surprise and she smiles up innocently, all the while trying to
manoeuvre his sodden jeans down over his legs.
“The problem's not with the wanting,” she confesses as his jeans finally hit
the floor of shower cubicle. One wondering hand is reaching out to stroke him
as she ponders the issue.
“It's more about … being me. Being different, I guess. Not like all the other
girls.”
She reaches out, and wraps her hand around him before sinking slowly to her
knees in front of him.
“But maybe this is nobody's business but our own. And if we can keep it that
way …” her tongue darts out, curious about taste and texture. His groan
reverberates throughout his body, tangible under her fingers, and she smiles,
knowing the rest of her sentence is unnecessary.
Puck is putty in her hands, and she's through being too scared to play with
him.
*
“Not here,” he pants, lifting his head from between her legs. She's come twice
– he insisted on at least one orgasm before she left the shower – and yes,
she's at the begging stage.
“You promised!”
“Yeah, but your first time should be in a bed. With a condom,” he points out
practically.
She throws the soap at him, and turns to face the wall, bracing herself with
her arms, and bending at the waist. Slowly.
“Puckerman. I'm on the pill. I know you get checked. Please.” She looks back
over her shoulder, and it's only when their eyes meet that he moves towards
her, gripping her hips loosely and nudging her gently with his … cock, she
thinks, biting her lip.
Puck's cock.
Oh God, his huge cock, pushing inside of her, breaking her in half …
Withdrawing, and sliding, and it feels … nice. He inches back inside again, and
her inner muscles clench suddenly, making them both jump with surprise.
“Rachel!” he moans, and suddenly pushes his way all the way in, and she can
feel him everywhere, every cell of her body, totally full of him. Totally his,
she thinks as her mouth opens to say … nothing. All she can do is hum, little
broken sounds joined together by long, noisy exhalations of pleasure.
Until she's screaming, that is.
The power of her lungs nearly deafens them both in the enclosed space, but
there's no way they're about to stop.
“Bed?” he asks, smirking.
“Only if you promise not to say I told you so. And do that again.”
“My bitch is bossy! I like it.”
“Shut it, Puckerman.”
*
They've got ten minutes before they need to head back for Glee, but this
conversation needs to be had.
Rachel lifts her head from his shoulder, and leans away from him a little to
give her sternest look the gravitas it deserves.
“No deposits, no property damage, no broken legs. But ...” Rachel draws in a
breath and savours it, this moment when she's poised to leap, to plunge into
that place of darkness and no coming back.
“I hate those cars they drive. I hate them,” she hisses, fingers digging tight
into his biceps with her vehemence. He nods, then kisses her hard, and she
thinks fuck the rest of Glee - she and Puck are the real team. Look out Vocal
Adrenaline. Look out McKinley High.
Rachel Berry is done walking on eggshells.
fin
 
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