acontrollist | Broadway Baby

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Broadway Baby

Rachel's packing when the phone rings. It's not a ringtone she immediately recognizes (Don't Rain on My Parade, her general one) as belonging to one particular person, but when she looks down at the number she contemplates not answering at all. It's the casting director for Spring Awakening, that much she's sure of. And since it'd be rude to not answer, she picks up the phone, all the while preparing herself for the worst.

"Rachel Berry speaking!" The girls' got a game face if nothing else. "Yes, yes, of course I remember!...O-oh?....Oh. Oh my God, oh my-yes. Yes, yes of course! I'd be honored! Thank you so much!" The next 5 minutes of the conversation goes that way. Oh my God and Thank you so much and This means so much and a million other exclamations intended to keep her from crying on the phone with her -- her -- casting director. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I'll see you soon, then!" She finally hangs up after a few more thanks yous, dropping her phone on the bed and turning to bolt into the living room.

Of course, she manages to stop herself halfway down the hall. Be cool, Berry. After a few deep breaths, she manages to cool her jets and stride into the living room instead. Noah's watching some silly game and she knows he hates it when she gets in front of the tv, but she's going to do it anyway. Crossing in front of him, she pulls his ankle down from where it's resting on the opposite thigh and takes a seat right in his lap. After prying his beer out of his hands and wrapping her arms around his neck she leans in, kissing a slow trail up his neck to his ear.

"Have you ever made love to a Broadway Starlet, Mr. Puckerman?"

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"Your boobs bounce," he whispers in her ear, grinning. It takes only a moment and a quick view of bare skin before his hand slides into her yoga pants and strokes along the crease of her hip. "You can pick, I don't care." He shows everything off, and spends enough time shirtless that anyone around him would quickly see it anyway. Regardless, he likes the idea of having something private, just for the two of them to share.

With a groan of mock irritation, he steps away from Rachel, crosses his arms over his chest, and grasps the hem of his shirt; pulling his arms upward and uncrossing them as he does so, he teasingly tosses his shirt at her, his muscles rippling. "Fuck, I hope I still look this good in five years. I hope you got a belly that's round as fuck, though. I wanna see that. You know how hot that sounds?"

Another elbow to the ribs. More giggling. Pretty much her usual reaction to everything at this point. Turning, she gives him a once over. "Maybe the back of your shoulder. Or on your chest, over your heart...It'll give you motivation to stay all...Abercrombie and Hot." Grinning, she leans in to peck his lips, fingers walking over his chest. "One of those two." Both of them spend (or will be spending) so much time changing in front of other people that no matter where the tattoos are, there'll be no doubt that they belong to each other.

"Shut it, Puckerman." She raises on eyebrow in response to the groan, zooming the camera in and getting a slow pan of his chest. "Note to Rachel: Help him keep his figure, kay?" Zooming out again, she turns the camera on herself, lifting her shirt to show her flat, toned stomach. "Look at this, Rachel. Look. It's gone now, isn't it? It's all Noah's fault. Hit him. And then let him knock you up again. Pregnant is okay. Fat is not."

"Being married to you's motivation to stay hot, baby. I don't wanna be a fat cop on the red carpet with my girl, you know? I don't want them making donut jokes about me," he protests, shivering as he grabs her finger in an empty fist, stealing another kiss from her lips as his other hand slips further into her pants.

"But you're Rachel fucking Puckerman and you're gonna be hot no matter what," he reassures her, reaching out with gentle fingertips to nudge her shirt up over her ribs, his thumb lightly twirling around the circular rim of her bellybutton. "You finished talking yet, babe?"

"That's right. You have to stay hot for the red carpet." She giggles, leaning up onto her toes to kiss him back. The camera in her hand is forgotten again, hanging over his shoulder as they kiss. At least it gets a decent view of his ass for a few minutes. After a minute she leans back, getting a close up of his nipple ring. "Also this. Hallelujah for body modification."

"That's entirely untrue." She hands over the camera, tugging her shirt over her head. "Oh, I'm never done talking." Leaning up, she pecks his lips, sinking her teeth into the bottom one. "But that's okay. You like it when I make noise."

"Gotta stay hot to keep you," he counters with a grin, knowing very well that she loves him for more than just his body. [Although, his physique? It's definitely a perk. Speaking of perks, fuck, he loves her boobs in this shirt.] "You're gonna be so fucking sexy with that tattoo," he whispers against her lips as the kiss naturally breaks and he pulls back gently, licking his lips, arching his back to display taut muscle for the camera. "Mmmmm. You ever think 'bout getting yours done, babe? They'd look fucking hot. I'd play with 'em, like, all the time."

As he balances the camera with one hand, his free hand moves to cup her breast, rolling her nipple between two fingers. "Fuckin' love it when you make noise. You gonna scream when you come for me, baby? Tell the neighbors who's making you come? S'me. S'always gonna be me. You're gonna miss me tomorrow, baby. You're gonna miss me so fucking much when you're at Coco's and I'm not there to make you feel good. Tell me, baby. Tell me how you're gonna have to lock yourself in Coco's bathroom and get yourself off with your fingers to my voice 'cause you're gonna miss me so much. Tell me. 'Cause I'm gonna be in bed with you on the phone getting off, too."

"You know that's not true." She pokes his chest, grinning against his lips. While his looks are definitely a plus, there are also other things about him that she'd be more upset to lose. The way he makes he laugh, how good he makes her feel. How her worse days with him are better than her best days in Lima. Hell, pretty much everything. Except his sleep farting. She can do without that. "Breastfeeding would be difficult with those, wouldn't it?"

She arches into his hands, stretching her arms above her head to show off for the camera. Reaching back down, she cups one hand around his and leans up to kiss his jaw, her other hand popping up the button on his jeans and slipping her hand inside. "I am. I'm going to miss you so much...I won't be able to sleep. All that adrenaline and excitement and no way to get rid of it. And the bed won't smell like you and I won't be able to hear you singing in the shower at 5 in the morning..." It's not all about the sex, after all.

"Prove it," he counters with a playful nip to her lower lip, "You got time. S'not like we're having a kid now." And even when they did, finally, he'd happily sacrifice his two favorite things for their baby. [Breastfeeding would make them bigger, right? And he could totally use them as squirt guns.] "We could take them out or something. I bet chicks do it all the time."

"Think about how good it's gonna be when we're together again," he promises. "We're gonna go and get our ink done and be all badass together, babe, and then come back here... I swear I'll have the place clean and everything. S'gonna be so good when you come back, baby." He gasps out the last word as she squeezes him, and he arches into her grasp. "Fuck, Rach," his fingers move, hands cupping and kneading at her breasts once more, "I don't want you to go."

"I like more about you than your body, Noah." She taps her fingers against his chest, sucking briefly at his bottom lip in return. "If you got fat, you'd still be the same person on the inside. Not that I'd let you. Being fit is essential to your safety-." Not the time for such talk, Rachel. She shrugs, glancing down at her breasts. "I suppose. I don't know. I'll think about it." She'd have to take them out an awful lot over the course of the show too, not that he knows that yet. They'll have to talk about it later.

She nods, pressing her face against his neck. "Don't care if it's clean. Not leaving the bed for a couple days anyway." Neither of them have obligations for the next few days. Until they get really married, it's as good as a honeymoon as they're gonna get. And maybe they'll decide to get up and go to Coney or have a picnic in Central Park or just hop in his truck and see where they end up. But first, they're going to come back here and do exactly what they're doing right now. But as husband and wife. "I don't want to go." Her fingers curl around him, her stroke firm as they reapproach the bed. "But tradition...just..." She whimpers, arching into his hands. "Next time we're here, I'll be your wife..."

"Baby, carrying a gun and shooting like a boss is essential to my safety," he murmurs. "I wear Kevlar. S'why I shower when I get off work. I sweat like a bitch in that." Her gaze falls to her breasts, his own neck craning as he tilts the camera just a bit to see between their bodies. "Fuck, Rach. They're perfect. I know 'Tana's are huge but you got a perfect pair. M'serious." It hadn't stopped them, not much, when the three of them had spent the night together, learning (and re-learning) each other, but it's something important that he swears that she needs to know.

He's been living with her since they left Lima and practically glued to her since midway through their senior year; he doesn't trust himself when left to his own devices with a television and a refrigerator, without Rachel as inspiration to keep the house clean. [He likes his shit to be tidy. He likes to be able to find what he wants when he wants it. He really likes that a clean house means Rachel's more in the mood for sex, 'cause dirty shit or dishes that aren't washed just makes her bitchy. He gets it.] He needs to just make sure, dammit, that their home is clean. No pizza boxes lying around, no beer bottles, no Newlywed Hideaway turned into Renegade Bachelor Pad overnight. "Don't want you to go, either," he murmurs, reaching out to set the camera [at least temporarily] on the bedside table. "We can say fuck tradition and do the tradition thing for the big wedding. Wanna... wanna call Coco and say you're staying?"

"They'll get bigger." She says, leaning back so that he can get a good angle with the camera. "In a few years. Some women go up a two or three cup sizes when they're pregnant." Even if Rachel has no intention of getting pregnant anytime soon, she's started to notice that Noah really likes the idea of it. Or more specifically, the way her body would handle it. She doesn't know if it's a man thing or a Noah thing but Rachel isn't above manipulating the things that turn her ~~boyfriend~~ fiance on.

Rachel trusts him plenty. They're both actually surprisingly (at least on Noah's part) tidy people and they've spent enough time living on two totally separate schedules that sometimes it's like they're living alone anyway. "Or. You could fuck me now and take comfort in the fact that the anticipation that will grow over the next few days will make our wedding night explosive." Not that it isn't always, but still. Sex between them is always on a whole other level when they've been separated for a few days. And with the whole...getting married and getting tattoos of each others fingerprints thing, she can only guess that everything will be ten times stronger.

Once the camera is gone, she pulls him back down, cupping his jaw so she can take her time kissing him.

He doesn't tell her about Quinn's, about how they got bigger. She's out of sight, out of mind, and they never really spoke about her much in Lima, anyway. For all intents and purposes, Rachel and Shelby are Beth's mothers, and Quinn doesn't exist. [Even if he knows the pregnancy-boobs thing to be true, because he saw it happen with Quinn. TRUE. DAT.] "Mmmmmm," he agrees, brushing his lips once more over hers.

"Or we could just fuck the whole time and make it really fucking explosive anyway," he breathes, his voice shuddering as he drops kisses over her collarbone. "We could fuck so hard that you can't fucking walk when we get married, I gotta carry you in. Make you come so hard you're dripping so fucking full, baby. You know I wanna do that. Wanna fill you up." He can't explain how badly he wants to possess her. It seems silly [sounds silly, stupid and anti-feminist] but he's all about these sweet kisses, brushes of his stubble against the smooth skin of her neck, and he wants to mark her [that fucking tattoo, it's going to turn him on for years, even just thinking of it] because he's about to lose her for 24 - 48 hours and he doesn't want to let her go, even if it'll be so worth it when he's finally got her back in his arms.

He moves easily, drawing her toward the bed, nudging her hips in encouragement to climb up onto the mattress. "Lie down," he murmurs, hurried even against the slow brushes of her mouth against his own, even as she tries to take things slowly, savoring them [he wants more, he wants fast]. "Want you, Rach. Can't wait for the slow shit. Need you fucking now and then more."

His suggestion makes her shudder even if she shakes her head anyway, head tilting back for him while he kisses across her neck and collarbone. Her throat is dry already, struggling to work over his head to speak, to swallow. "You will." She tells him. "You already do. Always." Because they haven't used a condom since about 2 months after they started sleeping together, so he always fills her up. If he talked about possessing her, about owning her and her being his anywhere else, she'd probably get her feathers up and there'd be a fight about his "Male, chauvinistic, neanderthal tendencies" and how she's "not his property". But here, naked and stumbling back towards their bed, his stubble and fingertips burning into her skin, it's hot. Here, she wants to be his.

When he nudges her back, she takes his wrist and sits down on the bed, sliding back until she's stretched along the length of the mattress and pulling him down on top of her. "Yes." She agrees, spreading her legs around him and finding his lips again as soon as he's close enough. "Yes. Now. Pin me down?"

A couple of times, he's held her wrists up above her head or laced their fingers together and pressed their joined hands to the mattress that way. And it's rare, but occasionally, it's something she'll ask for. To be completely at his mercy for a little bit. To be his.

"I know," he tells her quietly, despite their discussion a few days earlier at Coco's Christmas party. He's still waiting for the bomb to drop where she decides, however temporarily, that she wants to go back to using condoms with him because she's afraid that somehow they'll get burned. She's his and they both know it even if the words aren't always spoken aloud, but he wants to see her and immediately have it clear to himself and to every other person he sees that she's his, that he's hers. In the animal world, he'd just pee on her and mark his territory, but this isn't the animal world; he needs to be more creative than that.

He carefully arranges his body, legs spread on either sides of her hips, knees digging into the mattress as his hips press gently against hers. Her heels rest against the backs of his thighs, his long fingers wrapped around her wrists only to tighten at her request and hold her more firmly to the mattress. "M'right here," he tells her softly, his hazel gaze locked on hers. They've made it this far and they're about to take a fucking huge step in their relationship, and - strangely - he isn't afraid. Before Rachel, commitment would have had him running for the nearest exit; this only makes him lean in and kiss her more, rolling his hips against hers, his teeth nipping lightly at her lips between kisses.

Every logical bone in her body says that maybe they should go back to using condoms. His track record with fertility isn't great, no matter how long it's been and especially with Rachel's luck regarding winning streaks and how quickly they love to come to abrupt ends, she's thinking maybe, with everything being borderline fucking perfect for them, a baby is the perfect way for God to throw her that fuck you that she thinks she's way overdo for. But she's not worried about that. Not right now. Right now? They're getting married and she's going to be on Broadway and he not only graduated high school but he's one of New York's finest and all of her dreams are about to come true in the span of the next few days. Instead of waiting for everything to crumble, at least right now, she's going to enjoy it while it lasts.

She spreads her legs around him, knees bent over the hard muscle of his thighs. Everything feels so slow, suddenly, the deliberation of his movements betraying his earlier eagerness. He holds her tight, not enough to hurt (never enough to hurt) but the feeling of her wrist bones pressed tight to his palms makes her gasp. "I know." She breathes, rolling her hips up to meet his, her breath shallow, needy against his lips as they kiss and she tries to work herself down onto his cock the way they were both so desperate for a moment ago.

Quinn/Beth were one time, one in probably a million times that he's had sex. One time that his BAMF swimmers found the Promised Land and planted their little Puckasaurus flag in the ground and created a whole new Puckster. Beth is fucking amazing, and he would give anything to someday - someday! - have a kid like that, but not like that. He doesn't want to go through that again, the stress and the pain and the self-hatred and guilt. That's not the way he wants to have a kid. When it happens to him ~~and Rachel~~, he wants it to be a good thing. To be happy, wanted, excited. He wants ~~Rachel~~ his woman to pee on that fucking stick not scared, but happy, excited. He wants her to be happy at the thought that she might be having his kid, with him. He wants her to want him there. He wants to know that he'll be there, that moment until the end, instead of finding out the way he found out about Beth.

Right now's not the right time for them, and he knows it.

If it happens accidentally, because sometimes shit just happens and there's nothing you can do about it because it happens when you don't expect it [like falling in love with Rachel], then he's just gonna hold his woman and tell her he loves her and that they'll do this and be a family. He's thought a lot about it, what would happen if it happened. You think about those things when it's already happened to you. When life fucks you over once, you come up with a contingency plan if it decides to fuck you over again. And then you grab life by the balls and tell it that it won't fuck you over again. When life fucks you, you tell it to go to hell, and you go and be happy with your woman and your kid.

He didn't exactly factor Broadway into the mess of things, but... Idina's a fucking superstar, and she's got a kid. Barbra has one kid, and she's fucking Josh Brolin's stepmother. (Dude is a BAMF. No Country for Old Man? That was the shit.) Eventually... it wouldn't be the end of their lives, right? He's had so much time to think about things in the time between Coco's party and now that now when she wriggles down against his hips, slick and hot and muscled thighs, he swallows his groan and goes with it. He won't challenge what she wants because it's been, from the beginning of this, what he's wanted, too. "M'right here," he repeats, rolling his hips harder, sheathing himself inside her smoothly [she's so fucking wet and practically made for him; it's easy]. "I love you. Love you, Rach."

Rachel's had pretty much the same plan for her life since she was 12. She was going to graduate high school (with honors, of course), and her incomparable talent would win her an easy admission to ~~Juliard~~ NYADA. In school, she'd star or support in every play they put on and when she graduated, she would live off of her trust fund (of course, with scholarships and her father's support, not to mention voice tutoring students who wanted to broaden their talents, she wouldn't need it while she studied) for the 6 months, tops, that it would take her to land a Broadway or Off-Broadway role. By 25, she'd have a Tony and after she won that, love would be easy. She'd never have to compete with girls like Santana and Quinn (in Rachel's dream world, a stripper and a disillusioned housewife by now) again. She would be pick of the litter. She'd be the one who turned heads as she strolled down the street, decked out in whatever designer duds her personal designer (Kurt Hummel, of course) dressed her in. She'd be grown up, beautiful, experienced, perfect, and men would flock to her. She'd have her pick, and only the smartest, most attractive, most talented (in his field and out) would be given her time.

And when she felt ready, when she knew he was the one, she'd give herself over to him and it would be as perfect as the rest of her life. Passionate and amazing and all the things the movies say that losing your virginity can't be. Soon afterwards, they'd have a perfect, lavish wedding in Central Park (also planned and designed by Kurt Hummel) and after honeymooning (she could never decide on Paris or Italy), they'd return home and after two years, she'd retire from her show (or if her show came to an end soon before that, she'd stop auditioning) and they'd plan a family. As much as she'd loved growing up an only child, she'd always wanted more than one child of her own. More than two. Once plans were solidified, they'd settle down and have children.

All of this, she'd written down and revised, over and over, for 6 years. And the day she left for New York, she'd stood in her room and poured over it. All these hopes and dreams that seemed so far away, so impossible now, and she'd been near tears when there'd been a knock on her door jamb. When she turned, she'd come face to face with Noah, who'd only smiled and nodded to the picnic basket in the corner. Food for the ride. Grab your shit, Berry. We're gettin' the fuck outta here. is all he'd said before he headed down the stairs to the truck idling outside.

And when she pitches the notebook into the wastebasket near her bed, she thinks maybe, the part about that amazing, talented boy who loves her, who makes her feel more perfect and beautiful than Santana and Quinn will ever be, is the only part that matters. That it's the only part she got right.

Maybe 2 or 3 months ago, if they'd slipped up, embracing their mistake would have been easier. Sure, there probably would have been anger. Fear. But coming to terms with what they'd done, getting excited, would have been infinitely easier. But now? She'll have to back away from her dream job, give up everything she's worked so hard for and the fear that she'd resent Noah and/or the baby is worse than the thought of having to give up Wendla. Because she loves him. She knows that he's an amazing father and that she could never ask for anything better for her child. And she can't do that to him again. She can't be the one who makes him feel like he's not. Like he can't be. Like he's not good enough all over again. Thankfully, they both agree that now's not the right time and he's agreed to be as careful as she wants to be.

Not that that matters, right now.

"I know." Her voice gives out, turns to nothing but air as he drops his hips down and slips inside, so easy, as if he's made to be there (maybe he is). Her nails dig into the palm of her hand and she whimpers, chasing his lips for more of those soft, lingering kisses. "I love you. I love you so much. So much."

Edited 2012-03-05 16:14 (UTC)

He rolls his hips, skin against skin, bone against bone; he can't possibly slide any deeper into her body unless he physically crawls inside her skin. [Put the lotion in the basket!]

"Rach," he murmurs, his eyes dark and voice low. "Ever think we'd - like, be here? Together?" Sometimes their lovemaking is full of laughter, tickles [his ribs particularly], grinning and giggling and rolling around until they dislodge on the bed and have to manage to still themselves for long enough to actually make love again [he tries to pin her down so she won't tickle him, but it usually doesn't work]. Other times, they're silent, or harsh, or frantic. Times like now, they're slow and whispering, back and forth as they move the same, as he sets the pace from his position atop her and his fingers pushing the backs of her hands and her wrists harder into their mattress.

The red light of the video camera is steady as it records them, and the slow motions of their bodies in the room's light; they'll watch this in five years and marvel at how much has changed, and how little has changed that matters. They'll still be together, still in love, only louder and prouder and more public than ever. They'll be bigger, and have more, and be more. These times, though, and this year, it's chilly outside and it's just the two of them in some of the best days of their lives, and although they know that there is so much more to come, maybe this quiet is preferable, right now. Who knows if they'll have the luxury and spontaneity of these moments in five years? Who knows if they'll begin before the interruption of a baby's cry, or morning sickness, or they'll work overlapping shifts for a time, or if he'll be injured in the line of duty, or worse? Nobody knows. In this moment, he has her, and she him. No one else knows, and nothing else matters. She was never in his plan, and he didn't realize that he needed her until she was in his bedroom, barging into his house the way that she barged into his life - uninvited, but the best thing that ever happened to him, on both counts.

"M'so proud of you for this," he murmurs on one deep thrust, meeting her lips with his own in a slow kiss.

Edited 2012-03-23 18:19 (UTC)

"Hu-ah." Sorry, Noah, but she's not entirely up to conversation right now. It takes her a second to process what he's said, to break her eyes away from his (they're so fucking dark and pretty when he's like this) and try to focus her brain on something other than spreading her legs wider, rocking harder, getting him deeper, more. "I-." She gasps, her hands squeezing tight at his. "Yes. I...yeah. A-after..." She plants her feet against the mattress inside of his knees, pressing up against him and taking a shaky breath. "After prom in-. My room. You never. Like that before."

She's talking about the second time that night, after they'd fucked frantically against the goalpost on the football field. After they'd gone back to her empty house and stood at the end of her bed in her dim room and undressed each other in silence, too busy pressing sweet, lingering kisses to each other's lips to speak. And then he'd pressed her into her mattress and they just rocked, slow, against each other, nothing but soft gasps and kisses and whispers of each other's names passing their lips. Until she came, slow like everything else, clinging to him and exploding from the inside out. And maybe, at the time, it hadn't struck her as odd. But then he fell asleep, and she realized as she drifted off after him, that something had shifted and she didn't even notice. Also, he was spooning her. They'd cuddled, but spooning was a new one.

"Just. Figured out I wasn't-..." She whines, fluttering around him and trying to get him to go a little faster. "Alone. Noah. Baby. Please." She's not above begging at this point. They have all night to go slow and savor what'll be the last time until after they're married. But right now, she wants.

"'M proud of you. For everything." Not everything, of course, but. He's been working so hard and doing so well, proving that everything everyone back in Lima said about him was wrong. That he was more than a Lima Loser. She kisses him back, but it breaks apart as she has to gasp for air. "There."

The entire weekend spent together, her fathers away with the practice, had been the icing on the cake [Mmmm, food]. His mother, if she'd noticed at all, was probably picking out wedding invitations or daydreaming about future Jewish, non-delinquent grandchildren. [Or something. He and Rachel were rarely apart at that point. Everyone noticed.] He had spent the time wrapped up in her, her feet in his lap as they ate, her body sprawled over his as they watched a movie, his head in her lap as she stroked his prickly scalp and he closed his eyes in peace until he woke and pulled her against his body, her bottom cradled in his hips [he loves big spoon when it comes to her; it had just felt good and natural at the time, and he'd rolled with it] and they'd started it all over again.

"Never alone," he pants, the words a soft exhale of breath before he drops another kiss on her lips. "Never fucking - alone again, baby." She's got him and she's got Beth, if she never has anybody else in her life. Beth calls her Mommy these days, natural and easy, and he can't help but smile at his girls when they're out on a crisp afternoon and do his best to spoil them when his Rachel is clasping his arm and his - their - daughter is skipping in front of them, at their sides, alternating between holding Daddy's hand and Mommy's hand, twirling like a princess and roaring like a dinosaur. She's a Puckerman, even if it will be a few days before she has a legal right to the name.

At her begging, the raking of his hips grows harsher, more intense; he knows what he wants and precisely how to take it from her body, how to give her the pleasure she seeks [quickly, in all the right places, with all the love he can make her feel]. His fingers tighten in rhythms against her wrists, her toes wiggling against his calves as her feet arch in pleasure with every hard thrust.

"Never." She nods, breathing shallow between their lips as she clings to him. She has him and they both have Beth who may be the spitting image of a mother no one ever discusses but she's Puck and Shelby (and by extension, Rachel) through and through. They're branding her with Temple and Broadway and classic rock and all the love any child could want and the more she smiles and calls Rachel 'Mommy' and turns into an amazing, brilliant little girl the more Rachel's impatience for her Tony becomes about being ready for a family of her own than it is about being ready for her time to shine.

She's trying to speak, his name, encouragements, pleas but all she can really do is work her throat around the words and try to get in enough air to get them out. Her hips are moving without her permission, bones grinding together and she knows the next time they make love, they'll have to be wary of the tattoo on her hip, only a few hours old and starting to sting less and less with every touch from her ~~boyfriend~~ husband. "I love you. So much."

He thrusts forward, hard, and mutters, "Gonna fuck you so hard you feel me tomorrow," before pulling back, only to lunge forward once more. He has more self-control than she does, fractions of words bubbling from between her lips and he swears he hears his name and a little profanity in there, but maybe that's more his imagination and less her actual whispers. His Rachel's body moves against his own almost automatically, her hips shifting as his yield space and immediately demand it once more, fingers squeezing and it's a near certainty that she'll have lengthy bruises circling her wrists that match the width of her fingers, and possibly crescent-shaped indentations where his nails have bitten just hard enough into her thin skin. His shoulders flex, muscle beneath skin glistening with sweat, and he opts to focus on motion and sensation rather than speech at the moment. He doesn't think these days about the ways that he's changed her [she never really changed, never really needed to change] so much as the way that he and Beth have impacted her, but the ways that she's changed his life? He could write a fucking book. The way that he loves her as they rock together, as he presses his forehead lightly to hers and shares her breath as he moves fiercely, is just one line on a very long list.

Her self control, her coherency, her awareness of anything but him, the things he's doing to her, they're all shot. Her own breath is loud in her ears, harsh gasps for air between the kisses she seeks out every couple of breaths. It doesn't matter to her that her lungs are burning, that her head is swimming from the pleasure and the lack of oxygen. What matters is having him closer, having every inch of her touching him that she can for as long as she can. If passing out wouldn't put an end to everything, she wouldn't stop kissing him at all. Her hands are starting to slip, the thin sheen of sweat on both of their skin starting to make any sort of friction difficult. The tops of her thighs are shiny with sweat and her own wetness and even though it's pointless, she winds her legs around his waist to pull him deeper, fight for more against the slickness attempting to make things difficult. He drops his forehead against hers as he thrusts up against her g-spot and she cries out, so close. "Noah." Her voice sounds wrecked. Nothing like herself at all. "Noah-...so. Baby, I'm so-..."

The woman who's always in control of everything tends to lose control when it comes to really really good sex, her lips messily brushing over his, the corner of his mouth and his chin, nails scratching at the tops of his hands as his fingers slip a little on her wrists, his palms sweaty against her forearms, his body forewarned with the tightness of her body and the urgency of her words. Her slender thighs loop around his waist, muscles rigid against the small of his back as he shifts [his range of motion is so fucking limited now; he's used to it, normally, but this is - intense]. He'll forget this except for the moment, the adrenaline and endorphins and all that good shit, that love, coursing through his veins, but the light of the camera is constant and it'll outlast his memory and his stamina for the night. "Me, too," he manages, voice ragged, nearly hoarse. He shifts his hips as he moves deep, not quite rolling them, adjusting his angle and clumsily stealing a kiss. "Please."

In 10, maybe 15, maybe 20 minutes, they'll be back here. A different position, maybe a little rougher, maybe not, but they'll be sweaty and clinging and gasping for air around their need for each other. And like every other time, it'll be better than the last. But right now? She's not worried about what will happen in 20 minutes. 20 days. 20 years. She's trapped in the present by his weight, his scent and his breath and the seemingly endless edge of her orgasm. She kisses him back, sloppy, panting around their lips, sobbing gently as she chases her release with hard, fast rolls of her hips. Her pleas join his, nails digging into the skin of his hands, the soles of her feet slipping on the skin of his calves until finally, finally, she arches away to try and breathe as she comes. The blood rushing in her ears just barely manages to mute her screams, the rest of her body shaking. She tugs her hands free, cupping his jaw to try and regain some control of the kiss but she fails, unable to get coordinated around her moans and shaking. "Noah, Noah, Noah, b-God..."

She's nearly incoherent, babbling, Noah and God and more, moaning and screaming, panting with sharp breaths and cries of pleasure. He's fucking a Broadway starlet, just as she'd promised, fulfilling a fantasy that had been present in both of their minds since the very day she'd crawled into his bed for the first time after her NYADA rejection [whether they'd been willing to admit it or not]. "Rach," he moans, his voice low, eyes half-lidded in ecstasy as he moves, back and forth, back and forth, the rhythm automatic and quick, now, as he chases his own pleasure now that they've found hers together. Her toes still indent into the muscles of his calves, nails still digging crescents into the backs of his hands as he holds them tightly, her body still shaking beneath his as he arches his own body against hers and cries her name aloud in a huge rush of breath and heat and fluid as he pulses within her body [so familiar]. His mouth skitters against hers, his kiss wet and sloppy, uncoordinated because just about everything is out of his control at this point [he wants to make it good for her but he's pretty sure that he already has, in the way that matters; his heart thunders in his head or maybe that's just her heart against his chest, they're pressed so close]. He's so much heavier than she is and he does his best to slump to the side when he collapses against her, trying to let the bed take most of his weight [positional asphyxia is a bitch] as he breathes noisily into her hair, his heart thundering like the grounds of the Kentucky Derby.

Her ears are ringing, the blood rush starting to die down. She swallows around a gasp for air, throat raw and she knows they'll be getting dirty looks from the neighbors later if the slight pain in her throat is any indication of her volume. Not that she cares much. She's on Broadway and she's getting married. She deserves to be as loud as she wants, at least this once. Noah tries to at least fall to the side so as not to crush her, but she's not quite ready to let him go yet. Turning a little, she wraps her arms around his torso and loops their legs together to keep him from pulling too far away. His weight on her will be uncomfortable later. Maybe. But as of right now? She doesn't want it to go anywhere. Turning her head, Rachel brushes her lips lazily over whatever skin she can reach, dry lips catching against his sweaty skin. "I love you." She mumbles, kissing his shoulder, then his jaw. She's said it so many times tonight [She says it so many times every day. It's like breathing now.] but she doesn't care. Because it's true. Because it's like all of her dreams have just come true in the span of about a week and most of it? Revolves around him. Around being here, with him. Around loving and being loved and happy. He deserves to know how appreciated he is.

The blood pounds in his chest, in his abdomen, in his throat and in his head; it comes in heavy thumps that make him feel as though he's just run the ING New York City Marathon [he's training for it, yeah, but not actually running it yet]. Rachel turns into his body, her arms and legs wrapped around him and her face burrowed against the hollow of his neck, his arms surrounding her as her breath warms his throat. "Mmmmmm," he manages, twitching weakly, half-inside her, half-against her inner thigh. They've got the rest of tonight to relax together before she has to leave for Coco's, and then - then, the next time they have this, they'll be husband and wife, legally, even though this is technically supposed to be a marriage just for convenience and safety [they both know that it's a real marriage, for themselves, even if they'll have the show marriage and everything that comes with it in a few years; he feels more right about this than he has about anything else, including New York and the NYPD]. He has to keep breathing, soft pants coming despite the ache in his chest stemming from the earlier exertion [fuck, and he thought he was in amazing shape].

Rachel's lips ghost over his collarbone, and his find her forehead, skimming over strands of hair stuck sweaty to her temple. "So fucking beautiful," he barely whispers, his eyes half-lidded with lust and pleasure and love [and exhaustion, 'cause he'd be fucking lying if he didn't add that last one in there; he'd finally met someone who was his match in every way, except for the ways in which she complemented him, balancing him out in the ways he needed balancing. "S'dumb," to say now, when we're lying here like this, "but you're a good mom to Beth," and I know you're gonna be a great mom when we finally make it happen. "M'lucky I got you'n'we're here in New York. Making our shit real." The place of lights and dreams, where he gets to be a father and a husband and a real man, saving the world and packing heat, and she gets to have her name in lights, performing onstage the way she'd always known she would, even in the face of adversity and people telling her that it wouldn't happen. A smile quirks lightly over his lips, his eyes still half-closed. "I just fucked a Broadway star and I got the movie to prove it. The guys are never gonna believe this shit."

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Broadway Baby

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