acontrollist | How can I hurt when holding you?

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How can I hurt when holding you?

After round 3, they fall asleep again. Rachel wakes up first, and realizing that her Dads are probably home, she scribbles down a little note for Noah. Thank you. Signed with a star and a heart. She sets an alarm on his phone for him so that he'll be able to get up and shower before his Mom gets home, sitting it on top of the note on his nightstand and pressing a kiss to his forehead before she's gone. Sunday, she doesn't do anything. She turns her phone off, and spends all day drifting in and out of sleep, only getting out of bed when her back and thighs feel stiff or her Dad calls her to eat.

Monday is the worst, though. It's not that she's not happy for Kurt. She is. He's still her best friend and she's going to support him in whatever way she can. But when he runs squealing past her to Blaine's locker at the end of the hall before first period, screaming about his acceptance and hugging and doing a little happy dance that attracts the attention of Tina and Artie and Ms. Pilsbury and it-...it's too much. She should be over there, dancing with him, happy, except she can't be. All she can think about is that crumpled letter in the wastebasket in her room, the ink blurry from the way she'd only been able to stand in her foyer and cry over it. When the sharp metal of her locker cuts into her finger enough to hurt, she finally lets go, shutting it. And Rachel Berry has never skipped school before, but the only thing she can think of to do is turn around...and walk out.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The expression of casual indifference he wears - because prom is just one of those things, and when Lauren wanted the Prom Queen tiara, he was totally into getting it for her, but now he doesn't really give a fuck about prom because he just doesn't give a fuck - shifts into a wide grin to match Rachel's. Because this could be fun, and NYADA is no longer her future, and he doesn't really have a future, and what-comes-next is basically up to them. They choose. They decide. And they can really do whatever the fuck they want to do, and if they want to go to prom together and really take the Hollywood Lights theme to a whole different level and break out a little theatricality, then they'll rock that bitch. He pulled it off when he was all Sammy Davis, Jr., for Mercedes, and he can do it for Rachel, and he'll leave McKinley with the kind of bang that may or may not include fucking Rachel Berry onstage with a spotlight.

[He's totally up for leaving with that kind of bang, by the way.]

Tony Montana. He cocks his head and the grin widens. "Pretty good. Not like I got any problem getting the women," he teases. "But I wanna try out James Dean anyway. He was a stud, Rach."

"Better fucking not," he mutters, rolling his hips against her body, one hand slipping up her stomach and ribs to cup a breast in one hand, finding her nipple through her bra between his thumb and fingertip. "You're gonna look so good in my shit, baby. I'm gonna be the only one who's in you." It's rather presumptuous on his part, but he knows that he satisfies her, and she spreads her thighs and rocks her hips between his body and fingers, and that's all the more confirmation that his body does things to hers that nobody else has been capable of doing. "I'll take care of you," he breathes in her ear, pulling his fingers from her body and trailing them over her lips before sliding them into his own mouth and savoring her taste with a deep groan. "You don't need the jersey now. All we need is a mirror. I want you to watch how good you look when I fuck you."

Prom committee hasn't really started yet, and Rachel's been thinking off pulling out of everything and just spending her last year as quietly as possible, as far away from WMHS as possible. But this actually does sound fun and maybe this year for Prom she'll sing something...uplifting and Finn can dance with whoever the hell he wants and she'll dance with Noah and there'll be no fighting and she doesn't really care who wins prom queen because she's pretty sure that if she really just wanted the tiara, Noah would get her one (and then bend her over in his room and fuck her while she wore it, which doesn't sound like too bad of an idea).

"I suppose. But didn't James Dean wear a leather jacket? If we go together, Tony Montana's messy casual, but still formal, iconic outfit will go much better with my dress. But if you go as James Dean, we're driving as slow as possible. I have no desire to curse your car or end my prom night in a fire wreck a la James Dean's Porsche."

She unbuttons her cardigan, brushing it aside and tilting her head back against his shoulder when his fingers find her nipple. The only bra that she's really wearing is the bit of elastic and cloth built into her camisole, and even through the extra layer she's so sensitive and she can feel every roll and flick and his fingers. "Contradictory." She whimpers when he promises to take care of her, then stops touching her. She rolls back against his hips, sliding her hands back to cup the back of his neck and licking her lips when he leaves her taste there. "No, I - I'm gonna ride you and I wanna...wear your number while I do..."

"We'll figure shit out," he says, "and I'll take care of you, and fuck you so good after." There. That's all that really needs to be said about prom. If nothing else, he'll do a better job than Finn ever could.

She clearly hates that his fingers slip from her, but it's something that needs to be done [well, okay, he could just fuck her here, but she did say bed, and he doesn't trust himself to get her up the stairs quickly enough with his fingers plunged inside her body]. "Shhhhh," he murmurs, his tongue sliding along the shell of her ear as he soothes her. "Gonna take care of you. Upstairs, baby. Jersey's in the closet and I still wanna watch. Gonna lift the jersey, babe. You know how hot you look when you come? You're, like, the fucking hottest thing I've ever seen. Walk with me," and he shuffles her slowly toward the stairs, his hands gripping her hipbones, lips dropping kisses over the curve of her neck. "Come on."

"Up against the goalpost after everyone's gone?" She teases. The slit of her dress is high enough that she could just pull the fabric to the side and have plenty of room to wrap her legs around him. She is kind of worried about the cold metal against her back and how balance on the round surface will work, but she's only about 110 pounds and Noah's more than capable of lifting her.

Since when is Rachel Berry seriously considering public sex?

Walk with me. Fuck. Shut up brain. She nods, her cardigan bunched in her hand by the time they reach the stairs. She doesn't respond to the whole fucking hottest thing I've ever seen comment, simply because she's sure it'll only come out as fishing for compliments or something. But honestly. The boy's slept with almost every cheerleader, plenty of grown women, and made doing Santana Lopez almost an olympic sport. And she's the hottest thing he's ever seen? Yeah. Okay.

She isn't wearing stockings today, and she kicks off her ballet flats as soon as they step into his bedroom, dropping her cardigan on top of them and moving into his closet. She changes into the jersey, and it's about as long as some of her skirts, actually. So when she exits the closet, hair messy from pulling shirts on and off, she lays back on the bed and pulls the jersey up over her hips, knees folded up towards the ceiling and spread a little.

She moves into his closet and shuts the door; his eyes are on her ass the entire way, because the skirt is short and her legs are bare and he knows that she isn't wearing anything under that skirt. [He can still taste her on his fingertips as proof.] She busies herself in the closet and he reaches down to his jeans, unbuttoning them and drawing the zipper down, shoving the jeans down his thighs and kicking them loose. Snatching them from the floor, he tosses them into the hamper. Normally, it wouldn't be a big deal, but Rachel seems like the kind of girl who appreciates a classy clean room. The stretchy black t-shirt he wears is yanked one-handed from his body, up his torso and over his head, dropped with the same carelessness into the hamper as he'd dropped his jeans. He stretches out on the bed, naked, to wait for her, his eyes widening and his throat suddenly constricting as he sees her slip from the closet in nothing but his football jersey, the number 20 plastered across her chest as she moves closer to him and climbs onto his bed. "Fuck," he curses under his breath, palming his length as his hips shift, his gaze fixed on her. "I'm serious, you're fucking... you see what you do to me, babe? I just look at you and I'm..."

He's naked when she exits the closet and when she spreads her legs a second later, it's obvious that she's not unaffected. The bare skin there is slightly shiny in the dim light of his room and she reaches over, wrapping tentative fingers around his bare erection. Saturday, she was hardly concerned with touching him, aside from when she put the condom on him. She's never touched anyone else before (Finn usually lost it before she even got his pants undone and he at least tried to be a gentleman and repay the favor but she usually got bored since the boy is just as useless with his fingers as he is with his dick) and it's obvious from the way she glances up at him briefly then back down at her hand, trying to concentrate as she strokes him once. "Like that?"

Just the sight of him, lying naked on the bed, stiff and swollen for her is enough to make her shudder, and he can see when her thighs widen that she's already soaked. Good, he thinks, drawing his palm over her center, licking the sweetness from his fingertips greedily as they lie face to face, and he leans in for a kiss. "I'm so gonna sixty-nine you later," he murmurs as her hand grazes over his muscled abdomen, tracing the heaviness of his length and wrapping slender fingers around him and just feeling.

She strokes him, and he's 0.5 seconds away from losing it completely when she asks him if she's doing it correctly, if it feels good. Well... yeah, but he'd rather be inside her when he comes, but maybe this is just going to be part of it. He likes teaching, likes being the experienced guy who takes chicks and shows them what to do [bonus points for getting to teach them exactly how he likes it]. He's basically fucking training them and they're so fucking eager. It's really the sweetest deal there is.

His hand reaches out, wraps around her fingers, and stills the motion of her wrist for a moment. "Have you ever done this before?" exhaling through parted lips, his jaw and shoulders tense. "To anybody, Rach?" Because she's fucking good at this, and he'll teach her and let her get comfortable with it, but if she's done it a thousand times before, then he's going to reach out and tug her over and up to straddle his hips and thrust inside of her body the way they both want.

She feels like she should...know exactly what that is. But her brain is a little frazzled right now, cloudy. And it's obviously something sexual, which (not that Rachel Berry would ever admit not knowing much about anything) she doesn't really know much about. Discussing sex was just something she'd never done. But she doesn't ask Noah to clarify what exactly "sixty-nine" is, for fear of him laughing at her or something equally atrocious. So she just bites her lip and nods.

"No, never." She stills, afraid she's doing it wrong since it's that obvious. She's about to unwrap her fingers, Did I hurt you? just breaking off of her lips when he wraps his fingers around hers and doesn't let her pull away. And if he's willing to teach her, then she's always willing to learn. Rachel Berry strives to be the best in all of her endeavors, of course, whether it be dancing or singing or having sex and what better teacher could she have than William McKinley's resident expert?

She nods; his life is fucking made, and he'll have his tongue deep inside her and his length down her throat at the same time and he fucking loves that shit and they can listen to awesome music and enjoy the day and he freaking made a good decision when he decided to sleep with her.

With a nod, he releases her fingers, leaning in to brush a kiss over her lips. "You're doing awesome," he murmurs," rocking his hips slightly so that his length slides in her palm. "You want some lube? I got some in my drawer. Same one with the condoms. S'berry flavor." The quickly-flashed smile makes it evident that that is not at all a coincidence. "What do you want me to do to you?" he asks, his voice soft. "You want me to go down on you? Gonna have to wait a couple minutes after I come before I can go again. S'normal..."

"Do we need some?" She at least knows what lube is, but she didn't think she'd really need it if it was just her hand...right? "Why would you need fl-...oh." She turns bright red again, turning her focus back to the hand pumping his length steadily. He asks what she wants him to do, but there's only so many things that she knows about so she tucks her forehead against the crook of his neck. "I just...I wanna do this for you. You don't have to do anything." This isn't a new sentence for her. But this time, she isn't saying it because she knows she's not getting anything out of this deal anyway (she knows Puck can do much better for her than she can for him), but because it's genuinely true. Because Saturday was amazing and she's gotta repay him somehow.

"Help you slide your hand," he points out, rolling his hips in demonstration. The slickness seeping from his tip is enough to aid the gentle strokes of her fingers, but if she wants to really get him off, wants him to cry her name and thrust his hips against her palm, then lube is the way to go. "Baby, you don't need lube when I'm inside you," and his fingers slip between her thighs again, finding her heat and stroking there, the tips of two fingers just barely fitting inside her. [Find a happy place!] "You're - so wet. S'not like you need lube." His fingers still inside her, she tucks her body close against his, his lips brushing against her temple as he whispers to her. "I wanna make you come, Rach. Love seeing your face. Y'know how hot it was, you calling my name? That voice calling my name when you were fucking falling apart? That's what I wanna hear, baby. Every time I make you come, you're fucking saying I'm the one who makes you feel that way. That's better than a fucking Tony or a Grammy or whatever." His fingertips curl inside her, and he presses them deeper. "

She guesses that he has a point. She'd certainly be able to move faster if she had a little extra lubrication and maybe that's how he liked it. She rolls onto her back, reaching into the drawer near her shoulder to pull out the lube. She's not sure how much to use, so she goes for a quarter sized drop in her palm before she wraps her fingers back around him, spreading the gel before she curls her fingers back around him and resumes stroking, a little faster, grip a little firmer to compensate for the extra lubrication.

His finger slides against her slick lips and she whimpers, pressing her lips to his collarbone, sucking just a bit before she pulls away for air. "Not yet." She pants, trying to angle her hips away. "I can't - when you -" She can't concentrate and it's throwing off her stroke, making her hesitate just as she presses against the tip. "After. You promised you'd teach me how. Show me after I do this..." She can only learn one thing at a time, of course.

"If you don't wanna use lube," he suggests mischievously - as lightly as he can with her fingers wrapped around him - "you could put me inside you, use some of you. You're so wet, babe," but, before she can do that, she rolls onto her back and fumbles in the drawer for the berry-flavored lube [he can smell it from where he lies, close to her, and he arches his back and nuzzles against her cheek, thrusting his hips against her hand. The slide of his length in her fist is easier now, and his jaw goes slack, a moan slipping from his lips accompanied by a gasp of her name as his eyes close briefly.

At her request [and because he, too, is having trouble maintaining concentration; girl is fucking phenomenal at handjobs, and he's pretty sure that she's going to have to wait for hers unless she wants to ride his face after this], his hand goes limp, resting against one thigh because he doesn't have the necessary brain power to move his hand right now. "Baby," he moans, rolling his hips, wriggling close to her so that his slick length bumps against her stomach, moving closer so that it's pinned between their bodies, and he pulls his hand from between her thighs to lift her knee over his hip with wet fingers. "So fucking good at this, gonna make me come, Rach. Wanna come, baby. Where... show me where." They have a few options, which either involve doing laundry, or throwing tissues or baby wipes in the trash, or showering together afterward. He tilts his head, kissing her messily and blindly, his lips skidding over the corner of her mouth and cheek. "So fucking good," he praises, rolling his hips against her hands again. "So close."

Now that he's not touching her, she can devote all of her brainpower to this. To memorizing what makes him moan loudest, shift his hips against her hand (and her hips, when he pulls her knee over his waist and she can't help the little whimper that breaks out. He's so close, and she's suddenly so empty. But she's going to finish what she started). She learns that he likes a little bit of a twist just underneath the head, that he likes a little extra press down against the crease between his erection and his balls. She's never really gotten to do this before but she also learns that she fucking loves it. It figures that Rachel Berry would get off on power, but that's not it (entirely). Noah mentioned something about loving to watch her fall apart, how beautiful she looked and Rachel thinks maybe that's a part of it too. 'Cause his eyes are closed and his eyelashes and fluttering against his cheekbones and his lips are wet and slightly parted and this may be the most genuine she's ever seen him and it's...well. It's beautiful.

Where? It's a question that she almost asks for him to clarify but she picks it up pretty quick. Where. Well she doesn't want to create laundry for him or anything, and he's already aimed and primed and ready so there's no need to really maneuver around. She'd go for sealing her mouth around him (she has no gag reflex and it's always something she wanted to try.) but that's too much moving around and she's not up for that right now. Plus, she wants to really see his face. So she uses her free hand to tug his jersey up, tucking it underneath her arms so that he has the whole expanse of her breasts and stomach to splatter. She wants to say something. Feel like she should, since he's always so talkative...but she doesn't know what to say. The only thing she can think of is to shift a little closer and press her lips just underneath his earlobes and breathe.

"Noah."

He is touching her, just not the way he wants to, and not the way she wants him to touch her. It would be like playing Twister, with thighs here and knees here and hands here, bent and twisted and not enough room to move with her hands against the firm muscles of his abdomen and the concave curve of her stomach, the arcs of her hipbones [he loves the way his wet fingers leave swirls over them when he strokes her, twirls his fingers; it's so fucking hot to see the designs shine in the daylight]. Her hands are perfect as they glide over his skin. He has to give her credit for being experimental, for trying different things to gauge what he likes and to see how he reacts to the way she presses the tip of her finger down against a nerve, or the way she flicks his tip [the mohel did a good job, baby, don't you like it?]. The way she strokes him, with the right pressure and the right twist and a fuckton of enthusiasm, makes him even more positive that he's going to embarrass himself.

At least, given that, she answers the where question pretty quickly. He can feel the drag of the jersey as she drags it up her torso; her skin is hot against his, and he has a feeling that he's going to nail most of the sheets with the way they rest together, on their sides. It doesn't matter; she's Rachel, and they're there, and laundry's stupid. "Aaah," he moans at the touch of her lips. [She found one of his sensitive spots; his cock jerks in her hand, dribbling slickly.] His hips rock harder, and he bumps against her stomach-and-hipbone with every thrust, every twist of her fingers. "Rach... fuck, Rach." More moaning follows her name, punctuated with gasps of breath and harder thrusts; he turns his head, searching blindly for her lips and thrusts hard against her body, spilling in pearly ribbons over her stomach and ribs.

He's moaning and gasping her name and she thinks that if this is how she sounded on Saturday while he worked her then she sounded pretty fucking hot. He says her name and she suddenly understands exactly what he was saying earlier about the way her name sounded on his lips, how it drove him crazy because she fucking loves the way her name sounds on his lips and its not just because she's a bit of an egomaniac. She keeps pumping him, slowing until finally she stops and reaches for tissues on the nightstand, wiping herself clean.

For a few minutes, she just lays curled against him, letting him catch his breath. Then she says "You said you'd show me how to...do it. Myself. Do you have to be-..." Hard? "For that?" 'Cause she's kind of uncomfortable here and if you can't fuck her then she's gotta figure out something.

He can't breathe. His head falls to the pillow, half against her body, and it barely registers when she shifts her body to grab the tissues from the nightstand. Rachel turns partway, rolling to her back to wipe her chest and stomach clean [he would have suggested a shower, or taken care of her, but she handled it before he had a chance], and then rolls back against him [he snuggles against her, fitting his head against hers, but he'll never admit it]. She's the one to finally break the silence, as his heart thunders in his chest and the flush slowly fades from his skin.

His eyes still closed, and his breathing shallow, he brushes slightly-parted lips over her cheekbone. "Mmmmmm, do what?" he murmurs, his voice thick. "Make yourself come? You still got lube on your hand, baby? ...Gimme your hand." His own hand lightly curls around her bottom, stroking the sleek line of her thigh, following the curve of her hip to thread their fingers together between their bodies, and drag their hands to the point where her thighs press together. "Move your leg like before," he breathes the instruction, his lips soft against hers, his eyes opening for the first time. The hazel in them is warm, his gaze tender. "We need room, Rach. I'll get you started and then you can - you can tell me what you want me to do, if you wanna keep going or... do something else."

She drops another dollop of lube on her fingers when he asks, though she's fairly sure that she's absolutely soaked already. She fits her leg over his waist to give them more room as he instructs, forehead pressing against his shoulder as she watches them, letting him take her hand, shuddering and rocking forward when their fingers brush the lips of her pussy. "I want to do this." She says softly, tucking her other knee against his chest, both legs bent and spread open. "I wanna learn...after, maybe we can-..." She glances up to meet his eyes, her own blown almost black and hazy, before she curls one finger away from his, unable to resist teasing at the slit of her pussy just a bit and she shivers. "Do as planned. But this first. You promised, Saturday..."

He can feel the heat emanating from her body; he's so used to being a human furnace but she's the warm one right now (and he's just the sleepy one because that orgasm? seriously fucking awesome). Turning his head slightly, his lips brush over her temple, their tangled fingers spreading to brush between her thighs and memorize her intimate anatomy by touch. With some difficulty, he bends his head to kiss her knee, spreading her body open with his fingers. She shivers in his arms, telling him to begin.

He already has. He can feel slippery heat, and soft silky skin, folds and dips and a tender knot that makes her body jump in his arms. "You feel so fucking good, baby," he murmurs, nuzzling against her cheekbone, encouraging her to tip her head upward for more kisses. "You gotta... find the spots with - with your fingers. Rub - that, rub that. Circles. Feels good. Little bit, tell me when it starts feeling really good. Shouldn't hurt. Slow, Rach."

He's only vaguely coherent but she can understand what he's saying still. He directs her middle finger against her clit and she jerks against him a little, the bundle of nerves sensitive to the touch. As instructed, she starts to circle the tiny nub, slowly, breathing deep and slow against his skin. Tilting her head upwards, she presses a soft kiss to his lips and sighs, the taste of him sending shivers down her spine. "Feels good." She whimpers and she can feel herself starting to get wetter, lips starting to swell, her entrance pulsating, eager to clench around something. "Noah..." She gasps, hips bucking forward a bit.

"Keep going," he mutters against her lips, her hips shifting against his, her thigh rocking in the rhythm of her movements. The way her hand is moving will get her there, yes, but it's time to add a different element to the mix, and he can feel the changes between her thighs that signal that she's just about ready [slow twitches, flutters, and she's hot and slick, dripping]. His hand slips away from hers, curling his palm against hers, three long fingers stroking against her teardrop-shaped entrance. "M'gonna find your G-spot," he informs her lowly, "so keep going." Without waiting for her response, he slides his fingers into her body and curls them toward her bellybutton, searching for the change in texture he knows is there. "Mmmmm," he breathes against her lips, sinking his fingers inside her to the knuckle and flicking, rocking his hips against hers as he pins their hands between their bodies. "Fuck, baby. You feel so good."

She's supposed to be learning how to do this herself. But she can't find it in herself to protest when his fingers slip deep. And it's not the one she was expecting. He goes straight to three and she arches back, whining his name as she clenches hard around his fingers. She can't exactly help the string of intelligible, helpless gasping that breaks out of her throat as she rides against his hand for a bit, her finger still rubbing circles around her clit. She starts moving faster just as he curves his fingers and finds that bundle of nerves buried deep in her. "Noah." It's almost a squeak and she would be embarrassed if it didn't feel so fucking good. "Oh god, oh god, I-..fuck..."

Rachel fucking Berry is talented, and she's probably a stellar multi-tasker, but even somebody as talented as Rachel Berry would probably have difficulty following Puck's directions at this point. She isn't riding his cock [which means that he can think], and she can barely string two words together [which means that she can't], and it just makes more sense for them to work on these parts individually before adding them together. [And, like any good teacher, he'll give her homework and make himself available for private tutoring sessions.]

He can feel the point at which she writhes on his fingers, riding his hand, and he encourages her. "Good, baby," he praises, suddenly feeling more awake than he's felt in hours. "Come on. Wanna feel you come for me. S'gonna feel so good." His hand never ceases its movements, fingers curling and thrusting and rubbing, massaging in tight circles. "Come on, Rach. Wanna feel you, let go," he urges.

At this point, it's virtually impossible for Rachel to ignore any of Noah's requests. Not when he's making her feel so good, better than she's ever felt, making her entire body sing. Praising her doesn't hurt either, and the way he says Baby only makes her drip and moan and squirm and her orgasm is on her before she can really process what's going on around her. She arches, finger still flicking blindly, her free hand scratching at the base of his neck.

She barely gives herself time to recover though, before she's fumbling back for the condom and pulling it open, rolling it down along his renewed erection. "Want you. Want you in me, want-...fuck, Noah, Noah, Noah..." She's still shaking a bit, muscles still liquid, but all she can focus on is the throbbing and the emptiness in her pussy when she presses a hand to his shoulder and pushes him back, straddling his waist and sinking down onto him without any preamble. "Yes."

He can barely think; his wrist is pinned between their bodies as she rocks against him, his fingers soaked with how much she wants this, her movements uncoordinated and moans more sounds than actual words. As she comes down and her movements slow and then stop, the flutters decreasing in frequency, he moves to slip his fingers from her body. She surprises him, reaching for the condom and reaching for his length, but all he can think is thank fuck because he's really fucking dying over here when she shoves him onto his back, climbs atop him, and sinks down with a soft exhale. "Fuck," he moans, his hands moving to her hips as he shifts, planting the soles of his feet on the mattress and shifting for leverage. "Fuck, baby, you feel so good." It won't be long, not with the way she's still fluttering around him, not with the way she's tight around him, trembling, her cheeks rosy and hair and eyes dark. He could bang this chick for the rest of high school and never get bored, he's officially deciding right now. "Yes," he agrees, his hands on her hips helping her to ride.

How can I hurt when holding you?

jfc i want to see him as james dean

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