acontrollist | How can I hurt when holding you?

Current Mood: hurt

Entry tags:

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

"Just say you want my monster cock, Rachel Berry," he teases, the words coming quickly to his lips in a sudden effort to lighten the mood as he smiles and squeezes the fingers she presses to his palm. "Just say it, it's totally cool and we both know it's true." It probably is true, and that may or may not be all she wants, and they both know it, but it doesn't need to be said unless she wants to take it there. He's still dealing with the I'm Puck and I'm a stud and I don't do exclusive, but this is Rachel and Rachel is Rachel thing. "I know you're dealing with shit," he tries to reassure her, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles as he makes a left-hand turn, one hand on the steering wheel as he drives smoothly. "It's cool. I'm not going to push you to, like, talk and shit. I don't have a vagina but whatever's gonna make you feel better, you know I got your back. Especially if your back is naked. And then I got your front, too." He winks, tugging her close to drop a kiss on her lips at a stop sign. "And you know I'd have your back and kick ass and take names even if you didn't let me fuck you the other day. You know that, right?"

"Monster implies that it's something bad." She replies, the barest hint of a smile on her own lips. "My prom dress is backless." She tells him at the mention of her naked back and front. She's not exactly sure why she says it, and to be honest, she's not even sure if she's going to prom anymore. Their theme this year is Hollywood Lights, so she doesn't have some pink fluffy prom bomb this year so she could wear the dress to any event where she needs to dress up, and the theme is a little sensitive to her right now.

She turns and kisses him back, sighing against his lips. It's brief, but it still serves to shut her brain down for just a second and it's welcome relief. His sentiment is too sweet, though, and of course her brain turns right back on and tries to figure out what he means. She cuts herself off by saying "I did say you were a good friend, didn't I?" and kissing him again. "I meant it."

"Monster means huge," he points out. "Like, freak-huge. Huge. I'm bigger than Finn." Hell, yeah. "And I wanna put it in you on prom night. You gonna go with me and let me fuck you on the football field, up against the goal posts, babe?" It's only fitting, after all, now that he's co-captain of the football team and he is so gonna lead them to a second championship this year. Fuck everybody giving Finn the recognition last year, because it was his pep talk that got the rest of the football players out on the field to help win the game. All Finn did was go find the cheerleaders. "I mean, you saved the team last year, babe. Saved our asses and helped us get the championship. That goalpost is special."

That kiss shoots through his body and, fuck, he is so screwed when it comes to Rachel Berry. "Uh, yeah," he opens his eyes, wrinkling his brow and looking at her like she might be an idiot, just this once. "But you know me and my rep. I'm a stud. You just gotta know that I'm here for, like, more than just the awesome sex. I know you got fucked over with the school thing and -" He brakes, pulls over, throws on his hazard lights and rakes his hand over his mohawk, grunting. "Fuck," he mutters. "Touch my dick, make sure it's still there, okay? Full commando, so, anything you wanna do."

"Monster does not mean huge. There are plenty of tiny monsters, Noah. Gremlins, raccoons..." She points out. "Huge means huge." He brings up Finn's size and she can't really do anything but blush and avoid his eyes. Would it kill his ego if she told him that Finn was longer? But he's also pretty useless with it and Noah's thicker and...yeah. Yeah. She blinks over at him, eyes a little wide. "Noah, are you asking me to be your prom date?"

"Noah, I'm not touching your dick until we get to your house." Also. She just said dick. She's totally no going to blush. "Look at me, okay?" She turns to face him in the seat. "I know you. And I know your rep. But since when have I ever really cared about what other people think of you? You're the one who's always cared and I just want you to be the person you really are because that's who I'm the most comfortable with. Not the badass who threw slushies in my face because it was cool at the time." Oh god. Too much thinking. Here, Noah, have another kiss.

When they pull into his driveway, she hops right out of the car (on purpose, because the leather catches the back of her skirt and flashes him a little) and heads up onto his porch, leaning her back against the wall next to the front door, waiting for him to unlock it.

"You calling my dick tiny?" he asks with a sideways glance and a raised eyebrow, which lifts even higher at her blush. [It might kill his ego. Besides, Finn's isn't longer. At least, not when they've got them out and Santana's got a ruler in her hands because they're, like, sixteen and this shit is important, okay?] The blush morphs into sudden surprise, and he kind of shakes his head like it doesn't matter to him because it's senior prom and the junior prom they had last year kind of sucked ass anyway [except for Finn getting kicked out, which was kind of funny]. "I don't know if I'm gonna go 'cuz last year sucked, but if you don't have anybody to go with or anything and you wanna go, we could go," is all he says. He might as well cut off his balls and hand them to her right now.

With a grunt, he drops his hand, leaning the side of his head against the headrest, gaze staring through the window at a point over Rachel's shoulder. Your rep, blah blah blah, always cared, blah blah, badass, blah blah blah blah blah, and then she's leaning closer and moving towards him and kissing him, and his arms wrap around her body and haul her closer. He'd be an idiot to push her away now.

He doesn't release her entirely; even as he drives the remainder of the way to his house, he keeps his arm over her shoulder, her body tucked against his side, his lips kissing her temple every so often. The drive is brief, and he removes his arm and opens the driver's side door, sliding from it [he catches her when she slides out after him, catching a little view and a lot of handful of bare ass, and fuck he loves that] and ignoring the backpacks in the truck bed. The cap will keep them safe and dry.

Jogging to the front door of his house, he unlocks the door like he's done a million times before [he can sneak in without waking Hannah or his mother, which is a talent developed from years of practice] and nudges her inside, shutting and locking the door easily behind her before exhaling. "We're here now and you can totally touch my dick now," he says before he can stop himself.

"I'm saying that using a word that applies to both large and tiny things could maybe cloud your point. But you're absolutely far from tiny." She nods at his explanation for prom and says, "The theme this year is Hollywood Lights. I'm not sure if I'm going." It should be pretty self-explanatory. And if he isn't, he should ask, because Rachel doesn't assume that he's stupid and if he wants to play dumb he's going to really have to beef it up. Otherwise, she's not going to pander to this oblivious thing he's been trying to pull of with everyone else.

She's pretty sure he didn't listen to her speech at all; he rarely ever does. But he keeps her close the whole ride to his place and even though they don't speak, she's actually content in the silence for the first time in a long time. She wonders what Santana would say if she could see this. She'd probably accuse Rachel of brainwashing him or something.

She rolls her eyes and leans forward, pressing her chest to his and cupping him through his jeans. It lasts all of 10 seconds before she's pulling back, turning and heading up the stairs. "I believe I also requested a bed!" She calls over her shoulder.

"You wanna, like, dress old-Hollywood?" he asks, because treating it like Halloween is a hell of a lot less gay than dressing up in formal shit and dancing because he has a feeling that this prom isn't going to be as fun as last year. "I don't know if Marilyn Monroe wore animal sweaters but you'd look hot all old-Hollywood, babe, and we would look fucking hot together if we went. Surprise the fuck out of everybody." He hasn't given it much thought to this point, but when he thinks Hollywood, he thinks Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp, and he also thinks about old shit, like black-and-white movies and Scarface and Don Corleone and Marilyn Monroe and Gone With the Wind and all that old shit. "I could pull off James Dean, huh?"

When her tiny hand cups around him, all rational thought abandons his brain; it takes him a good twenty seconds before he can recover enough to chase her up the stairs and into his bedroom, wrapping his arms smoothly around her waist and pulling her backward against his hips, running the palms of his hands down against the lean muscles of her thighs. "You," he breathes in her ear, nibbling on the lobe, "are so fucking hot, Rachel-Berry, and you drive me fucking crazy, and I - can't - you are gonna - clothes on the floor and you better find one of my shirts you like 'cuz that's the only thing I wanna see you wear today if you need clothes." His lips drag from the sensitive patch of skin just below her ear down against her neck. "If you're not naked or wearing sheets, I mean." One hand on her thigh slides up until two fingers are pressed against bare slick skin beneath her skirt and he teases, tracing her entrance but refusing to do any more than that, rocking his hips against her bottom.

"Marilyn Mon-" She grins. "My dress is a Marilyn Monroe replica, actually. I'll have to show you a picture of hers later, but it's gold and backless and really long with this slit up the thigh and-" Wait. This is Puck she's talking to. He doesn't care as long as he can see as much skin as possible. He says James Dean and she gives him a long once over before she shakes her head. "No. Tony Montana." Because his accent in West Side Story haunted her for about a month.

"Never done that before..." She says softly. And okay, maybe she kind of has. Or at least she's tried to. Trying to drive Finn crazy used to be a national past time of hers. But no one has ever said that and meant it (at least she thinks Noah does, because he's a lot of things but he's not a liar). He slips his fingers between her thighs and all she can really do is spread her stance a little, rocking down against his fingers and back against the erection she can feel at her back. "Bed...we should...and-...jersey." Because he mentioned his shirt and now she has this awesome idea. "Get your jersey."

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."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

jfc i want to see him as james dean

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject