Written for the glee_kink_meme. Again.
puckleberry domesticity-established relationship
puck comes home after a hard day to find his wife rachel cooking him his favorite dinner-in just an apron.
Puck slides his hands between his thighs in an effort to warm his freezing fingers. The light in the subway car is flickering quickly—one of the long halogen bulbs is obviously dying—and he squints his eyes in an effort to keep the visual staccato from making his headache even worse than it already is. The woman sitting on the bench next to him sneezes into her hands suddenly, leaning forward from the force of it, and then attempts to discreetly wipe her fingers on her puffy, grey jacket. She notices his gaze and seems to misinterpret his disgusted expression and smiles at him flirtatiously. Puck wants to laugh in her face, but he is afraid that will only make his sinuses throb worse, so instead he slides a little closer against his guitar case, which he has jammed up against the front wall of the car on the bench beside him. The disembodied voice on the PA announces an upcoming station that isn't his and he hunches himself a little further into his battered wool jacket.
It's days like this that makes him wonder if he made the right decision.
There are things he likes about New York—great bars with great music, plenty to see and do even around his normal bedtime of four AM—but this city would never have been his first choice. It's too crowded, too dirty, and it's been his experience that most people who lived here were pretentious assholes who pretended they liked shit like sushi and Jackson Pollock.
And it was fucking expensive. The other day, he had decided to treat himself to a steak after his set at the Green Stripe, and he had been charged sixty dollars. Parking cost twelve dollars in most lots — Puck did not have a car, but everytime he saw a parking lot with their absurd prices cheerfully advertised, he wanted to punch someone. And taking a cab instead of this shitty subway to get home would have required going over his daily ATM limit.
He made what he used to believe was fair money playing gigs with his band, but he still had to work two part-time jobs besides just to afford his tiny apartment in a shitty, crime-filled neighborhood.
Fuck New York, Puck thinks tiredly.
He could have gone to Ohio State. He had been switched to linebacker in his junior year of highschool and had flourished. He made teams pay for running up the middle and he had a particular talent for chasing down a pass-happy quartback. Somehow—miraculously—he ended up on a Top 250 Prep list and had gotten offers from schools all over the country. When an assistant coach from OSU showed up at his practice one day, he thought his heart would stop right in his chest.
He could have been a fucking Buckeye. Sure, he would have had to endure four more years of school, but he could only imagine how much fun he would have had playing football for a team like that. College parties, college girls, playing in a college band — yeah, he can see himself in that life. He would have even been able to keep his truck. And he would never have had to pay twelve fucking dollars to park it somewhere.
Puck is jarred out of his daydreaming when the PA announces his stop—finally—and he stands up slowly in deference to his pounding headache. He grabs his guitar case and hauls it over his back, holding onto the handloop hanging from the ceiling with his free hand while he waits for the train to come to a stop. The woman who wiped snot on her jacket must see an opportunity slipping through her fingers because she stares up at him without blinking and says, "I'm Jane."
Puck responds by shouldering his way past a sweaty, bearded man who looks like he's strung out on meth and stops to wait impatiently in front of the automatic doors. When they finally slide open, he steps heavily onto the platform and begins stalking his way through the crowds to the stairs. He takes them three at a time and when he finally steps out onto the street, he takes a deep breath of cold air and glances up at the night sky. It's a muddy grey-orange from the city lights reflecting onto the clouds, but Puck knows you can hardly see the stars even when the weather is clear.
It's a mile walk to his building from the station, but his long legs eat the distance fast. He's tired, he's hungry, and he just wants to lie down in a dark room and close his eyes for the rest of the night.
At the door of his building, Puck shoves his hand in his pocket to fish out his keys. When he moves to push the key into the lock, he realizes that someone has placed a beer can inbetween the door and the frame to keep it from closing. He stares at the can stupidly for a moment with his key half-extended before he scowls and wrenches the door open. He steps inside before turning around and kicking the can into the street. He pulls the door closed behind him and tugs on it to make sure it's locked.
A half-dressed man who is sitting on the stairs near the second floor stands up at the sound of the door and the clattering can and puts a hand over the mouth-piece of his cell phone. He glares down at Puck and yells that he was keeping the door open for company but Puck shoves him into the wall when he walks past him and the man shuts up immediately. "Keep the fucking door locked," Puck snarls as he heads up the next flight of stairs. "Anyone could walk in here."
Twenty-one hundred dollars a month and the security can be circumvented by a beer can.
Fuck, fuck, fuck New York, Puck thinks again. He trudges up the last two flights of stairs, cursing in his mind with each step he takes.
A short walk down a poorly-lit hallway and Puck is home. He stands in front of his apartment for a moment, staring at the soft yellow light from inside peeking underneath the door. He can feel his headache receding already. He unlocks the door and steps inside.
There's soft music playing—something old—and there's this amazing smell.
"Fuck, that smells good," he announces as he drops his guitar case behind the couch and shrugs out of his jacket. "Are you cooking?"
"Hello, Noah, how was your day?" Rachel replies sarcastically from the kitchen. Puck can't see her from his spot in the entryway, but he can hear the amused tone in her voice. Amused and something else. "I'm cooking baked ziti."
Puck freezes in the act of throwing his jacket over the back of a chair. Fuck, he thinks.
Before he started dating Rachel Berry, Puck had no idea what the hell baked ziti was. He had certainly never eaten it. But she had made it for him one night when she was in one of her weird domestic goddess moods and he had nearly pulled a Finn in his pants over it. It was all melty and cheesy and good. He had spent the whole night afterwards describing exactly how good it was in between bouts of going down on her in her bedroom with his hand over her mouth to keep her from waking up her dads.
She made it again the next night.
And the night after.
After three nights straight of this, she had been horrified to discover that her voice had become slightly hoarse and she decided to save her ziti for special occasions after that. Fortunately, Puck had discovered that Rachel celebrated a lot of special occasions. Anniversary of their first date, anniversary of the first time they kissed, anniversary of the first time they had sex (this was a personal favorite for Puck, because it usually involved spending the whole day in bed). He still remembers very vividly when they had first gotten together back in high school—for real this time, with no Finn or Quinn misunderstandings—that she had walked up to him at his locker with a huge plate of cupcakes with little hearts on them to mark their third week of dating. Puck honestly could not understand why someone would celebrate three weeks of anything, but even he wasn't stupid enough to say that to her face. He had smiled at her uneasily and ate one of the cupcakes while she had stared, beaming at him.
A couple years had passed since then, but Puck still found it impossible to keep track of most of these bizarre milestones. Rachel was mostly understanding of this — she was enthusiastic enough about these small events for both of them and he had learned to go with the flow whenever she had announced some new and unusual special occasion that they needed to celebrate.
But there were some occasions that she would not tolerate him forgetting: her birthday, the anniverary of the day they started dating (the unofficial anniversary), and the latest and most important one — their wedding anniversary. They had not yet had an opportunity to celebrate that one, having been married just last year, but he lived in fear of the month of June because she had informed him in no uncertain terms that he would remember the day of their marriage or she would not be having sex with him for a week.
An entire week. Just the thought of it made him break out in a cold sweat.
And Puck knows with a rising panic that these particularly important occasions are often marked by baked ziti.
There was still snow on the ground, so he knew he was safe from their wedding anniversary. They started dating during football season, so that was out, too. Her birthday? He knew it was in February — one of the twenties. Is it February? he wonders. He always has trouble keeping track of the date, but he feels certain it is still January.
Puck grimaces, rolls his shirt sleeves up haphazardly, and marches into the kitchen. He is just going to have to convince her that not having sex for a week would not be in her best interest, either. He feels confident he will be successful.
He pauses in the doorway to their tiny kitchen because this is not what he expected. At all.
Rachel is leaning back against the counter beside the stove with an affected casualness, but it's immediately clear to Puck that she has practiced posing this way in front of a mirror. Not that he minds, because she is fucking naked.
"Nice apron," he says, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his chest.
She plays with the hem in that strangely shy/hot way she has. "Do you think so?"
He pushes away from the wall and crosses the kitchen in two long strides, crowding her against the counter. He reaches out to rub his fingertips slowly over her exposed collar bone. "Fuck, you are so fucking hot," he almost hisses. "Fuck."
Rachel's head falls forward until her forehead is pressing against his chest. He keeps skimming his fingers against her collarbone and her breathing starts to get the little hitch that lets him know he's touching her just right. "You're always so vulgar," she breathes, but it's not an admonition. Puck knows she has a kink about his language.
"Always, baby," he promises, leaning down to kiss her neck. "So is it my birthday?"
He feels her smile against his shirt. "Your birthday is in November."
"Right, yeah," he mumbles. He is distracted by her hair falling over her naked shoulders. He slides his free hand into it and puffs a breath behind her ear. "Rosh Hashanah?"
"September," she says, tilting her head to give him better access. His hand in her hair has discovered the flimsy tie on the back of her neck that is holding the apron up. His fingers smooth over the knot, considering.
Rachel leans against him further and slides one of her hands underneath his arm onto his back. She fists the fabric of his shirt, holding him to her. Her other hand slides down his abdomen before stopping on top of his belt buckle. His hips jerk involuntarily.
Puck takes gentle hold of the side of her neck with his teeth and she jerks up onto her toes and moans and Puck suddenly feels absolutely desperate. He lets go of her neck and pulls her closer. She's tucked underneath his chin and, looking down, he sees all that flesh, all that naked, naked, naked. The apron doesn't cover this side and her ass is driving him out of his mind. He sweeps her hair to one side so he has a better view.
"Baby, you're always talking to me about communication and opening up and shit, right? And I'm going to do that. I'm going to do that right now," he chokes out, tightening his grip on her. "See, I have no idea what day it is, but I've got to have you. I'm not fucking kidding. You're wearing nothing but a fucking apron and... fuck. I'll make you feel so good, baby. I swear. I'll even start using that fucking daily planner you bought me. Seriously, starting tomorrow, I'm all about planning my days. All about it. Just let me make it up to you tonight."
Rachel is shaking against him and he stiffens guiltily for a few moments before he realizes that she's laughing. "What's so fucking funny?" he finally asks, his expression wild.
Rachel pushes back on his chest so she can look up at him. She's practically vibrating with mirth. "You didn't miss a date. Although I'm suddenly feeling less than confident that you're going to remember our anniversary."
"June," Puck blurts out.
"Oh, good, you remember the month," she says blithely.
"June fif—sixth," he corrects instantly when her eyes start to flash. He smirks guiltlessly. "So why the ziti?"
She glances down and plays with the hem of her apron again, all coyness. "You have this weekend off, right?"
"Friday, Saturday, Sunday," he confirms. He puts one of his hands on the front of her thigh. "I'm coming to your show tomorrow. Maybe I'll sneak backstage after, Berry."
She smiles and leans against him again. He obligingly slides the hand that isn't kneading her thigh back into her hair. "That's the thing, the water main beneath the theatre broke and the first four rows of seats were almost submerged. So they've rescheduled the weekend shows while they get everything cleaned up."
Puck stills. "What about your rehearsals?"
"They've moved the leads to a small studio, but the chorus has the weekend off. They couldn't find a big enough facility on such short notice."
She moves her hand back onto his belt buckle and Puck knows this is probably the first time Rachel has not been completely outraged that she's still only in the chorus line. "So what you're saying to me is that we both have the entire weekend free," Puck says as neutrally as he can manage. "And you made ziti."
"I made enough so we can have leftovers tomorrow... and maybe the day after," she breathes.
Puck looks down at her ass again and feels like his blood is boiling in his veins. He's back at her neck in a flash. "You are so fucking smart," he growls against her pulse. "I married a smart girl."
The idea that he's actually married still gives Puck pause and he rarely makes any reference to it out loud. But when he does, it makes Rachel go nuts. She nearly smothers herself against his shirt and moans, loud and low. He promptly takes hold of her shoulders to pull her back just far enough to get to her mouth. He'll never admit it, but he loves the way she kisses. She gets so into it and she makes these noises — sometimes he thinks that he could just kiss her and never have to go farther.
But then her hands are tugging desperately on the hem of his shirt and he realizes that, no, that's complete and utter bullshit. With her, he always needs more, more, more.
She's really struggling trying to get his shirt off now and he can tell by how she's rocking up and back on her toes that she's getting frustrated. He smiles against her mouth.
"Undoing the buttons might help," he drawls while taking a breath. He leans over her slightly and she has to tilt backwards even farther to compensate. Their height difference always makes standing up make-out sessions doubly interesting.
Her fingers are on his buttons now, but Puck has her pressed so tight against him that she can't seem to get them undone. He's kissing her neck now, nibbling her ear, and she's huffing in agitation while her fingers scrabble uselessly against the front of his shirt. He knows he should probably help her before she gets royally pissed, but he can't help wanting to push. He always loves her out of control.
"Ugh, just get it off!" she finally shrieks. He grins and bites down on her neck again at just the right spot and she goes instantly liquid and compliant. Before her, he'd never been with a girl for more than a few weeks. With Rachel, it's been two years and he knows her so well now. He knows how to make her do what he wants and feel what he wants and he uses that. He uses it for her and he thought knowing someone so well would be boring, but he was wrong, wrong, wrong.
It's power and Puck can't get enough of it.
A little bit of his control snaps and he pushes her back rougher than he meant to. It doesn't seem to bother her and she gets his bottom three buttons undone impressively fast, but still not fast enough, so he rips the shirt over his head himself and he hears one of the sleeves tear, but who the fuck cares about a sleeve? He throws the shirt somewhere behind him and he's right back against her.
He hooks the back of her thighs and hauls her onto the counter. The back of her head bumps hard against the cabinet and he freezes at the noise, reaching into her hair to feel for a lump, but she slaps his hand away, and says, "No, don't stop," and they're kissing again.
Puck smoothes his hands up her naked back and into her hair. The apron was pretty hot, but now he just wants it gone. He pulls the knot free and fists the front of it in his hand before ripping it off and tossing it somewhere behind him just as he had done with his shirt. She moans into his mouth and hooks her calves around the backs of his thighs.
He slides his hand down between her legs and he's shocked at how wet she is. She's drenched — she feels the way she does after he's teased her, touched her for hours. He feels his stomach muscles tighten. This isn't going to last long for either of them.
He still wants to draw this out, drive her crazy, make her beg like he usually does, but there's always time for that later and he has to be in her now. She must be thinking the same thing because she's already got his belt undone and the button on his jeans open and she only goes slow with the zipper (she caught him with it once and she's been careful ever since). Her little hand pulls out his cock and she squeezes it, pumps it, twists her fist around it and he leans his forehead against the cabinet beside her head and groans. Her mouth is on his shoulder and she's sucking and licking and saying something in that high whine she gets when she's really turned on, but he is too busy trying not to come already to listen to her.
He grabs her wrist to move her hand out of the way before fisting his own cock and pumping it slowly up and down the full length. Her forehead is on his shoulder now and her eyes are glazed as she stares down at him, watching.
He knows she loves to watch.
He doesn't have much patience tonight, though, so he grips it steady and pulls her hips to the edge of the counter. She shimmies a little to help him and he lines up and pushes in and it's so good. It's so good and tight and perfect. He hunches his shoulders and leans forward, closing his eyes and groaning. Rachel makes a strangled noise and her back arches so sharply that her head bashes against the cabinet again. Puck pulls back and thrusts once and it happens a third time. He frowns and slides his hand behind her head. "You're gonna knock yourself unconscious," he growls.
"Just... move...please!" she says. Her eyes are squeezed shut.
He gives her what she wants, what they both want, and he feels like his eyes are going to roll back into his head. He honestly doesn't understand how this is possible. He's had sex with Rachel hundreds of times. Why does it always feel so new?
The force of his thrusts keeps pushing her back on the counter so he wraps his free arm around the small of her back and holds her in place. His knuckles are getting scraped raw against the cabinet behind her skull, but he couldn't care less. Having sex on a counter is fucking hot.
Puck knows he's not going to last. A little panicked now—there's no fucking way he'll come before Berry—he reaches down to find her clit and starts rubbing it hard and rough. She comes straight off the counter and only his hips are holding her up now. She wraps her arms around his neck and jams her hips down to meet his last few thrusts and then she's making that noise and stiffening up like a board and he nearly moans in relief. His thrusts turn erratic and desperate and she's shaking and crying out and then he's right there with her and he hears fucking bells.
Or at least something bell-like.
"What the fuck is that noise?" he asks after, as he holds her shuddering against him.
Rachel sounds like she's choking on her own breath, so he looks around the kitchen to see where the sound is coming from. He realizes that the oven timer is going off and through the thick smell of sex, he can still pick out the delicious aroma that's wafting through the kitchen. "Oh, shit! I almost forgot about the ziti!" he says happily, lifting Rachel up and off of him before setting her gently on her feet. She sinks down to the floor in front of the counter and glares at him while he tucks himself back into his jeans.
"You could at least kiss me after that before abandoning me for food," she says petulantly.
Puck grins as he switches off the the timer and pulls on an oven mitt. "Baby, you know I'm going to be kissing you wherever you want me to for the rest of the night," he replies with a leer. "Don't front — that's the whole reason you made ziti."
He pulls the dish out of the oven and makes exaggerated moaning noises at the smell until Rachel finally gives in and laughs. He sets it on the table and retrieves his shirt from where it was hanging off one of the kitchen chairs. He shakes it out and moves to kneel in front of her. She bites her lip before rolling her eyes and smiling, lifting her arms into the air. He tugs the shirt over her head and helps her get her arms through the sleeves before he pulls her to her feet by her wrists.
He turns to head back to the table, but she stops him by pressing against his back and snaking her hands around his waist. She leans up on her toes and kisses him right between the shoulder blades. "I love you," she says simply. He doesn't say it back, but he knows he will, later. It's true, after all.
That doesn't mean that he never wonders if he made the right decision, because he does sometimes. He never saw himself getting married — and he and Rachel are both so young. And New York? Definitely not his first choice. But as much as the thought makes him want to cringe and check that hasn't grown a vagina, Puck knows he'd always rather be with Rachel than anywhere else. So if Rachel wants New York, then that's where he's going to be.
Even if parking does cost twelve fucking dollars.