A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know what you think...
A slow song drifts out over the grass and he smiles into her hair as his hands dip down briefly, roam lightly over her ass while they dance under the dim glow of a few strings of holiday lights he and his sister had strung up in the trees in his old backyard.
She giggles and buries her head in his chest. "Noah, everyone's watching!"
"Let 'em," he mutters, letting his hands drift south again because her ass is perfect and it's about the only thing that's kept him sane during their long (really fucking long) weekend in Lima. "I'm going crazy here. I wanna go back to the city, back home to our apartment. Just the two of us, baby."
"We only have ourselves to blame," she says practically, sighing a little.
"Oh, I know exactly who to blame," he says darkly. "This whole thing? This is all my mother."
Totally his mother and her desire to 'celebrate' (rub in the face of the entire town) the fact that her son married a nice Jewish girl without even knocking her up first.
He and Rachel were engaged for about three minutes before she started in on planning the wedding. For that matter, he's firmly convinced that she's had Rabbi Wiseman on speed dial ever since she figured out the two of them were finally together after years of doing the 'friend' thing. (You know, the one where he was totally in love with her for ages and almost lost her because he was too chicken-shit to say anything.)
It starts out small because they both tell her they want simple. Rachel's got a new show opening soon, and some huge circus isn't them and besides, they've both waited long enough. And at first, he's so busy 'celebrating' his engagement with Rachel every chance that he gets, he doesn't even notice when the guest list starts to expand, until it seems like every week his mother is calling at 7:00 AM on Sunday mornings to talk about flowers and hand-carved chuppahs and menu selections. (Like he even gives a shit what kind of chicken is going to be served.)
The last straw comes when he gets home after an endless fucking day at the studio, laying down back-up guitar on overtime for a producer friend who called in a favor. And all he can think of on the long subway ride is getting back to Rachel and eating takeout on the couch and then taking his sexy girl to bed. But when he get to their place, there's no Thai and worse, Rachel is a mess, tears streaking down her face, sitting on the living room floor surrounded by swatches of fabric.
"Your mother says I have to coordinate the tulle for the swags to the bridesmaid's dresses! Noah, I didn't even realize that I was having bridesmaids...multiple bridesmaids! And I hate tulle!"
Look, most of what he knows about happy endings comes from Mario rescuing Princess Peach, but even he knows that she shouldn't be sobbing hysterically over their wedding. And four more months of this? No.
So three weeks later he and Rachel are getting married at City Hall with just her dads and his mom and Sarah and a couple of their New York friends in attendance. Santana holds Rachel's flowers and the rings, which he supposes makes her both the bridesmaid and the best man. (Rachel smacks him when he tells San that she'll have to fuck herself at the reception.) After the ceremony, they all head back to the apartment where they lay out the brunch Rachel ordered from somewhere. Then after a couple of hours and a lot of champagne, he plays her the song he wrote for her present (shit, it's their wedding day, of course he's gonna come up with something good) and she politely kicks everyone the hell out and they don't leave the apartment for two days.
Best wedding day ever. Best girl ever.
And of course after about a month of telling everyone who would listen how happy she was and how she always knew this day would come, she starts to go bat-shit crazy. To Rachel, she's sweet, but to him, it's all 'Rabbi Wiseman was so looking forward to saying the blessing...' or 'it's a shame your Nana's health wouldn't allow her to travel to New York...' or 'Noah, you cheated me out of a wedding!' or words to that effect.
He doesn't bother to wait for her to bring up the car he wrecked in high school. "I get the message, Ma. What's it going to take?"
"I don't know what you mean, Noah. But since you mention it..."
So here they are, almost a year later, at this party his mother is throwing to allow their friends and family in Ohio the chance to offer their support and congratulations. (What the fuck is wrong with a card, that's what he wants to know.) Or more likely, it's just her plan to punish him by making him run around like a bitch to get everything ready.
Fine. He probably, you know, owes her for a million sleepless nights It makes her happy and honestly, the place looks great, and the food is awesome because if there's one thing the greater Lima Jewish community can do, it's bring on the mountains of food. He's probably eaten his weight in noodle kugel alone today.
Long day though. At one point, it seems like the entire town was here, but thank fuck, by 11:00 PM it's finally winding down now and he thinks only the New Directions stragglers are still around. Just as well, it's not like any one of them gives a shit that he's groping his wife. (Actually Hummel's sitting in a corner with Mercedes looking like he's sucked a lemon, but since that's kinda his normal expression, Puck's not really sure.)
Rachel's starting to lean against him a little more and then she's yawning for, like, the third time.
"Why don't you go up, baby? Mom and Sarah are already in bed."
"Mmmm, okay," she agrees, nuzzling into his shoulder and pressing a quick kiss on his collar. He watches her head into the house and not going to lie, he mostly hates being back in Lima, but it feels pretty awesome to finally have her in the bed where he spent hours jerking off, thinking about her perfect little tits and the curve of her ass under those tiny skirts and shit...what the hell is he still going out here?
But she's been up since 5:00 for this thing and she could use the rest. He's a thoughtful guy so he can give her a little sleep before he wakes her up by crawling between her thighs. Or maybe she'll wake him up; she's got no problem letting him know when she wants something (him).
He bullshits with Finn for a while and hugs Brittany goodnight when they leave (it's not easy, she looks like she's about to pop with kid four. Or maybe three? Rachel's better at keeping track of that shit than he is.) Eventually he tells San and Mike and the rest of them to fuck off home and it's about an hour later when he's headed up the stairs to find his wife.
He's a little surprised when he sees the line of light coming from under the door, but he figures that maybe she left the desk lamp on for him, so he doesn't kill himself on the way to the bed. His room is kind of a minefield right now with crap everywhere. They've been going through all his old shit trying to decide what to bring back to New York (she wants his old football jerseys to sleep in, he thinks it's cute that she thinks she'll get any sleep if she comes to bed dressed like that) and what to chuck (like his address book from the pool cleaning days, she practically put on rubber gloves to throw that away).
Room's probably still trashed when he opens the door. He doesn't notice. Doesn't notice anything but Rachel all laid out on his bed one hand behind her head and the other resting on her stomach and it's just miles of perfect tanned skin on display, because she's got almost nothing on except that black bra and panty set that they'd picked out for her birthday (choosing it almost got the two of them kicked out of the store, too). Her skin is glowing in the light from the street lamp outside his window, and fuck, the whole picture is sexy as hell, but two little things are just about sending him over the edge.
First of all, he can see her wedding ring glinting in the light. Giant turn-on right there. She's always been crazy about metaphors and symbols and shit, and it turns out that he is too, because he just loves the look of that damn thing on her.
The second thing that's got his pulse racing?
His fucking fedora from 'Lady is a Tramp' is perched on her head.
She smiles up at him, and trails one fingertip up her stomach, between (oh fuck, oh fuck) her tits and then up to tilt the hat back a little, and yes, she knows exactly what kind of picture she's presenting. He'd bet a million fucking dollars that she's rehearsed it and he's a lucky bastard, because this kind of performance always gets her worked up.
"Like it?" she asks, kittenishly.
He starts yanking on the buttons on his shirt and one goes flying across the room. "Fuck yes, baby. I like it a lot."
"Good. I found it in one of the boxes we were going through today. I remember when you wearing this when you sang to Mercedes. You sang so beautifully and I couldn't understand why I was upset for days."
And this is kind of a mixed bag because on the one hand, he hates being reminded of all the shit he missed with her in high school. On the other hand, every time she admits that she wasn't totally indifferent to him back then, it makes him even hornier.
If that's even possible.
He thinks he may be at max now, jumping on one leg, trying to get his stupid jeans off. "I was an idiot," he mumbles.
Her lips twitch, but all she says is, "I was starting to wonder. I thought maybe you got lost."
"Believe me. If I had known you were up here like this, I'd have kicked those fuckers out an hour ago."
Thank god, he's finally naked and he stalks towards her and something in his eyes is making her simultaneously shudder and slide her hand between her legs and he lets out a groan as he watches her touch herself.
"Want to help?" she asks.
Screw high school. At least he's smart enough not to waste any more time. "Always, baby."
Later when they're both sweaty and sated, and she's warm and half asleep, curled up half on top of him, he catches a glance at the clock on his nightstand.
12:52 AM. It's tomorrow.
He kisses her hair, her temple and then as she stretches up to meet him, her lips.
"Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Puckerman."
A/N: Fluff to celebrate my one-year anniversary writing P/R. To all the terrific readers and especially the friends and correspondents I've met through Puckleberry, thank you so much for all the encouragement you've given me over the last year! I couldn't have done it without all of you.