Title: Bully for you
Summary: “Puck, of the slushies, and the insults, and the harem of Cheerios, has her pushed up against the lockers, both hands set above her head, her world shrinking to his ridiculous haircut and his massive biceps and his hard, hard body. She moans, and tries to tell herself it's fear.”
Warning: Ellipses. I like them. Also allusions to underage sex, bullying, and dubious consent.
Rachel is lingering by her locker, checking her class schedule and stacking up the corresponding coloured binders. Black, for Physics and Calculus, green for English and History, then pink, for Glee. She's always prepared for …
… ice, stinging her eyes, dripping off her eyelashes, and nose, and plastering her shirt to her chest. Dammit, she thinks. White today. See through. She's trying to remember what bra she's wearing when she feels the warmth of him, looming next to her.
Puck. Her nemesis.
He's standing too close, licking his lips as he stares down at her. At her nipples, to be precise. Dark and pebbling under his attention as they peek through her brand new bra. Barely-there triangles of cream-coloured mesh. She gulps in humiliation, and realises she should be trying to escape, should be fleeing for the washroom, but …
… he has her trapped. Puck, of the slushies, and the insults, and the harem of Cheerios, has her pushed up against the lockers, both hands set above her head, her world shrinking to his ridiculous haircut and his massive biceps and his hard, hard body. She moans, and tries to tell herself it's fear.
He leans down to whisper in her ear. “Glee freak,” he breathes, but it's not hateful, like she would have expected. It's hungry.
She can feel the curves and planes of his body as he leans into her, and something hard and blunt is pushing against her belly. Even she, the school's most reviled virgin, is able to decode this message.
“I need to change,” she blurts in panic. “Thanks to you, you – delinquent! Let me go.”
He steps back and sweeps an ostentatious bow. “This way, milady.”
Her eyes are stinging, and tiny shards of ice are working their way down under her blouse, and dripping onto the floor. It feels wretched, so she follows him blindly. Stupidly.
The door he'd beckoned her towards opens into a janitor's closet, and she is so surprised that she fails to register his presence behind her until he has pushed her inside and jammed a broom under the handle.
“I am cold, and sticky, and covered in purple dye! I need a washroom!” she complains, but she's scared as well, and refusing to admit it. “Why on earth ...”
“Coz you've got pretty little tits,” Puck sneers, and stalks closer. “I wanna see if they taste like grape, too.”
She's shaking now, unable to believe this.
“Cold, freak?” He reaches out as if to steady her in the half-dark, but instead, his hands settle on her breasts, fingers and thumbs circling her nipples in a slow, careful tease that leaves her shaking. She's so shocked she nearly misses the rest of his sentence. “Don't worry – I'm gonna warm you up.”
He has three buttons undone on her cheesecloth shirt before she thinks to say 'no'. And by that time, his mouth is on her breast, licking and sucking and laving the tender buds with his tongue. Through her bra, but still. It's … maddening, she thinks. Outrageous. Insane ...
… but all she's thinking is oh, thank God when he drags the cups down to capture a breast in each huge hand, pushing them high and together over the restrictive nylon mesh, and dragging his tongue from one nipple to the next in a slippery trail of sensation. They look obscene like that: dark and engorged, glistening with his saliva, offerings on the altar of Puck, she thinks dazedly.
“Gorgeous fucking tits, baby. Taste so good,” he moans, or at least, she thinks he does. It might have been her, though, because her knees are buckling as he viciously sucks one nipple into his mouth, and flicks the other with his fingernail. She's not sure whether it's painful or pleasurable, but whatever he's doing, it leaves her hot and shivery, needful and wanton.
Then he drops to his knees.
She's wet, she realises suddenly. Her underwear is soaked, and it's a whole different kind of sticky. This horrible, hateful boy has his hands under her skirt, between her thighs. He's going to find out what looking at him does to her, every single time. Find out just how much she wants the bad boy, her tormentor, the bully.
The time for panic is past, though. His fingers are sliding in her wetness, sliding over the naughty little thong that matches the mesh bra, nudging it aside. Slicking his fingers in the moisture, and holding it up for her see.
“Oh, you're a hot little freak, aren't you Berry? Were you wet for me before I threw that slushie over you? Or do you like being cold and sticky? Like the humiliation? That's a little bit sick.”
Her mouth opens to protest, but then his fingers are back between her thighs, dancing expertly over territory she's less than familiar with herself. She should be saying “stop!” Rachel thinks, or simply screaming for help, but … but …
… her vision is blurring and her spine arches into a bow, because his hands are gone, now, and his tongue is there instead. He's pretty much holding her up anyway, so it's an easy thing for him to persuade one leg to slide over his shoulder, opening her up fully. Leaving her exposed. Vulnerable, she thinks, in the moment of thought left to her.
Long licks, from the very front of her to the very back, the quiff of his mohawk tickling her thighs as he works. He's mumbling, and only some of the words make it through the filter of mindless pleasure – “sweet” and “dripping, baby, fucking dripping” and “let go, baby, let it all go ...” and she does, surrenders it all to the feel of his tongue lashing her clit, then stabbing her where she needs it most, deep inside, where she aches for him. So familiar, that ache …
… “kinky little freak, coming all over my tongue; you wanted it so bad, wanted me all along ...”
… she'd hated him, but ached anyway.
Her body is still heaving with contractions when he pushes himself to his feet and spins her around, guiding her hands to the racking on the far wall.
“Gonna fuck you so hard you'll need to hold on,” he sneers, and she hates the way her body shudders again, and liquifies once more. Hates him, and hates herself, as she widens her legs to make it easy for him, and hollows her back, ready for the hot slide of his cock. It's more slam than slide, though, when it comes, and she screams with the force of it, the invasion …
… “ohgodohgodohgod, Puck, harder, fuck me harder, please, please.”
The racking is shaking and the tiny room is full of moans and groans and the sound of flesh slapping together, and their words, harsh words, love words, hate words… so hard inside of her, so deep, and he's swelling and she can feel it, his orgasm building, and it feels so good, so fucking good ...
… wrong, but so, so right. What she always wanted, her pleasure-drugged brain insists. Wanted for so long.
The knowledge of it rips from her chest, and she can't keep it inside a moment longer. She is reduced to a string of sound, a single note litany as she begins to come.
“Puck. Puck. Puck. Pu ...” but as her body convulses, truth is wrung free. “Noooaaahhh!” she screams, and it's like a signal, his name.
“Rachel, baby. Rach …. fuck, babe, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry …” he shouts, and she can feel him erupting inside of her, sperm and seed and life and future and love, rushing into her with every jerk of his body. It doesn't vanish the past, it doesn't but … his arms, steel bands around her waist as he anchors himself through the intensity of the moment, and his face, wet with tears against her back. Those things do. Those things make this place of pain, of torture, survivable.
Her past, survivable.
She drags in a long breath and eases herself out of the uncomfortable bend, even as he eases himself from her body. He slides down against the door, and she climbs into the familiar circle of his arms. The “guns” are bigger now, she thinks idly as she runs a finger up and down. Teenage Puck had been a gym junkie, but his adult counterpart had spent ten years as a firefighter. Real work wins, she thought with lascivious smirk. Growing up wins.
How did the song go? “Hold on to sixteen as long as you can,” she sang quietly, while Noah chuckled into her hair and hummed along. “Pretty soon life's gonna make you women and men.”
“It should really have a verse about needing to let go of highschool,” she observed wryly.
“By fucking ourselves into oblivion after sneaking into school on a Saturday morning? Yeah babe, Mellencamp would'a rocked that,” he teases, grabbing his shirt to wipe the last remnants of slushie from her long hair. “Do you think it worked?”
“Well, I certainly feel … exorcised,” she says, stretching luxuriantly and rising to her feet on wobbly legs. “I doubt I'll be having too many nightmares about slushies in the future.”
“Only good dreams, hey baby?”
“Mmm. I hope so.” She bit her lip, and leaned up to whisper into his ear. “Might even start calling you Puck.”
AN: Written for Day 5 of Smuckleberry Week on Tumblr, to the prompt “roleplay”.
- Current Mood: cheerful