fic fill
I haven't written anything in what feels like forever, so excuse me if this is terrible. *blows dust off keyboard*
Puck/Rachel: Drabble Meme Fill: Prompt: Never sleep all naked. Your house can be caught in a fire and while the fireman do their job you'll be staying outside… in your birthday suit.
Rachel naked.
Fireman Puck.
She swears she has the kind of luck where it is only possible for things like this current embarrassing and humiliating situation to happen to her.
Santana and Cosmopolitan magazine and numerous other people that have been a part of her life at some point or another have sworn by the freedom you feel when you sleep naked, when it’s just your body and cool sheets. And tonight, with her air conditioning unit on the fritz and fans just not doing the job, she decided to give it a blissful try.
And it was blissful. She’s not ashamed to admit that she’s 23 and it’s the first non-sexual related time she’s slept naked. It was just her in her bed, cooling down after a hot day and an even hotter night where the thought of putting on the tank top and shorts she usually wears to bed just made her break into a sweat.
She hates heat waves. They’re ridiculous, and awful, but when she was changing to go to sleep and her bed felt so cold and inviting, and her apartment peacefully empty, she decided what the heck, and shed her clothes, sighing in enjoyment as she slipped beneath her sheets.
Santana, Cosmopolitan magazine, and the long list of other people who seemingly enjoy sleeping nude on a regular basis failed to mention the fact that in the middle of the night, when you’re in the midst of a deep, deep sleep, there’s an admittedly slight chance that you may be rudely awaken by the sound of your apartment door being knocked on, loudly, followed by yelling.
And when you go to answer it, half asleep and not thinking at all, there’s a chance that the one person standing at the door is going to be that one person you don’t want to see when you’re answering your door naked at 3:49am.
She’s just that unlucky person who gets to have that story about why she’ll never, ever, again, in a million, billion, trillion years sleep naked, even when she’s alone and there’s no one around for miles to see her.
Because she’s the idiot that forgot she’d even slept naked, until she was greeted by a smirking fire fighter banging on her door at 3:49am, letting his eyes roam down her body in a way she used to think could actually possibly set her entire body alight, only to recover himself quickly and inform her that she needs to evacuate her building immediately because an apartment downstairs is currently on fire and they need to evacuate everyone in order to do their job.
She’s trying not to panic. She doesn’t know what to grab first. She wants to run inside, scramble for her dignity, her panties, and something to throw on top, but he’s already dragging her down the hallway.
“So, is it my lucky night or did you just dress up for me?” He asks, smirk firmly in place, and she huffs and rolls her eyes and truly hates whoever made Noah Puckerman such a jackass.
“Most firemen would be professional, not comment, and shut the hell up.”
“Well, I was going to be a gentleman and offer you my jacket, but if you’re going to get all bitchy about it, I’ll just leave you to stand in your birthday suit in the cold.”
“Oh, Noah, we both know you never would have been a gentleman.”
He’s shrugging out of his jacket anyway, removing a blue FDNY tee shirt, which he hands to her, before he pulls his jacket back on and does it up.
(She has a feeling she’ll be dreaming of the sight of that body that still looks as perfectly sculpted as it did when they were sixteen, bare except for the suspenders holding his pants up underneath the yellow jacket for many nights to come.)
She pulls the tee shirt on and tries not to smell the scent of him that’s always made her heart beat a little faster, even though she’s spent six months trying to get over the fact that he might be that one person she’ll always have feelings for.
He leads her over to the car park, far away from the building, says something in a low voice to her that she doesn’t quite catch, and then jogs back to her building as she sits against her car and tries to make sure she keeps her legs together at all times.
She’s already anticipating Santana’s catty laugh as she dials the phone to tell her just what Santana’s advice has done for her life.
And her dignity.
And her pride.
And then she cries a little, because of all the ways she wanted to next encounter the ex boyfriend she’s beginning to wonder if she’ll always love, half asleep and naked as her building goes up in flames is pretty much the last way she wanted it to happen.
Especially when he was looking like a Greek god with an irresistible smirk she’s still not sure how she managed to walk away from.
--
She’s shivering in the cold night air as she watches her neighbours console each other, wrapped warmly in blankets and coats, holding cats and dogs and all these things they had time to prepare for because they didn’t get to be surprised at nearly 4am by an unforgettable ex boyfriend while she stood there naked and gaping and confused.
She’s overwhelmed by the lingering smell of his cologne on her/his shirt, and it’s so familiar, it makes her want to cry all over again, because the longing she feels and the pain of missing him when he looks so good and smells so good and they had such a good thing going except for the stupid pointless fights over god only knows what, and this is just the most incredibly strange, weird, embarrassing night of her entire life.
Finally he appears in front of her, shrugging out of a jacket that smells like smoke, and offering it to her. She wants to laugh at the irony of a peace offering after all the things that have been said and done.
He’s sweaty and there’s a smudge of dirt across one cheek, and he still manages to look like he’s just strolled off the set of a calendar shoot.
He pulls his jacket around her, tucks her into his side the way she used to love when she was tired and just wanted to relax and watch TV on their couch at home after a long day of work, and her head immediately leans on the one place on his shoulder she privately thinks of as “hers.”
“You okay?” He asks, and she wants to ask when he started caring again, because there’s a few calls that went unanswered that blatantly stated he absolutely did not care about her any more.
“Mortified, humiliated, and all I can think about is how I look like some slut you met in a bar who gets to do a walk of shame in an FDNY tee shirt.”
He laughs quietly, and she misses this, the feeling of his fingers interlocking with hers, making him laugh, which always made her feel like she could do anything in the entire world.
“Don’t exactly hand tee shirts out like candy, ya know. And they sure as shit don’t get an FDNY shirt.”
She smiles softly at this, because she’s got at least two bundled up in her drawer upstairs for lonely nights when she wants to remember a time when there was a boy who she thought could love her forever. Given to her by him, and he never asked for them back, even when he asked her for controllers and DVDs and two years of relationship debris.
“And if it makes you feel any better, in four and a half years of FDNY, I’ve never had a girl open a door with that kinda greeting. Shit, B, if I knew I was going to get that sort of greeting, I woulda come over a hell of a lot sooner, and not because your building was on fire because some dumbass lit a bunch of candles they forgot to blow out before gettin’ down to business.”
She’s not blushing. She’s not. She’s still being mortified because he saw her naked and she’s practically naked in the car park of her apartment building and she’s not wearing panties and they’re broken up and he shouldn’t be seeing her naked and she should be moving on with her life and she shouldn’t still be thinking about how much she once/still/maybe loves him.
He’s still playing with the ring on her right hand while their fingers are tangled together, and they’re silent for a long time as she wonders what she’s going to do, since she can’t face Santana right now and be asked a million questions, all leading to the same outcome that she almost yelled down the phone at Rachel, “Why haven’t you screwed him yet?” And Puck’s informed her that it will be at least a night before she can get back into her apartment building, if not longer.
All because some hopeless, naïve, stupid person downstairs decided they may look a little better in flickering candle light, and nearly burnt the place down.
“So…” He begins, and she wonders if this is where they have that conversation she’s been picturing playing out for the almost two hours she’s sat in a car park feeling a breeze in all the wrong places, where they talk about all the ways in which their relationship went wrong and why it would be an absolutely terrible idea to reconcile. (She’s also pictured him admitting how much he still loves her and can’t forget her and wants to go back to being NoahandRachel, like it was when they first moved to New York all dreams and hopes and love and ambition and she thought maybe the next step might be a diamond ring.)
She’s waiting for this big romantic “I miss you” as she stares at a pool of light on the concrete, and he opens his mouth.
“So… since when do you sleep naked? ‘Cause shit, B, I tried to talk you into that like fifty million fuckin’ times a night and you never went for it. You were the girl who used to finish sexin’ me up, get out of bed, put your panties on, put a shirt on, and then climb right back into bed before the sheets were even like, cold, or whatever.”
So much for romance.
“Wait. You weren’t like… gettin’ busy with some random dude, were you?”
“Don’t you think I would’ve been a little bit more concerned when you came to my apartment to tell me that my building was on fire if I had someone in my apartment with me?” She raises her eyebrow. She has a feeling that Puck may just have let any guy that may have been in her apartment in a sexual nature burn to a crisp without a second thought.
“Good.” He says, and they’re quiet for a little bit. “Come home with me.” He says, and suddenly she’s aware that she can feel him beside her, his body pressed against her side, and god, she’s missed him. Just the feel of him, even when they’re just in the same room.
And all the reasons why it was a good idea to break up are gone completely when she looks into his eyes and sees him staring back at her, waiting for a response.
Her breath is in her throat, and there’s a million words fighting to tumble out of her lips. She takes a big, deep breath instead.
“I think I may even have a pair of your panties lying around at home, B, so you don’t have to worry about rockin’ commando. Unless of course you want to go right back to the whole naked sleeping thing, ‘cause that’s pretty fucking hot.”
“I’m never sleeping naked again. I don’t want to encounter another experience such as this one where I wind up almost standing alone and naked in a car park of my apartment building while everyone else that lives in the building looks at me and thinks of me as some tramp.”
He laughs a little, and her heart flutters, and her gaze returns to meet his.
“Come home with me.” He says, barely above a whisper.
She desperately needs to say yes, because he’s beside her in just suspenders and pants and he looks gorgeous and perfect and she’s still in love with him, because she’s pathetic and things just aren’t the same without him, even though it’s been six months.
She nods, and he goes over to say something to the boys from his brigade before he comes back to her car.
She drives the familiar route to his apartment, the route she used to take almost every day, the familiar place she used to think one day they’d share together.
He pulls out some panties from a drawer of stuff that looks like hers, and she pulls them on as he tries to discreetly watch without leering.
(She’s surprised he can manage it too.)
He waits, and then he makes his move once she’s standing. He kisses her against his set of drawers with the small mirror on top, and it’s cool on her skin and feels just like coming home.
She can’t believe she thought she could ever go without the feeling of Noah Puckerman’s lips against hers.
The night progresses over coffee as they sit at the table she helped him pick out and watch the new day dawn. She resists saying anything about a new beginning, but it feels like one as he presses her into his sheets.
--
The next morning, she’s wearing just her underwear as she lies in the bed that smells like him. There’s a glass of water on her side of his bed, a few other things that used to be there on a permanent basis for her, that he says from his position across the pillow he never got around to moving.
He spends the day trying to show her just how amazing it can feel to sleep naked when your building isn’t going to burn down around you and you won’t be left stranded, in your birthday suit, in the middle of a car park.
She’s not going to deny that there’s a strong chance he’s successful.
Puck/Rachel: Drabble Meme Fill: Prompt: Never sleep all naked. Your house can be caught in a fire and while the fireman do their job you'll be staying outside… in your birthday suit.
Rachel naked.
Fireman Puck.
She swears she has the kind of luck where it is only possible for things like this current embarrassing and humiliating situation to happen to her.
Santana and Cosmopolitan magazine and numerous other people that have been a part of her life at some point or another have sworn by the freedom you feel when you sleep naked, when it’s just your body and cool sheets. And tonight, with her air conditioning unit on the fritz and fans just not doing the job, she decided to give it a blissful try.
And it was blissful. She’s not ashamed to admit that she’s 23 and it’s the first non-sexual related time she’s slept naked. It was just her in her bed, cooling down after a hot day and an even hotter night where the thought of putting on the tank top and shorts she usually wears to bed just made her break into a sweat.
She hates heat waves. They’re ridiculous, and awful, but when she was changing to go to sleep and her bed felt so cold and inviting, and her apartment peacefully empty, she decided what the heck, and shed her clothes, sighing in enjoyment as she slipped beneath her sheets.
Santana, Cosmopolitan magazine, and the long list of other people who seemingly enjoy sleeping nude on a regular basis failed to mention the fact that in the middle of the night, when you’re in the midst of a deep, deep sleep, there’s an admittedly slight chance that you may be rudely awaken by the sound of your apartment door being knocked on, loudly, followed by yelling.
And when you go to answer it, half asleep and not thinking at all, there’s a chance that the one person standing at the door is going to be that one person you don’t want to see when you’re answering your door naked at 3:49am.
She’s just that unlucky person who gets to have that story about why she’ll never, ever, again, in a million, billion, trillion years sleep naked, even when she’s alone and there’s no one around for miles to see her.
Because she’s the idiot that forgot she’d even slept naked, until she was greeted by a smirking fire fighter banging on her door at 3:49am, letting his eyes roam down her body in a way she used to think could actually possibly set her entire body alight, only to recover himself quickly and inform her that she needs to evacuate her building immediately because an apartment downstairs is currently on fire and they need to evacuate everyone in order to do their job.
She’s trying not to panic. She doesn’t know what to grab first. She wants to run inside, scramble for her dignity, her panties, and something to throw on top, but he’s already dragging her down the hallway.
“So, is it my lucky night or did you just dress up for me?” He asks, smirk firmly in place, and she huffs and rolls her eyes and truly hates whoever made Noah Puckerman such a jackass.
“Most firemen would be professional, not comment, and shut the hell up.”
“Well, I was going to be a gentleman and offer you my jacket, but if you’re going to get all bitchy about it, I’ll just leave you to stand in your birthday suit in the cold.”
“Oh, Noah, we both know you never would have been a gentleman.”
He’s shrugging out of his jacket anyway, removing a blue FDNY tee shirt, which he hands to her, before he pulls his jacket back on and does it up.
(She has a feeling she’ll be dreaming of the sight of that body that still looks as perfectly sculpted as it did when they were sixteen, bare except for the suspenders holding his pants up underneath the yellow jacket for many nights to come.)
She pulls the tee shirt on and tries not to smell the scent of him that’s always made her heart beat a little faster, even though she’s spent six months trying to get over the fact that he might be that one person she’ll always have feelings for.
He leads her over to the car park, far away from the building, says something in a low voice to her that she doesn’t quite catch, and then jogs back to her building as she sits against her car and tries to make sure she keeps her legs together at all times.
She’s already anticipating Santana’s catty laugh as she dials the phone to tell her just what Santana’s advice has done for her life.
And her dignity.
And her pride.
And then she cries a little, because of all the ways she wanted to next encounter the ex boyfriend she’s beginning to wonder if she’ll always love, half asleep and naked as her building goes up in flames is pretty much the last way she wanted it to happen.
Especially when he was looking like a Greek god with an irresistible smirk she’s still not sure how she managed to walk away from.
--
She’s shivering in the cold night air as she watches her neighbours console each other, wrapped warmly in blankets and coats, holding cats and dogs and all these things they had time to prepare for because they didn’t get to be surprised at nearly 4am by an unforgettable ex boyfriend while she stood there naked and gaping and confused.
She’s overwhelmed by the lingering smell of his cologne on her/his shirt, and it’s so familiar, it makes her want to cry all over again, because the longing she feels and the pain of missing him when he looks so good and smells so good and they had such a good thing going except for the stupid pointless fights over god only knows what, and this is just the most incredibly strange, weird, embarrassing night of her entire life.
Finally he appears in front of her, shrugging out of a jacket that smells like smoke, and offering it to her. She wants to laugh at the irony of a peace offering after all the things that have been said and done.
He’s sweaty and there’s a smudge of dirt across one cheek, and he still manages to look like he’s just strolled off the set of a calendar shoot.
He pulls his jacket around her, tucks her into his side the way she used to love when she was tired and just wanted to relax and watch TV on their couch at home after a long day of work, and her head immediately leans on the one place on his shoulder she privately thinks of as “hers.”
“You okay?” He asks, and she wants to ask when he started caring again, because there’s a few calls that went unanswered that blatantly stated he absolutely did not care about her any more.
“Mortified, humiliated, and all I can think about is how I look like some slut you met in a bar who gets to do a walk of shame in an FDNY tee shirt.”
He laughs quietly, and she misses this, the feeling of his fingers interlocking with hers, making him laugh, which always made her feel like she could do anything in the entire world.
“Don’t exactly hand tee shirts out like candy, ya know. And they sure as shit don’t get an FDNY shirt.”
She smiles softly at this, because she’s got at least two bundled up in her drawer upstairs for lonely nights when she wants to remember a time when there was a boy who she thought could love her forever. Given to her by him, and he never asked for them back, even when he asked her for controllers and DVDs and two years of relationship debris.
“And if it makes you feel any better, in four and a half years of FDNY, I’ve never had a girl open a door with that kinda greeting. Shit, B, if I knew I was going to get that sort of greeting, I woulda come over a hell of a lot sooner, and not because your building was on fire because some dumbass lit a bunch of candles they forgot to blow out before gettin’ down to business.”
She’s not blushing. She’s not. She’s still being mortified because he saw her naked and she’s practically naked in the car park of her apartment building and she’s not wearing panties and they’re broken up and he shouldn’t be seeing her naked and she should be moving on with her life and she shouldn’t still be thinking about how much she once/still/maybe loves him.
He’s still playing with the ring on her right hand while their fingers are tangled together, and they’re silent for a long time as she wonders what she’s going to do, since she can’t face Santana right now and be asked a million questions, all leading to the same outcome that she almost yelled down the phone at Rachel, “Why haven’t you screwed him yet?” And Puck’s informed her that it will be at least a night before she can get back into her apartment building, if not longer.
All because some hopeless, naïve, stupid person downstairs decided they may look a little better in flickering candle light, and nearly burnt the place down.
“So…” He begins, and she wonders if this is where they have that conversation she’s been picturing playing out for the almost two hours she’s sat in a car park feeling a breeze in all the wrong places, where they talk about all the ways in which their relationship went wrong and why it would be an absolutely terrible idea to reconcile. (She’s also pictured him admitting how much he still loves her and can’t forget her and wants to go back to being NoahandRachel, like it was when they first moved to New York all dreams and hopes and love and ambition and she thought maybe the next step might be a diamond ring.)
She’s waiting for this big romantic “I miss you” as she stares at a pool of light on the concrete, and he opens his mouth.
“So… since when do you sleep naked? ‘Cause shit, B, I tried to talk you into that like fifty million fuckin’ times a night and you never went for it. You were the girl who used to finish sexin’ me up, get out of bed, put your panties on, put a shirt on, and then climb right back into bed before the sheets were even like, cold, or whatever.”
So much for romance.
“Wait. You weren’t like… gettin’ busy with some random dude, were you?”
“Don’t you think I would’ve been a little bit more concerned when you came to my apartment to tell me that my building was on fire if I had someone in my apartment with me?” She raises her eyebrow. She has a feeling that Puck may just have let any guy that may have been in her apartment in a sexual nature burn to a crisp without a second thought.
“Good.” He says, and they’re quiet for a little bit. “Come home with me.” He says, and suddenly she’s aware that she can feel him beside her, his body pressed against her side, and god, she’s missed him. Just the feel of him, even when they’re just in the same room.
And all the reasons why it was a good idea to break up are gone completely when she looks into his eyes and sees him staring back at her, waiting for a response.
Her breath is in her throat, and there’s a million words fighting to tumble out of her lips. She takes a big, deep breath instead.
“I think I may even have a pair of your panties lying around at home, B, so you don’t have to worry about rockin’ commando. Unless of course you want to go right back to the whole naked sleeping thing, ‘cause that’s pretty fucking hot.”
“I’m never sleeping naked again. I don’t want to encounter another experience such as this one where I wind up almost standing alone and naked in a car park of my apartment building while everyone else that lives in the building looks at me and thinks of me as some tramp.”
He laughs a little, and her heart flutters, and her gaze returns to meet his.
“Come home with me.” He says, barely above a whisper.
She desperately needs to say yes, because he’s beside her in just suspenders and pants and he looks gorgeous and perfect and she’s still in love with him, because she’s pathetic and things just aren’t the same without him, even though it’s been six months.
She nods, and he goes over to say something to the boys from his brigade before he comes back to her car.
She drives the familiar route to his apartment, the route she used to take almost every day, the familiar place she used to think one day they’d share together.
He pulls out some panties from a drawer of stuff that looks like hers, and she pulls them on as he tries to discreetly watch without leering.
(She’s surprised he can manage it too.)
He waits, and then he makes his move once she’s standing. He kisses her against his set of drawers with the small mirror on top, and it’s cool on her skin and feels just like coming home.
She can’t believe she thought she could ever go without the feeling of Noah Puckerman’s lips against hers.
The night progresses over coffee as they sit at the table she helped him pick out and watch the new day dawn. She resists saying anything about a new beginning, but it feels like one as he presses her into his sheets.
--
The next morning, she’s wearing just her underwear as she lies in the bed that smells like him. There’s a glass of water on her side of his bed, a few other things that used to be there on a permanent basis for her, that he says from his position across the pillow he never got around to moving.
He spends the day trying to show her just how amazing it can feel to sleep naked when your building isn’t going to burn down around you and you won’t be left stranded, in your birthday suit, in the middle of a car park.
She’s not going to deny that there’s a strong chance he’s successful.