I...really have no idea. I don't write het, like, ever and I NEVER write het porn, but here we are. Have some Puckleberry. This is the one where Rachel almost loses her virginity, but instead gets a boyfriend and gives a handjob. Contains sexy!Rachel and caring!Puck. Set after 1x02 and is AU because this is just a massive ball of what the fuck.

You shouldn't be kissing him. More importantly than that, you shouldn't be enjoying it because hello, this is Noah Puckerman – he's bad, and so are you in a different sense. His public image is consistent with his private one – you're only prone to doing shady things behind closed doors. Sometimes that's a very literal statement. Like now, for instance, as you're grabbing the collar of Noah's shirt with one hand and fumbling clumsily with the button on his jeans with the other.

Separately, the two of you might do stupid things, say stupid things, sabotage things. But that's nothing.

The hurtful comments you both so readily toss out; Puck's criminal record; your diva complex – it's all minor compared to the force that is created when you and Puck are in the same vicinity.

Combined, you become lethal – a lit stick of dynamite resting in the middle of civilization, about to explode.

This is really, really, exceptionally stupid because what the hell are you going to do, anyway?

You recognize, vaguely, through the haze of pleasure and shock that runs through you as your lips touch his again and again, that things between you will never be the same – everything has finally boiled over.

Once you catch fire, how do you stop yourself from burning away?

The answer, as it turns out, is simple enough.

You don't.

"Maybe we should-" You start to say, and then stop yourself, thinking better of it.

Noah hovers above you in the dark, holding himself up on impossibly strong arms. Being this close to him is more unnerving than you want to admit; you have never been so near in proximity to a human being that you could actually feel every slight motion of their body.

You're not even flush with each other. It's as though the air is a missing link that completes the circuit between your bodies – every sensation is still tangible in spite of the lack of skin to skin contact.

You want to stop the sparks that are crackling with every touch of his hands to your skin; they jump from his fingers to your cheeks, the center of your chest – he stops with his hand over your heart for a moment, holding your gaze with near-reverence in his eyes – as he kisses you.

His hands find their way, now, to the apex of your hips. You whine, desperate, needy – should you stop him? Do you want to? The answers to these questions elude you, clouded as your mind is by the sheer overload of sensory input.

"Wait," You manage to gasp out, covering his hands with yours and raising them to a place slightly less risky. "Are you sure-"

His lips find yours again. This kiss is messier and more desperate than the others; your mouths open simultaneously and maybe this whole experience should feel a lot weirder than it does, but sometimes things just happen.

Making out, in the abstract, has always sounded unpleasant. Before actually experiencing it for yourself, what little you knew came from watching your parents (um, ew) and people in the halls – kissing Finn, though admittedly exciting, only perpetuated that notion because his lips were huge compared to yours and, as long as you're tipping the scales in Puck's favor, Finn used way too much tongue.

You probably are too, right now, but his was practically shoved down your throat – you're being careful to avoid a literal round of tonsil hockey.

And even with the caution you keep having to mentally remind yourself to use, it's taking everything you have not to just rip off Puck's pants – they're still on and still fucking taunting you because like an idiot, you unbuttoned them before things got this hot – and start humping him through his boxers or doing something equally depraved.

"Puckerman, I will give you the worst case of blue balls in the history of humanity if you don't say something," your usual eloquence is gone, replaced by profanities normally reserved for the likes of Santana Lopez.

"I'm sure if you're sure," he pants, and then he's plucking your fingers away from where they've latched onto his shirt, turning on your bedside lamp and reaching in his pocket because you would be losing your virginity to a guy who has sex so often, he carries condoms around everywhere. You're about to question your sanity and accuse him of as much when he says, "I know what you're thinking, and the last time I had sex was with Quinn. I'm not as much of a manwhore as gossipmongers want you to believe."

"You said 'as much', pool boy," you taunt, poking him hard in the chest.

Then a sense of clarity overwhelms you. "Noah, what are we?" You ask him seriously, bringing a sweaty hand up to bite your thumbnail because you're sort of dreading the answer.

"Actually," he says, and he's laughing, the utter nerve – "I was planning on asking you out, but you decided to interrupt that with making out, not that I'm complaining."

Whatever brief anger you felt at his mirth disappears completely, because all of a sudden, there is no room for anything but hope inside your chest.

"Still planning?" You ask him breathlessly, unable to focus on anything but the future he has just promised you.

"You bet." He kisses you again, this time soft and sweet and all the things you never expected a bad boy to be. "Rachel Berry, will you allow me the honor of calling you my girlfriend?"

You're smiling so widely by now it's a wonder your jaw hasn't cracked like your morals did when you realized just how damn good McKinley's bad boy really is.

"Yes," you answer, diving forward to kiss him. "Yes, yes, yes."

He smiles and reaches for your hand, tenderly rubbing circles over your knuckles. Shivering as his calloused thumb brushes the skin there, you gently work your hand free of his grasp and let it drop to the tiny triangular patch of cotton that was previously covered by the topmost part of his jeans.

"You know, since we're dating, there'll be plenty of time for sex," you tell him. "I figured that if I had one night with you, I'd just have sex with you and, you know, regret it once I'd come to my senses – but as there will be more nights, I have another idea."

"No pressure," he says. "I understand – just say the word when you're ready."

With this clarification out of the way, you turn your attention to his pants and unceremoniously tug them down. His eyes widen at your boldness, but he flashes an approving smile and assists you with removing his jeans once they fall to his knees.

"Interested to know what my plans are?" You ask lowly, unsure where the vixen thing is coming from but deciding to run with it because your dads won't be home anytime soon and you're surprisingly at ease with the traits Noah brings out in you – grateful, even, because without this encounter you probably would never have been made aware of this side of yourself.

"Um," his voice is strained – you wonder what, exactly, you've done to make him lose control like this – "yes, actually."

You think for a moment and go from kneeling to sitting back on your heels, inquiring almost conversationally, "excuse me for asking, but have you ever done anything besides…you know, intercourse?" Okay, so the prude in you hasn't completely died yet.

"Well, I've masturbated," he says, looking sheepish but hello, you've masturbated and until today you were Super Virgin, so he really has nothing to be ashamed of on that front, "but other than that, no."

"I can fix that," you say coyly, and did his cock just twitch at those words? You feel dirty using the word 'cock' to describe his manhood, but 'penis' is far too reminiscent of sex education classes and if you said 'dick' it would be more indicative of the complete loss of your sanity than anything else.

You're proud of yourself in some really disgusting, off-color way.

"Please do." There's a note of desperation in his voice.

You start by gingerly brushing the palm of your hand over his crotch. It's no more than a tickle, and through the fabric of his underwear, it probably feels like even less than that – but he moans, regardless, and damn if that's not one of the most arousing noises you've ever heard.

Waiting, you motion to indicate that he should remove his underwear because by now, you're just as eager as he is, and discreetly wipe the sweat from your hands when he looks away.

He's half-hard already, rapidly growing more wild-eyed with lust. You gently slide your hand over his member once more before making a ring around it, letting it twitch against your palm as it hardens.

Noah Puckerman is extremely well-endowed.

On a scale of one to ten, losing your virginity to him (you estimate, like, eight inches or something, holy shit) is probably going to rank as a ninety.

You pump in a gentle rhythm up and down his length, thankful for the light because otherwise, you would probably only manage to cause extreme pain. His penis grows so hard after the first few strokes, it completely fills the circle your hand has created.

The motions increase until you're both frantic – your clit is throbbing; who knew handjobs were so erotic – and Noah sort of whines his approval as you fondle his balls with one hand and continuously pump with the other until he comes in a burst of ecstasy, thankfully only into your hand rather than all over the sheets.

He hands you a tissue, not at all offended when you clean yourself up rather than actually licking the come from your palm.

"Was that terrible?" You wonder aloud, embarrassed at what was probably a poor performance.

"Hell no," he says, kissing you again to show he really means it. "That was…awesome." He shakes his head in wonder.

Monday morning, you hold his hand walking down the hall.

For the first time ever, no slushies are thrown towards either of you.

Going to the dark side, you realize, has a lot of benefits in the end.