A/N: I promise BDTH hasn't been forgotten about. My muse is being stubborn though and wanting to write ridiculous one-shots (see below).

As bad ideas go, this tops the list.

Rachel's staring at the scuff marks and peeling paint of his apartment door, trying to figure out how she ended up here in the first place. (Margaritas and too much girl talk, she quickly remembers.) The effects of the alcohol she consumed earlier in the evening are starting to fade, but there's still enough swimming in her system that she's able to summon the courage (stupidity?) to knock. Her knuckles rap loudly against the hollow door and she frowns at the hovel in which he's chosen to take up residence. Despite that they were nothing more to each other now than exes (and the fact that he can take care of himself just fine), she still hates that he lives in this shithole. (He'd tell her it was her fault in the first place for kicking him out and that would only spark another nasty fight between them; she's had her fill of those to last a lifetime.)

There's no answer so she knocks again. She's not leaving until she gets what she came for, so either he opens the door, or she'll let herself inside. The ceiling creaks above her and she can hear the television blaring next door and a couple shouting at one another in the apartment across the hall. She slowly counts to ten before she decides that he's not home. Sighing, she opens her purse and takes a credit card from her wallet and finds a bobby pin in her little makeup bag. Casting a furtive glance over her shoulder, she sets to picking the lock. This was just one of the many deviant behaviors (he'd call them something stupid like badass ninja skills) she could thank Noah Puckerman for.

The two locks give easily and within seconds she's inside his darkened apartment. Her hand fumbles along the wall until she finds the switch and flips it up. His apartment is small and cramped and a complete dump, but his things are tidy and she's honestly surprised by that. He was always leaving his stuff scattered around when they lived together and it drove her completely insane. (She most certainly does not miss cleaning up after him.)

Rachel looks quickly around the living room, trying to decide the best place to begin her search and quickly writes this room off.

Because even Noah isn't dumb enough to keep their sex tape on the DVD rack.

She'd practically forgotten about the tape they made until she was out for drinks with some friends earlier and she overheard a girl in the booth behind theirs crying to her friends that her ex-boyfriend had posted their sex tape on the internet as a way to get back at her for breaking up with him. Rachel felt like someone had sucker punched her and ice cold panic set in when she realized he could very easily do the same thing to her and tarnish her reputation. Two margaritas later and the paranoia was in full swing. She'd even gone home first to check the place where she'd kept the DVD hidden and discovered it was missing. That asshole had taken it with him when he moved out and she was here to take it back.

His bedroom isn't as neat as the living room, but it isn't a disaster either. The bed is made (albeit sloppily) and there are some dirty clothes tossed haphazardly in the corner. She hates how she remembers that he'd always shed his clothes and throw them in a pile before getting into bed. Shaking her head, she throws her purse down and gets to work.

She rifles through his dresser first. It's not in any of the four drawers, but she does find the red bra she loves and has been missing for months. Scoffing, she throws it on top of her purse and wonders how many other things of hers she'll unearth on this recovery mission.

The closet doesn't have what she's looking for either and then she sets her sights on the nightstand by his bed. She hesitates a little, almost afraid of what she'll find inside (she knows what he used to keep there); but they're over and it really shouldn't matter and she quickly realizes that it doesn't matter. He's free to do whatever (and whomever) he wants now and as soon as she finds that DVD, she's gone.

Sitting down on the bed, she pulls open the top drawer and sees pretty much what she expected—condoms, a bottle of lube, the lockbox with his gun that she always opposed but he insisted was necessary living in New York City. The weathered brown leather notebook she gave him for his music is peeking out beneath the lockbox and her heart turns over a little in her chest. She knows she absolutely shouldn't, but she pulls it out of the drawer and runs her fingers over the cover, specifically his initials stamped in the lower right corner. She tells herself not to, but she opens it anyway and sees his favorite picture of them tacked to the inside flap. They're both sitting on the floor, cartons of Chinese food between them, and he's playing his guitar (Bog Seger, she recalls) and she's got this content, dreamy look on her face as she listens to him sing about a black haired beauty with big, dark eyes.

It all feels like a million years ago.

His slanted little print fills the pages with random song lyrics and bars of music he composed and she quickly closes the notebook, because even though she's broken into his apartment to find the tape, this feels way too much like snooping. She places the notebook back in its spot and continues rooting through the drawer again. Her hand lands on a pair of lace panties she's fairly certain are hers and she's back to being disgusted at him for being such a pig.

Puck opens the door to his apartment and scowls when he sees the lights are on. He's not made of fucking money and he thought for sure he'd turned those off when he left for his show. Setting down his guitar case by the door, he heads for the kitchen to grab a beer when a familiar scent hits his nose. It's the same scent he's been missing for the last six months ever since she kicked his ass out and when hears a rustling sound coming from his bedroom, something hopeful stirs in his gut.

Forgetting all about the beer, he walks to his room and finds her lying face down across the mattress, her tiny yellow dress riding up tan legs, rummaging for something under the bed.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asks, leaning against the jamb and folding his arms across his chest.

Rachel freezes and swears under her breath. Getting caught honestly never even entered her mind and she feels approximately six inches tall at the moment. Her heart's also racing because she hasn't seen him or talked to him in months and being half drunk on margaritas while looking for their sex tape after breaking and entering is less than ideal.

"You're aware that I can see you, right?" He fights the grin when she pushes herself up to glare at him. She's so fucking hot it very nearly hurts and his dick twitches in his jeans, like remembrance or some shit.

"Yes, I'm aware. I'm looking for something that belongs to me," she bites out. She shouldn't find him as attractive as she does right now, but his hair has grown out just a little and his face is all scruffy and he's wearing the plaid shirt that she absolutely adores. And she thinks that even though they've been through the wringer, it's rather nice to see him after not seeing him for so long. Then he smirks at her and quirks up an eyebrow all smugly and she's back to being annoyed.

Her bitchy tone shouldn't get him going, but it kind of fucking does (and always has), so whatever. "Yeah? And what's so important that you had to break into my apartment in order to get it back? Nice to see you can still pick a lock though," he says proudly.

Rachel rolls her eyes at him. "I want the sex tape you stole from me."

Puck snorts out a laugh and earns another glare. "S'half mine, Berry. M'on it, too, ya know. Besides, I made it, I get to keep it."

She hops off the bed and stands, her fists landing at her hips as she stares up indignantly at him. "I can't have that tape see the light of day, Puck, and I'm not leaving here without it."

He knows buzzed Rachel when he sees her, so he pushes away from the door and stands closer to her, his hands resting lazily on his hips, smiling amusedly down at her. Her eyes are all done up and smoky the way he likes and her hair is wavy and cascading over her bare shoulders. The lips he hasn't kissed in fucking forever are unpainted and fixed in a pout and he really wants to tug the bottom one between his teeth.

"Why the hell would anyone else see it? You think I'm gonna leak it to the press or something?" She raises her eyebrows and silently gives him her answer. "Oh, fuck that, Rachel," he growls, rolling his eyes.

"My star is on the rise, Noah," she states dramatically, jutting out her chin. "And I can't take a chance that this might come out and tarnish my burgeoning career."

Puck laughs and he can practically see steam shooting out of her ears. She was so unintentionally hilarious sometimes and he's really missed that (and a host of other things) about her. He's even missed her pissy rants. "Chill out, Broadway, I'm not going to leak the tape. But thanks for assuming I'd do something so shitty."

There's the tiniest flash of something (hurt maybe?) across his face, and if it were anyone other than her in the room with him, they would never have noticed. But there's a lot of history between them and she can't make herself forget it. (Though not for lack of trying)

"I don't really think that you would, but it's risk I'm unwilling to take, Noah. I'll just feel safer once that tape is in my possession." She turns her back on him and proceeds to check under the bed again. "By the way, I'm taking back the bra you stole and if those are my panties in the nightstand, you're repugnant and I don't even want to know what you're doing with those. Needless to say I will not be taking them with me when I leave."

Seeing a box, she reaches for it and slides it out from its hiding spot, lifting the lid. Inside is a bunch of her things—pictures, a bottle of her shampoo, CDs, ticket stubs, a playbill from her first show that she'd autographed just for him and the bracelet he'd given her for Hanukkah one year that she refused to keep when they broke up. "You have a Rachel box?" she asks softly, thinking how uncharacteristically sweet it was for him to keep a box full of memories from their relationship. (She had a Noah box at home tucked deep in the closet)

"What?" he scoffs. "Fuck no. S'all your shit I was going to give back, but you said you never wanted to see me again. Remember?" He wonders if that sounded as unconvincing to her as it did in his head. Seeing as she isn't yelling at him or crying, he supposes it probably did. "It's not in here, so you can stop rifling through all my shit now."

Puck extends a hand to help her up off the floor and she eyes it suspiciously before he rolls his eyes, leans down and hauls her to standing. She staggers a little on her heels and falls into his body. He smells just as good as always and her hands warm as they lay over the muscled wall of his chest. Alarm bells sound distantly in her brain and she pushes him away before she can hazard a look into his eyes; she knows they could still make her knees weak if she lets her guard down. "I am perfectly capable of getting to my feet all on my own. Will you just hand over the tape so I can leave, Puck? Please."

"I'll give you the tape back," he begins, and he smirks when she smiles all hopefully at him, "on two conditions." Her smile quickly fades into a frown.

"And what, pray tell, are those conditions?" she asks with a long suffering sigh. She's pretty sure she won't approve regardless.

"One, you have a drink with me and two, we watch the tape together before you leave."

Rachel's eyes narrow to slits and she shoves at him, moving him exactly not at all. "That's not happening, Noah Puckerman. I will simply find that tape myself," she hisses, spinning on her heel and stomping for the door. She makes it two steps before his hand grabs her wrist and stops her.

"Really?" he asks laughingly.

"Unhand me, you cretin!" she snaps, trying vainly to tug her arm free of his grasp.

Her characteristic insult makes his lips twitch. "Seems like it'll be pretty goddamn difficult to look for it if I toss you outta here on your ass. You want the tape back, babe, those are my conditions." He loosens his grip on her arm and she jerks it away, shooting daggers at him with her eyes.

He has her over a barrel and she knows he won't bend on his terms. If she wants the tape, then she has to play it his way. But that doesn't mean she has to like it (or him). "I hate you right now," she informs snippily, brushing the hair out of her eyes. "And don't call me babe."

Puck grins wickedly, but keeps the sarcastic comment about how that's better than hating him all the time to himself. What? He's not a total idiot, no matter what she says. "C'mon, I'll make you a drink."

Rachel follows him to the tiny kitchen and there's hardly room for him to move around, let alone the both of them. She suspects this doesn't bother him in the least. He pulls a bottle of tequila from the cabinet and two shot glasses and she shakes her head. "No way, Noah. I'm not doing tequila shots with you." She's already a little buzzed and straight tequila makes her lose control (especially around him) and he damn well knows it.

"Scared you can't handle it?" he asks gruffly, pulling open the refrigerator to grab a lemon.

"I am not scared. I just don't want to drink more. I've already had three margaritas tonight." Rachel grabs the lemon from his hand and a knife off the counter. Turning her back to him, she starts cutting the lemon into wedges so she doesn't have to look at him or see that sexy, knowing smirk on his lips.

"Just one, then. Don't want you too drunk for the main event," he says roguishly.

It's already a lot harder than she expected to be around him and she knows if she drinks more her resolve will completely vanish. Being attracted to him was never the problem (isn't the problem), but they broke up for good reasons and the sooner she can return to her Noah-free existence, the safer she (and her heart) will be.

She half wonders if she can fake her way through watching the tape without him catching on that she's not really watching. (That's a terribly stupid idea and she's well aware it won't work.)

Watching a tape of them having sex clearly isn't the best way to stay broken up. (She knows he knows that, too. And if her brain was thinking clearly right now, she'd head straight for the door instead of allowing him to manipulate her this way.)

She continues to cut lemons instead.

Puck leans against the counter, watching her. There's a seriously cute look of concentration on her face and he loves that she's actually standing in his kitchen. And so what if he's resorting to underhanded tactics to get her to stay? It's the first time he's spent more than five minutes with her in six months so he's not at all sorry about it.

He hates that they're broken up (a whole fucking lot) and how he can't stop missing her. He honestly thought when she kicked him out that he'd lay low for a couple days, let her cool off, then he'd apologize, they'd fuck and make up and all would be back to normal. When she asked him to meet her in a coffee shop a week later and had papers for him to sign to remove him from their lease, he knew she was really fucking serious this time. She gave him a few windows of time (all times she wouldn't be there, FYI) to pick up his things and told him that after a certain date the locks would be changed. He'd been so shocked and so pissed that he told her to go fuck herself; then he proceeded to get drunk and stayed that way for a good week or two before finding this current hellhole to live in.

So, there's all that bullshit.

But this feels like a chance, her being here, and though he'll probably just end up pissing her off, he's got to at least try.

He goes with his best offense.

Pouring two shots of tequila, he sets them down on the counter in front of her and reaches for the salt shaker, pressing against her in the process. Her back stiffens and she does a pretty terrible impression of someone pretending to cut lemons. He knows she wants him just as much as he wants her, even if she's too stubborn to admit it. He thinks he just needs to remind her a little bit.

"You're invading my personal space, Noah," she says tiredly, feeling the answering laugh in his chest rumble against her back. His hand slips into her hair and brushes it off her shoulder. It's familiar feeling, but it's been so long that it somehow feels new and exciting, too. It also feels a lot like something she shouldn't be doing. She tries to shrug him off, but his lips are hovering over the shell of her ear and the warm breath that's tickling her cheek stops her.

"Small kitchen," he murmurs, running his knuckles down her bare arm and lowering his lips to her shoulder. He licks a patch of skin in between her neck and shoulder, feeling her tremble against him. Sprinkling salt on the moist skin, he licks it off and reaches for the tequila in front of her, lifting it to his lips and knocking it back effortlessly. He takes a lemon wedge from her fingers and bites into it, letting the acid cool the burn the liquor left behind.

That just happened.

Rachel turns around, leans back against the counter, and sees that he's fully impressed with himself. That arrogant smirk on his face shouldn't make her want to smile, but her skin is still tingling from where he licked her and she remembers all too well how great he is with his tongue. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep the grin at bay and stares back disinterestedly even as her face warms. "That was inappropriate, Puck."

Her use of his nickname (again) makes his jaw clench. It's a tricky one, you see. She only ever called him that when she a) wanted to get downright railed and demanded that Puck fuck her stupid or b) she was too pissed and/or detached from him to bother with Noah. And sometimes the two were so close to one another that it was hard to know exactly which one she meant. (Usually after he was balls deep inside her and she was yelling at him to never, ever stop fucking her, he figured it didn't matter anymore anyway. He learned later that was, in fact, a huge problem.)

Anyway, he knows that right now the answer is b but he sees a lurking around the corner. He felt her shudder against him and looking at her now, her cheeks all pink and the way she's trying hard not to smile…well, it doesn't take a genius to see that she's affected and clearly having a battle of wills inside that gorgeous head of hers.

He grins wolfishly and hands her the shaker of salt. "Your turn."

Taking the salt shaker from him, she fixes him with a steely look and says, "I'm not licking your neck. Or any other part of you," she adds when his mouth opens to no doubt say something gross and offensive.

Puck shrugs and smirks, wondering how long it would take for her to change her mind. "You're no fun."

She rolls her eyes and quickly wets the back of her hand, salts it. She purposely avoids his eyes as she licks her hand, even though she knows he's watching and expecting her to be sexy about it. Then she kills the shot with barely a shudder and grabs a lemon wedge off the counter, biting it between her teeth.

"Nice work, killer," he teases, opting for a beer rather than another shot. It's not like he's opposed to drinking more tequila, but he wants to, you know, remember that she was actually here when he wakes up tomorrow. He hands her a bottle of water and takes a half step closer, which, in his small kitchen, puts him right up in her space again. Her big doe eyes are blinking up at him and it's been too goddamn long since he's gotten to look at her this closely. He's definitely close enough to kiss her if he wants to.

(Of course he fucking wants to)

And then she opens her mouth and ruins the moment by saying, "Let's just get this over with, Noah," before turning around and storming out of the kitchen.

He downs half his beer before following her into the living room and finds her with her arms crossed, studying the DVD rack. "Please tell me you aren't stupid enough to keep the video out here where anyone could find it," she snaps the moment he enters the room.

"Do you see a DVD marked 'Puck and Rachel Make a Porno'? No. So calm the fuck down."

Rachel immediately recognizes his uh-oh tone and she fixes him with an incredulous stare, sighing when he just arches a brow at her and sips at his beer again. "Which one is it?" she asks, her eyes rolling for hundredth time since she picked the lock on his door.

"You're so smart, you figure it out," he carelessly tells her, plopping down on the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him. She's pissed, he knows, but she's been pissed for months and months. What's a few more minutes? Besides, he's afforded a tremendous view of her legs and ass as she bends over to read the DVD cases on the rack and he clearly doesn't hate that. Also on the list of things he doesn't hate? The hot yellow dress and white lace panties she's wearing.

"Maid in Manhattan? Really?"

Puck sips his beer and shrugs. "You see another one there that's better?"

"Did you actually buy this movie just so you could put our DVD in here or are you secretly into Jennifer Lopez these days?"

"The only good thing about J-Lo is her fat ass and you know it. Her music is shitty and I do not need to see her weak attempts at 'acting'," he says, complete with air quotes. "Found that gem in the dollar bin at the store, broke it in half and had the dick behind the counter throw it away. Pretty good, huh?"

She barks out a quick laugh and covers her mouth because she doesn't want to encourage him. But he's always been good at making her laugh and he's just so ridiculous sometimes that she can't help it. Now is a prime example. Shaking her head, she takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch and hands him the DVD. "Just put it in already, Puck," she tells him and her neck and face flush scarlet when she realizes what she's said. She refuses to look at him.

His grin is wicked and lightning fast. "You said those exact words to me in the coat closet during your dads' Hanukkah party," he says rakishly. "Remember?"

Oh, she remembers all right (as if she could forget) and her face grows even hotter. She would normally make a comment about Memory Lane being closed so please stop driving, but that's completely inaccurate given the content of the DVD they're about to watch. So she slants him a sideways glance and mumbles, "Shut up, Noah," instead.

He chuckles and pushes to his feet, lumbering over to pop in the DVD. When he sits back down, he purposely sits a little closer to her and reaches for the remote on the coffee table. The silence in the room is drowned out when he flicks on the TV and baseball highlights on ESPN filter through the speakers. He casts his eyes towards her face and he stifles a laugh, wishing he could take a picture of her right now. She looks like she's awaiting her execution or something—it's dramatic and hilarious and so typically Rachel. "You ready?" he asks over the top of his beer, taking another pull from the bottle.

No. She isn't. Her heart is pounding so hard and so fast that she's honestly afraid it might explode. This is just a horrible, no good, very bad idea, and if she doesn't leave his apartment, she knows what will probably happen. And she cannot let that happen. But the longer she hesitates, the easier she makes it for him to see right through her. So she steels her nerves and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "As I'll ever be, I guess," she says jadedly, staring just past the TV at the wall.

The TV screen turns blue and she sees the little icon in the corner indicating that the DVD is loading. Before she can turn to him and tell him she's changed her mind, there's music playing and a picture of her on screen in a tiny French maid's outfit in a sexy pose on the table holding a feather duster. Options appear a moment later: play movie, making of All That Jizz: Laid in Manhattan, deleted scenes and director's cut (with commentary by Puckerone).

Aghast, Rachel turns wide eyes on him. "What the hell is this?"

"S'our movie, baby," he answers casually.

"This—oh, gross, Noah! All That Jizz?" she asks, horrified when she reads the title again. "You're completely repulsive."

"Repulsive? Hell no. I put legit thought into titles with a Broadway theme just for you. That's romantic."

She pulls a disgusted face and looks back at the screen. "When did you do this? The only other time we watched this it was just the actual footage." Her eyes rounded again. "Oh my god! Please tell me you didn't give this to someone else to edit. I swear, Puck, if anyone else knows about this I will kill you!"

He rolls his eyes. "Fuck no I didn't give it to anyone else to see! I did this," he says, jabbing a finger into his chest. "Wasn't easy doing it all one handed either," he adds with a wink. "I should win an Oscar for this shit."

"Ugh!" she huffs, slapping his arm. "I'm completely disgusted by you right now."

"Let's start from the beginning, shall we?" he asks, selecting the making of option.

Rachel shifts uncomfortably on the couch when he appears in black and white, sitting on the couch that still resides in her apartment. He's grinning and talking to the camera about how much he digs this new camera that his girl got him for his birthday. He then announces that he's come up with a "brilliant plan" for putting the camera to good use. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the front door, he smirks into the lens, says he's gonna have to do some "kick ass convincing" and stands up to grab the camera off the tripod. She sees herself walk through the door and she smiles warmly and says hello into the camera when he tells her to.

This part might actually be worse than the sex scenes that come later, she thinks, because they're watching a moment between them that's funny and ridiculous and kind of sweet and completely intimate as they sit on the couch in their (now her) apartment. He's trying to convince her to make a sex tape and throws out the idea that if they role play, she'd be playing a character and it'd be acting. She's laughing and shaking her head.

Rachel knows what comes next and she looks down at the pillow on her lap, toys with a corner, while her past self tells him she loves him despite the fact that he's such a jackass.

He misses those moments with her, moments where things were just good between them and they were really happy together. Don't get him wrong or anything, he totally misses fucking her (hello—she's dynamite in the sack), but the thing he misses most about her is the way she looked at him whenever she said I love you. And maybe that makes him a fucking pussy for admitting that, but it's true. Seriously, she was an awesome girlfriend and he loved being her boyfriend. (Even if she did make him want to stick his head in the oven every couple weeks)

It doesn't matter that he's seen this a dozen (hundred) times, he thinks as he lifts the bottle to his lips again, draining the last of his beer, he will always laugh at the conversation they had on the couch discussing characters for their sex tape.

"Oh! What about a USO performer and a marine?" she asks excitedly.

"Fuck no, baby. That's not porn worthy."

"Noah, you've vetoed every suggestion I've made," she pouts, crossing her arms across her chest. "Why don't you just be a rich man and I'll be your Russian maid, then? That's completely original," she suggests sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

He lifts a brow and a grin shoots across his face. "Hell yes! Baby, you're a genius! That's what we're doing. And you can wear a French maid outfit. It'll be so fucking hot!"

"But if I'm portraying a Russian character, would a French maid outfit really be authentic?"

"Jesus," he rolls his eyes. "Have you ever heard of a Russian maid's outfit, Rach? Fuck no. Just go with it. And I'm callin' you Svetlana."

They laugh at the same time and really, it's hard not to. That entire conversation was so absurd and she remembers just how hard they laughed about it after the camera had been shut off. (And the other things that happened, too) She glances over and he gives her this crooked little grin; she can't stop the smile or the tiny nod she gives him when he says, "That will never not be funny." Double negatives aside, she fully agrees with the statement.

The making of ends and the main menu appears again. Her throat goes dry and she doesn't care about the tape anymore. Well, she does care, but she's to the point where she'd rather just leave and let him keep it than sit and watch them having sex. It's dramatic, but she thinks this might kill her, or at the very least lead to some very poor decision making. She tells herself to stand up, grab her purse and walk out the door, but her body doesn't budge from her spot on the couch. Unscrewing the cap on her water bottle, she drinks deeply and keeps her eyes on the television. It's sick and twisted and she's so disappointed in herself. Yes, she's annoyed at him for laying out these terms, but it's not as if he's forcing her to sit here.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him pick up the remote again and the actual video begins playing. There's an opening title complete with cheesy porn music playing and she gets this image in her head of all the work and time he put into editing this and she laughs again, covering her face with the pillow. "Noah, this is completely cheesy and ridiculous," she giggles.

"Pfft! What the hell ever, s'awesome and you know it. Just listen to the music, baby," he says mischievously, mimicking the music which sends her into fits of laughter again. He reaches out and playfully shoves her shoulder. "Shh! It's on."

Rachel bites the inside of her lip to help curb the laughter still caught in her throat and she's pretty sure she's going to bite completely through it when she sees Noah in a smoking jacket and boxers sitting at the dining room table reading the Wall Street Journal. He told her before filming this that smoking jackets were Hef's signature and that was all there was to it. That was also the one and only time she'd ever seen him read the Journal. She walks into the frame wearing her French maid's outfit, black fishnet thigh-highs and her hair swept back into a ponytail. She sets the breakfast tray she's carrying in front of him and starts speaking. Rachel actually wants to die of embarrassment when the terrible Russian accent spills from her mouth.

"Meester Puckerman. I bring breakfast."

"Puck, mute it, please. I seriously can't take this," she pleads, blushing a hundred shades of red.

Running her fingers down his arm, she smiles and taps him on the nose with her feather duster. "I go dust blinds now."

He ignored her request, so she snatches the remote from his hand and mutes it before the embarrassment ends her life.

"Hey!" he protests. "Give that back. The accent's hot and I want to hear it."

"No," she huffs, holding the remote out of his reach. She half expects him to try and grab the remote back, but he groans and stares at the TV instead. Casting a furtive glance towards the screen, she watches as he strips off "Svetlana's" outfit and bends her over the table. They sit silently, watching the video for a few minutes and she's still amazed at how great they look together. Her skin is starting to feel warm and her stomach's tightening a little. "We look really good." He grunts beside her and she closes her eyes when she realizes she actually said the words aloud.

If she's trying to torture him, she's doing a damn good job of it. He knows she didn't mean to let those words slip out, but she did and he's certainly not sorry he heard them. "Damn right we do," he agrees, leaning forward to set the empty bottle on the floor. They really do look fucking amazing together. He wants to tell her how amazing things could be right now if they got naked, but he refrains even though he's painfully hard. (Again, he's not a total idiot)

She clears her throat but doesn't say anything else and neither does he as their video plays on. The silence in the room is deafening, but she still prefers it to the cheesy music and the sounds she's obviously making on the video as he does the thing that she loved and always, always, always made her fall apart and cry out (very loudly). She swallows thickly and wonders if he can hear the way her heart is thundering in her ears or if he can tell that she's thinking how wrong it is that she wants him to do that exact thing to her right now. She's not drunk, but she's just buzzed enough that if they did do something, she could blame her temporary lack of judgment on the alcohol in the morning.

Maybe if she counts to ten very slowly this feeling she has inside will go away and her sound judgment will return. Looking at the TV again, she decides she'd better make it a thousand.

Puck stops watching the video in favor of watching her instead. She looks so hot in the yellow dress she's wearing. It's crazy short and drapes over one tan shoulder and there's a lot of skin exposed, but he wants to see more and touch it all. And every time she moves her perfume hits his nose and drives him fucking insane. It's the same perfume she's worn for years, the same one he picked out for her. Her breaths are just a little quicker than they were before they watched him rail her on the table and her eyelashes have lowered slightly. She's worrying her bottom lip between her teeth and he knows she's still battling inside her head. He smirks a little because honestly? He likes his chances right now. (Hey, he knows his girl and what she looks like when she's turned on, okay?)

She can feel the weight of his stare as she attempts (and fails miserably) to get herself under control. Stealing a glance at him, she sees his jaw set in a hard line and his arm is draped carelessly along the back of the couch, his fingers close enough to tangle in her hair if he wants (she knows he does)and he's staring back intently with eyes that are, in that moment, sharp and green (her favorite). She feels her heart knock against her ribs when the lips she's kissed thousands of times twitch into a half smile. It's not arrogant or anything close to resembling a smirk.

She loved that smile once upon time.

Maybe she still does.

"What?" she asks, hating that it comes out all soft and breathy.

"You're gorgeous."

The rational part of her brain shuts down and she lets this ache pulsing between her thighs call all the shots. Sighing, she tosses the pillow she was holding onto the floor and crawls into his lap, letting her hand rest on the back of his neck. His hands smooth up her thighs, sneaking under her dress as a cocky smirk replaces the smile on his face. That damn expression only stokes the fire that's already burning hot for him. "This doesn't change anything," she says.

She doesn't think she means that. The look on his face tells her he doesn't believe her anyway.

"Uh huh," he answers, reaching up to grab the back of her head, pulling her lips to his.

She holds tightly to his biceps, her whole body shaking as she comes down and gulps in a greedy breath. "Wow," she pants out, blinking slowly up at him. Beads of sweat are running down his face and he grins lazily and proudly all at the same time back at her.

"Goddamn, you're evil," he chokes out when she squeezes her legs around him, the last of his release shuddering through his body. She gives him this kittenish smile in return, wiping his forehead gently with her fingertips. He sips at her mouth a little more before murmuring, "So fuckin' hot, baby."

Rachel moans softly and arches against him a little, raking her nails lightly over his shoulder. She turns her head once her vision clears and laughs. "How'd we end up on the coffee table?"

Puck chuckles lowly and skates kiss along the hinge of her jaw. "Beats me. We were in the zone."

Seeing as her body keeps having little aftershocks from the mind-blowing orgasm he gave her, she absolutely cannot disagree with that. "I'll say." She shifts uncomfortably beneath him when the wood digs into her back and makes this little whining sound in the back of her throat. "Can we move somewhere more comfortable, please?" He nods, kissing her once more before slipping out of her body. She hates the loss of contact already, but he pulls her quickly up off the coffee table and falls back on the couch, taking her with him so she's lying on top of his body. It's probably not a good idea (like everything else tonight), but she snuggles into him anyway, enjoying his warmth and the way his calloused fingertips feel sliding up and down her spine. His heart is beating hard against her cheek and it feels a bit like they've gone back in time.

Part of her thinks it'd be nice to stay. The sensible part tries to snag her attention with flashing caution signs—she ignores it completely.

"We're going to do that again," he rasps, resting his hand on her ass.

Rachel smiles and lifts her head to look at him, resting her chin on his chest. "Are we now?"

He lifts his head slightly and smirks at her. "Fuck yes."

"I'm going to need a little recovery time," she tells him, tracing random patterns on his arm with her index finger. She grins when his lips kiss up the side of her neck. His teeth nibble on her earlobe and she giggles.

"We could always watch one of the other two tapes of us seeing how the first one got you going," he mutters into her ear. He comprehends his mistake the second the words are out of his mouth. It only takes her a second after that to catch on and he knows he's fucked—and not in the awesome way.

Rachel sits up quickly, shoving at the hair in her face, glaring down at him. "What did you just say? What other tapes?" The silence speaks volumes of his guilt and she's so disgusted with him (and herself for that matter) that she can hardly see straight. "Start talking," she orders, scrambling off the couch. She fists her hands on her hips and starts tapping her bare foot on the floor. "Now!"

His first thought when he looks at her, sees narrowed eyes and flared nostrils, her tits bouncing slightly in time with the tapping of her foot is that she looks so goddamn hot and also pretty hilarious. He doesn't tell her either of those things because he's naked and she's pissed and he doesn't want her to kick him in the nuts or something. "I have two other tapes of us having sex, okay?" he says and her eyes flash hotly (scarily) and he wishes he'd never opened his fucking mouth.

"Tapes…that you made, Noah, without MY KNOWLEDGE!" she shouts.

"Fucking calm down," he fires back, pushing to his feet. "We'd already made the one tape, so it's not like you were opposed to it or anything." Her eyes flash dangerously and he tries to pretend that look doesn't terrify him, but fuck, man—he's been on the receiving end of it enough over the years and shit is scary. She might be tiny, but there's a lot of fire inside that compact little body of hers and she knows how to channel it for maximum terror.

And okay, maybe he deserves her wrath on this one. Doesn't mean he has to like it or anything.

"Baby…" he begins, her brow arching towards her hairline. "Rachel…I'm sorry, okay?"

"You are unbelievable," she seethes, looking around for her discarded clothes. Bending over, she picks her panties up off the floor. "This was so stupid. I knew better than to come over here and—" the words die in her mouth when she turns around and sees that he is completely hard again. "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," she spits venomously.

Puck glances down quickly then gives her a cocky smile. "Like you're surprised," he says evenly, setting his hands low on his hips. "You're so hot when you're mad. Plus you're naked," he adds with a shrug. It's risky, but he winks at her and smiles even wider.

Scoffing, Rachel furiously tugs her panties up her legs and over her hips and stomps the two steps required to the DVD rack. "Where did you cleverly hide the others, Puck?" she asks, starting at the top and working her way down, tossing them angrily behind her as she goes. "Scarface, no, Goodfellas, no, Casino, no. Die Hard?" She actually opens up the case to Die Hard and sees the movie inside. Snapping the case shut she chucks that one behind her as well. He watches the entire scene amused and fully aroused. It's fucked. "Anchorman, no, Rocky…" she checks that one, too. "Once Upon a Time in Mexico?" Her fingers hesitate over that one before deciding to check and she sees the dates of their vacation in Cancun scrawled on the DVD in red marker with a smiley face at the bottom.

Oh, this cannot good, she thinks.

His smile fades when she glares over her shoulder at him because she looks so pissed that he thinks she might actually start breathing fire. She mutters something insulting under her breath and starts messing with his Xbox that doubles as the DVD player. He tries not to laugh and for half a second entertains the idea of pointing out what happened between them an hour ago when they watched their last tape together. Then he promptly shuts that shit down, because who's he to stop her when she's on this rampage and popping in another one of their sex tapes? And she's so mad at him that if she channels that rage into sex the way he secretly hopes, he's gonna be the happiest man in New York City tonight.

Yeah, he's kind of an asshole; he's aware.

Rachel changes out the DVDs and stands up, stalking to the couch to look for the remote. He clears his throat exaggeratedly behind her and she turns her head and sees him holding it in his hand. His other hand is idly palming his cock and her face burns hot with anger. "Don't do that in front of me!" she hisses, slapping his hand away and grabbing for the remote. "You are vile."

"Says the woman I railed on the coffee table ten minutes ago," he says arrogantly. She smacks his chest as hard as her little frame will allow and it stings. "Ow!"

His apartment suddenly sounds like it was invaded by a mariachi band as music fills up the space and picture of Rachel wearing a giant sombrero on her head appears on the screen. He laughs in anticipation of what's to come. (pun mildly intended)

"Oh dear sweet Jesus," Rachel groans miserably. She has a feeling this video is going to be excruciating in terms of embarrassment. "What? No repugnant title this time?" she asks tartly, pressing play.

He just rolls his eyes and sits down on the couch. It's really hard to take her seriously when she's standing there nearly naked, a red mark darkening on her inner thigh that his mouth put there earlier.

She sits as far away from him as possible and cringes when her drunken laughter replaces the mariachi music. This is the night from their vacation that she has no recollection of past 9:00pm thanks to her friend tequila. She has a really bad feeling about this and from the smug look on his face that she manages to sneak a quick glimpse of, she thinks whatever she's about to view on this tape is mostly her doing. Her stomach is in knots of anticipation.

"I love Mexico! And tequila! Oh, and sombreros! And youuuuuu, baby," she says brightly, spilling into their room wearing a giant sombrero and a strapless purple sundress. She enthusiastically shakes the maracas she's carrying.

The camera is shaking a bit and Rachel knows that Noah was laughing his ass off while filming. She is completely and totally intoxicated…shitfaced is probably a more accurate term. She swallows hard and continues to watch with morbid curiosity.

"Ditto, baby."

"Heeeeey! Where's your hat?"

"S'at the bar."

"I'll go get it for you," she announces, bouncing a little and shaking the instruments again, walking towards the door.

"No, no, Berry," he chuckles, grabbing her hand and pulling her back towards the bed. "What's your favorite thing about Mexico? Besides tequila."

She looks into the camera and pushes her hat up a little on her forehead, giggling when she stumbles on her platform sandals. "One moment, por favor." Pulling off her sandals she throws them in the general direction of the closet, missing by several feet. "Okay. What did you just ask me? I forgot already."

"Jesus, you're tanked. What's the best part about our vacation, Broadway?"

"Hmm," she says, scrunching up her face thoughtfully, tapping her finger against her lips. She looks at him and gives him this slow grin, dropping her hand and stepping closer. "Want me to show you?"

The camera bobs up and down. "Oh hell yeah, babe. Show me."

Rachel slants another look at Noah and he's looking way too pleased for her liking. She's pretty sure what's about to happen and why and she's wishing for a hole to open up and swallow her. She'd rather deal with that than his inevitable smugness.

She's naked again onscreen (except for the stupid sombrero on her head) and she's on her knees between his legs, her hand wrapped around him.

"Keep filming," she tells him.

She stares disbelievingly at the television, sure that her former self didn't just say that.

"Fuck," he grunts. "Baby. You sure? We don't have to."

She licks a slow stripe up his cock, making him groan loudly. "I'm sure. It's so hot, Noah."

And now she doesn't have a leg to stand on.

She doesn't even need to look at him to know that he's sporting the smuggest of smirks on his face. She aims the remote at the TV and hits fast forward. If she wasn't so horrified over this, she would definitely find the image of her giving him a blowjob that fast hilarious.

"Dammit! I was watching that."

"I'm very aware of what fellatio is and how to do it. I don't even want to spare the two minutes, Noah," she says coolly, feeling pleased with the blow she just dealt his ego. She bites back a smirk of her own when she sees him glower out of the corner of her eye.

"Keep watchin', Broadway," he tells her.

She fast forwards quite a bit and she shakes her head. "I can't believe the depraved things I let you talk me into," she mutters.

"Oh, no," he corrects, leaning across the couch to snag the remote back from her. He rewinds and turns up the volume.

Rachel scowls back at him.

"I want Puck to fuck me tonight. You hear me? Puck! I want you to bang me until I'm blue," she barks.

"Goddamn, Rach."

"I'm serious. I don't even want to walk right tomorrow, Noah. Now bend me over and fuck me like you mean it."

She's embarrassed and horrified at what she's just witnessed. And she's wholly ashamed that she's turned on again.

"Fuck, Rach," he grunts next to her.

Rachel turns to tell him to shut up and stop tormenting her. He's stroking his cock again. "Noah! Stop it."

"Either you take care of it or I do, baby," he tells her. He can't help it. This scene always gets him going, whether he's watching it or just recalling it in his mind.

"Just stop," she says again, knocking his hand away, accidently bumping him with her own. He groans and gives her a hard look that says (screams) dirty, dirty things. Her throat goes dry and she quickly turns her head away.

"Careful, Rach," he warns. You wanna end up on the coffee table again?"

It's too much. It's all just way too much. She's already screwed up so badly by having sex with him once tonight and she's afraid of what will happen if they do it again. "I'm leaving," she tells him, getting to her feet. His fingers circle around her wrist and he pulls her back down on the couch. He's just rough enough with it to make her heart pound erratically in her chest.

She's got her back to him and feels his chest press against her, his hand resting firmly on her hip. "Don't leave, baby," he says lowly into her ear. He gently brushes her hair away from her neck and kisses her there, just a brush of lips against her skin. "Please." Her eyes fall shut as goose bumps prickle her flesh.

Puck swallows hard and slides his lips up her neck, lingering on the spot just below her ear, inhaling the scent of her. He exhales slowly against her skin, feeling a quiet sigh leave her chest. He gently places two fingers along the curve of her jaw and turns her head to capture her lips between his. "I fuckin' miss you," he murmurs, brushing his nose against her cheek.

Her eyes open a little and she looks up at him through her eyelashes. The way he's looking back at her is—intense—and she doesn't think that has anything to do with just wanting to get between her legs again. In fact, she's positive it doesn't. This is just way too much for her to process right now when her head is spinning and the way he's just barely touching her and whispering things she didn't realize she'd been missing until he said them. I miss you, too, she thinks, but can't bring herself say it back.

She kisses him instead, lets him deepen it.

"I want you," he rasps out, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck.

Rachel lets out this breathy little laugh. "I know that, Noah. I can feel you against my back."

He shakes his head and curves his hand around her waist, turning her so she's facing him. "I want you back."

She blinks quickly, breath clogging in her lungs momentarily before she realizes what he means. "You want sex," she says flatly.

"Fuck that, Rach. I want you." He waits a beat, searching her eyes and running his thumb back and forth across her ribcage. "You want me, too."

"Noah," she breathes, shaking her head. "This is…I," she trails off.

"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me." His heart races and for a second he wonders if maybe he's pushed it too far too fast. But then her hands are grabbing the sides of his face and she's crushing her lips hotly against his. It's not the answer he was looking for, exactly, but it wasn't the one he was afraid of either. Besides, she's kissing him and pushing her tongue into his mouth. (Win!) She shifts and wraps her legs around his waist, pressing her body down against his, pulling a groan from the back of his throat. He grips her hips tightly and stands. Rachel loops her arms around his neck and nips at his jaw as he carries her to his room.

She's writhing slowly on top of him, one hand on his chest, the other fisted in her hair when she whispers, "I've missed you so much, Noah."

He automatically bucks his hips up, pushing deeper inside of her body, moaning softly and digging his fingers into her thighs. "What else?"

Rachel shakes her head and circles her hips a little faster.

Puck sits up and wraps his arms around her body, pulling her flush against his. "Say it," he whispers, dropping his forehead to hers and slipping a hand into her hair.

She closes her eyes and curves her palm over his face, her thumb brushing his cheek bone lightly as she swallows the lump in her throat. "I want you, too," she murmurs.

He lays his mouth firmly over hers and kisses her. Pulling back slightly, he grins and pushes her onto her back against the mattress.

They're lying together in his bed. It's late and the room is dark and their legs are tangled together beneath cool sheets. Her fingertips are idly sweeping back and forth across his side, while his massage her scalp, nearly lulling her to sleep. The room is almost completely quiet save for the sound of their breathing and the typical city noise outside that she grew accustomed to years ago.

"I should go," she says quietly. She feels him grunt his dissent and pull her closer against his side.

"No. You shouldn't," he replies thickly.

"Noah—"

"S'late and this neighborhood's fuckin' shitty. You can leave in the morning."

His point is valid, and she figures that they've already blurred the lines so much by having sex (twice) that there really is no harm in just staying the rest of the night. "Okay," she finally agrees.

They're quiet for a few minutes before she tells him "I'm thirsty," in this adorable voice. He smirks up at the ceiling and says, "You know where the kitchen is." She scoffs and slaps his stomach. "Jesus, babe, I'm kidding." He drops a kiss to her cheek before kicking off the covers and getting out of bed. He pauses in the doorway, looks back at her. Her hair's a mess and the sheet's draped loosely around her chest and she looks so damn good in his bed it's crazy. "Want anything else?" he asks, smirking when her eyes sweep over his naked body before smiling sleepily at him and shaking her head.

When he returns with two bottles of water, she's wearing one of his plain white t-shirts and crawling back under the covers. He hands a bottle to her and gets back in bed beside her.

"Thanks," she tells him.

"No sweat," he answers, leaning back against the headboard and sipping his water. He toys with the hem of her (his) shirt. "It's a no-clothing zone in this room," he grins, running his hand over her knee.

"Noah," she sighs. "It's not a good idea."

"Whatever," he smirks. "Having sex again is a great idea."

Rachel moves his hand off of her leg. "I don't want to blur the lines here."

"Way too fuckin' late for that," he points out. She avoids his eyes, staring instead at the bottle in her hand. It bugs him more than it probably should that she's shutting down. "Why are you doing this?" he asks exasperatedly.

"I'm not sure what you mean," she lies cowardly.

"Bullshit. You're really gonna sit there and pretend I didn't tell you I wanted you back or that you said the same thing?"

She shoots her eyes up to meet his, her brows knitting together. "I didn't say that."

"You did, too."

"I don't think I should be held accountable for things that might come out of my mouth while we're having sex, Noah. That's not fair."

"So you don't miss me?" he asks, one brow arched. She hesitates and he pushes it a little. "Come on, Rach."

"Yes, I miss you. Okay? Is that what you want to hear?" she asks weakly, tossing the bottle onto the bed. She rakes a hand through her hair and avoids his eyes, worrying her lip between her teeth.

"Yeah, kinda," he answers truthfully. The corners of her mouth turn down a little, so he scoots closer to her and tips up her chin until she looks at him through hooded eyes. "I fuckin' don't want to do this anymore, Rachel—miss you—be broken up or whatever. I hate it."

Her throat grows thick and tight and the threat of tears looms closely behind her eyes. "Noah…I don't know if—"

"I love you."

He's done it, rendered her speechless. She can count on two hands the number of times that he's flat out said the words over the last however many years they've been involved. She's so taken aback that she thinks maybe she didn't hear him correctly. Swallowing nervously, she looks back at him with rounded eyes. "What?" she squeaks out.

Christ, she's cute, he thinks, smiling at her. And of course she's making him repeat himself. It's not like he didn't tell her when they were together—he did, but he usually just showed her or whatever. He saved the words for really important times or when he just felt like saying them to make sure she knew. Getting her back is really fucking important and he wants her to know he really means it, so he runs a hand over her hair, rests it on the back of her neck. "I love you, Rachel," he says again.

She believes him and the words make her heart flip over in her chest the same way they always did whenever he said them. Part of her feels the same way (she never really stopped), but saying the words back aren't going to magically fix their problems. But for the first time in months she thinks that maybe there's hope for them. His jaw twitches and his eyes are pleading with her to respond. Leaning forward, she presses her lips fully against his, kissing him softly. His hand curves against her neck, pulling her closer and she kisses him a few more times before resting her forehead against his and sighing quietly.

"Can you please fucking say something?" he asks gruffly.

She can't help but smile at his grumpy tone. "We have a lot to figure out, Noah," she says. Leaning back, she lays her palm on his shoulder and smiles warmly at him. "I'm off tomorrow night. We could go to dinner and talk about things."

He doesn't want to go out. He wants to be in their apartment so he can start reminding her of how fucking right they are together. "Or I could come over and cook for you," he suggests, smoothing a hand up her ribcage. Her eyes sparkle a bit and her smile grows just a little wider—he knows she's missed his cooking. (And honestly he's missed cooking for her.)

"Italian?"

"Yeah."

Rachel nods and kisses his cheek. "How's 7:00? I'll take care of dessert." He smiles wickedly and she slaps his shoulder. "That doesn't mean I'm going to be dessert, Noah, so you can stop looking at me like that."

Chuckling he flicks his thumb over her nipple. "Hey, I didn't say anything, but I like where your head's at." He wraps an arm around her waist and has her laid back against the pillows in no time flat.

"I don't think this is appropriate," she says, giggling a little and wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Babe, the night started with you doin' a B and E and progressed to watching sex tapes and fucking all night—that's the very definition of appropriate in my book."

"You're a jackass," she says, grinning and opening her legs a little so he can rest between them.

"See? S'like riding a bike, our relationship," he teases, nipping at her bottom lip. He's hard again already.

"Speaking of sex tapes," she says, inhaling when his hand sneaks under her shirt and cups her breast, "isn't there a third one I need to know about?"

Puck hovers over her body and grins down at her. "November 20th," he says simply.

Realization slowly flashes across her face, as does her accompanying smile. "That was a really good night," she breathes out.

He nods, pushing his hips forward and easing into her heat. "So's this one."

She can't argue.

~fin~