Pairing: Puck/Rachel, with Finn/Rachel mentioned and Puck/Quinn implied
Spoilers: Through “Vitamin D” (1.06)
Summary: Quinn is knocked up, his best friend is stumbling around like a well-intentioned zombie, and he has no business doing any of this with an innocent bystander, the obnoxious and disturbingly attractive Glee-tard snot who keep angling to get blasted by (not so) friendly fire. Wrong doesn’t even cover it, actually – the accurate term is fucked.
Word Count: 3,200
Author’s Notes: This might not have seen the light of day if it were not for becca_radcgg, who gracefully accepted a beta request from a random stranger and proved to be a million percent awesome. This is my first Glee!fic, so be gentle on me.
Thursday afternoon is Glee practice, which is usually something like a break before the next day’s pep rally and football game. Glee is something Puck does without thinking or trying, which is almost relaxing in a way that sports just are not. You just show up and sing, basically. Rachel and her fellow cretins would probably spin their heads around backwards to hear that, but it’s true. He doesn’t do squiggly notes on paper, doesn’t even know the difference between the black keys and the white keys on the piano. He just sings – and if it’s not good enough, well, good luck finding a twelfth body to meet regulations at Sectionals.
The theater is another world, some bizarre Twilight Zone that has apparently always existed within the school walls and yet completely outside of (beneath) his notice. It’s big, too, two stories high with a few hundred folding seats, long, heavy drapes and a thin coating of dust from whatever the techies have been working on for the winter musical. Practice isn’t in the choral room today, because they need to work out the blocking for “Dancing With Myself” in a realistic space. Rehearsal hasn’t started yet though, and everyone is either looking at homework or screwing around.
Mike is talking about the freshman he’s going out with this weekend, who, if Matt is to be believed, is the hottest thing on the girl’s JV volleyball team. Puck finds something unappetizing about dating ninth graders, who may or may not even need to shave yet and god, were in middle school a few months ago.
“For real? Like, seriously?”
“Don’t mind Puck.” Matt slaps Mike on his shoulder fraternally. “She’s just about thirty years too young for him. ‘S not personal.”
“Fuck you, dude.” Puck makes a face. “I’m not into baby snatch, but I’m over it once they hit menopause.”
“I’m just saying, she don’t look like much of a baby when she serves.” Matt flails with his upper body, pantomiming the action of spiking a ball and the unmistakable upward thrust of breasts confined to a sports bra. “Ungh.”
“That’s so, so wrong.”
“Says you,” Matt leers. “I’d hit it and not quit it. Even if she wants to cuddle and watch Hannah Montana afterwards.”
“It’s molesting a child, dude.” Puck grins at Mike, showing his teeth. “’Course, if you enjoy the concept of living in a halfway house no less than 100 yards from churches, schools, and playgrounds for the rest of your life…”
“She’s already had her birthday, man!” Mike sputters, eyes wide. “And we’re just going to the movies. Chill!”
“Besides,” Matt cuts in with a smirk, “Chang is doing you a solid. I hear the moms of the class of 2013 haven’t heard about your services yet. Lindsay’s mommy might need Puck’s Pools to drain her above-ground for the winter.”
“Yeah, or like wax her Jacuzzi or something.” Mike’s innuendo is flagrant, even if what he’s saying makes no sense.
“Look at that,” Santana interjects distastefully. Finn and Rachel are walking through the choreo on the other end of the stage, doing one of those lovey-dovey do-si-do’s that always seems to end up in the power ballads. Rachel is mouthing the words, shaping his steps with her body when he screws up, and Finn is fixed on everything she says. “With his baby mama in the bathroom hurling up her lunch, no less.”
“Maybe he’s trying to have twins,” Brittany says coolly, buffing her nails with Kurt’s borrowed travel manicure kit (since he’s always bitching about what football is doing to his hands).
“Yeah, if one baby is going to be a bossy, Jew-nosed tranny.”
“Maybe they’ll go into labor on the same day.”
“As if. Rachel wouldn’t have sex with Finn, even if his standards were that low because his own girlfriend is turning into a manatee. A love child would totally interfere with her career.”
Their conversation shifts when mocking Rachel peters out and everyone realizes that Mr. Schuester is nowhere to be seen at almost quarter-past.
“Slipping it to Coach’s fiancée,” Matt guesses. “Think it burns doing it in a kiddy pool of Purell?”
“Eh, you know,” Puck drawls, amused, “just takes a while to unbuckle the Haz-Mat suit they use as protection.”
Mike is in the thick of his –frankly hilarious, completely juvenile- imitation of Miss Pillsbury getting off (oh, Will! oh God – no, no, you don’t touch me with…. splooge… on your fingers, baby, gotta take a shower! Keep that big, sexy boner ready for me, mmmm.) when they suddenly realize too late that the room has gotten quiet, and Rachel has obviously abandoned her practice in favor of listening in.
“Is that all you ever thing about?” She’s furious, fists balled on her hips wrinkling the ridiculous schoolgirl skirt she’s wearing. “Sex, sex, sex. If you persistently distill your potential down to the human race’s most basic and animalistic urges, you will never be capable of truly transcendent art.”
“…says the girl who pretty much freaked the whole PTA,” Mike taunts her, clearly mindless of anything she said.
“Don’t be jealous that everyone’s getting some and you’re not, Berry.” Puck smiles meanly at her. “No worries. Your gay dads are rich enough to buy you a nice lesbian after college. Maybe a hot little dyke from, like, Saudi Arabia or something.”
“Yeah, wearing a burqa so she doesn’t have to look at your face,” Matt hoots.
“Knock it off, guys.” They’ve pissed off Finn, his face stormy. “That isn’t funny. Leave her alone.”
“My knight in shining armor!” Matt trills.
Rachel’s face is tellingly red, but her tone is chilly when she thrusts a folder at Puck.
“This is some literature I copied for you from my vocal teacher,” she says. “I thought you might find it useful in your practice.”
“What practice?” Mike mumbles, making Matt snicker.
Mr. Schuester picks that moment to come through the door with a dopey, apologetic look on his face and a stack of librettos, explaining about a parent/teacher meeting running late.
When they break up for the day, Puck doesn’t even try to make an excuse for hanging back as Rachel packs up her things. She’s always loaded down with all sorts of shit, sheet lyrics and leg warmers and mentholated throat spray, so she’s always the last to leave. When she notices Puck blocking the stairs down the stage, she puts extra momentum into trying to shove past him.
“Hold up,” he says. “Leaving so soon?”
“Leave me alone,” she hisses. “I have to get home. I have things to do.”
“Your adoring fans on MySpace can wait,” he tells her, grabbing her elbow for emphasis.
“Let go of me.” But she doesn’t pull free, and he doesn’t let go.
“You’re mad at me, aren’t you? About what I said earlier?”
“It was an extraordinarily mean thing to say in front of everyone,” she says. It comes out calm and flat. “Even for you.”
“You need to learn not to take things so seriously.”
“You need to learn that people have feelings,” she replies.
“I didn’t mean it,” he says flatly.
“That’s because you know it’s not true,” Rachel says.
He walks her backwards, crowding into her personal space and making her retreat. She stops fighting back when palms the side of her face and kisses her. A slight hesitation, like the first time -which this is not, not even close- and then he opens her mouth with his. She’s not a terrible kisser, for someone who he thought had sprayed herself all over with Boys-Be-Gone. A little studied, as if she’s starring in a love scene behind the footlights for a crowd of five hundred, but pretty okay when she shuts up and gives in. His teeth nick her lower lip and she goes to say something bossy; he does it again on purpose and feels her sigh slip down her throat. (Three weeks of making out in empty classrooms has taught him that this is the only time she’ll cede control in any way to anyone.)
It’s pretty wrong, kissing Rachel Berry under the blank stare of the dimmed spots. Someone put amber gels over the lights, illuminating center stage like afternoon sunlight when he slides his tongue between her lips. Quinn is knocked up, his best friend is stumbling around like a well-intentioned zombie, and he has no business doing any of this with an innocent bystander, the obnoxious and disturbingly attractive Glee-tard snot who keep angling to get blasted by (not so) friendly fire. Wrong doesn’t even cover it, actually – the accurate term is fucked.
“This doesn’t mean that I like you as a person,” she breathes in that bitchy, sensible way of hers. “You’re not-”
“Don’t tell me what I’m not, Berry.” He’s not being nice, not toning it down like he normally does for the girls his own age. “You don’t know shit, okay?”
As if to reinforce the point that he doesn’t care about her and her stupid thoughts and feelings, he pops open the buttons on her unfashionable blouse and parts it over the cardigan sweater she’s wearing to warm his hands on her sides. Like a dare.
“Anyone could walk in,” she says. But his back is to the door, and there’s not a lot of conviction in her voice.
“Schu would freak out,” he mutters nastily. “Have to put his star in detention. Bet he’s thought about seeing you like this.” He cups her breasts, and worries his teeth on the space behind her ear. “Would you let him put you over his desk to get Tina’s solo back?”
“Would you love it or hate it if it was Finn?” he demands, refusing to let it rest. “On one hand, he maybe thinks you’re a total slut. On the other, he sees what you’ve been hiding up in the Banana Republic…”
“Shut up,” she hisses, and tries to kiss him.
“Open your eyes,” he says coldly. “You’re not going to pretend I’m him.”
“I know perfectly well what I’m doing and who I’m doing it with,” she says.
“Yeah?” he challenges. “Say my name, then. Say it and ask me to do it.”
“No.” Her eyes are absolute in the shadows, but she still doesn’t pull away. He waits, and she stands in place, and he doesn’t move. It’s another dare, one of her own. Finally, roughly, pulls her backstage through the break in the curtains and into the darkness. He drops his face closer to hers, but she won’t kiss him now, so he does it first. Her mouth is hot under his, tasting faintly like mint, and he turns them around so that her back is against the wall.
She’s got a pink bra over her little tits, lace that he’d bet his truck no guy has ever touched before. Rachel has skin underneath with gooseflesh under his palm, and she inhales lowly when he touches her.
They’ve never gone this far, but she’s not objecting. She’s doing everything but, actually, thrusting her chest up into his hands and pulling against him like their bodies could actually get closer. There’s a dim question in his head wondering why, but it’s stifled by the prominent fact that he doesn’t care. It’s not like Puck lacks for ass (he’s Puck, he’s drowning in it), but this is something fully unexpected and kind of mind-blowing: rustling under the sharp pleats of her little skirt, letting his fingers spider-walk to where she is making her underwear wet because of him and what he’s doing.
She’s impossibly tight, groaning like he’s pinched her when he slides a finger into her slippery heat.
“It stops hurting after a sec,” he says against her mouth.
“H-how many times have you had to tell that to someone?”
“Do you actually want to know?” He adds another finger, and the hitch in her breath tells him that his prediction has already come true.
This close, he can smell the scent she wears. He’s bracing the wall with the hand that isn’t between her legs, and his lips keep brushing her scalp. It’s nearer than he’s ever been to her, and something about that makes him feel not quite guilty for all the times he’s pitched his drink in her face or dropped stink pellets in her purse, but… weird.
Time passes furtively while his knowing hand polishes the edge off Rachel’s self-control. He recognizes the point when she's right on the edge, sweat softening the inner band of her shirt’s collar and eyes jammed shut. It’s clear that she’s fighting it, doesn’t even know that she’s doing it probably. She’s not good enough at this to hide the quiver in her legs or the irregular, instinctual tightening around his knuckles, can’t will away the flush on her face. He loves the likelihood that she wants him to get her off more than anything right now, more than a big trophy, more than her leading-man Prince Charming taking her to the prom. Puck is very good at this. He twists three fingers inside her knuckle-deep, makes her clench down, and applies his teeth to her pulse point, sucking a brilliant red kiss on the curve where her neck becomes the curve of her shoulder. Her head tips back, rubbing her hair all over the wall. It’s very quiet when it finally happens (remarkably), just Rachel swallowing hard and digging her fingernails into his bicep.
His dick is aching in his jeans. He could have sex with her. There’s a condom in his wallet – because he’s so not going to screw that up twice – and she’s feeling good enough that there’s a chance she might let him, he knows. He could fuck her here and now, pop her prissy little cherry onstage so that she could never give Finn those dumb, lovestruck gazes during songs without blushing and remembering it. She might do it just to prove a point. There’d be something so goddamn sweet about doing a(nother) virgin, nervous and inexpert in a way that sexy housewives who have already pushed out two or three kids just can’t duplicate. A memory comes unwilled to his mind of having spread Quinn drunk and honey-slow across his bed on a Saturday night, her tanned body all too willing to do all the things good girls normally did not. (It wasn’t like this, fast and dark and smelling like drying paint and Rachel's perfume.)
The idea of wrapping Rachel’s legs around his waist nearly does him in, and he’s unconsciously grinding against the soft, sweaty skin of her belly.
What he does instead is let her loosen his jeans, and jerk him in her hand close between them like a secret. He sees the tip of his cock and feels the skin catching her fingers, her breath uneven against his shirtfront. It’s too soft and hesitant, but her lower lip is shining and puffy from biting it with her teeth, and she’s concentrating so intently that he hasn’t choked out harder Rachel, god before he’s ejaculating messily on her fingers and the wrist of her gray sweater, which she’s still wearing.
There’s a vivid, immediate, awkwardly intimate moment between them when they are both coming down hard, breathing hard in the vast quiet. Rachel’s shirt is wide open, and part of her skirt’s hem is caught in the waistband. One of the ridiculous knee-high socks she’s wearing has slid down her calf, and something like a beat goes by one second too long before his hand reaches out.
“I can handle it, thank you.”
Puck furrows his brow, doesn’t say anything while she puts herself back together without meeting his eyes. One-handed, she reaches into her purse and finds a tiny plastic packet of Kleenex that she uses to clean off her hands. She swipes ineffectively at the small stain on her sleeve before just shoving it up, and the unspoken hostility in that gesture is what finally gets him.
“This is a favor,” he sneers. He wipes his mouth across his elbow irritably, as if it’ll wipe away the taste of her skin.
“Please, Puck. I hardly need sexual gratification badly enough to thank you for manhandling me on school property.” The words are there, like she’s fully committing to the whole righteous indignation thing, but her voice skids over them like cracking glass.
“Knocking the dust off you for your sweetie, Finn.” He looks her up and down. “He doesn’t love you, you know. This isn’t one of your bullshit happily-ever-after plays where the dude falls for you because you’re so talented. You’ll give him something that he wants, and that’s all.” He tosses the folders she gave him into his book bag haphazardly, the papers scribbled over with her painstaking handwriting spilling and crumpling at the bottom. “Come on, he knocked up Quinn. He knows how to do it. And you- well, I think we both know that you know nothing.”
That one finally gets her, and she looks a little bit like he’s just hit her.
“Don’t worry, Berry.” He gives her an exaggerated wink, and smacks his lips obscenely. “I’ll give you all the lessons you need.”
Her mouth opens and closes wordlessly, eyes blinking at him foolishly when he grabs his stuff and leaves.
He’d actually forgotten about the papers until much later that night, when he was digging through his bag looking for the Ol’ Skool Rodz he’d jacked from Nick Johnson. Puck had absolutely no intention of reading the million pages of lame shit on the anatomy of the mouth and how all the parts contributed to a good singing voice (really, like an epiglottis... did he even have one of those?) – but he flipped through them anyway, not really giving them as much attention as the girl/girl porn he currently had playing at low volume on his desktop. She’d made lots of notes on the pages about breathing exercises, mostly arrows and enthusiastic comments like This was very helpful!
On the last page, there was a longer note, and something that caught his eye.
I think these warm-ups would really be beneficial for you as we get closer to Sectionals. You really have a fine singing voice, and I’d bet with some cultivation you could really excel. I’d welcome the chance to sing with you sometime, or to practice these techniques if you’d like to see them in person. That is not at all an innuendo, by the way. I find that some people are not abstract learners.
Two gold stars. That’s what had caught his eye, the sticker next to her thoughtful, impersonal words and her loopy, girly handwriting. One by her name, and one by his. And maybe Puck knows a lot of things about messing with girls, but he thinks (uncomfortably, strangely) that maybe he's really screwed this shit up after all.
The next day he sees her at practice, going over a melody with Finn. He’s sitting close to her on the floor, dwarfing her with his chin not quite touching her shoulder, his inner arm not quite brushing her side. His head is near hers, and between them a tender, drawn-out harmony vibrates in the air. It’s a bit stuffy in the room, but her bright pink turtleneck is pulled all the way up to her chin. She doesn’t show the slightest sign of a reaction when he walks by.
Puck tries to catch Quinn’s eye, but she’s too busy watching her boyfriend fall slowly and obliviously in love with a freak to notice. He tosses his bag down besides Mike with a little more force than strictly necessary, and starts loudly contributing to an argument over whether second base is really sex (for the purpose of dating ninth graders). If everyone is staring at him like he’s an asshole, then oh well. It doesn’t really matter what a bunch of losers think, anyway.