Spoilers: Through “Vitamin D” (1.06)
Summary: He pushes her into an empty bedroom. And he’s ready to blast her for being such a stuck-up, obnoxious, loser bitch, but it’s like he’s got Idle Hands syndrome or something. Because he opens his mouth to call her something nasty and ends up kissing her instead.
Word Count: 4,300
Author’s Notes: My lovely, talented beta becca_radcgg staked claim to this fic as her belated birthday gift. It seemed tremendously wrong to not make it official. As a sequel to waging wars to shake the poet, this deviates from canon after Vitamin D.
Keggers at Hannah Loftus’s house after the away games have been a tradition forever, or at least since Langenthal nailed her last year. (Privately, Puck kind of believes that it was straight up bull for Coach to make the dude a water boy. He obviously has team spirit, which could not have been said of Kurt’s flaming ass. But whatever, shit happens.) Hannah’s parents are rich and have a totally sweet house, but best of all they are never around on the weekends since Mrs. Loftus has a sick relative in a another part of the state.
Away games are better than home games for two reasons. The first of which is WHMS not being inevitably annihilated on their own turf, with the entire student body watching in mostly-disinterested shame – there’s definitely something to say about that. Secondly, the team gets to ride back with the Cheerios on their “everyday” bus (which is not to be confused with their long-distance touring bus with the queen-sized bunks and personal chef) and kick the party off in VIP style. Between a few older siblings and Puck’s boss fake ID, they manage to have about ten bottles hidden in the onboard bathroom before the chaperones even get on. Nobody questions why a bunch of athletes and cheerleaders are chugging water after a thorough (and thoroughly exhausting) ass-whipping, and vodka just happens to look exactly like water. So it’s all good.
Consequently, Puck has a good buzz going by the time they all shower up back at school and head out to celebrate their loss. A few of the straight-edge kids arrange carpools, and Puck ends up sprawled in the flatbed of his own truck staring at the sky as one of the girls blasts Taylor-fucking-Swift through the open windows and cruises the back road where the cops are less likely to be hanging out and waiting to give them shit. In early November, the warmth fades with the day and the night air is cold enough that he can see his breath above his face.
He hears the party before he sees it, before the truck even stops at the curb. The house is set in a newer development that stopped expanding when the economy got bad, so it’s surrounded on three sides by forest. The smells of juniper and cheap, sweet booze are distinct and unmistakable, and someone’s blasting some terrible pop shit from the front porch. A fresh bottle has been pushed into Puck's hand before he even hits the grass. He wanders inside to see what’s up, saluting his teammates as he picks them out of the crowd of thirty or forty. There are hot chicks just all over the place, gorgeous freshies and sophomores and upperclassmen to whom Puck hasn’t been formally introduced. Each one seems plenty eager to meet him, though. The girls have jeans tight enough to plumb the cloven swell of their asses, and something going on with their loose, wavy hair that somehow screams fuck me now, Puck. They may as well be wearing signs. There’s definitely something about being a football player, seriously – even playing for the worst team in the state.
Finn and Quinn didn’t show up, which Puck thinks is cool. Quinn can’t party, being insperminated and all – and Puck approves, because his kid (and he always, always calls it that) isn’t going to be born brain dead – and Finn is Mr. Supportive and Perfect Boyfriend and would rather go over to her house and watch A Walk to Remember for the tenth time or whatever. Matt is playing beer pong out back, and Mike has undoubtedly dragged his fifteen year old volleyball player out to someone’s car to play doctor. There’s still any number of cool people to drink with, and Puck’s almost made up his mind to haze a few of the JV freshies with some sixty-inch-plasma Call of Duty slaughterization when a specific familiar face catches his eye.
Something burning and mean stirs in Puck when he sees Rachel, like the one time he found that faggot Jacob parked in his spot in the unpaved (unlocked) spillover lot outside school, the one Figgins can’t lock in during school hours to keep kids from cutting. He’s about to yell Glee-tard alert! Code red, guys! when he realizes that other people probably know she’s there and maybe she didn’t even crash the party. Kurt's one-game tenure as the savior of WMHS football gives him the unspoken right to show up if he wants, and Santana and Brit are both in New Directions now. (Puck doesn’t count himself as being in Glee as well until the very end, because it simply doesn’t occur to him.) Rachel is scooping some pretzels from one of the Loftus’s chi-chi crystal bowls – only one of which has ever been broken, and that crafty motherfucker Chang totally stole a replacement, so no foul – right in line with real people who obviously have eyes and can see her.
He’s not actively wasting his court-holding glory time on confronting Rachel. So, so not. Puck detours to pinch the redhead who takes notes for him in Comp II, and goes outside for a few to challenge Matt’s three-party winning streak. When he comes back inside, Rachel just so happens to be not far from where she was before. That happens to be in his way, so he finally comes up behind her and taps her shoulder.
“How’s it hanging, Crazy?” He has to yell just a little bit to make sure she hears him.
“Puck,” she says, and he fumes at how flat her voice sounds – like, how dare she even give him PA shit like he’s done something to her? “I didn’t see you.”
“That’s because I get around,” he preens. “True fact.”
“True fact:” she echoes. “You’re drunk.”
“Really?” He acts shocked, looking quickly around. “No shit! At a party, for real?” Puck stares down at her, letting a dirty smile flash over his face. “You’ve been waiting for me to come talk to you, right?”
“Not exactly.” Rachel’s a cool customer if she’s lying. “I’ve been looking for Brittany. She told me I should come out, because I might enjoy getting better acquainted with the more popular members of the student body.”
“And I bet she said it just like that.” The humor is lost on Rachel, which surprises Puck not the slightest. “Whatever; you’ll be waiting for a while. Coach Sue’s got the Cheerios on some kind of grapefruit and water diet, and Brit can barely hold her booze on a good day.” He pantomimes hurling. “Shots at halftime. We told her to stop at five.”
“Ah,” Rachel says blandly. Or maybe it’s “oh,” or even “uh;” Puck’s not so certain. It really is loud in the living room.
“I can barely hear you,” he says. “Want to go upstairs to talk?”
“How stupid do you think I am?”
“Take a Xanax, Berry.” He makes a motioning gesture. “Please, like I need to bait your D-list ass. Come on.”
It takes some maneuvering to get through the crush of grinding bodies, but the second floor hallway is indeed much quieter. Puck drains his beer, impressed by the sensation of being able to hear himself think, and Rachel stares at him defensively.
“What did you want to talk about?” she demands.
“Umm, “talk” is usually not that big a deal when normal people say it.” He rolls his eyes. “What’s your issue? God.”
“We don’t talk.”
She’s standing against the banister with her arms crossed, and Puck has the sudden, epically uncool feeling that his buzz is officially being harshed.
“Why do you have to be like this?” he asks her.
“For the same reason that you have to be the way you are,” she fires back. And a random girl picks that moment to exit the upstairs bathroom while talking animatedly on a cell phone, and Puck decides to push Rachel into the nearest empty room so as not to have anyone think that he’s angling for alone time with social suicide.
It turns out to be the master bedroom, and Rachel hisses his name when he locks the door behind them.
Puck is so ready to blast her for being such a stuck-up, obnoxious, loser bitch, but it’s like he’s got Idle Hands syndrome or something. Because he opens his mouth to call her something nasty and ends up kissing her instead. Rachel’s eyes fly open when he jams his mouth against hers, then flutter closed again like she’s surprised but not displeased. He’s rough with her, tangling a handful of her hair in his hand and biting her lip just enough to make her exhale jaggedly.
“In case you need a reminder,” he mutters, “I’m not going to be nice to you.”
She doesn’t respond to that, but she does touch her bitten lip in a way that makes him inexplicably want to run his tongue over it. So he does. His tongue is in her mouth, pressing her body up against the door. He halfway wonders what the hell he’s doing making out with Rachel again, and whether he ought to be seriously thinking about if that’s a good idea and if he’s really dropped his standards. The beer is making his thoughts run in slo-mo, but then crowd up and shove each other for attention. And one thing comes to mind, more important than the others. Puck sighs, and braces a hand against the door frame to push himself away from her lips.
“How much have you had to drink?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” she tells him.
She tastes like the bitch beers that Santana used to favor, fizzy green apple Smirnoff coolers. There’s maybe a fraction of a percent of actual alcohol in those things (Puck’s not awesome at math), but Rachel is tiny and probably gets drunk just smelling the sauce.
“For real, Berry.” It’s paining him to be this responsible, which he hopes she knows as he holds her hot and bothered at arm’s length. “Are you drunk? Because we are not doing this if you are drunk.”
“I don’t think you actually care.” There’s a tiny, weird smirk on her face, but her voice and gaze are even and mostly sober.
“I do,” he says. “Actually. You don’t know jack about me.”
Rachel ducks out from under his arm. She takes a few steps into the middle of the room, and abruptly reaches back to open up her prissy-but-hot dress. Someone’s left the window open behind the curtains, letting a gusty draft into the room. The dress hits the floor, and Rachel blinks at him with her big eyes even darker than usual.
She doesn’t actually say out loud that there’s at least one thing that she definitely knows about him, but the implication is pretty obvious.
Puck crowds her space, and closes his hands over hers on the clasp of her bra. (He’s not operating that slowly, and she doesn’t seem very drunk, and also he’s never been one to miss this kind of opportunity.)
“Let me,” he tells her.
His hands are colder than her skin, and he waits for her to complain when he traces the burning line of her neck down to her shoulder. She breaks out in gooseflesh where his fingers were, but she doesn’t say anything. When he unhooks her bra to loose her breasts and pinch her hard little nipples a shiver courses through Rachel like electricity, but she remains quiet.
“It’ll be warmer if we move away from the window,” he says.
His hands are on her hips when she walks him backwards to the bed. Rachel hesitates, so Puck sits down on the mattress and pulls her (fucking amazing) legs around his waist, so she’s sitting on his lap. They kiss for what feels like hours, and Puck wants to feel her boobs against his chest so he takes his shirt off. And then, just like that he’s naked and she’s almost naked and they’re all over each other. This would generally be the part of the night where his brain makes the connection that he’s going to score and is like hey, you’re the man, but something small and hard to grasp keeps nagging him, making him lose his focus on just feeling good things and laying the pipe on a willing, fine-ass chick – let alone the secretly freaky Glee nerd he’s been steadily not nailing for more than half the semester.
Rachel’s mouthing the cut of his hip, her hand fumbling with his cock, and it’s clear where she is thinking about going. Puck’s second nature is to say suck it. Instead he grabs her long hair and pulls her up not un-gently for another kiss of her swollen mouth against his.
“Lay back,” he tells her. She does, and he gets on top of her, and grinds his hard-on between her thighs until she parts her knees for his.
He aches all the way down to his balls, a radiant pain that would be so fucking easy to pound out inside her. Instead he rubs against her over her underwear, teasing the fuck out of both of them. He uses his fingers to guide his cock, feeling the bump of her clit and aiming for it on each thrust.
Rachel whispers something that he doesn’t hear the first time, and repeats it louder.
“You can,” she tells him. “If… if you want to, you can do it. We can, I mean.”
“Shhh. No. Uhh.” He’s incoherent, his game destroyed.
Her hands come down, and his first (irrational) thought is that she’s going to push him away – because duh, how into this is she, clearly?- but Rachel skims her prim, white panties down her legs, leaving nothing between them. And Puck’s head almost explodes at how fucking erotic it all is.
She guides him back to where he was, but Puck absolutely does not push inside her. His self-control dangles by a thread as he slides over her again, the slickness of her body making the way easier this time. Her legs are wide, spread across the tangled bedspread, and every time his hips snap downwards he could give the barest push, and make this real. (But he doesn’t, oh god oh god.)
She makes the little mmm-mmm-mmm noises like girls do when it’s starting to feel amazing, and clutches his shoulders like she needs something to hold onto. It’s too good, and it’s too fucking much, even for the biggest stud at William McKinley High. He curses under his breath and grabs the base of his dick as he starts to come, aiming away from the baby-making zone and wrecking his crumpled shirt instead.
“Noah…” she starts, eyes all blown and cheeks pink. She’s looking down at her body like she just realized that she’s got nothing on and he knows she’s still crazy hot for him, and he’s still holding himself (after blowing his load from a fucking dry hump, what is that? ), and he just does not have the words for all this, so-
“Shut up, Rachel. Just shut up.” His voice is hoarse, his arms unsteady when he leverages himself down her body. He’d tell himself that she actually listens for once in her life, but it’s probably the messy kisses he’s trailing down her naked body that make her jaw hang open and gape, like she’s a puppet that someone forgot to hang up.
He goes down on her, even though he’s never been one of those guys that worships pussy, and Rachel moans a little for him. She’s so, so wet from his cock. It’s a thought that makes him groan against her skin. He tongues slippery circles around her clit until she arches her hips, and sinks two fingers inside her warmth to give her something to grind on. Puck’s an expert at how this goes, having learned all his best tricks from women in the throes of their sexual prime.
“So hot, Rachel.” He doesn’t realize it’s himself speaking at first, because he is not actually talking to her during this, right? (It’s like breaking a major unspoken rule.) Her knees jerk near his shoulders at the sound of her name, and his free hand grabs her leg hard enough to bruise. Spreading her wider, he hears himself rasping to her in his sex voice. “So wet. Rachel. Rachel. Come on, babe. Come for me-”
The dirty talk takes her over the edge, which is something he’d think to file away for later contemplation if he wasn’t (unbelievably) hard again, stiff and throbbing against the bedspread. It’s madness, he thinks, and he’s grinding on the mattress like an asshole when he makes her come on his face. Holding her hips down for a second round is as automatic as breathing, so he pushes up on his knees just enough to get a hand under his body to jerk himself off sloppily while she shudders and exhales and lets go of the noises crowding her throat: babbled, ruined syllables that sound like Noah and god and oh.
Downstairs, there’s a scream followed a few seconds later by a splash. Someone’s ended up in the pool, which means that there’s approximately fifteen minutes until the nearest neighbors call the cops. One day some dipshit is going to drown or die of hypothermia, but Puck doesn’t mind that much because the Loftus’s are regulars and guaranteed he gets a call from Hannah’s mom Monday morning telling him all confused and sexy-like that she doesn’t understand why the pool always gets scummy over the weekend, and could he come by sometime this week? (And Puck thinks that nobody could possibly be that stupid, but he’ll stop by after school Wednesday afternoon before Mr. Loftus comes home and collect forty bucks for the super deluxe service package.)
And he’s naked with Rachel on the bed, the two of them awkwardly quiet, and she’s rolled on her side against him probably so she’s not right on the wet spot. The sound of sirens doesn’t come – maybe because the morons realized that it’s like forty degrees and went inside – and Puck dozes off for something like thirty seconds or maybe an hour, which tends to happen when he gets off twice in fifteen minutes. He gradually becomes aware of the muted sounds of the party raging on downstairs, and the feel of Rachel’s hip warm as he’s stroking it under the blanket that they’ve somehow ended up under. She has her back to him, her body curled against his, and he feels her tense up when she realizes that he’s awake.
“I should go,” she says quietly. Her voice sounds a little thick, like maybe she had dozed off too. “My curfew is twelve-thirty, and I already don’t think I’ll make it back on time.”
“Chill, Cinderella.” He can’t seem to stop touching her, just feeling drunk and sleepy and good in a way too overpowering to fight. “You are totally the straightest goody two-shoes around. Your gay dads will forgive you for being late. Shit, they might even think you’ve turned into a normal teenager.”
It’s like he can hear the gears in her head working, weighing his very compelling argument against her rock-solid Good Girl convictions. Rachel shifts, so that she’s looking up at him.
“Not all of us are so cavalier about our parents’ expectations,” she replies mildly. “Because I’m always prompt in returning from my social engagements, they would definitely worry if I was late.”
Puck scrubs his face with the palm of his free hand.
“See, Rach, that’s what I’m talking about.” He actually tries to spell it out for her, in a moment of non-hostility (and how much more non-hostile does it get than spooning after he’s gotten to third-and-a-half base with her in an actual bed and everything?) so that maybe she’ll understand and, like, absorb his wisdom. “I know that you’re not trying to be snotty right now, but that’s one hundred percent what it sounds like. And this is a kind of ongoing issue, you know?”
“Pardon me, Noah.” And there’s officially no way that his attempt at being a nice dude just worked, because she’s got her most hardcore, shrilly snotty tone going on full blast. “I’m so sorry to have sounded a certain way just because I told you something that you don’t want to hear.”
“’Scuse me?” He sits back against the headboard, significantly more awake than just a few moments ago. “I don’t want to hear what, exactly?”
“Whatever bizarre game this is to you…” Rachel twists away from him, “I’m well aware that it’s a control thing. I don’t play by your rules, and you start being nasty again. Do you even see what’s going on?”
“Come on, get the fuck over yourself.” The words fall without him thinking about it, because the bully in his head is at the controls again. “As if I actually put that much thought into screwing around with you. The only games I play with chicks are seeing how far they’ll let me go, and I did pretty good with you.”
“That’s repulsive. Even for you.” Rachel sounds hurt again, and he takes a thrilling, mean satisfaction in how small she is right now.
“Oh please, Berry.” His voice is ice, colder than the shock of a cannonball into the deep end in November. “You know you came here hoping I’d show up and get you off. I know you’re a little freak; you can’t help it that you’re a nympho and no other guy will put his dick within ten yards of you.”
“You’re saying that to hurt me.” She replies with perfect clarity, face pinched in the darkness as she holds a pillow to her chest. “And I know it. Some part of you wants this to mean something, when really it’s just a self-destructive mistake I keep making and another conquest for your roster.”
“I hate you,” he blurts. Puck doesn’t know where it comes from (his drunken aggro or two months of sexual frustration directly related to her), but he means it so much in that moment, means it more than maybe he’s ever meant anything. He watches Rachel’s face, just knowing that the sheer force of his words is going to shut her down… and he continues to wait, because Rachel doesn’t flinch.
She gets out of the bed, keeping the pillow against her body, and steps back into her party dress. She hikes it to her hips, and then pulls on her bra with her back to him, and reaches back to zip it up her back. Her heels are knocked over on the carpet, and Rachel has to steady herself on the bedpost to slide them on, but she doesn’t falter. She smoothes her hair in the vanity mirror until it looks marginally less like she just got fucked, and only then does she face him.
“Tell me something that I didn’t know,” she says, and lets herself out.
He wants to fucking break something. He sits there for at least ten more minutes, tasting her on his lips until his head clears enough for him to get his shit and go find whatever Cheerio has his keys in her pocket.
There isn’t a kegger next weekend for the first time in a million years, even though they play Carmel away. Hannah’s mom’s aunt/sister/grandma dies and Hannah has to go to the funeral, and then there isn’t any reason for her parents to leave town. The football season’s almost over, anyway. Puck gets to thinking about the winter; about maybe going out for basketball – he hasn’t decided yet if hoops are macho – and pumping some serious iron now that he doesn’t have practice twice a week. After the first frost, the housewives of Lima all start to blow up his phone about covering their pools for the winter. That keeps him pretty active for a few weeks and lets him shore up on weed and buy a few new Xbox games he’s been wanting. He actually doesn’t even have time to tap any cougar ass, not even Mrs. Loftus’s when she offers him some homemade cookies (which is Suburban Mom-ese for “reverse cowgirl fucking before Oprah comes on;” who knew?) as thanks for fishing out all the bottle caps that mysteriously appeared in the deep end.
Singing is barely an afterthought in his busy schedule, which is exactly the way it should be. In the land of the losers, things remain more or less the same. Rachel continues to moon over Finn, Finn buys Parenting for Dummies and convinces Quinn she looks beautiful in the maternity dress she buys for the pre-holiday dance (which he asks her to, even though it’s Sadie Hawkins because Quinn Fabray does not roll like that; what is she, some kind of giant dyke? ), Quinn completely ignores Puck, and Puck absolutely does not sometimes catch Rachel leaning over homework in the chorus room before Glee practice humming along to her iPod and have the sudden, weird desire to sit down close enough to hear her harmonizing under her breath.
He would have guessed he’d go back to his old ways: the slushies in her face, the jockstrap stuck in her bookbag, all the funny crap he’d tormented her with before (and he doesn’t say before what in his thoughts). But it takes a long time for him to realize that he hasn’t and a few days more for him to tell himself that it’s because Schuester’s always up in their shit about disciplinary infractions during competition season.
But if he happens to see Rachel after school one really cold day before Hanukkah huddled against the school wall outside because her car’s in the shop and her ride hasn’t yet showed up, he’s definitely going to make sure that she sees him look and then drive away. Most definitely. Because that girl needs to know that he just doesn’t give a shit, which is totally worse than being a bully.