Summary: The Quinn Fabray he knew was president of the damn Celibacy Club and a total prude, and he was pretty sure that nobody was supposed to see her thighs but Jesus, and her husband someday. Takes place pre-series.
Word count: 4,900
A/N: Written for Candy (badboy_fangirl), my recipient at the 2010 gleefics V-Day Fic Exchange and - as it just so happens - one of my f-list darlings. She wanted to know what led to Puck and Quinn's hookup. Beta read by Becca, who was (as ever) the best and most supportive. The title, cut text, and spirit of this story come from Brand New’s “Soco Amaretto Lime.” In my head, it’s a total anthem for Puck when he’s thinking of Quinn.
It started, in what seemed to be a fucking recurring trend in Puck’s life, randomly and out of the blue one day. During the last week of freshman year, the promise of summer hung thick and sweet in the air like the cough syrup that he and Rutherford stole sometimes from the drugstore to get almost-legally buzzed. It was exam week, which meant the actual using of books to gain knowledge. That was a real problem for Puck, since half the time he didn’t even know which of the pristine texts in his locker matched up with the classes he’d been skipping and sleeping through all year.
He was wandering down the hall on Monday morning, wondering exactly what there was to know about pre-algebra that he couldn’t bullshit, when he saw a bunch of girls gathered around a sign posted on the wall. Some of them were crying hysterically, most of them were hot, and none of them had math equations on their foreheads. That’s all it took for him to completely forget that he had a major test in thirty minutes, and head over.
“What’s going on?” he asked Santana Lopez. (Who was smokin’ hot, but a straight-up bitch. It was a good combination on her. They’d hooked up a few times.) She was the closest chick that he could grab by the shoulder. “Someone die?”
“Cheerio roster for next year,” she replied, jerking a thumb. “Some bitches can’t handle the sting of complete and utter rejection, I guess.”
“You get in?” he asked, already losing interest. Sure, the school cheerleading team was important – they won a bunch of competitions, and Coach Sylvester supposedly ate men for breakfast. (Literally. Like, with barbeque sauce.) But it was a varsity sport, which was kind of douchey. Finn was literally the only non-douche Puck knew who played a sport for the school, and not in someone’s backyard for fun.
“Of course,” Santana answered, rolling her eyes. “I was JV this year, and I’m amazing.”
“Yeah,” Puck said vaguely. He was getting ready to disengage, and to find some other way to put off math for a while. If his life were a storybook, it would say: that’s when it happened.
Just at that moment, Quinn Fabray came around the corner. She was wearing a Cheerio uniform, and there were about ten duffel bags on her arm. It looked like a million pounds too much for a small girl like Quinn, but she was grinning from ear to ear.
“Here comes our fearless leader,” Santana muttered.
“Quinn made captain,” she answered, biting off that last word with a smile pasted on her face. “First time in WMHS history for a sophomore.”
“What’s in the bags?” he muttered.
“Uniforms. Rule books. The non-disclosure clause that Coach makes us all sign. You know. The usual.”
He watched as Quinn began passing out the bags to the non-criers, smiling in a way that was warm and welcoming and then scary and intimidating all at the same time. It was pretty impressive, actually. Her blonde hair was pulled back into the tightest, highest ponytail that Puck had ever seen, and when she spun around on one white sneaker to bestow a bag, the flyaway pleats of her cheer skirt spun up around her thighs.
He knew Quinn. They’d been in classes together since elementary school, Lima being a small town. The Quinn Fabray he knew was president of the damn Celibacy Club and a total prude, and he was pretty sure that nobody was supposed to see her thighs but Jesus, and her husband someday. He found himself staring at that skirt with something like wonder, until Santana punched him (hard) in the bicep.
“Could you be more of a cretin?” she snarled.
“Could you be more jealous?” he retorted, but it was pretty automatic.
Something had happened in the thirty seconds that he’d been standing in the hall, subtle as thievery. Very suddenly, he’d decided that Quinn was a complete babe and was wondering how he’d never noticed that before. The Book of Puck started a new chapter, flipped by the sneaky hand of Fate.
The next week, he decided to go out for the football team. Try-outs were a cake walk, since Puck was a stud and the team was the worst in the state. He brought Rutherford and Mike Chang along, because he totally wasn’t leaving his bros behind for the world of jock straps and red x’s on a whiteboard.
On Tuesdays, Quinn was in charge of the Junior League thrift store from noon until four-thirty. Puck wouldn’t have known this if it weren’t for Brittany, who was so far turning out to be the most awesome Cheerio whose ass he hadn’t yet tapped. The cool thing about Britt was the fact that he could totally text her out of the blue and ask random shit like, does Quinn have a job? and not have to have, like, a total conversation about feelings and all that.
Puck showed up three Tuesdays in a row, casually picking through the poly-knit sweaters and plaid shorts, before Quinn called him on it.
She gave her biggest, most artificial smile to some blue-haired granny who had just bought a flowered sweatshirt off the half-price rack, and waited for the jingling of the bell on the door to tell her it was closed.
“What are you doing here again, Puck?” Quinn leaned over the cash register. Her light green sundress was cut too modestly to show her boobs, but her hair was light and bouncy over her shoulders.
“Looking for a birthday present for my mom,” he said, not bothering to make it sound too convincing. He could feel the beginnings of a smirk pulling the corner of his mouth.
“Used clothes?” She raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “You are winning Son of the Year for sure.”
“Yeah, well.” He inched between two rounders to get closer, feeling way too huge for the dinky-ass shop. “I try.”
“Keeping her expectations low?” There was a heart on the silver bracelet she was wearing, and Quinn turned it between her fingers slowly. Puck remembered thinking: whoa, is she flirting with me? “How sweet.”
“That’s me.” He stopped right in front of the counter, so she had to lift her eyes to meet his. “I’m a sweet guy.”
“That’s a load of crap,” she shot back.
“It’s a load of shit,” he agreed, enjoying the face she made at the swear word.
“What are you really doing here?” she pressed.
“Hanging out.” He eased a huge pair of sunglasses with purple plastic rims off a foam dummy head, and stuck them on his face. “You think I should get these?”
“Like you could afford them.”
“I’m starting a business,” he told her airily. “Cleaning pools. You should tell your folks.”
“I think they have someone already,” she said. He was expecting some kind of a crack about people who actually have to work for real money, but it didn’t come. And he was totally sure that at point that the answer was yes, she was totally flirting. “How’s that working out?”
“Eh, it’s cool.” He didn’t mention the fringe benefits – namely, the wildcat housewives of Lima all but ripping their panties off at the sight of him shirtless with a skimmer out under the sun.
“Unlike this.” The quick glance Quinn gave to her surroundings said it all. “My mom has this shift assigned for the next two months, so she pawned it off on me. I’m not even getting paid.”
“I think that’s against the law,” Puck said, horrified.
“Not really. It’s volunteer work, so I can put it on my college applications.”
“Oh.” It kind of blew his mind that she was even thinking like that. College was another three years away; like, who was already getting their shit together but losers gunning for Harvard? “Want to know why I really came here?”
Quinn spread her hands, like she was just waiting to take what he’d throw at her.
“I’ve been waiting on bated breath.”
“I came to ask you out,” he said, slowly. “What do you think about that?”
She had a funny look on her face.
“I’m serious,” he added, in case she wasn’t sure.
“Oh, I can tell.” She stood up, straightened out, and folded her arms. There was a moment where she just stared at him, and Puck wished that he had a crystal ball he could use to seriously read her mind. “No.”
“No?” He frowned. “You’re going to be cheering for my bad-ass moves this fall, you know.”
She laughed, long and loud. It was a pretty laugh, even if it was aimed at him.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m just putting it out there,” he said lightly. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” she said. “One hundred percent.”
“Okay,” he replied. “I’ll totally see you next Tuesday afternoon.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do than harass me?” Quinn called as he headed for the door.
“Hell no.” He cocked a salute at her as he backed out into the sunlight. “Nothing but time for you, babe.”
Puck was the oldest in his class, on account of having been held back in third grade. (An overeager guidance counselor had managed to get him diagnosed with ADD. A second opinion showed that he simply hated school and really liked getting in trouble.) He’d always thought that having a summer birthday was both lame and fantastic all at the same time. On the side of the suck, no lording around the school and convincing girls to give him special favors -read: blowjobs- on account of it being the day he was born. That was some jacked-ass shit. But on the upside, he could throw ragers without everyone bitching about it being a school night, and the weather was killer. Which meant less clothing on girls.
The balance totally tipped for that birthday, however, because Puck turned sixteen and officially became a man. He already had many of the things required to claim complete and total bad-assery -a Mohawk, sick muscles, the V-cards of no less than three Cheerios, a steady chronic hookup-, and in one day alone he’d attained two more: wheels, and a fake ID. Well, a beat-ass Ford pickup that his mom had scored for two grand on Craigslist. But with the latter, he was able to graduate from cough syrup.
What he also had was a boss birthday party, courtesy of his best friend. Finn had found out when Mama Puckerman would be working an overnight at the hospital, and shipped Sarah off to one of her little friends for the night with burned copies of the three High School Musical DVDs and a bag of Reese’s Pieces. Puck’s back yard was now officially cool as hell: there were tiki torches lit up all along the fence – someone’s mom had obviously thrown a luau recently – massive amounts of booze, which everyone had pitched in to beg or steal, and the hose hooked up to one of those kiddy sprinkler things that made a swirling geyser. Which meant bikini tops, and Finn officially earning the title of most ass-kicking friend ever in the history of planet Earth.
About twenty of the coolest rising sophomores were there, and although the music had to stay low enough that the neighbors didn’t call the cops, everyone was having a blast. The girls were swaying around in their cutoffs and damp tops, holding red cups in the air. Someone - probably Britt - had brought the biggest tub of chocolate ice cream that Puck had ever seen, which was kind of random but he couldn’t say not awesome. He found a box of cones in the kitchen and a big spoon, so that there was actually a way to eat the ice cream before it all melted.
He was on his fourth or fifth beer when someone tapped his shoulder.
“Nice party,” Quinn said.
“Oh, hey!” He pulled her into a hug, too long and too tight. (He wasn’t that drunk, and he knew he could get away with it.) “You came.”
“Well.” She disentangled herself from him. “All my friends were here. It would be a boring Friday night if I didn’t.”
“Aww, how sweet. And I thought it was all about me. You drink?”
“A little, maybe.” She wrinkled her nose. “You have anything but beer?”
“Maybe. You’d have to check.”
“Go have fun!” She pushed him away. “It’s your party.”
So he did. He had some ice cream, and drank some more beer, and danced with Santana and made her actually blush (unless it was just the booze making her red, which was more likely) whispering some dirty shit about what they did the week before in the back row of the movie theater while not watching the second Transformers. By about midnight, he was well and truly crocked and thinking that there was no doubt about it: greatest birthday ever.
He heard Quinn scream from across the yard, and saw Mike Chang throw her over his shoulder and run through the sprinkler thing. She beat his back with her fists, hollering and laughing at the same time in the way that girls do when they’re pretending they don’t like it. Mike jumped over the geyser twice, ensuring Quinn got totally soaked before he let her go. Rutherford and a few of the guys from the team came over to fist-bump Mike, while Quinn glared in a way that was too over-the-top to be totally genuine. Puck broke away from his conversation with Lucas Horn about video games, and came up behind Quinn.
“Want a towel?” he asked her. She was pulling her hair out of its ponytail, wringing it and shaking it out. It fell in loose, blonde waves over her shoulders. He was totally not checking out her maroon bikini top under her shirt. He wasn’t.
“Yeah,” she said. She followed him to the back door of the house, and through it into the laundry room. When she shut the door behind them, it muffled the music and noise from the party.
Puck dug through the dryer until he found a towel, and handed it to her. Quinn flipped her head upside down to rub at her hair. He must have been looking at her when she came back up, because she said what? and looked at him funny. But something inside Puck was saying that this was an opportunity, and one that he shouldn’t just let slip by.
So he kissed her, half-expecting her to pull away and whack him. But she didn’t. His lips touched hers softly, just the barest hint of something. There was one of those awkward moments where her eyes kind of fluttered open and he was ducking his head, uncertain, but they worked it out and the next time she kissed him.
Quinn’s mouth was so soft under his. One hand came up to cup her face so he could tilt her chin towards him, and breathe in the little sigh she made when his other hand curved around her hip. His thumb found bare skin under the thin, loose, wet white shirt she was wearing, and rubbed tiny circles there like a secret. It was dark inside, with only the light seeping under the door to let him see her face. Her eyelashes were long, and stuck together with water.
Puck brushed the seam of her lips with his tongue, and swore he saw fucking stars behind his eyelids when she opened up for him just a bit. It was his birthday, and he was French-kissing Quinn Fabray. Life was so weird, and so amazing.
He was trying so, so hard not to make it dirty (although he wanted to. Shit, yeah, he wanted to). So it wasn’t intentionally sexual when he backed her up against the washing machine, and pressed his hips against hers. Beneath his shorts, he was hard. It had never been that way from kissing, which had to be something special. He just wanted her to know without saying it, without having to tell her I am so fucking into you, oh my God. Thinking back, maybe talking with his dick wasn’t the best idea.
Quinn’s eyes got wide.
“I should, uh. Wow. Puck.” She giggled a little. “Go. I should go.”
“Aww, c’mon.” He caught her elbow, and leaned down to brush another kiss against the side of her jaw. “Don’t be like that.” It made her pause, so he licked up to her ear and kissed her there. Then her hairline, and then her forehead. “Don’t go.”
“I don’t do this kind of thing,” she told him.
“What, kiss guys that you like?” She wriggled away, and he put a hand to his heart like she’d stabbed him. “It’s my birthday, Q.”
“How many girls have you used that one on tonight?” She crossed her arms, pausing by the door.
“Just you, babe.”
“Don’t call me that,” she complained. Like she did every time.
Puck held his arms out in what he figured was an appealing way. “Please?”
“No.” She smirked at him. “I’m going to beat Mike’s ass and drink another beer. You’re welcome to join me.”
“One of these days, Fabray, I’m going to rock your world.”
“I’d like to see you try. Puckerman.”
She went back outside, leaving the metallic-sweet taste of hose water and ice cream on his tongue.
Finn told him at the beginning of August.
“You and Quinn?” Puck kept his voice level, and his hands tight on the football they were passing back and forth. “When did that happen?”
“I, uh, asked her out about two weeks ago.” Finn frowned at him. “You gonna pass that?”
“Oh. Yeah, sorry.” Puck threw the ball with perhaps a little more force than necessary. “So you guys are, like, a thing now?”
“I asked her to be my girl,” Finn said, with pride coloring his voice. “She’s that type, you know? I wanted to do it right.”
“Uh-huh. I know.” Puck missed the ball when Finn sent it spiraling back, and had to chase it down the street. When he’d retrieved it, he looked hard at his (best) friend. “You know, you ain’t ever going to get in those pants. She’s got a deal with God, dude.”
“Yeah.” Finn turned red so easily. “She hasn’t even let me get to first base yet.”
“First base!” Puck hooted, delighted and appalled. “No tongue, dude? You are going to be a virgin forever.”
“I don’t mind,” Finn said quietly. Standing in the middle of his street, he looked around like he was checking for cars. “I really like her, man. I think this could be the real thing.”
“That’s awesome, man.” Puck smiled big, like he meant it. “Fucking-a.”
And then he threw the ball so hard it hit the side of the house, and Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out to yell at him.
Why had he never told Finn?
That night, he texted Quinn: why him and not me?
She never responded. He held his phone in his hand, watching the minutes tick by with anxiety and humiliation building a heavy, dull weight in his gut. After about half an hour of sitting on his bed like a moron, he threw the phone across the room.
That Friday night, he knew that Finn would be visiting his cousins overnight in Columbus. Puck waited all week, and then showed up unannounced at Quinn’s house.
“What are you doing?” she hissed when he knocked at the door.
“Staying out here until you let me in,” he said coolly. “Or until your crazy Christian dad calls the cops. You know, whatever.”
“My parents are out of town,” she muttered.
“Oooh, shouldn’t have told me that.” He leaned on the door frame, very close to her face. “That’s totally the best.”
“I’m not inviting you in,” she told him, crossing her arms.
“Why not?” He smirked at her. “It’s Friday night, your boy’s out of town, you’re all alone…” He hoisted the twelve pack of wine coolers he had in his other hand. “I know you don’t like beer. So I thought I’d bring you some of these.”
“You are morally corrupt, and a danger to society,” she pronounced. But she was totally trying not to smile.
“You sound like that freaktard, Rachel Berry.” He took a step towards her, over the threshold. “And I think you like being corrupted.”
“I think you like yourself,” she countered. But she opened the door wider. “You might as well come in. Since you aren’t going to wait for my permission.”
“Knew you’d see it my way.”
She took him up to her room, which was pretty cool. It was all white and yellow, with no pink anywhere in sight. On her bookshelf – Puck had never thought Quinn was the type to read, but her grades were really good, so obviously that was a hole in his logic – she had pictures of her friends, and one of herself and her dad in which Quinn was wearing a long white dress and had her hair up.
“Beautiful,” he said out loud. (So totally not the kind of homo shit he’d normally say, he thought, and that he needed to be more careful.)
“What’s that?” She looked over his shoulder. “Oh. Chastity Ball last year. I was voted Junior Princess.”
Puck turned around, and opened two of the wine coolers. Barehanded, like a badass.
“Bottoms up, your majesty.”
“Well, thank you.”
They had two apiece making idle conversation, before she suggested that they watch a movie.
Quinn put on Wedding Crashers, which was ten times funnier than last time Puck watched it – thanks to the sauce – and got sillier with every bottle she drained. Puck started out on the floor, but by the time Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson got to the rich family’s house, he’d climbed up on the bed alongside her. They sprawled out side-by-side (since Quinn had a big mattress – it had to totally be a Latin King, or whatever the mondo ones were called), and their arms touched every time he handed her a new bottle from the floor.
When the credits rolled, he flopped on his back, and stared at her. They’d killed almost the entire twelve-pack.
“What’s the deal with you, Quinn Fabray?”
“I beg your pardon?” She was on her stomach, and he wondered if she realized how close their faces were.
“Your deal. Your thing, your issue, your – fuck, I don’t know.”
“You think too much.” Her pupils were swimming, and her eyes looked very blue. She stroked the top of his head, tracing the line of his mohawk back and over the edge of her mattress. Puck let his neck fall back. When he felt her hand pause on his forehead, he caught it in his own and laced their fingers together. Quinn looked at their joined hands, and her hair fell over her face. When he propped himself up to brush it behind his ear, he traced her jaw and didn’t take his fingers away.
“Can I tell you something?” he asked.
“You are so drunk,” she murmured.
“No shi- crap. Seriously. You are so much more fun like this. Can I?”
“Oh my Lord, Puck. Yes. Wait, was that the “something?” No? What is it?”
“I totally want to kiss you again.”
Quinn smiled slowly at him.
“Then you should,” she told him. “See what happens.”
“I think you are the coolest girl,” he said, because it was like he couldn’t shut himself up.
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
“I mean it.”
“I thought you were going to kiss me.”
“You should make me stop,” he whispered. Because they were so very close together then, that regular talking would be like yelling.
“I’m not going to,” she replied.
He kissed her, and this time it was so much easier than back in July. This time, on her bed, with her tasting like cheap strawberry liquor, it felt like something he’d been doing his whole life. Quinn sucked on his lower lip, tugging with a hint of teeth, and his vision pretty much blacked out for a few seconds. Her mouth was slippery, sweet, hot when he touched her tongue with his.
She pulled him down on top of her, her hair fanning out over the pillow. Puck groaned against her mouth, and shifted his hips, trying not to crush her or let her feel the massive wood he was sporting. She was making it almost impossible, running her hands up under his shirt and over his back, pressing herself against him. He dropped his lips to her neck, making her moan and arch, thinking that if this was any other chick in the world-
“You don’t have to be so noble, Puck.” It sounded almost like she was mocking him, but there was something needy and hot in her voice. “It’s okay. I want to.”
“Oh my god,” he muttered, palming her face so he could look in her eyes. “You totally don’t, Q. You are drunk, and you have Finn and Jesus-”
“Don’t,” she said. (And he didn’t know which name had made her stop him.) “I know what I want.”
And then she took her hand and touched him, and his dick almost exploded.
He tried to be gentle with her. It wasn’t his first time with a virgin. But he couldn’t stop the way that she made him feel, shivery and hot under his skin like he couldn’t control his hands. She helped him take off her clothes, and every inch of her tanned skin just blew his mind. Part of him knew that it was all too fast, that touching Quinn was the kind of thing that he should have spent hours on. But he was too greedy, too quick, too afraid that she would say “no.”
He attempted to bring her off first, like he normally would, but she was too tense and nervous. He should have used his mouth, knowing that he could make her want it so badly she begged. But he couldn’t help the feeling that there wasn’t enough time. So he just kissed her, over and over, deep and sexy and wet until she melted underneath him, and then pushed between her hips until he was inside. He swallowed her cry and kissed her face while she worked through the unfamiliar pain, and then moved slowly enough that it felt like torture. With her legs around his hips, she was so tight that it almost hurt him. It seemed like sex had never been this raw, and it had never been so hard to hold himself together. It wasn’t until he was coming, bottomed out inside her and with his teeth on her breast that he realized why – he’d forgotten to put on a condom. (The more coherent part of his brain meant to pull out.)
But he couldn’t think of that after, when she came back from cleaning herself up and he tried to hold her. She pulled away.
“Are you okay?” he asked her.
“There’s a little blood,” she said. It didn’t seem like she was really worried about it.
“It won’t hurt so much next time.” He combed his fingers through her hair, still lying on his side. “It’ll be better for you-“
“There won’t be a next time,” she told him. “This time… this didn’t happen.”
“Okay,” he said soothingly, not wanting her to freak out. She didn’t stop him from touching her hair, but she didn’t look at him. She had a pillow pulled to her chest, staring into space. Sex had obviously sobered her up a lot. Puck recognized the regret on her face before she actually said anything.
“Just another cheerleader to add to your tally,” she said. He couldn’t tell if she was sad or angry, her voice was so flat. “Does it even mean anything to you anymore?”
“It means everything,” he replied. Telling himself that he always sounded that destroyed after sex. “I mean, this. With you.”
She laughed, and it was more than a little mean. (It was the kind of laugh that she normally directed at the girls at school less pretty or popular than her, which was almost all of them.)
“You actually believe that, don’t you?”
He froze with his hand on her back.
“I believe it ‘cause it’s true,” he told her. It felt like he was betraying himself, like she should know what he was trying to tell her. Like the flaps of his chest were hanging open, so she could just look inside and see his heart.
But she obviously wasn’t listening. She gathered up her clothes, and he took that as his cue to bail.
The next time he saw her, it was the first day of school. Shiny new sneakers and brand new books, kissing Finn next to his locker in front of all the jealous geeks and losers who wished they were that cool and special. Finn was holding her books, and Quinn had her hand lightly on his chest, probably so she could push him away if he tried anything fresh in the crowded hallway.
Puck felt a little sick, trying not to watch, but now there was something mean and secret and big and hopeful down there too.
you’re just jealous ‘cause we’re young and in love.