HSN Exchange Fic: Behind the Leaves, for fuzzy_paint
Title: Behind the Leaves
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Puck/Finn
Warnings: N/A
Word count: 7671
Disclaimer: This Glee fanfiction is based upon the television show of the same name. All characters and situations other than my own are sole property of Ryan Murphy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.
Summary: The tree house has always been the place Finn and Puck escape to and even now when they’re barely talking it’s still a thread that holds them together. When they discover they’re about to lose it forever will it bring them closer together, or push them further apart?
A/N: Based on the prompt There was a place, once, that let them pretend that nothing else in the world mattered. Many thanks to my wonderful betas, without whom I couldn’t have finished this. Title is from a song by A Fine Frenzy. fuzzy_paint , I hope you enjoy this. ♥
It isn’t exactly the best made tree house the world has ever seen. Puck’s dad had hammered it together over the course of a week, two six-packs of beer and enough cigarettes that Finn can still remember the cemetery of butts that had sat between two roots of the tree until his mom had come and swept them up. It’s a little lopsided and time has made the roof planks come loose enough to let the rain in, but it’s still their tree house.
Or it is for the next month before the sale of the Hudson house is finalised.
“Is it that I didn’t tell you?” Finn’s mom asks, putting a careful hand on his shoulder after Finn has stopped kicking at the dining room chairs. “Because I thought you would have realised. We’ve been living with Burt and Kurt for months now, Finn, and we’re planning the wedding. It makes no sense to keep the other house and we could do with the money to finish the remodelling here.”
It is that she didn’t tell him, Finn thinks. But it’s a zillion other things too, more emotions than he wants to deal with and he’s pretty sure his brain wasn’t built for so many conflicting thoughts at once. Mostly it just confuses him and makes it impossible for him to tell his mom why he’s so angry. Especially when the answer is really just that he is. Really angry. And sick of this.
He doesn’t say anything else, just stomps out of the house- not his home, he thinks, no matter how many months they live there- leaving his mom watching him go with a worried expression on her face. Finn doesn’t have to turn around to know that Burt’s arm is already around her shoulders, holding her in close to comfort her, and that Kurt’s hand is pressed to his mouth, eyes wide from the outburst, part of which Finn knows he unfairly aimed at him.
Finn knows this because it isn’t the first time things have been sprung on him suddenly, and they all act the same, every time, like he’s the one being unreasonable. Like he’s the only one who thinks these things are unfair.
-
The evening is warm as Finn trudges down the sidewalk. He doesn’t head in any particular direction, but his feet take him where he wants to go anyway.
It feels strange to look up at his old house, dark and empty, and know someone else will be living there soon. Some other family will sit at the kitchen table to eat. Some other kid will have to draw rude things on the out of sight cowboys on his wallpaper.
And that kid will probably play in the tree house.
Finn walks through to the back yard, heading for the big tree. He still remembers the overwhelming joy when Puck’s dad had asked to build the tree house in the Hudson’s back yard. Puck’s mom was pregnant with his sister and they wanted something for Puck, something of his own so he wouldn’t be jealous when the baby came. Puck’s dad had told the boys about the tree house his dad had built for him and it had sounded magnificent, a palace in the sky.
The trees in the Puckerman’s back yard had been too young to hold a big enough tree house but Finn’s mom had happily agreed to house it instead. Finn remembers long summer afternoons eating popsicles and watching Mr Puckerman work, fetching him tools when he called for them.
That’s the only memory Finn has of Puck’s dad. Sometimes he worries that might be one of Puck’s only memories too, or at least one of the only good ones. When the tree house was finished they’d been about to start second grade, ready to face adventure and excitement. The tree house had been a pirate ship and a rocket and a bear cave and a thousand other things their minds had conjured up.
Two years later, when Puck’s dad left, the tree house had become a fortress, impenetrable by the rest of the world. Finn had braved the crocodile infested moat that was the yellowing lawn to return with provisions and Puck had spent hours making their battered matchbox cars crash over and over again.
They’d slept out that weekend, cocooned in sleeping bags and listening to the world pack itself away for the night. Puck hadn’t spoken much, but on the first night he’d cried and Finn had moved his sleeping bag closer so their feet touched and eventually they’d both fallen asleep.
After that, summers- and other seasons too, if they could get away with it- were spent almost exclusively in the tree house where they could feel safe and free and invincible.
There’s a light coming from the dirty window. It makes Finn pause and change his approach. No one should be in there, but the trap door is open, the rope ladder hanging down and swinging slightly even though there’s no breeze.
Finn takes a deep breath and reaches for the ladder. He can feel the hard press of his phone in his pocket as he starts to climb, and he knows he can call for help if there’s someone hiding in the tree, messing with his stuff. He just hopes it isn’t vampire bats or something creepy. He’s seen horror movies that start like this.
Finn pauses just before the top of the ladder, steeling himself, then sticks his head up into the tree house. He finds himself staring straight at the scuffed toes of a pair of sneakers.
He almost falls off the ladder in surprise, then looks up, up, up to where Puck’s face is peering down at him.
“What’re you doing here?” Finn demands, and Puck’s shoulders slouch as he shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets. He shrugs.
“I think I left some weed in there or something,” he replies. “Came to get it back before whatever shithead kid who inherits it gets his hands on it.”
Finn frowns, but takes another step up the ladder. Puck automatically holds out a hand to pull him up and Finn takes it, sliding gracelessly onto the floor.
The tree house creaks as he gets to his feet and he has to hunch down to fit. It’s a big tree house lengthwise but it feels cramped. It’s been nearly a year since they were both here and they’ve grown. Finn worries sometimes that he’ll never stop growing and that one day it’ll be like Alice in Wonderland; he’ll stand up properly and keep growing, head bursting through the roof and arms poking out of windows.
Puck’s grown too, or at least his shoulders seem to be broader, taking up more room. Finn thinks that maybe that’s so he can carry the weight of what happened with Quinn, with Beth.
He’s moving towards the far corner of the tree house when Finn says, “How did you know?”
The tree house groans as it settles, getting used to their combined weight again. Finn kicks the trap door closed with a thud. He’d always been terrified of falling through it when he was a kid, but Puck had insisted they were safe, that nothing bad would happen to them up here.
“Saw the sign,” Puck replies. “Last week. Then I saw it had been sold, so I figured I’d come and get my stuff.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
Puck looks confused. “It’s your house. I figured you’d know. And it isn’t like we talk.”
Finn thinks Puck’s right. For months they’ve been something- more civil than a class or team mate, less familiar than a friend. It’s been enough to get by without punching each other in the face, enough that they can work together for a song or to plot revenge on Vocal Adrenaline but it’s hardly friendship.
Finn ignores that part though and shakes his head. “I just found out.”
“You see the sign too?”
“Kurt told me,” Finn explains.
He feels bad about it, now. It hadn’t been Kurt’s fault but Finn had bitten his head off when Kurt had casually said, “Now that your house is sold we can-”.
Finn hadn’t even waited long enough to find out what Kurt was saying before yelling at him, at Burt, at his mom, about how unfair everything was.
And it is unfair. This is his. Every plank, every nail, every dirty pane of glass. His and Puck’s and no one else’s. The ‘Keep Out’ sign they’d made is still fixed to the underside of the trapdoor. Their childish handprints are still on one wall, different colours for different years.
They’d made a pact not to talk about anything that happened in the tree house and neither of them has ever broken it. They’ve lied to each other about so many things, have broken a lot of promises. But never that one. They’d sealed it in spit and then, because that wasn’t enough, in blood. The sharp sting of pain from the cut makes Finn’s hand twitch, even though it’s only a memory. They’d sworn to protect their fortress against the world forever, the way it protected them, even when time had made it rickety and more than a little unsafe.
It’s weird how it’s the tree house that’s still standing while their friendship has fallen apart. Finn wonders if that’s what his English teacher had been talking about when she’d tried to explain irony to them. All Finn had taken away from that class was that Alanis Morrisette was wrong, so he isn’t sure.
Puck gives Finn a small apologetic shrug. “It sucks, dude,” he says, then crouches down and pulls out a pocket knife. The blade catches the light from the old flashlight lantern Puck has settled in the middle of the floor, and draws Finn’s attention.
Finn’s tired of the crick in his neck so he sits down near the trapdoor, watching Puck pry the panel loose. They’d realised years ago that they’d need a secret hiding place, because that’s what secret tree fortresses should have.
They’d started off hiding the basics- candy, toys, report cards they didn’t want their moms to see, but as they’d grown older the contents behind the secret panel had changed.
“Score!” Puck exclaims and Finn looks over to see him holding up a solitary can of beer and a tiny bag of weed.
“Hey,” Puck says. “You got any papers?” He shakes the bag in Finn’s direction. There’s barely enough to bother with, but that never stopped them before.
Finn shakes his head and so Puck shoves the bag in his back pocket and pulls the tab on the can of beer. Finn is surprised when it doesn’t explode in his face considering it’s been in there forever, and he waits for Puck to sniff, and then take a sip of the beer before reaching for it himself.
“There should be something else...”
Finn watches Puck reach back behind the panel and pull out a handful of magazines. Puck snorts and tosses an old, battered one in Finn’s direction.
“Which one is it?” Finn asks as he catches the magazine. He hands the beer can back to Puck, fingers brushing as Puck takes it. Puck pulls his hand back quickly, looks away.
“The one where the centrefold has a really big bush,” Puck says, taking a long pull of beer and opening up an old issue of Playboy. Finn has always been impressed with Puck’s mental catalogue of all of their porno magazines, inherited from an old box Puck’s dad had left in their attic that the boys had found one rainy afternoon.
Finn tries not to laugh when he attempts to flip through the magazine and finds a lot of the pages are stuck together.
The first time Finn had ever seen a naked woman was in those old magazines, brought up to the tree house so their parents would never find out. He’d been equal measures of curious and grossed out, and they’d studied them together.
As kids they’d stared and giggled. As teens they’d used the magazines, sitting side by side and keeping their eyes straight ahead. And then something had changed, something they blamed on cheap beer and weed, even though after the first time there’d been no excuse.
Finn remembers the solid weight of Puck beneath his hands and above him. He remembers hard lines and soft flesh and heat, lots of heat, from mouth and hands and lower.
Finn remembers Puck’s fingernails digging into his skull, how he’d focused on the pressure of Puck’s fingers as he’d opened his mouth to take Puck in for the first time. He remembers his mouth feeling too full, too much and the way his lungs had burned like he’d stayed underwater too long. It had taken time to learn to breathe at the same time, to let Puck guide his head only so far and to stiffen his neck and refuse to move closer, to place one palm against Puck’s hipbone to stop him from thrusting forwards and choking him.
Not that Finn could blame him for wanting to. The second time Puck’s mouth had been on his dick (the first being a short lived moment where the wet heat had been too much for Finn and he’d pushed Puck away in time to shoot come up Puck’s nose) something inside Finn coiled and tightened and he wanted to place a hand on either side of Puck’s face and fuck it. He’d wanted that encompassing heat around his dick completely, down to the base. And it was lucky for Puck that his warning graze of teeth when Finn had tried had made Finn gasp in interest at this new painful but pleasant sensation, otherwise Puck would probably have ended up pulling away coughing like Finn had done the first few times.
Finn glances over at Puck now. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but he thinks that maybe Puck’s cheeks are flushed. Finn wonders if Puck is remembering too. He hopes so. He’d hate to be the only one to sometimes wake up from dreams that were extensions of memories.
Puck sits down beside Finn and offers him the beer but Finn shakes his head. Instead he studies Puck, the way his fingers are curled around the beer can, the way that he wipes at a dribble of beer from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. Finn misses him suddenly, uncomfortably, in a way he isn’t sure he’s supposed to. He wants things to be the way they used to be, when they could hide up here and pretend nothing and no one else existed, that there were no problems they couldn’t fight together.
Finn makes the first move. He doesn’t pretend that it’s an accident or that Puck gave him a sign or anything. He doesn’t try to reason with himself. He’s sober; they both are because stale beer doesn’t suddenly become strong enough to intoxicate with a couple of mouthfuls. And the weed is still in Puck’s back pocket, so there isn’t the excuse they’d used that first time, that alcohol and weed made them do things they normally wouldn’t.
There is no excuse except for how Finn is losing every single thing that’s his- his mom, his house, his tree house, his best friend- and he wants to keep something, anything, desperately. Right now.
And he has nothing to lose. Even if Puck pushes him away, socks him in the mouth, calls him the sort of words Finn tries not to use anymore, Finn won’t have lost anything that wasn’t already lost to him.
So Finn reaches out and puts his hand on Puck’s arm.
Puck gives him a quizzical look and Finn watches his expression change as Finn leans in and kisses him. It’s a soft kiss, softer than any they’ve shared since the first few times they’d practiced kissing when they were younger. Their kisses had always been rougher after that, more desperate and hurried in the fear of being caught, and probably subconsciously somehow trying to be more manly, as if clashing lips and teeth made what they were doing somehow less girly, less gay.
This though. This is soft and hesitant and questioning and Finn might be a soppy romantic deep in his heart because he thinks that at least, even if Puck tells him to fuck off and never talks to him again, they’ve had this last moment in the place that is theirs.
Puck kisses him back though, in slow languid movements while Finn inches closer, pressing their bodies together as close as he can. They’re both on their knees, the uneven wooden boards uncomfortable beneath them, but it just reminds Finn of doing this in the past, of his hand sliding up Puck’s back like it’s doing now, of Puck’s hand on his waist, thumb dipped just inside his waistband, just like it is in this moment.
Puck pulls away first, but doesn’t say anything. Instead he rubs his thumb under his bottom lip, rubbing away Finn’s spit and wipes it on his sleeve. He looks thoughtful and Finn doesn’t know how Puck is going to react.
They haven’t done anything like this for over a year, since Finn and Quinn got together and Puck started actively pursuing Santana instead of just occasionally fucking her. They hadn’t talked about what they were doing when they started and so they didn’t talk about it when they ended it either.
All that had happened was that Finn had said, “Quinn Fabray asked me out today and I said yes,” and Puck had grunted in acknowledgement and had gone home early.
Then the next time Puck had come over he’d shaken his head when Finn had suggested going up to the tree house.
“Let’s just hang out here,” he’d said, looking around Finn’s bedroom for something to do. And so they’d stayed there.
Looking back, Finn regrets the awkwardness, the distance that had started to grow between them when he was busy with Quinn, and then Glee, and how he’d barely used the tree house. No wonder his mom hadn’t thought he’d mind, that he’d grown out of it.
Finn wouldn’t blame Puck if he punched him or told him it was too late, that they were too old to mess around anymore. But when Puck doesn’t Finn leans in again.
“I’m going to miss this place,” Finn admits.
Puck’s hand moves to Finn’s shoulder and grips hard, fingers digging into flesh and bone. He pulls Finn in, close enough that Finn can smell Puck’s breath, can hear that his breathing is quicker than normal. Finn has a moment to study Puck’s mouth before they’re kissing again.
It’s harder this time, rougher, but not like they used to kiss. In Finn’s head it tastes almost bittersweet and desperate and he realises he isn’t wrong about the desperation when Puck’s hand slides off Finn’s shoulder and down his chest. It reaches his jeans and starts to unbutton them.
“Hold up,” Finn says, pulling away and Puck looks confused.
“I thought you-”
Finn nudges Puck aside to grab an old blanket they’ve always kept up here. It’s dirty and musty and when he shakes it out a family of spiders scurry off into the dark corners.
“Better than a splinter in your butt,” Finn explains with a smirk, shoving at Puck’s shoulder until Puck’s sitting on the blanket.
“I’ll give you a splinter in the butt,” Puck mutters under his breath, protesting as Finn spreads the blanket out and pushes him onto it. “Why do I have to be the one on the blanket?”
“Because,” Finn says, and reaches for Puck’s belt.
Because Finn is going to be the one in charge. Because Finn is the one who needs this moment of connection. Because Finn wants to press his weight into Puck’s and to feel the hardness and the softness underneath him.
Puck doesn’t protest again. Instead he helpfully pulls his own shirt off and then tugs at Finn’s until Finn stops opening Puck’s pants and lifts his arms.
Puck’s fingernails catch at Finn’s stomach as he drags his fingers down Finn’s torso and grabs him by the waistband, fingers curling inside. Finn lets Puck drag him closer, on top of him. He props himself up with one hand and helps push Puck’s jeans down to his ankles before letting Puck return the favour.
“Do you need-” Puck starts to ask, moving for the wallet in his pocket, bunched below his knees but Finn shakes his head.
“Like this,” he says, and lowers himself onto Puck. Finn lines their bodies up so that his dick, already half hard, slides easily against Puck’s.
Finn smiles when Puck’s hips rise to meet him automatically.
“Fuck,” Puck moans as Finn grinds down, feeling the hardness of Puck’s dick trapped between them. He braces his feet against one wall of the tree house and winces at the creaking noise it makes as he pushes himself closer to Puck. He cups Puck’s face with his palm and guides it to his own. He tilts his head, sliding his tongue into Puck’s mouth as his dick slides against Puck’s.
The friction is slight, bodies too far apart and too focused on making out to be getting them close, but it’s a nice, steady compliment to Puck’s tongue moving against his. It starts a slow build, light tingles of pleasure working their way down Finn’s spine.
Puck arches closer, breaking the kiss to drag his teeth along Finn’s jaw and down to his neck.
“More,” Puck demands.
Finn wants to say no, to keep it light like this, shallow thrusting against Puck’s thigh, the familiar hardness of Puck brushing his stomach as they move together. He doesn’t get a choice though.
Puck spreads his thighs further, letting Finn fall closer. As they move, Puck’s foot slides up Finn’s calf, hooking behind to stop Finn moving away even though Finn has no intention of doing anything dumb like that.
Puck lifts one of his arms, planting his palm on the wall behind them to give himself better leverage as he rocks his hips up to meet Finn’s.
The friction is greater now, the pace faster. Habit, from fear of being discovered, keeps them quiet, and all Finn can hear are hushed moans, stifled groans, faster breathing and soft wet noises from Puck’s mouth on his neck and collarbone.
Finn keeps his eyes closed at first, falling into the sensation. But it isn’t enough. He’s missed this, missed Puck, and he wants to watch him.
He shifts his body, sliding down a few inches. It makes Puck cry out in protest, a “Dude, where’re you-” but then they’re eye to eye again.
Finn rests his forehead against Puck’s, smiling as Puck’s free hand slides down Finn’s waist to his bare ass, urging him faster.
The tingle of pleasure inside Finn is growing, bigger and bigger by the second and he knows he’s close, that this isn’t going to last as long as he’d like. It doesn’t take much, just Puck tipping his chin up, catching at Finn’s bottom lip with his teeth, before he’s coming, hips jerking forward hard against Puck’s.
Finn keeps moving through it, grinding down with more force, slipping one hand between their bodies. His fingers have barely brushed against Puck’s dick before Puck’s hips buck up against him and he’s groaning, mouth pressed to the side of Finn’s neck.
“That was awesome,” Puck breathes, letting his head fall back against the blanket with a soft thud.
Finn tries to hide his grin as he rolls off, shoving Puck over so he can have some of the blanket too.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
“I’m gonna miss it too,” Puck says, after a moment of silence. They’re still lying side by side on the musty blanket, staring at the sliver of sky visible between the loose roof boards.
Finn turns his head to smile at Puck’s profile. He doesn’t say anything but after a moment Puck smiles, looking amused.
“Remember that time the volcano erupted and we were stuck up here? And your mom waded through the lava to tie a basket of food to the rope we let down?”
Finn laughs at the memory. “That was awesome.”
“How long until the new owners move in?” Puck asks and Finn stops laughing.
“A month, I think.”
“So it’s ours until then. We could...if you wanted...”
“Tomorrow?” Finn suggests, and Puck shrugs like he doesn’t care even though Finn knows now that he does.
“Nothing else to do,” Puck says, even though Finn knows Puck is spending his summer working on his pool cleaning business and babysitting his sister and chasing after college girls home for vacation.
“Cool,” Finn says, and turns his gaze back towards the stars.
-
It’s late when Finn creeps down the stairs into the room he and Kurt are still sharing. He undresses in the dark and climbs into bed as quietly as he can. Finn presses a smile into his pillow, still feeling the tingle on his lips from his face rasping against Puck’s facial hair.
“I’m sorry about your house.”
Kurt’s voice makes Finn’s smile slip away as he remembers why he went home that night, why he’d run into Puck. He’d almost managed to forget all about it all.
Finn doesn’t reply, but Kurt keeps talking. “I understand why you’re upset. If we’d moved into your house instead...I wouldn’t have liked it either. And not just because of the 80’s decor. I’m sorry, Finn.”
Finn turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn’t know what to say, and he waits so long that Kurt’s probably fallen back asleep when he whispers, “Thanks.”
-
“Remember when we pretended we were space cowboys?” Puck asks, sliding his hand up underneath Finn’s shirt.
Finn arches into the touch as Puck’s wandering fingers find a nipple.
“You made me call you Maurice for a whole month,” Puck adds, voice muffled as he moves his mouth over Finn’s stomach. It tickles and Finn pushes at Puck’s head, embarrassed.
“Shut up,” Finn complains.
“You were the one who wanted to reminisce,” Puck points out, letting Finn push his head down until his mouth connects with Finn’s dick.
Finn knows Puck has a point and he isn’t about to argue with the guy who is in the middle of sucking his dick. But it doesn’t mean he wants to remember the embarrassing moments, the ones that make him blush from the memory.
It’s been a week since they started hanging out in the tree house again on the evenings they can both get away. Finn’s mom has stopped asking him where he’s going, probably because he’s stopped kicking things and they’ve had several civil family meals since his outburst.
It’s almost like old times- they’ve brought more blankets to make the place more comfortable and Puck sources beer from somewhere- and they hang out. They talk about the past, never about the present or the future. It means Finn can forget about everything, about losing his home, about losing his best friend and not speaking to him outside of Glee and sport related things for months and months. Being in the tree house is like stepping out of the real world.
Up here it’s easy to lose himself in the freedom and in the heat of Puck’s mouth, to fall apart under Puck’s fingers and not under the pressure of expectations.
It’s easy to close his eyes and feel safe, anchored by the wooden boards he’s propped up against, and by Puck’s mouth around him.
Puck’s movements jerk Finn’s hand, resting on Puck’s shoulder. It feels taut, tense and Finn presses his thumb into the tight muscle between shoulder and neck. Puck moans around Finn’s dick and Finn does it again, kneading at the tension with his fingers, feeling Puck start to loosen up.
Puck’s coming at Finn from an angle, straddling his left leg with one hand on Finn’s stomach and the other on Finn’s right thigh. It’s stopping Finn from bucking up into Puck’s mouth and all he can manage is slight rolling of his hips, desperately trying to find a way in deeper.
Finn uses his other hand to prop his head up so he can look down, over the t-shirt bunched up under his armpits, past where Puck’s index finger rests in Finn’s bellybutton, to where Puck’s reddened lips are swallowing him down. Finn’s dick glistens from the spit as Puck bobs his head up and down, taking him in a bit further each time.
Finn’s mouth is dry as he watches, licking at his lips and trying not to moan too loudly. Each fraction of an inch deeper makes Finn’s groans and gasps louder, even though he’s trying to stifle them, to keep them quiet.
“Jesus, Puck,” slips from his tongue and Puck’s eyes snap up, along the line of Finn’s body to meet his eyes. It makes something tighten inside Finn, low down, like he’s twisting up as far as he can and if Puck lets him go he’ll unravel completely.
Finn isn’t going to last. He’s surprised he’s lasted as long as he has because Puck has used every trick he knows, everything that pushes Finn’s buttons. Things Finn figured Puck would have forgotten, if he’d ever memorised them at all. It’s simple things like pressure, tightness of grip, the spots to touch to make Finn crazy. And Puck’s hit every one until Finn isn’t entirely coherent, his reactions fuzzy and just off the beat.
It’s why he doesn’t realise what Puck’s about to do until a second before he does it, hand sliding off Finn’s thigh. His fingers trail along the underside of Finn’s balls and then back further. And that’s all it takes, a gentle pressure and Finn is remembering all of the times Puck finger fucked him, curling his fingers just right. Puck times it with taking Finn all the way in, something he’s only done once before, and it’s so unexpected, so fantastic, so overwhelming combined with the memories and fingers and pressure that the tight thing inside Finn snaps and comes undone.
Everything goes hazy, and Finn finds himself watching Puck wipe his mouth with the back of his hand through hooded eyes before they fall shut on their own.
Finn smiles lazily in the afterglow, ignoring the way Puck is nudging his leg to get his attention.
“Dude,” Puck complains. “Tit for tat.”
That had always been their unspoken agreement. Get each other off, quickly, like a sordid business exchange. Before, Finn would have already been on his knees, fisting Puck’s dick in his hand.
It’s different now. Finn doesn’t care about how they did things then. Today he rolls to the side and laughs when he sees the pissed expression on Puck’s face.
“You know my balls could, like, explode if I don’t get off, right?” Puck says and Finn gives him a sceptical look.
“What? Sometimes that works.”
“Yeah, on girls,” Finn replies, desperately trying to keep hold of the relaxed feeling but it slips through his grasp. He sits up with a sigh and scoots down the length of Puck’s body, zipping himself up as he moves.
“You’re the one daydreaming about what a stud muffin I am,” Puck tells him. “You’re probably going to write in your diary about how that was the best blowjob of your life, and then draw hearts around my name and shit.”
Puck’s breath catches on the last word as Finn slides his hand inside Puck’s boxers and rubs the palm of his hand across Puck’s dick.
“Do you want me to do this or not?” Finn asks. “Because I can stop, if you want to keep telling me what a girl I am.”
Puck opens his mouth, like he’s going to say something, then closes it again. “I’m good.”
Finn doesn’t move his hand.
“Dude. You’re the manliest of men. Not a girl. Okay? You’re-”
“Shut up,” Finn orders and surprisingly Puck does, glowering down at him wordlessly.
Finn flexes his fingers, sliding them down along Puck’s length. He feels Puck shudder at the touch and pulls his hand back.
Puck makes an annoyed sound but Finn rolls his eyes as he licks his palm and reaches down to wrap it around Puck’s dick, tugging his boxers further out of the way with his free hand.
He keeps his grip tight at first, letting Puck fuck up into his fist, then loosens his hand until the contact between them is hardly there.
“I just sucked your dick,” Puck reminds him, closing his hand around Finn’s. He moves Finn’s hand on him, slow and even strokes until his hand falls away, leaving Finn to carry on on his own.
Finn slides his hand down to the base and leaves it there, tight and unmoving until he’s sure Puck is about to complain. Then he leans in, fitting his mouth around the head of Puck’s dick and sucking.
Puck’s hips jerk and a hand lands on the back of Finn’s head, fingers twisting almost painfully in his hair.
Finn flicks his tongue over Puck’s dick, catching at the salty pre-come that pools in the middle of his tongue for a moment before he swallows. Puck tastes the way Finn remembers, familiar, and it reminds him of other nights when he’d dragged his tongue along Puck’s skin, when he’d spread Puck’s thighs so he could kneel between them for better access.
Finn moves his hand again, faster this time, moving his mouth up and down in the opposite direction to his hand. He can’t help the satisfied hum when he hears Puck grasp, when the hand at the back of his head grips his hair even tighter. It makes Puck’s leg twitch, knocking against Finn’s knee and he smiles.
It means Puck is close and Finn knows from experience he isn’t going to get any warning so he sits back, keeping his hand moving.
He can watch Puck’s face this way, eyes closed and eyelashes fluttering as he breathes through his mouth in gasps that become more ragged the closer he gets. Finn is still watching when Puck comes. He gets to see Puck’s mouth fall open, his eyes screw shut as he groans.
Finn keeps jerking him off, milking him through it until Puck pushes his hand away and licks at his lips.
“Fuck,” he breathes out and Finn can’t hide his grin this time as he looks for something (Puck’s shirt) to wipe his hand on.
“I can’t believe some asshole kid is going to use our tree house,” Puck says later as he’s getting dressed. “No punk kid should have this place.”
Finn agrees, but there’s nothing they can do, except meet here the next night.
-
“I brought lube,” Puck mentions casually as he parks his car outside Finn’s old house.
Finn looks up with interest. “Oh yeah?”
Puck shrugs. “Yeah. So if you wanna, you know...”
Finn isn’t sure if Puck’s inviting him to fuck or be fucked, but Finn doesn’t care. They’ve spent the past week and a half doing whatever they could with limited resources and Finn had been on the verge of bringing some himself. He just hadn’t thought to do it today.
It’s a Sunday, a day off from pool cleaning for Puck and a day of avoiding shopping with his mom for Finn. Finn isn’t even sure which of them suggested it but they’d ended up with a day-long marathon of the entire Rocky saga at the rundown theatre across town, inhaling popcorn and slushies until they’d looked at each other and wordlessly agreed to go to the tree house, skipping out on the last movie. It’s earlier than normal, late afternoon instead of the early evening they’ve been choosing to meet in, under cover of darkness.
“Okay,” Finn agrees, trying to sound neither too eager nor disinterested as he climbs out of Puck’s car.
It’s only then, walking side by side round to his old back yard with their shoulders brushing accidentally, that it occurs to Finn that they’ve just broken their golden rule. They don’t talk about what they do in the tree house. They never bring it into the real world.
Finn has always thought that breaking that rule would mean either a beginning, or an end. He isn’t sure which this is. He doesn’t let himself want it to be one more than the other, because that way leads to disappointment. Instead Finn quickens his pace, wanting to get to the tree house where he won’t have to worry about hidden meanings. Everything is clear and straightforward up there. And thinking about the broken rule is the sort of thing that makes Finn’s head hurt.
It’s distracting him from the “Do you remember when?” story Puck’s busy telling him. Finn laughs along anyway, smiling when Puck waves his hands in illustration.
The laughter dies on Finn’s lips as they round the corner of the house and stop a few feet from the now empty tree.
“It’s gone,” Finn says and Puck, half a step behind him replies with “No shit, Sherlock.”
He doesn’t look abashed when Finn frowns at him, but his hand lands on Finn’s shoulder and squeezes.
It reminds Finn of all of the times over the past week and a half that Puck’s hand had rested on him, and the loss of the tree house, both physically and everything it stood for, aches like a kick to stomach.
He doesn’t understand. He knows the new owners haven’t moved in so the tree house should still be there, should still be theirs. It isn’t fair and the ache inside hurts, which makes Finn angry.
“Fuck it,” Finn swears, and kicks the tree. Pain shoots through his foot and up his leg, but he pretends it doesn’t, and he turns back just in time to see the amused grin slide off Puck’s face.
He looks sad then, and Finn feels guilty for thinking he’s the only one who needed the tree house to still be there.
“That was the only awesome thing my dad ever gave me,” Puck says quietly. “Besides my good looks, I mean.” He shrugs, turning away, and Finn can see the way Puck’s hands are curling into fists.
“Sorry,” Finn says, and he means it. A wave of guilt washes over him for spending all this time angry and upset about what he’s losing and forgetting Puck’s losing it too. “Sorry,” he repeats, until Puck looks back at him.
Puck shrugs. “No big deal,” he lies, but Finn lets it go.
“So...” Finn starts, then falls silent, not knowing what to say.
Finn isn’t sure if this...whatever it’s been, is just a tree house thing. The rules had always been different in the tree house, always free of consequences or mocking, and he doesn’t know if that means that tomorrow he and Puck will have to go back to pretending they were never best friends. He doesn’t know whether their talking about it just a few minutes earlier means something, or whether anything it might have meant is now lost because it all centred around that world they would escape to.
Finn looks over at Puck. His face is cloudy, shoulders stiff. It’s like how Puck has looked at Finn since their friendship fell apart and that’s something Finn hasn’t missed.
He’s pretty sure Puck is just going to turn around and leave when his face softens and he says, “We could go somewhere else?”
Finn can’t hide his surprise and Puck’s expression closes off immediately. He sounds defensive when he says, “Or whatever. I don’t care.”
Finn shakes his head. “No, that’d be cool. We could, uh. Go back to my place?”
Puck shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs noncommittally but he follows Finn.
They’re halfway home before Finn realises he’s called the Hummel house ‘my place’.
-
“I can’t believe you share a room with Hummel,” Puck says, sitting down on Finn’s bed and bouncing a couple of times.
Finn braces himself for some asshole comment but Puck just glances around and says, “Not what I expected.”
“Burt is building an extension,” Finn explains, “so it’s only temporary. But it isn’t so bad.”
“That what all the banging upstairs was?” Puck asks and Finn shrugs.
“Guess so,” he agrees and purses his lips, trying to think of something to do. “Xbox?” he asks and Puck nods, catching the controller when Finn throws it to him.
They’re halfway through a marathon session of Halo when Kurt comes clattering down the stairs.
“That looks like a healthy way to spend your time,” he remarks, and even though Finn knows he’s being sarcastic he offers for Kurt to join them.
Kurt stares him down then shakes his head. “No. Thanks. I need you to come outside.”
“We’re busy,” Puck says dismissively and Kurt shoots him a bitchy look.
“It’s important,” he says, tapping his fingers against his arm. He doesn’t leave and Finn can practically taste his impatience in the air so he hits pause and they follow him upstairs, Puck grumbling about how it’s a planned diversion to distract from how badly Finn is losing.
The grin on Finn’s face couldn’t be wider as he catches a glimpse of the back yard before following Kurt outside. Behind him he hears Puck exclaim, “What the f- oh. Hi, Mrs Hudson!”
The big tree in the Hummel’s back yard is now occupied with what mostly looks like their tree house.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Burt says, lifting his baseball cap to wipe the sweat from his brow, then settling the hat back into place. “Your mom said you boys loved this place and the new owners were going to tear it down so I figured we’d put it up here.”
“It looks different,” Puck says and Burt gives them a sheepish look.
“Yeah. Your dad built it really well,” he says, and Finn appreciates the lie, for Puck’s sake. “I had to replace some parts though, just from weathering and I thought I’d make the roof higher and the floor wider since you’re not kids anymore.”
“Thanks,” Finn says. He doesn’t know what else to say, or how to say it. Mostly he can’t believe Burt would do this for him, for them.
“We want you to feel at home here,” Burt tells him, then puts his hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Both of us. Kurt helped too.”
“Really?” Puck seems surprised and Kurt smirks.
“I have a lot of hidden talents,” Kurt says. “The things that were in there before are in a garbage sack inside. I didn’t even try to redecorate,” he adds, and Finn grins back at him.
“Thanks, Kurt,” Finn tells him earnestly.
“I was hoping you could all share it,” Burt says. “Kurt too, if that’s alright.”
Finn cuts his eyes towards Puck, but Puck’s shoulder is already twitching into a half shrug as he says, “Sure.”
“Great!” Burt grins at them. “I’ll leave you boys to it. There’s a new episode of Greatest Catch on tonight that I don’t want to miss.”
“Aren’t you going to look inside?” Kurt asks when Burt’s gone and they’re all just standing around, staring up into the tree.
Finn nods and reaches for the ladder. “Sure,” he says, and starts climbing.
Inside he can stand up, and when Puck joins him it isn’t as claustrophobic as it had been in his old back yard. It feels sturdier too, safer, and Finn thinks that maybe it can still be a place to escape the world, that they haven’t outgrown it after all.
Kurt stops with his head and shoulders just through the trapdoor.
“Aren’t you coming up?” Finn asks.
Kurt looks at him like he’s insane. “I’m not really the outdoorsy type,” he reminds Finn. “I know dad wants us to share but it’s dirty and there are bugs. Plus this way I get our room to myself in the evenings to work on my solos.”
Puck snickers, and Finn fights the way his mouth twitches, wanting to smile. He punches Puck in the shoulder.
Kurt glances between them then gives Finn a long knowing look. It makes Finn feel a jolt of panic for a moment, that maybe Kurt knows what they do in the tree house, how they’ve been spending their time.
He waits for Kurt to say something. Something that would inevitably make Puck freak out and say something douche-y and maybe punch someone before leaving and never coming back. But Kurt just smirks and climbs down the ladder.
After a moment they hear the back door close as Kurt goes inside and Finn turns to Puck.
“So. Are you...gonna stick around?” Finn asks.
Puck hesitates, glancing towards the trap door, then looking around. It’s like he’s sizing the place up, seeing if it’s still the same place or if the essence of the tree house that made it their sanctuary is now gone.
The coloured hand prints from their child hood are still on one wall, surrounded by a border of new, fresh boards that look ready for some new prints.
Puck places his fingers over an orange hand print, laughing at the way his own hand covers it completely. Finn wonders if Puck knows that that particular hand print belongs to Finn. He stares at it for a moment then glances over his shoulder, back at Finn.
He shrugs.
“Sure,” Puck says.
Finn doesn’t look for meaning in simple things, but even if he did he’s pretty sure Puck means more than just sticking around for the next hour.
“Awesome,” Finn says. He pulls up the ladder, closing the trap door and sealing them off from the rest of the world.
ABOUT THE FIC THAT YOU ARE REQUESTING
Character(s) or pairing(s): Characters: Any and all welcome. Pairings: Puck/Rachel, Puck/Finn
Do you prefer R or NC-17 smut?: Either is fine.
Prompts (minimum of 3, no maximum!):
1. West Lima Crack District.
2. Jealousy.
3. There was a place, once, that let them pretend that nothing else in the world mattered.
Things you DON’T want in your story (kinks or sex acts that gross you out, characters you despise, etc.):
-The word 'cum.' Just. Please don't.
-Other than that, nothing comes to mind.
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Puck/Finn
Warnings: N/A
Word count: 7671
Disclaimer: This Glee fanfiction is based upon the television show of the same name. All characters and situations other than my own are sole property of Ryan Murphy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.
Summary: The tree house has always been the place Finn and Puck escape to and even now when they’re barely talking it’s still a thread that holds them together. When they discover they’re about to lose it forever will it bring them closer together, or push them further apart?
A/N: Based on the prompt There was a place, once, that let them pretend that nothing else in the world mattered. Many thanks to my wonderful betas, without whom I couldn’t have finished this. Title is from a song by A Fine Frenzy. fuzzy_paint , I hope you enjoy this. ♥
It isn’t exactly the best made tree house the world has ever seen. Puck’s dad had hammered it together over the course of a week, two six-packs of beer and enough cigarettes that Finn can still remember the cemetery of butts that had sat between two roots of the tree until his mom had come and swept them up. It’s a little lopsided and time has made the roof planks come loose enough to let the rain in, but it’s still their tree house.
Or it is for the next month before the sale of the Hudson house is finalised.
“Is it that I didn’t tell you?” Finn’s mom asks, putting a careful hand on his shoulder after Finn has stopped kicking at the dining room chairs. “Because I thought you would have realised. We’ve been living with Burt and Kurt for months now, Finn, and we’re planning the wedding. It makes no sense to keep the other house and we could do with the money to finish the remodelling here.”
It is that she didn’t tell him, Finn thinks. But it’s a zillion other things too, more emotions than he wants to deal with and he’s pretty sure his brain wasn’t built for so many conflicting thoughts at once. Mostly it just confuses him and makes it impossible for him to tell his mom why he’s so angry. Especially when the answer is really just that he is. Really angry. And sick of this.
He doesn’t say anything else, just stomps out of the house- not his home, he thinks, no matter how many months they live there- leaving his mom watching him go with a worried expression on her face. Finn doesn’t have to turn around to know that Burt’s arm is already around her shoulders, holding her in close to comfort her, and that Kurt’s hand is pressed to his mouth, eyes wide from the outburst, part of which Finn knows he unfairly aimed at him.
Finn knows this because it isn’t the first time things have been sprung on him suddenly, and they all act the same, every time, like he’s the one being unreasonable. Like he’s the only one who thinks these things are unfair.
-
The evening is warm as Finn trudges down the sidewalk. He doesn’t head in any particular direction, but his feet take him where he wants to go anyway.
It feels strange to look up at his old house, dark and empty, and know someone else will be living there soon. Some other family will sit at the kitchen table to eat. Some other kid will have to draw rude things on the out of sight cowboys on his wallpaper.
And that kid will probably play in the tree house.
Finn walks through to the back yard, heading for the big tree. He still remembers the overwhelming joy when Puck’s dad had asked to build the tree house in the Hudson’s back yard. Puck’s mom was pregnant with his sister and they wanted something for Puck, something of his own so he wouldn’t be jealous when the baby came. Puck’s dad had told the boys about the tree house his dad had built for him and it had sounded magnificent, a palace in the sky.
The trees in the Puckerman’s back yard had been too young to hold a big enough tree house but Finn’s mom had happily agreed to house it instead. Finn remembers long summer afternoons eating popsicles and watching Mr Puckerman work, fetching him tools when he called for them.
That’s the only memory Finn has of Puck’s dad. Sometimes he worries that might be one of Puck’s only memories too, or at least one of the only good ones. When the tree house was finished they’d been about to start second grade, ready to face adventure and excitement. The tree house had been a pirate ship and a rocket and a bear cave and a thousand other things their minds had conjured up.
Two years later, when Puck’s dad left, the tree house had become a fortress, impenetrable by the rest of the world. Finn had braved the crocodile infested moat that was the yellowing lawn to return with provisions and Puck had spent hours making their battered matchbox cars crash over and over again.
They’d slept out that weekend, cocooned in sleeping bags and listening to the world pack itself away for the night. Puck hadn’t spoken much, but on the first night he’d cried and Finn had moved his sleeping bag closer so their feet touched and eventually they’d both fallen asleep.
After that, summers- and other seasons too, if they could get away with it- were spent almost exclusively in the tree house where they could feel safe and free and invincible.
There’s a light coming from the dirty window. It makes Finn pause and change his approach. No one should be in there, but the trap door is open, the rope ladder hanging down and swinging slightly even though there’s no breeze.
Finn takes a deep breath and reaches for the ladder. He can feel the hard press of his phone in his pocket as he starts to climb, and he knows he can call for help if there’s someone hiding in the tree, messing with his stuff. He just hopes it isn’t vampire bats or something creepy. He’s seen horror movies that start like this.
Finn pauses just before the top of the ladder, steeling himself, then sticks his head up into the tree house. He finds himself staring straight at the scuffed toes of a pair of sneakers.
He almost falls off the ladder in surprise, then looks up, up, up to where Puck’s face is peering down at him.
“What’re you doing here?” Finn demands, and Puck’s shoulders slouch as he shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets. He shrugs.
“I think I left some weed in there or something,” he replies. “Came to get it back before whatever shithead kid who inherits it gets his hands on it.”
Finn frowns, but takes another step up the ladder. Puck automatically holds out a hand to pull him up and Finn takes it, sliding gracelessly onto the floor.
The tree house creaks as he gets to his feet and he has to hunch down to fit. It’s a big tree house lengthwise but it feels cramped. It’s been nearly a year since they were both here and they’ve grown. Finn worries sometimes that he’ll never stop growing and that one day it’ll be like Alice in Wonderland; he’ll stand up properly and keep growing, head bursting through the roof and arms poking out of windows.
Puck’s grown too, or at least his shoulders seem to be broader, taking up more room. Finn thinks that maybe that’s so he can carry the weight of what happened with Quinn, with Beth.
He’s moving towards the far corner of the tree house when Finn says, “How did you know?”
The tree house groans as it settles, getting used to their combined weight again. Finn kicks the trap door closed with a thud. He’d always been terrified of falling through it when he was a kid, but Puck had insisted they were safe, that nothing bad would happen to them up here.
“Saw the sign,” Puck replies. “Last week. Then I saw it had been sold, so I figured I’d come and get my stuff.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
Puck looks confused. “It’s your house. I figured you’d know. And it isn’t like we talk.”
Finn thinks Puck’s right. For months they’ve been something- more civil than a class or team mate, less familiar than a friend. It’s been enough to get by without punching each other in the face, enough that they can work together for a song or to plot revenge on Vocal Adrenaline but it’s hardly friendship.
Finn ignores that part though and shakes his head. “I just found out.”
“You see the sign too?”
“Kurt told me,” Finn explains.
He feels bad about it, now. It hadn’t been Kurt’s fault but Finn had bitten his head off when Kurt had casually said, “Now that your house is sold we can-”.
Finn hadn’t even waited long enough to find out what Kurt was saying before yelling at him, at Burt, at his mom, about how unfair everything was.
And it is unfair. This is his. Every plank, every nail, every dirty pane of glass. His and Puck’s and no one else’s. The ‘Keep Out’ sign they’d made is still fixed to the underside of the trapdoor. Their childish handprints are still on one wall, different colours for different years.
They’d made a pact not to talk about anything that happened in the tree house and neither of them has ever broken it. They’ve lied to each other about so many things, have broken a lot of promises. But never that one. They’d sealed it in spit and then, because that wasn’t enough, in blood. The sharp sting of pain from the cut makes Finn’s hand twitch, even though it’s only a memory. They’d sworn to protect their fortress against the world forever, the way it protected them, even when time had made it rickety and more than a little unsafe.
It’s weird how it’s the tree house that’s still standing while their friendship has fallen apart. Finn wonders if that’s what his English teacher had been talking about when she’d tried to explain irony to them. All Finn had taken away from that class was that Alanis Morrisette was wrong, so he isn’t sure.
Puck gives Finn a small apologetic shrug. “It sucks, dude,” he says, then crouches down and pulls out a pocket knife. The blade catches the light from the old flashlight lantern Puck has settled in the middle of the floor, and draws Finn’s attention.
Finn’s tired of the crick in his neck so he sits down near the trapdoor, watching Puck pry the panel loose. They’d realised years ago that they’d need a secret hiding place, because that’s what secret tree fortresses should have.
They’d started off hiding the basics- candy, toys, report cards they didn’t want their moms to see, but as they’d grown older the contents behind the secret panel had changed.
“Score!” Puck exclaims and Finn looks over to see him holding up a solitary can of beer and a tiny bag of weed.
“Hey,” Puck says. “You got any papers?” He shakes the bag in Finn’s direction. There’s barely enough to bother with, but that never stopped them before.
Finn shakes his head and so Puck shoves the bag in his back pocket and pulls the tab on the can of beer. Finn is surprised when it doesn’t explode in his face considering it’s been in there forever, and he waits for Puck to sniff, and then take a sip of the beer before reaching for it himself.
“There should be something else...”
Finn watches Puck reach back behind the panel and pull out a handful of magazines. Puck snorts and tosses an old, battered one in Finn’s direction.
“Which one is it?” Finn asks as he catches the magazine. He hands the beer can back to Puck, fingers brushing as Puck takes it. Puck pulls his hand back quickly, looks away.
“The one where the centrefold has a really big bush,” Puck says, taking a long pull of beer and opening up an old issue of Playboy. Finn has always been impressed with Puck’s mental catalogue of all of their porno magazines, inherited from an old box Puck’s dad had left in their attic that the boys had found one rainy afternoon.
Finn tries not to laugh when he attempts to flip through the magazine and finds a lot of the pages are stuck together.
The first time Finn had ever seen a naked woman was in those old magazines, brought up to the tree house so their parents would never find out. He’d been equal measures of curious and grossed out, and they’d studied them together.
As kids they’d stared and giggled. As teens they’d used the magazines, sitting side by side and keeping their eyes straight ahead. And then something had changed, something they blamed on cheap beer and weed, even though after the first time there’d been no excuse.
Finn remembers the solid weight of Puck beneath his hands and above him. He remembers hard lines and soft flesh and heat, lots of heat, from mouth and hands and lower.
Finn remembers Puck’s fingernails digging into his skull, how he’d focused on the pressure of Puck’s fingers as he’d opened his mouth to take Puck in for the first time. He remembers his mouth feeling too full, too much and the way his lungs had burned like he’d stayed underwater too long. It had taken time to learn to breathe at the same time, to let Puck guide his head only so far and to stiffen his neck and refuse to move closer, to place one palm against Puck’s hipbone to stop him from thrusting forwards and choking him.
Not that Finn could blame him for wanting to. The second time Puck’s mouth had been on his dick (the first being a short lived moment where the wet heat had been too much for Finn and he’d pushed Puck away in time to shoot come up Puck’s nose) something inside Finn coiled and tightened and he wanted to place a hand on either side of Puck’s face and fuck it. He’d wanted that encompassing heat around his dick completely, down to the base. And it was lucky for Puck that his warning graze of teeth when Finn had tried had made Finn gasp in interest at this new painful but pleasant sensation, otherwise Puck would probably have ended up pulling away coughing like Finn had done the first few times.
Finn glances over at Puck now. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but he thinks that maybe Puck’s cheeks are flushed. Finn wonders if Puck is remembering too. He hopes so. He’d hate to be the only one to sometimes wake up from dreams that were extensions of memories.
Puck sits down beside Finn and offers him the beer but Finn shakes his head. Instead he studies Puck, the way his fingers are curled around the beer can, the way that he wipes at a dribble of beer from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. Finn misses him suddenly, uncomfortably, in a way he isn’t sure he’s supposed to. He wants things to be the way they used to be, when they could hide up here and pretend nothing and no one else existed, that there were no problems they couldn’t fight together.
Finn makes the first move. He doesn’t pretend that it’s an accident or that Puck gave him a sign or anything. He doesn’t try to reason with himself. He’s sober; they both are because stale beer doesn’t suddenly become strong enough to intoxicate with a couple of mouthfuls. And the weed is still in Puck’s back pocket, so there isn’t the excuse they’d used that first time, that alcohol and weed made them do things they normally wouldn’t.
There is no excuse except for how Finn is losing every single thing that’s his- his mom, his house, his tree house, his best friend- and he wants to keep something, anything, desperately. Right now.
And he has nothing to lose. Even if Puck pushes him away, socks him in the mouth, calls him the sort of words Finn tries not to use anymore, Finn won’t have lost anything that wasn’t already lost to him.
So Finn reaches out and puts his hand on Puck’s arm.
Puck gives him a quizzical look and Finn watches his expression change as Finn leans in and kisses him. It’s a soft kiss, softer than any they’ve shared since the first few times they’d practiced kissing when they were younger. Their kisses had always been rougher after that, more desperate and hurried in the fear of being caught, and probably subconsciously somehow trying to be more manly, as if clashing lips and teeth made what they were doing somehow less girly, less gay.
This though. This is soft and hesitant and questioning and Finn might be a soppy romantic deep in his heart because he thinks that at least, even if Puck tells him to fuck off and never talks to him again, they’ve had this last moment in the place that is theirs.
Puck kisses him back though, in slow languid movements while Finn inches closer, pressing their bodies together as close as he can. They’re both on their knees, the uneven wooden boards uncomfortable beneath them, but it just reminds Finn of doing this in the past, of his hand sliding up Puck’s back like it’s doing now, of Puck’s hand on his waist, thumb dipped just inside his waistband, just like it is in this moment.
Puck pulls away first, but doesn’t say anything. Instead he rubs his thumb under his bottom lip, rubbing away Finn’s spit and wipes it on his sleeve. He looks thoughtful and Finn doesn’t know how Puck is going to react.
They haven’t done anything like this for over a year, since Finn and Quinn got together and Puck started actively pursuing Santana instead of just occasionally fucking her. They hadn’t talked about what they were doing when they started and so they didn’t talk about it when they ended it either.
All that had happened was that Finn had said, “Quinn Fabray asked me out today and I said yes,” and Puck had grunted in acknowledgement and had gone home early.
Then the next time Puck had come over he’d shaken his head when Finn had suggested going up to the tree house.
“Let’s just hang out here,” he’d said, looking around Finn’s bedroom for something to do. And so they’d stayed there.
Looking back, Finn regrets the awkwardness, the distance that had started to grow between them when he was busy with Quinn, and then Glee, and how he’d barely used the tree house. No wonder his mom hadn’t thought he’d mind, that he’d grown out of it.
Finn wouldn’t blame Puck if he punched him or told him it was too late, that they were too old to mess around anymore. But when Puck doesn’t Finn leans in again.
“I’m going to miss this place,” Finn admits.
Puck’s hand moves to Finn’s shoulder and grips hard, fingers digging into flesh and bone. He pulls Finn in, close enough that Finn can smell Puck’s breath, can hear that his breathing is quicker than normal. Finn has a moment to study Puck’s mouth before they’re kissing again.
It’s harder this time, rougher, but not like they used to kiss. In Finn’s head it tastes almost bittersweet and desperate and he realises he isn’t wrong about the desperation when Puck’s hand slides off Finn’s shoulder and down his chest. It reaches his jeans and starts to unbutton them.
“Hold up,” Finn says, pulling away and Puck looks confused.
“I thought you-”
Finn nudges Puck aside to grab an old blanket they’ve always kept up here. It’s dirty and musty and when he shakes it out a family of spiders scurry off into the dark corners.
“Better than a splinter in your butt,” Finn explains with a smirk, shoving at Puck’s shoulder until Puck’s sitting on the blanket.
“I’ll give you a splinter in the butt,” Puck mutters under his breath, protesting as Finn spreads the blanket out and pushes him onto it. “Why do I have to be the one on the blanket?”
“Because,” Finn says, and reaches for Puck’s belt.
Because Finn is going to be the one in charge. Because Finn is the one who needs this moment of connection. Because Finn wants to press his weight into Puck’s and to feel the hardness and the softness underneath him.
Puck doesn’t protest again. Instead he helpfully pulls his own shirt off and then tugs at Finn’s until Finn stops opening Puck’s pants and lifts his arms.
Puck’s fingernails catch at Finn’s stomach as he drags his fingers down Finn’s torso and grabs him by the waistband, fingers curling inside. Finn lets Puck drag him closer, on top of him. He props himself up with one hand and helps push Puck’s jeans down to his ankles before letting Puck return the favour.
“Do you need-” Puck starts to ask, moving for the wallet in his pocket, bunched below his knees but Finn shakes his head.
“Like this,” he says, and lowers himself onto Puck. Finn lines their bodies up so that his dick, already half hard, slides easily against Puck’s.
Finn smiles when Puck’s hips rise to meet him automatically.
“Fuck,” Puck moans as Finn grinds down, feeling the hardness of Puck’s dick trapped between them. He braces his feet against one wall of the tree house and winces at the creaking noise it makes as he pushes himself closer to Puck. He cups Puck’s face with his palm and guides it to his own. He tilts his head, sliding his tongue into Puck’s mouth as his dick slides against Puck’s.
The friction is slight, bodies too far apart and too focused on making out to be getting them close, but it’s a nice, steady compliment to Puck’s tongue moving against his. It starts a slow build, light tingles of pleasure working their way down Finn’s spine.
Puck arches closer, breaking the kiss to drag his teeth along Finn’s jaw and down to his neck.
“More,” Puck demands.
Finn wants to say no, to keep it light like this, shallow thrusting against Puck’s thigh, the familiar hardness of Puck brushing his stomach as they move together. He doesn’t get a choice though.
Puck spreads his thighs further, letting Finn fall closer. As they move, Puck’s foot slides up Finn’s calf, hooking behind to stop Finn moving away even though Finn has no intention of doing anything dumb like that.
Puck lifts one of his arms, planting his palm on the wall behind them to give himself better leverage as he rocks his hips up to meet Finn’s.
The friction is greater now, the pace faster. Habit, from fear of being discovered, keeps them quiet, and all Finn can hear are hushed moans, stifled groans, faster breathing and soft wet noises from Puck’s mouth on his neck and collarbone.
Finn keeps his eyes closed at first, falling into the sensation. But it isn’t enough. He’s missed this, missed Puck, and he wants to watch him.
He shifts his body, sliding down a few inches. It makes Puck cry out in protest, a “Dude, where’re you-” but then they’re eye to eye again.
Finn rests his forehead against Puck’s, smiling as Puck’s free hand slides down Finn’s waist to his bare ass, urging him faster.
The tingle of pleasure inside Finn is growing, bigger and bigger by the second and he knows he’s close, that this isn’t going to last as long as he’d like. It doesn’t take much, just Puck tipping his chin up, catching at Finn’s bottom lip with his teeth, before he’s coming, hips jerking forward hard against Puck’s.
Finn keeps moving through it, grinding down with more force, slipping one hand between their bodies. His fingers have barely brushed against Puck’s dick before Puck’s hips buck up against him and he’s groaning, mouth pressed to the side of Finn’s neck.
“That was awesome,” Puck breathes, letting his head fall back against the blanket with a soft thud.
Finn tries to hide his grin as he rolls off, shoving Puck over so he can have some of the blanket too.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
“I’m gonna miss it too,” Puck says, after a moment of silence. They’re still lying side by side on the musty blanket, staring at the sliver of sky visible between the loose roof boards.
Finn turns his head to smile at Puck’s profile. He doesn’t say anything but after a moment Puck smiles, looking amused.
“Remember that time the volcano erupted and we were stuck up here? And your mom waded through the lava to tie a basket of food to the rope we let down?”
Finn laughs at the memory. “That was awesome.”
“How long until the new owners move in?” Puck asks and Finn stops laughing.
“A month, I think.”
“So it’s ours until then. We could...if you wanted...”
“Tomorrow?” Finn suggests, and Puck shrugs like he doesn’t care even though Finn knows now that he does.
“Nothing else to do,” Puck says, even though Finn knows Puck is spending his summer working on his pool cleaning business and babysitting his sister and chasing after college girls home for vacation.
“Cool,” Finn says, and turns his gaze back towards the stars.
-
It’s late when Finn creeps down the stairs into the room he and Kurt are still sharing. He undresses in the dark and climbs into bed as quietly as he can. Finn presses a smile into his pillow, still feeling the tingle on his lips from his face rasping against Puck’s facial hair.
“I’m sorry about your house.”
Kurt’s voice makes Finn’s smile slip away as he remembers why he went home that night, why he’d run into Puck. He’d almost managed to forget all about it all.
Finn doesn’t reply, but Kurt keeps talking. “I understand why you’re upset. If we’d moved into your house instead...I wouldn’t have liked it either. And not just because of the 80’s decor. I’m sorry, Finn.”
Finn turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn’t know what to say, and he waits so long that Kurt’s probably fallen back asleep when he whispers, “Thanks.”
-
“Remember when we pretended we were space cowboys?” Puck asks, sliding his hand up underneath Finn’s shirt.
Finn arches into the touch as Puck’s wandering fingers find a nipple.
“You made me call you Maurice for a whole month,” Puck adds, voice muffled as he moves his mouth over Finn’s stomach. It tickles and Finn pushes at Puck’s head, embarrassed.
“Shut up,” Finn complains.
“You were the one who wanted to reminisce,” Puck points out, letting Finn push his head down until his mouth connects with Finn’s dick.
Finn knows Puck has a point and he isn’t about to argue with the guy who is in the middle of sucking his dick. But it doesn’t mean he wants to remember the embarrassing moments, the ones that make him blush from the memory.
It’s been a week since they started hanging out in the tree house again on the evenings they can both get away. Finn’s mom has stopped asking him where he’s going, probably because he’s stopped kicking things and they’ve had several civil family meals since his outburst.
It’s almost like old times- they’ve brought more blankets to make the place more comfortable and Puck sources beer from somewhere- and they hang out. They talk about the past, never about the present or the future. It means Finn can forget about everything, about losing his home, about losing his best friend and not speaking to him outside of Glee and sport related things for months and months. Being in the tree house is like stepping out of the real world.
Up here it’s easy to lose himself in the freedom and in the heat of Puck’s mouth, to fall apart under Puck’s fingers and not under the pressure of expectations.
It’s easy to close his eyes and feel safe, anchored by the wooden boards he’s propped up against, and by Puck’s mouth around him.
Puck’s movements jerk Finn’s hand, resting on Puck’s shoulder. It feels taut, tense and Finn presses his thumb into the tight muscle between shoulder and neck. Puck moans around Finn’s dick and Finn does it again, kneading at the tension with his fingers, feeling Puck start to loosen up.
Puck’s coming at Finn from an angle, straddling his left leg with one hand on Finn’s stomach and the other on Finn’s right thigh. It’s stopping Finn from bucking up into Puck’s mouth and all he can manage is slight rolling of his hips, desperately trying to find a way in deeper.
Finn uses his other hand to prop his head up so he can look down, over the t-shirt bunched up under his armpits, past where Puck’s index finger rests in Finn’s bellybutton, to where Puck’s reddened lips are swallowing him down. Finn’s dick glistens from the spit as Puck bobs his head up and down, taking him in a bit further each time.
Finn’s mouth is dry as he watches, licking at his lips and trying not to moan too loudly. Each fraction of an inch deeper makes Finn’s groans and gasps louder, even though he’s trying to stifle them, to keep them quiet.
“Jesus, Puck,” slips from his tongue and Puck’s eyes snap up, along the line of Finn’s body to meet his eyes. It makes something tighten inside Finn, low down, like he’s twisting up as far as he can and if Puck lets him go he’ll unravel completely.
Finn isn’t going to last. He’s surprised he’s lasted as long as he has because Puck has used every trick he knows, everything that pushes Finn’s buttons. Things Finn figured Puck would have forgotten, if he’d ever memorised them at all. It’s simple things like pressure, tightness of grip, the spots to touch to make Finn crazy. And Puck’s hit every one until Finn isn’t entirely coherent, his reactions fuzzy and just off the beat.
It’s why he doesn’t realise what Puck’s about to do until a second before he does it, hand sliding off Finn’s thigh. His fingers trail along the underside of Finn’s balls and then back further. And that’s all it takes, a gentle pressure and Finn is remembering all of the times Puck finger fucked him, curling his fingers just right. Puck times it with taking Finn all the way in, something he’s only done once before, and it’s so unexpected, so fantastic, so overwhelming combined with the memories and fingers and pressure that the tight thing inside Finn snaps and comes undone.
Everything goes hazy, and Finn finds himself watching Puck wipe his mouth with the back of his hand through hooded eyes before they fall shut on their own.
Finn smiles lazily in the afterglow, ignoring the way Puck is nudging his leg to get his attention.
“Dude,” Puck complains. “Tit for tat.”
That had always been their unspoken agreement. Get each other off, quickly, like a sordid business exchange. Before, Finn would have already been on his knees, fisting Puck’s dick in his hand.
It’s different now. Finn doesn’t care about how they did things then. Today he rolls to the side and laughs when he sees the pissed expression on Puck’s face.
“You know my balls could, like, explode if I don’t get off, right?” Puck says and Finn gives him a sceptical look.
“What? Sometimes that works.”
“Yeah, on girls,” Finn replies, desperately trying to keep hold of the relaxed feeling but it slips through his grasp. He sits up with a sigh and scoots down the length of Puck’s body, zipping himself up as he moves.
“You’re the one daydreaming about what a stud muffin I am,” Puck tells him. “You’re probably going to write in your diary about how that was the best blowjob of your life, and then draw hearts around my name and shit.”
Puck’s breath catches on the last word as Finn slides his hand inside Puck’s boxers and rubs the palm of his hand across Puck’s dick.
“Do you want me to do this or not?” Finn asks. “Because I can stop, if you want to keep telling me what a girl I am.”
Puck opens his mouth, like he’s going to say something, then closes it again. “I’m good.”
Finn doesn’t move his hand.
“Dude. You’re the manliest of men. Not a girl. Okay? You’re-”
“Shut up,” Finn orders and surprisingly Puck does, glowering down at him wordlessly.
Finn flexes his fingers, sliding them down along Puck’s length. He feels Puck shudder at the touch and pulls his hand back.
Puck makes an annoyed sound but Finn rolls his eyes as he licks his palm and reaches down to wrap it around Puck’s dick, tugging his boxers further out of the way with his free hand.
He keeps his grip tight at first, letting Puck fuck up into his fist, then loosens his hand until the contact between them is hardly there.
“I just sucked your dick,” Puck reminds him, closing his hand around Finn’s. He moves Finn’s hand on him, slow and even strokes until his hand falls away, leaving Finn to carry on on his own.
Finn slides his hand down to the base and leaves it there, tight and unmoving until he’s sure Puck is about to complain. Then he leans in, fitting his mouth around the head of Puck’s dick and sucking.
Puck’s hips jerk and a hand lands on the back of Finn’s head, fingers twisting almost painfully in his hair.
Finn flicks his tongue over Puck’s dick, catching at the salty pre-come that pools in the middle of his tongue for a moment before he swallows. Puck tastes the way Finn remembers, familiar, and it reminds him of other nights when he’d dragged his tongue along Puck’s skin, when he’d spread Puck’s thighs so he could kneel between them for better access.
Finn moves his hand again, faster this time, moving his mouth up and down in the opposite direction to his hand. He can’t help the satisfied hum when he hears Puck grasp, when the hand at the back of his head grips his hair even tighter. It makes Puck’s leg twitch, knocking against Finn’s knee and he smiles.
It means Puck is close and Finn knows from experience he isn’t going to get any warning so he sits back, keeping his hand moving.
He can watch Puck’s face this way, eyes closed and eyelashes fluttering as he breathes through his mouth in gasps that become more ragged the closer he gets. Finn is still watching when Puck comes. He gets to see Puck’s mouth fall open, his eyes screw shut as he groans.
Finn keeps jerking him off, milking him through it until Puck pushes his hand away and licks at his lips.
“Fuck,” he breathes out and Finn can’t hide his grin this time as he looks for something (Puck’s shirt) to wipe his hand on.
“I can’t believe some asshole kid is going to use our tree house,” Puck says later as he’s getting dressed. “No punk kid should have this place.”
Finn agrees, but there’s nothing they can do, except meet here the next night.
-
“I brought lube,” Puck mentions casually as he parks his car outside Finn’s old house.
Finn looks up with interest. “Oh yeah?”
Puck shrugs. “Yeah. So if you wanna, you know...”
Finn isn’t sure if Puck’s inviting him to fuck or be fucked, but Finn doesn’t care. They’ve spent the past week and a half doing whatever they could with limited resources and Finn had been on the verge of bringing some himself. He just hadn’t thought to do it today.
It’s a Sunday, a day off from pool cleaning for Puck and a day of avoiding shopping with his mom for Finn. Finn isn’t even sure which of them suggested it but they’d ended up with a day-long marathon of the entire Rocky saga at the rundown theatre across town, inhaling popcorn and slushies until they’d looked at each other and wordlessly agreed to go to the tree house, skipping out on the last movie. It’s earlier than normal, late afternoon instead of the early evening they’ve been choosing to meet in, under cover of darkness.
“Okay,” Finn agrees, trying to sound neither too eager nor disinterested as he climbs out of Puck’s car.
It’s only then, walking side by side round to his old back yard with their shoulders brushing accidentally, that it occurs to Finn that they’ve just broken their golden rule. They don’t talk about what they do in the tree house. They never bring it into the real world.
Finn has always thought that breaking that rule would mean either a beginning, or an end. He isn’t sure which this is. He doesn’t let himself want it to be one more than the other, because that way leads to disappointment. Instead Finn quickens his pace, wanting to get to the tree house where he won’t have to worry about hidden meanings. Everything is clear and straightforward up there. And thinking about the broken rule is the sort of thing that makes Finn’s head hurt.
It’s distracting him from the “Do you remember when?” story Puck’s busy telling him. Finn laughs along anyway, smiling when Puck waves his hands in illustration.
The laughter dies on Finn’s lips as they round the corner of the house and stop a few feet from the now empty tree.
“It’s gone,” Finn says and Puck, half a step behind him replies with “No shit, Sherlock.”
He doesn’t look abashed when Finn frowns at him, but his hand lands on Finn’s shoulder and squeezes.
It reminds Finn of all of the times over the past week and a half that Puck’s hand had rested on him, and the loss of the tree house, both physically and everything it stood for, aches like a kick to stomach.
He doesn’t understand. He knows the new owners haven’t moved in so the tree house should still be there, should still be theirs. It isn’t fair and the ache inside hurts, which makes Finn angry.
“Fuck it,” Finn swears, and kicks the tree. Pain shoots through his foot and up his leg, but he pretends it doesn’t, and he turns back just in time to see the amused grin slide off Puck’s face.
He looks sad then, and Finn feels guilty for thinking he’s the only one who needed the tree house to still be there.
“That was the only awesome thing my dad ever gave me,” Puck says quietly. “Besides my good looks, I mean.” He shrugs, turning away, and Finn can see the way Puck’s hands are curling into fists.
“Sorry,” Finn says, and he means it. A wave of guilt washes over him for spending all this time angry and upset about what he’s losing and forgetting Puck’s losing it too. “Sorry,” he repeats, until Puck looks back at him.
Puck shrugs. “No big deal,” he lies, but Finn lets it go.
“So...” Finn starts, then falls silent, not knowing what to say.
Finn isn’t sure if this...whatever it’s been, is just a tree house thing. The rules had always been different in the tree house, always free of consequences or mocking, and he doesn’t know if that means that tomorrow he and Puck will have to go back to pretending they were never best friends. He doesn’t know whether their talking about it just a few minutes earlier means something, or whether anything it might have meant is now lost because it all centred around that world they would escape to.
Finn looks over at Puck. His face is cloudy, shoulders stiff. It’s like how Puck has looked at Finn since their friendship fell apart and that’s something Finn hasn’t missed.
He’s pretty sure Puck is just going to turn around and leave when his face softens and he says, “We could go somewhere else?”
Finn can’t hide his surprise and Puck’s expression closes off immediately. He sounds defensive when he says, “Or whatever. I don’t care.”
Finn shakes his head. “No, that’d be cool. We could, uh. Go back to my place?”
Puck shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs noncommittally but he follows Finn.
They’re halfway home before Finn realises he’s called the Hummel house ‘my place’.
-
“I can’t believe you share a room with Hummel,” Puck says, sitting down on Finn’s bed and bouncing a couple of times.
Finn braces himself for some asshole comment but Puck just glances around and says, “Not what I expected.”
“Burt is building an extension,” Finn explains, “so it’s only temporary. But it isn’t so bad.”
“That what all the banging upstairs was?” Puck asks and Finn shrugs.
“Guess so,” he agrees and purses his lips, trying to think of something to do. “Xbox?” he asks and Puck nods, catching the controller when Finn throws it to him.
They’re halfway through a marathon session of Halo when Kurt comes clattering down the stairs.
“That looks like a healthy way to spend your time,” he remarks, and even though Finn knows he’s being sarcastic he offers for Kurt to join them.
Kurt stares him down then shakes his head. “No. Thanks. I need you to come outside.”
“We’re busy,” Puck says dismissively and Kurt shoots him a bitchy look.
“It’s important,” he says, tapping his fingers against his arm. He doesn’t leave and Finn can practically taste his impatience in the air so he hits pause and they follow him upstairs, Puck grumbling about how it’s a planned diversion to distract from how badly Finn is losing.
The grin on Finn’s face couldn’t be wider as he catches a glimpse of the back yard before following Kurt outside. Behind him he hears Puck exclaim, “What the f- oh. Hi, Mrs Hudson!”
The big tree in the Hummel’s back yard is now occupied with what mostly looks like their tree house.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Burt says, lifting his baseball cap to wipe the sweat from his brow, then settling the hat back into place. “Your mom said you boys loved this place and the new owners were going to tear it down so I figured we’d put it up here.”
“It looks different,” Puck says and Burt gives them a sheepish look.
“Yeah. Your dad built it really well,” he says, and Finn appreciates the lie, for Puck’s sake. “I had to replace some parts though, just from weathering and I thought I’d make the roof higher and the floor wider since you’re not kids anymore.”
“Thanks,” Finn says. He doesn’t know what else to say, or how to say it. Mostly he can’t believe Burt would do this for him, for them.
“We want you to feel at home here,” Burt tells him, then puts his hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Both of us. Kurt helped too.”
“Really?” Puck seems surprised and Kurt smirks.
“I have a lot of hidden talents,” Kurt says. “The things that were in there before are in a garbage sack inside. I didn’t even try to redecorate,” he adds, and Finn grins back at him.
“Thanks, Kurt,” Finn tells him earnestly.
“I was hoping you could all share it,” Burt says. “Kurt too, if that’s alright.”
Finn cuts his eyes towards Puck, but Puck’s shoulder is already twitching into a half shrug as he says, “Sure.”
“Great!” Burt grins at them. “I’ll leave you boys to it. There’s a new episode of Greatest Catch on tonight that I don’t want to miss.”
“Aren’t you going to look inside?” Kurt asks when Burt’s gone and they’re all just standing around, staring up into the tree.
Finn nods and reaches for the ladder. “Sure,” he says, and starts climbing.
Inside he can stand up, and when Puck joins him it isn’t as claustrophobic as it had been in his old back yard. It feels sturdier too, safer, and Finn thinks that maybe it can still be a place to escape the world, that they haven’t outgrown it after all.
Kurt stops with his head and shoulders just through the trapdoor.
“Aren’t you coming up?” Finn asks.
Kurt looks at him like he’s insane. “I’m not really the outdoorsy type,” he reminds Finn. “I know dad wants us to share but it’s dirty and there are bugs. Plus this way I get our room to myself in the evenings to work on my solos.”
Puck snickers, and Finn fights the way his mouth twitches, wanting to smile. He punches Puck in the shoulder.
Kurt glances between them then gives Finn a long knowing look. It makes Finn feel a jolt of panic for a moment, that maybe Kurt knows what they do in the tree house, how they’ve been spending their time.
He waits for Kurt to say something. Something that would inevitably make Puck freak out and say something douche-y and maybe punch someone before leaving and never coming back. But Kurt just smirks and climbs down the ladder.
After a moment they hear the back door close as Kurt goes inside and Finn turns to Puck.
“So. Are you...gonna stick around?” Finn asks.
Puck hesitates, glancing towards the trap door, then looking around. It’s like he’s sizing the place up, seeing if it’s still the same place or if the essence of the tree house that made it their sanctuary is now gone.
The coloured hand prints from their child hood are still on one wall, surrounded by a border of new, fresh boards that look ready for some new prints.
Puck places his fingers over an orange hand print, laughing at the way his own hand covers it completely. Finn wonders if Puck knows that that particular hand print belongs to Finn. He stares at it for a moment then glances over his shoulder, back at Finn.
He shrugs.
“Sure,” Puck says.
Finn doesn’t look for meaning in simple things, but even if he did he’s pretty sure Puck means more than just sticking around for the next hour.
“Awesome,” Finn says. He pulls up the ladder, closing the trap door and sealing them off from the rest of the world.
ABOUT THE FIC THAT YOU ARE REQUESTING
Character(s) or pairing(s): Characters: Any and all welcome. Pairings: Puck/Rachel, Puck/Finn
Do you prefer R or NC-17 smut?: Either is fine.
Prompts (minimum of 3, no maximum!):
1. West Lima Crack District.
2. Jealousy.
3. There was a place, once, that let them pretend that nothing else in the world mattered.
Things you DON’T want in your story (kinks or sex acts that gross you out, characters you despise, etc.):
-The word 'cum.' Just. Please don't.
-Other than that, nothing comes to mind.