fic: girl
Title: Girl
Pairing(s): Santana/Brittany, Puck/Santana, some Puck/Brittany interaction
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Because lying there, on his bed, with his head aching and still feeling a little drunk (and dreading the big clean up he’ll have to do before his mom and sister get home from their mother-daughter weekend), Puck can’t help but think that maybe Santana would love him back if he were a girl. This is a response to “Boy” by blueowls because the ending to that story was heartbreaking… and false.
Spoilers: Maybe a vague reference or two to 1.13 “Sectionals”, but not really.
A/N: Apparently I’m incapable of writing a story without Puck -because, originally, this wasn’t even going to have Puck in it at all, and yet the finished product… Blah. I feel like I'm being redundant with all these Puck/Santana stories.
It might be the middle of winter, but the air inside his house is hot and humid from the body heat radiating off far too many dancing, sweaty teenagers in far too few rooms. The air is thick and a little hard to breath and Puck’s lungs have to work overtime, and his heart matches the rhythm of the bass line of the music pumping through the house. The air is hot, but not as hot as the girl currently straddling his lap on his living room couch and Puck smiles into the kiss because the alcohol is telling him he’s in love.
Her lips are soft and her tongue is talented and she knows exactly how and when to use her teeth. She’s also the only person he can talk to about anything that matters anymore, and it makes him feel… it makes him feel, and it’s (surprisingly) nice sometimes. Just talking. But the alcohol is telling him that there’ll be time for talking later and his body is agreeing.
Santana’s hands help his hands find their way up her shirt, and her skin is hotter than the air and just as soft as her lips, and Puck groans into the kiss.
And Santana pulls away.
“Don’t make that sound again,” she commands, her expression mostly stern, but also a little queasy (the alcohol tells Puck it’s just the alcohol -even though he knows she’s only had one drink).
“Whatever,” Puck responds, and he leans forward to capture Santana’s lips again because they’re nice. He likes her lips on his lips, but he doesn’t complain when her lips move lower. Because her breath is so hot on his neck that his skin feels freezing cold and he gets goose bumps -and he moans, his voice low and guttural.
“I told you not to do that.” Santana pushes off Puck’s lap, nearly landing on the lap of some freshman they hadn’t noticed, who flees from Santana’s scowl a moment later.
Santana’s sitting at the opposite end of the couch now, with her arms wrapped around her knees, her side resting against the back of the couch. Her eyes are closed and she looks frustrated, bored, angry, or some combination of the three (and maybe a little sick?) -and Puck assumes it’s the alcohol that’s making her so hard to read because he may not be the best at emotions, but she’s his pseudo-girlfriend and, like, his best friend too. He should at least be able to read her.
So, Puck is about to lunge forward (because he wants to make his best friend un-frustrated and un-bored and un-angry and the alcohol is telling him it’s a good solution), but before he can, there’s a weight on his legs holding him down and arms wrapped around him and blonde hair in his mouth.
“Happy birthday!” The words are painfully loud in his ear because she shouts them right before pulling away rather than right after, but it’s Brittany and she’s smiling and who can resist one of Brittany’s smiles?
So, Brittany smiles at Puck, and he smiles back (even as he’s pulling blonde hairs off his tongue) and he and Santana share a smile too because Brittany’s completely gone and neither of them can deny that she’s pretty fucking adorable when she’s wasted.
“It’s not my birthday, B,” Puck informs the blonde, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the music, but not loud enough to burst her eardrums (like he’s pretty sure she just did to one of his).
“Oh.”
Brittany pouts, and Puck grins and slides the hand that’s been on Brittany’s knee higher up her thigh. Because he and Santana might be pseudo-dating, and he might kind-of love her (maybe even when he’s sober), but there’s a hot blonde on his lap and he’s still human, and male, and Santana’s the one that made it (all too) clear that she and him are not exclusive.
Puck blames the sting of that thought on the alcohol and grins at Brittany.
“My birthday’s in March, Britt. So you were only a month off.” Puck moves Brittany’s hand to his belt, then slides his own hand over to Brittany’s inner thigh and leans in closer. “And I wouldn’t mind an early birthday present,” he suggests with a wink.
“Ew.” Brittany moves her hand away from Puck like it’s been burned, moves Puck’s hand back to her knee, and scrunches her nose. “You’re a slut,” she says with a giggle before giving him a peck on the cheek.
She scrunches her nose again afterwards. “And you’re scratchy.”
Puck cocks an eyebrow. “Well, you could try kissing my lips, babe.”
Brittany leans forward, her eyes level with Puck’s mouth. “Your lips are chapped,” she determines after a brief inspection. She’s frowning in concentration, but a moment later her face lights up and she digs around in the pockets of her jeans for a minute before hopping up and leaving Puck and Santana alone on the couch again.
Puck shrugs and turns back to Santana, ready to continue where they had left off, but her eyes are still focused on the spot where Brittany had been absorbed into the crowd of sweaty, dancing teenagers. Santana is waiting for Brittany to come back -so Puck waits for Brittany to come back too because the alcohol isn’t giving him any better suggestions.
When Brittany returns a few minutes later (or maybe a little more than a few minutes -the alcohol is fucking up Puck’s sense of time), she’s carrying her jacket in one hand and she’s holding her other hand behind her back. She doesn’t stop walking until her knees hit Puck’s and she stands in front of him with a wide grin on her face.
“Happy birthday!” She holds out a small tube of something in her hand (nearly hitting Puck in the nose with it), and then leans forward to “whisper” conspiratorially. “I know it’s not really your birthday. I just said that as a joke.”
“And it was a really funny joke, B.” Santana grabs Brittany’s hand and pulls. Brittany smiles as she half-falls onto Santana, and her smile grows as she takes Santana’s other hand and laces their fingers together. Brittany then leans forward until their foreheads touch, and she kisses Santana on the nose.
Brittany giggles, Santana grins, and Puck would be leering, but he’s too focused on reading the label on the little tube Brittany had given him.
“No fucking way am I wearing lipstick. I’m not a girl.” Puck frowns. “Or a faggot.”
Brittany pouts, but Puck can’t see the pout through the back of her head (she’s facing away from him). Santana pulls herself forward, resting her head on Brittany’s shoulder, and she wraps one arm around Brittany’s waist as she grabs the tube from Puck.
“It’s chapstick, dumbass.” Santana explains, scowling. “Plenty of guys wear chapstick.”
“Watermelon chapstick?” Puck grits out as Santana tosses the tube back to him. “Fuck no.”
“But it’s your favorite!” Brittany says, meaning Santana, but turning around on Santana’s lap to face Puck. (She’s smiling -because alcohol just has that effect on her.)
“It’s your favorite, B,” Santana corrects. Then she kisses Brittany’s neck, right below her ear (and Santana’s breath is probably just as hot and her lips just as soft as they were when they were on Puck’s neck) -and Puck decides to blame the alcohol for the sudden jealously he feels (even though he knows it’s the alcohol that’s trying to tell him that there’s nothing to be jealous about).
Brittany tilts her head back, so her mouth is level with Santana’s ear, and Puck almost wishes Brittany wasn’t too drunk to remember how to whisper. “But you love that it’s my favorite,” she says with a smirk, and Puck doesn’t get it, but Santana’s face is unreadable again (nervous?, frustrated?, happy?) -and Puck doesn’t like that.
“You’re drunk,” Santana says quickly. “Go find Mike. He’ll take you home.” Santana tries to push Brittany up, but Brittany keeps them both sitting down.
“But I don’t want to go home. I want to play.” Santana rolls her eyes, and starts tickling Brittany, and manages to distract the blonde long enough to get them both on their feet.
Brittany wraps her arms around Santana’s shoulders once they're standing, and Santana only half-heartedly tries to pry them off. Santana’s hands eventually settle on Brittany’s waist, to steady her, when the girl nearly topples them both over.
Santana sighs. “I’m sure Mike will play with you.”
“But I want to play with you,” Brittany says without hesitation (and Puck notes, vaguely bitter, that Santana doesn’t complain when her voice is low and throaty).
And then Brittany tilts Santana’s head up, and kisses her, and Santana doesn’t pull away. There are a few catcalls from the boys sober enough to notice (and drunk enough not to be afraid of Santana), and Santana doesn’t pull away, and Puck starts thinking and it stings.
So, the alcohol tells Puck to stop thinking and just enjoy the show, and he does (or tries to). And when Santana does finally pull away, she winks at Puck like it was all just for him (like he doesn’t have a fucking clue), and Puck just goes with it because it’s easier than thinking.
“I’m going to take her home,” Santana tells him, as Brittany wraps her arms around her from behind and smiles at Puck from over Santana’s shoulder.
“Fine, whatever.” Puck doesn’t attempt to hide the irritation in his voice, and Santana rolls her eyes.
“I’ll be back after I make sure she’s okay,” she says, and she leans down to give him a quick kiss on the lips, and then a second on the cheek. When she pulls away, she’s frowning.
“You are scratchy,” she notes -and it’s the last thing she says to him before Brittany pulls her away and Puck is left alone on the couch.
………
For the rest of the party, Puck dances with a couple of freshman Cheerios. They’re both drunk out of their minds, but he doesn’t bother taking either (or both) of them up to his room because he doesn’t feel like it.
At one point, he runs into Jacob Ben Israel, who he definitely doesn't remember inviting, and he has some fun humiliating the boy with Matt, until Mike and Finn make them stop and let Jacob go home. Puck definitely does remember inviting Finn to the party, though he never thought he would actually show up, and Puck grins and almost hugs him, but Finn leaves before Puck has the chance.
A couple of hours pass and everyone heads back to their respective homes (many of them making it home only thanks to a sober, overly nice Mike), and once everyone’s gone, Puck has a few more drinks (after assessing how completely trashed his house is), and heads up to his room -at once relieved that he remembered to lock his door, and frustrated because it takes him a good five minutes to unlock it.
He collapses onto his bed as soon as he manages to get in his room and he strips off his jeans, but he feels the tube of chapstick Brittany gave him in his pocket as he does, and he takes it out.
He uncaps it and smells it -and it doesn’t smell like watermelon. It smells, like, gay. But he puts it on because he knows for a fact that his lips are kind of chapped and no one is around anyway and he kind of remembers seeing Finn use chapstick before.
It feels weird on his lips, and Puck ends up licking it all off almost immediately... but he finds himself reapplying it right after.
………
Puck doesn’t remember falling asleep when he wakes up to one missed call and a text from Santana saying she’ll be there in half an hour to help clean up. Puck rolls onto his side and his face feels sticky, and he doesn’t remember shaving, but apparently he did because there’s some shaving cream still on his cheek. Puck tosses his phone off the bed because he knows he’s vaguely pissed off (or upset, or whatever), but he doesn’t quite remember why.
Puck groans, and he still feels a little drunk, and he starts to remember the night before, but pretends not to.
Because lying there, on his bed, with his head aching and still feeling a little drunk (and dreading the big clean up he’ll have to do before his mom and sister get home from their mother-daughter weekend), Puck can’t help but think that maybe Santana would love him back if he were a girl.
Pairing(s): Santana/Brittany, Puck/Santana, some Puck/Brittany interaction
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Because lying there, on his bed, with his head aching and still feeling a little drunk (and dreading the big clean up he’ll have to do before his mom and sister get home from their mother-daughter weekend), Puck can’t help but think that maybe Santana would love him back if he were a girl. This is a response to “Boy” by blueowls because the ending to that story was heartbreaking… and false.
Spoilers: Maybe a vague reference or two to 1.13 “Sectionals”, but not really.
A/N: Apparently I’m incapable of writing a story without Puck -because, originally, this wasn’t even going to have Puck in it at all, and yet the finished product… Blah. I feel like I'm being redundant with all these Puck/Santana stories.
It might be the middle of winter, but the air inside his house is hot and humid from the body heat radiating off far too many dancing, sweaty teenagers in far too few rooms. The air is thick and a little hard to breath and Puck’s lungs have to work overtime, and his heart matches the rhythm of the bass line of the music pumping through the house. The air is hot, but not as hot as the girl currently straddling his lap on his living room couch and Puck smiles into the kiss because the alcohol is telling him he’s in love.
Her lips are soft and her tongue is talented and she knows exactly how and when to use her teeth. She’s also the only person he can talk to about anything that matters anymore, and it makes him feel… it makes him feel, and it’s (surprisingly) nice sometimes. Just talking. But the alcohol is telling him that there’ll be time for talking later and his body is agreeing.
Santana’s hands help his hands find their way up her shirt, and her skin is hotter than the air and just as soft as her lips, and Puck groans into the kiss.
And Santana pulls away.
“Don’t make that sound again,” she commands, her expression mostly stern, but also a little queasy (the alcohol tells Puck it’s just the alcohol -even though he knows she’s only had one drink).
“Whatever,” Puck responds, and he leans forward to capture Santana’s lips again because they’re nice. He likes her lips on his lips, but he doesn’t complain when her lips move lower. Because her breath is so hot on his neck that his skin feels freezing cold and he gets goose bumps -and he moans, his voice low and guttural.
“I told you not to do that.” Santana pushes off Puck’s lap, nearly landing on the lap of some freshman they hadn’t noticed, who flees from Santana’s scowl a moment later.
Santana’s sitting at the opposite end of the couch now, with her arms wrapped around her knees, her side resting against the back of the couch. Her eyes are closed and she looks frustrated, bored, angry, or some combination of the three (and maybe a little sick?) -and Puck assumes it’s the alcohol that’s making her so hard to read because he may not be the best at emotions, but she’s his pseudo-girlfriend and, like, his best friend too. He should at least be able to read her.
So, Puck is about to lunge forward (because he wants to make his best friend un-frustrated and un-bored and un-angry and the alcohol is telling him it’s a good solution), but before he can, there’s a weight on his legs holding him down and arms wrapped around him and blonde hair in his mouth.
“Happy birthday!” The words are painfully loud in his ear because she shouts them right before pulling away rather than right after, but it’s Brittany and she’s smiling and who can resist one of Brittany’s smiles?
So, Brittany smiles at Puck, and he smiles back (even as he’s pulling blonde hairs off his tongue) and he and Santana share a smile too because Brittany’s completely gone and neither of them can deny that she’s pretty fucking adorable when she’s wasted.
“It’s not my birthday, B,” Puck informs the blonde, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the music, but not loud enough to burst her eardrums (like he’s pretty sure she just did to one of his).
“Oh.”
Brittany pouts, and Puck grins and slides the hand that’s been on Brittany’s knee higher up her thigh. Because he and Santana might be pseudo-dating, and he might kind-of love her (maybe even when he’s sober), but there’s a hot blonde on his lap and he’s still human, and male, and Santana’s the one that made it (all too) clear that she and him are not exclusive.
Puck blames the sting of that thought on the alcohol and grins at Brittany.
“My birthday’s in March, Britt. So you were only a month off.” Puck moves Brittany’s hand to his belt, then slides his own hand over to Brittany’s inner thigh and leans in closer. “And I wouldn’t mind an early birthday present,” he suggests with a wink.
“Ew.” Brittany moves her hand away from Puck like it’s been burned, moves Puck’s hand back to her knee, and scrunches her nose. “You’re a slut,” she says with a giggle before giving him a peck on the cheek.
She scrunches her nose again afterwards. “And you’re scratchy.”
Puck cocks an eyebrow. “Well, you could try kissing my lips, babe.”
Brittany leans forward, her eyes level with Puck’s mouth. “Your lips are chapped,” she determines after a brief inspection. She’s frowning in concentration, but a moment later her face lights up and she digs around in the pockets of her jeans for a minute before hopping up and leaving Puck and Santana alone on the couch again.
Puck shrugs and turns back to Santana, ready to continue where they had left off, but her eyes are still focused on the spot where Brittany had been absorbed into the crowd of sweaty, dancing teenagers. Santana is waiting for Brittany to come back -so Puck waits for Brittany to come back too because the alcohol isn’t giving him any better suggestions.
When Brittany returns a few minutes later (or maybe a little more than a few minutes -the alcohol is fucking up Puck’s sense of time), she’s carrying her jacket in one hand and she’s holding her other hand behind her back. She doesn’t stop walking until her knees hit Puck’s and she stands in front of him with a wide grin on her face.
“Happy birthday!” She holds out a small tube of something in her hand (nearly hitting Puck in the nose with it), and then leans forward to “whisper” conspiratorially. “I know it’s not really your birthday. I just said that as a joke.”
“And it was a really funny joke, B.” Santana grabs Brittany’s hand and pulls. Brittany smiles as she half-falls onto Santana, and her smile grows as she takes Santana’s other hand and laces their fingers together. Brittany then leans forward until their foreheads touch, and she kisses Santana on the nose.
Brittany giggles, Santana grins, and Puck would be leering, but he’s too focused on reading the label on the little tube Brittany had given him.
“No fucking way am I wearing lipstick. I’m not a girl.” Puck frowns. “Or a faggot.”
Brittany pouts, but Puck can’t see the pout through the back of her head (she’s facing away from him). Santana pulls herself forward, resting her head on Brittany’s shoulder, and she wraps one arm around Brittany’s waist as she grabs the tube from Puck.
“It’s chapstick, dumbass.” Santana explains, scowling. “Plenty of guys wear chapstick.”
“Watermelon chapstick?” Puck grits out as Santana tosses the tube back to him. “Fuck no.”
“But it’s your favorite!” Brittany says, meaning Santana, but turning around on Santana’s lap to face Puck. (She’s smiling -because alcohol just has that effect on her.)
“It’s your favorite, B,” Santana corrects. Then she kisses Brittany’s neck, right below her ear (and Santana’s breath is probably just as hot and her lips just as soft as they were when they were on Puck’s neck) -and Puck decides to blame the alcohol for the sudden jealously he feels (even though he knows it’s the alcohol that’s trying to tell him that there’s nothing to be jealous about).
Brittany tilts her head back, so her mouth is level with Santana’s ear, and Puck almost wishes Brittany wasn’t too drunk to remember how to whisper. “But you love that it’s my favorite,” she says with a smirk, and Puck doesn’t get it, but Santana’s face is unreadable again (nervous?, frustrated?, happy?) -and Puck doesn’t like that.
“You’re drunk,” Santana says quickly. “Go find Mike. He’ll take you home.” Santana tries to push Brittany up, but Brittany keeps them both sitting down.
“But I don’t want to go home. I want to play.” Santana rolls her eyes, and starts tickling Brittany, and manages to distract the blonde long enough to get them both on their feet.
Brittany wraps her arms around Santana’s shoulders once they're standing, and Santana only half-heartedly tries to pry them off. Santana’s hands eventually settle on Brittany’s waist, to steady her, when the girl nearly topples them both over.
Santana sighs. “I’m sure Mike will play with you.”
“But I want to play with you,” Brittany says without hesitation (and Puck notes, vaguely bitter, that Santana doesn’t complain when her voice is low and throaty).
And then Brittany tilts Santana’s head up, and kisses her, and Santana doesn’t pull away. There are a few catcalls from the boys sober enough to notice (and drunk enough not to be afraid of Santana), and Santana doesn’t pull away, and Puck starts thinking and it stings.
So, the alcohol tells Puck to stop thinking and just enjoy the show, and he does (or tries to). And when Santana does finally pull away, she winks at Puck like it was all just for him (like he doesn’t have a fucking clue), and Puck just goes with it because it’s easier than thinking.
“I’m going to take her home,” Santana tells him, as Brittany wraps her arms around her from behind and smiles at Puck from over Santana’s shoulder.
“Fine, whatever.” Puck doesn’t attempt to hide the irritation in his voice, and Santana rolls her eyes.
“I’ll be back after I make sure she’s okay,” she says, and she leans down to give him a quick kiss on the lips, and then a second on the cheek. When she pulls away, she’s frowning.
“You are scratchy,” she notes -and it’s the last thing she says to him before Brittany pulls her away and Puck is left alone on the couch.
………
For the rest of the party, Puck dances with a couple of freshman Cheerios. They’re both drunk out of their minds, but he doesn’t bother taking either (or both) of them up to his room because he doesn’t feel like it.
At one point, he runs into Jacob Ben Israel, who he definitely doesn't remember inviting, and he has some fun humiliating the boy with Matt, until Mike and Finn make them stop and let Jacob go home. Puck definitely does remember inviting Finn to the party, though he never thought he would actually show up, and Puck grins and almost hugs him, but Finn leaves before Puck has the chance.
A couple of hours pass and everyone heads back to their respective homes (many of them making it home only thanks to a sober, overly nice Mike), and once everyone’s gone, Puck has a few more drinks (after assessing how completely trashed his house is), and heads up to his room -at once relieved that he remembered to lock his door, and frustrated because it takes him a good five minutes to unlock it.
He collapses onto his bed as soon as he manages to get in his room and he strips off his jeans, but he feels the tube of chapstick Brittany gave him in his pocket as he does, and he takes it out.
He uncaps it and smells it -and it doesn’t smell like watermelon. It smells, like, gay. But he puts it on because he knows for a fact that his lips are kind of chapped and no one is around anyway and he kind of remembers seeing Finn use chapstick before.
It feels weird on his lips, and Puck ends up licking it all off almost immediately... but he finds himself reapplying it right after.
………
Puck doesn’t remember falling asleep when he wakes up to one missed call and a text from Santana saying she’ll be there in half an hour to help clean up. Puck rolls onto his side and his face feels sticky, and he doesn’t remember shaving, but apparently he did because there’s some shaving cream still on his cheek. Puck tosses his phone off the bed because he knows he’s vaguely pissed off (or upset, or whatever), but he doesn’t quite remember why.
Puck groans, and he still feels a little drunk, and he starts to remember the night before, but pretends not to.
Because lying there, on his bed, with his head aching and still feeling a little drunk (and dreading the big clean up he’ll have to do before his mom and sister get home from their mother-daughter weekend), Puck can’t help but think that maybe Santana would love him back if he were a girl.