Fic: Reverseverse Ep2: 'Nomance', Part 4 - PG
Title: Reverseverse Ep 2, part 4
Verse: Reverseverse
Author: test_kard_girl
Rating: PG, for some sweary language. And excessive use of italics.
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves.
Genre: AU
Warning: Puck and Kurt not being themselves.
Spoilers: Say through Season 1, although as it's AU, in a very roundabout, squint and you'll miss it kind of way.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Glee or anything to do with it; I just have vivid hallucinations. The role!reversal AU belongs to mundaneone. I’m just playing in it by her very kind permission :).
Author's Notes: A tribute and addition to mundaneone’s fabtastic 'A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. The original fic was written by mundaneone in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme. I hope anything I write in this verse can do her original creation justice. You’ll need to read 'A Little Role Reversal' before you read anything I write, so you get the gist of the characters and the world they live in.
Word Count: (This part) 4133
Summary: The "social ladder" is upside down. Puck gets bullied by one ice-queen Kurt Hummel. Doesn't mean he isn't head over heels though. The Reverseverse, episode 2 part 4: Figgins really didn't need to be that intimately acquainted with the patterns on Rachel Berry's panties.
Despite everything, Puck can’t help breathing a sigh of relief as he shoves his way past the kids on the bleachers to go sit with the rest of the jocks crammed into the end of the back row. Every time he’s with Kurt and the rest of New Directions he scrabbles to peel his letterman off as fast as possible, ‘cos he knows how much the other boy despises it- but he’s way too used to shrugging into it and keeping his head down to really be comfortable roaming the halls with just a tee and his biceps on show.
Sometimes, being ‘special’ really kinda sucks.
He gets a couple of looks, but when he parks himself next to Matt, the wide receiver just gives him a nod of greeting and wordlessly offers him a stick of gum, and Puck takes that to mean at least not everyone in his old crowd think he’s a total glee freak.
“Woah, Fabray.” Puck’s eyebrows disappear up into what would’ve been his hairline as Quinn scoots up next to him, carefully fixing her cheerleading skirt around her thighs. “Someone drop you from the top of the pyramid?”
“Shouldn’t you be backstage lacing up your boyfriend’s corset?” Santana interjects bitchily, and Puck makes a face at her:
“Oh hey San, what’s that? Uh, oh; oh look…” He reaches across, pretending to hook something out from behind her ear, and-bam-proudly displays his middle finger.
“Oh you’re so fucking clever.” San returns, flipping him off right back, as Quinn just rolls her eyes, prodding gingerly at the swollen skin around her cheekbone:
“Do you two mind not acting like total children? We’re supposed to be displaying some decorum here.”
Clearly Quinn hasn’t been totally oblivious to all the rumours that’ve been flying around the corridors since someone (read: Jacob Ben Israel) broke the news of the epic Faberry Smackdown via Twitter yesterday afternoon. The idea of Rachel Berry initiating physical violence is so far out of Puck’s comprehension he doesn’t have the brainpower to actually deal with it; but then, he’s somehow dating Kurt Hummel, so he guesses anything is possible.
“Y’know, I can’t actually imagine Rachel pounding on someone.” Puck admits, resting his elbows on his knees and squeezing up tighter as kids continue filling the bleachers. “Was there like some big dramatic Phantom of the Opera shit on in the background?”
“No musical number.” Quinn shakes her head, ponytail whipping around her face. “Honestly, I’m surprised it doesn’t need stitches.”
She smiles vaguely into the distance, looking way too smug for an uptight nerd with a giant purple bruise blossoming over one side of her face. “I guess it only goes to prove how tenuous the Glee Club’s hold over this school is. Just the sniff of someone from a lower social stratum invading their precious singing group and Queen Berry starts ordering dismemberments.”
Puck just looks at her. He wonders about Quinn sometimes. Mostly she’s a straight-A, Jesus-loving, Western-Ohio poster-child; but every once in a while her brain seems to run fucking backwards. She didn’t get that batshit, bunny-boiler Cheeri-ho label for nothing.
“-Silence children, Silence.”
It’s Figgins’ standard request for the beginning of every student gathering. He doesn’t pay attention the fact that the gym’s pretty much already totally silent. New Directions command that kind of attention.
All at once, Puck’s stomach seems to flip over like a well-done pancake- fuck, this is it: the moment; the moment: Finn Hudson’s Glee Club debut. The one performance that’s gonna change everything.
Puck crosses his arms tight over his chest, forcing himself to sit a little straighter. Beside him, he can see Quinn twisting her fingers over and over again in her lap, until Santana grabs hold of them and clamps her hands to her knees.
As Figgins’ voice drones through the school notices, Puck finds himself checking out, eyes focusing instead on a spot about four metres behind his Principal; the thin black line where the dramatic red theatre curtains meet in the middle, masking the new look New Directions from the talentless masses. He imagines what goes on back there five minutes before a performance: going over dance steps (Finn and Rachel probably practicing that spin thing-Finn totally has issues with moving in three dimensions at once); re-tying shoelaces; Kurt double-checking his hair… Probably fixing all the girls’ make-up.
Puck allows himself a shaky little smile.
“…for anyone soiling school grounds. We’re not going to have a repeat of last time. Now we have a treat for you guys today- Mr Schuester?”
Puck drags himself back to the here and now, watching Schuester saunter across the gym to the microphone, tipping a wink to Miss Pillsbury as he goes. Puck’s not the only one who notices Miss P just glares at him in return, and a vague draught of giggles skitters through the student body.
Schue just narrows his eyes for a moment, glowering mulishly until everyone sobers up again.
“So;” He begins, and Puck notices that same steely resolve in his eyes that was there when he decided ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ was worth the risk. “When I went to school here, Glee Club ruled this place- with an iron fist. We deserved fame, and we had it. We deserved power, and we had it, and the Glee Club at McKinley High has always had it; a select few proving that even in a grimy, rusty, backward little town like Lima, Ohio, the arts can make a difference.”
Puck and Quinn chance a glance at each other. This would all be totally more convincing if Mr Schue wasn’t trying to maim Coach Sylvester with eye-lasers.
“But now, as you all know, New Directions is gearing up for a brand new competitive season. The cull is over;” Schue pronounces “Glee club needs new blood.”
He pauses for a moment, letting the word ‘blood’ echo eerily around the gymnasium.
“Now, I could stand here for another half hour and tell you all about how great glee is- but to be honest I don’t think most of you in here have the imagination to able to grasp how essential Glee Club is to the continuing development of our school community.” He glowers accusingly around at the wide-eyed student body. “So I think I’m gonna let some of your vastly superior contemporaries show you instead…”
With just a hint of mocking Schue graciously bows out of the way, as the theatre curtains slide back and the overheads slam on, illuminating the six figures posed dramatically in the centre of the stage.
Puck just barely has time to recognise Rachel bending over, tiny skirt riding dangerously high; Mercedes leaning languorously against Artie’s shoulder; Tina with her hips cocked, studded belt curled around her waist; Kurt-his Kurt- down on one knee, with lips glossy and sultry eyes fixed on the floor, the picture of subservience; and Finn, hands gripping tight to Rachel’s waist, towering over all of them and looking mortified, before the music blasts and the sextet of gleeks shimmy into life:
"Get up on this!"
Oh no. Puck feels his jaw hit the gummy, wood-panelled floor. Oh no they didn’.
"Baby baby, ooh baby baby…
Ooh baby baby, b-baby baby
Get up on this!"
Puck knows this song. He knows it from, like, MTV‘s Worst of the Eighties, with some female rap trio named after condiments prancing about in acid wash and high-tops.
And shit: Finn’s right there in the middle of it.
"Now wait a minute y’all…"
Artie sounds way too much like some gangsta pimp daddy as he rolls to the centre of the stage, Tina and Mercedes’ asses bobbing around beside his head.
"This dance ain’t for errrybody; only the seeexxxy people…"
Puck squirms in his seat, trying to get a better view. He can see Rachel grinding all up against Finn’s crotch, not even a tiny bit subtle, marking her territory like some scantily-clad polecat; but Kurt’s behind him, eyes dark with eyeliner, hips undulating, and Puck is not stupid enough to miss the connotation.
"So all you fly muthas get on out there and dance-dance I say! Holla!"
On Artie’s command, Tina, Rachel and Mercedes stalk to the front of the stage, hands smacking across their thighs and Puck can feel the collective intake of breath from the two rows of football players behind him.
This is so not ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’.
Almost scared to look, Puck’s eyes jump to Mr Schuester. The choir director’s re-taken his seat in the front row and has his fingers clamped over his mouth-he looks absolutely fucking furious.
The gym reverberates with the shiver of heavy-breathing, and Puck’s head snaps back to see Kurt and Mercedes all intertwined, thrusting into each other’s hips:
"Push it good! Oww! Push it; push it reaaal good…"
Puck bites down hard on his lip, glowering at the stage as his brain flashes vivid, colour-bleed memories at him: Kurt clambering into his lap; Kurt’s lips bruisingly hard against his own; Kurt pulling his belt out of his jeans, hand so close to being inside his pants; closing around his dick…
"Yo yo baby-pop, yeah you come here gimme a kiss!"
--Oh god, Finn’s trying to rap.
Puck stares, horrified, as beside him Quinn claps her hands over her mouth to keep from gasping.
"Better make it fast, or else I’m gonna get pissed!"
Stumbling through his dance steps, Finn gets passed dizzyingly quickly along the expectant line of glee girls, each one of them raking their fingernails over his body and fuck; that’s more hands Finn’s had on him in twenty seconds than Puck’s had in his entire lifetime.
Eventually, the gangly jock spins into Kurt, who pouts his lips and holds his hand up for a congratulatory high-five. Finn slaps their palms together, looking way too relieved; then instantly horrified as Kurt swings his hand down on the re-bound and smacks him on the ass.
Puck starts like someone just smacked him: what the actual fuck?
But it’s all too obvious. As Finn and Artie hiss push it, owww! Push it reeeaal good encouragingly into their microphones, Rachel keeps her eyes fixed on Finn’s bumbling form, hands skimming along her bare thighs, and Kurt-Puck’s Kurt-makes the very most of his sinfully tight jeans, expression in orgasm heaven as he works his hips, all for Finn’s benefit.
And all Finn can do is flail awkwardly in the middle of the stage, the butt of this pseudo-sexy, synthesised fuck-you of a musical number.
And then-oh god-Kurt’s on his knees again. And Puck can’t help but stare, blood pounding in his ears, as his boyfriend turns his full come-hither gaze on Mercedes, crawling across the floor to her feet. He twists his body against the dusty floorboards and, somehow, the next second, he has his face dangerously close to being buried in his friend’s tits.
Puck looks down as he feels someone’s fingers tap against his thigh. He finds Santana grinning wolfishly back at him, eyes flicking to the stage:
“You shoulda laced him up a bit tighter.” She mouths.
Puck can’t even answer her; he just gapes at his boyfriend, now grinding his hips into Tina’s ass.
"Ahhhhh, push it!!!"
With one easy hop, the gleeks are pressed hard up against each other, crotch to ass to crotch to ass, in one long, panting line of sweat and hormones and Finn- trembling and trying not to touch anyone and looking like he wants the ground to swallow him alive.
Puck stares. He just stares, and watches Kurt’s dark-rimmed eyes slide over the dumbstruck audience before dancing back to Finn’s blushing cheeks and making their way slowly down the line of his broad, heaving chest.
He feels like his lungs have collapsed. Beside him, Quinn’s eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them, face incredibly pale and making the bruise on her cheek stand out like a paint splatter.
Around the two of them, the rest of the school explodes in applause.
*
“Ok, you’re totally not meant to be back here.” Mercedes reminds Puck, critiquing his sweaty form under metallic blue eyelids as she stands guard-dog in the doorway of the choir-room.
Puck is really starting to wonder what the hell Mercedes Jones’ problem is.
He tries again:
“Y’know, I don’t actually care, I just need to talk to Kur-”
“-Speaking.” As if on cue, Kurt appears behind his friend’s shoulder, rubbing a towel across the back of his neck, post-performance sweat still glimmering at his hairline. He grins as his eyes alight on Puck’s: “Well, what can I do for you, hot stuff?”
Puck knows that look on Kurt’s face way too well; the way his mouth dimples at the corner, how his eyelids flutter to half-mast… But Puck is so not having this conversation with the whole gaggle of glee girls listening in- so he just stares until that appetizing curl of Kurt's mouth tightens and he touches his fingers briefly to Mercedes' shoulder:
“…Would you give Noah and I a moment alone, ‘Cedes?”
“Ugh.” Mercedes glowers between them; but obligingly she sashays off, pulling her hair back into a lazy ponytail.
Puck steps out again into the corridor, and Kurt follows, drawing the choir room door closed behind them.
“Well spit it out then.” He suggests, after a quick glance to check they haven’t drawn an audience. He waves a hand: “Your nostrils are flaring; it’s upsetting the whole symmetry of your face-”
"-What the hell was that?” Puck interrupts, trying very hard not to notice how hot his boyfriend looks with the eyeliner still smudging a dangerous shadow at the corner of his big pretty eyes. “You were meant to be doing ‘Don’t Stop’."
“Hmm, yeah.” Kurt smiles tightly, no teeth: “It didn’t work out.”
Puck scrunches his hands into fists, trying to abort the impending flailing:
“But what about auditions? What about…” He can’t find the words. “…You just looked like-like sluts up there.”
Kurt flicks his hair out of his eyes, smile way more genuine this time:
“Did you enjoy it?”
Puck just stares. Eventually, Kurt drops his arms back to his sides, amusement sliding out of his eyes.
“Ok; thing is Muscles, inclusiveness is a lovely idea.” He explains smoothly. “Entirely lovely. But we’re teenagers. The rest of New Directions and I had a discussion and we realised: the only thing this student body really wants to be included in is a big, sexy orgy.”
Again, Puck’s vocabulary fails him. It’s not all that unusual; but Puck really wishes he could come up with some smart sentences to combat Kurt’s calm, level-headed words that make absolutely no fucking sense.
All he can do is hold the other boy’s gaze, an odd cocktail of emotions slow-burning in his stomach, and hate the next pathetic words that slip out from between his lips:
"…You didn't have to be all over Finn."
Puck feels like he’s about to throw up, but Kurt's expression barely shifts.
"Maybe I was feeling under-appreciated." The other boy suggests after a moment, in a voice as light and sickly-sweet as candyfloss. Casually, he pops the top button on his shirt and the sudden sliver of pale exposed, unmarked throat is all Puck can concentrate on.
“What, because I wouldn’t have sex with you?” He retorts, cheeks flushing hot at the memory; at admitting it out loud in the middle of the corridor. “On our first date? On my mom’s couch?”
“Oh it wasn’t our first date,” Kurt throws back, nose scrunching up like it does when he’s unhappy with someone’s choice of footwear “it was our, like, fifth date; and you’ve been pining after me for two years Puckerman- I finally give you full access rights and you’d rather practice your chord changes? What are you, some mohawked Jewish eunuch or something?”
Puck’s mouth works frantically, and he slams a hand back against the wall when the words won’t come:
“I just, I just wanted--”
“-Or maybe you’re just scared of telling your mommy you’re screwing boys now?” Kurt snaps, and flutters his fingers in the air: “Or y’know not screwing boys, whatever-”
“-I’m not…”
Puck stops; suddenly realising how hard his own fingernails are cutting into his palms. He lets another breath escape shakily between his teeth:
“…I’m not scared.”
Kurt holds his gaze, letting those words hang in the air between them. His mouth is a thin line and his eyes look startlingly blue and Puck suddenly remembers standing huddled in the boys’ bathroom with his guitar still slung over his shoulder and Kurt’s fingernails curled tight round the ceramic of the sink.
Uselessly, Puck tries to form some retort, but once again, he doesn’t manage. All he can think of is having Kurt’s knees wrapped tight around his waist, and strumming ‘Sweet Caroline’ un-hearingly into the ceiling of his bedroom.
When Kurt reaches through the prickling silence-slowly, with an odd, clouded expression on his face-and takes Puck’s hands in his own, Puck lets him. He doesn’t even try to find the will to pull away. Just allows the other boy to draw their bodies back close, tugging on Puck’s limp palms until they settle around Kurt’s own supple, denim-clad hips.
On every inhale, Puck’s chest presses against Kurt’s, and those breaths become sharper and sharper as Kurt leans in, pressing his cheek against the stubbly line of Puck's jaw, delicate fingers tracing the back of Puck's palms as he keeps the agonising half-inch distance between their bodies that Puck's pride refuses to let him close.
Pride? Since when did he have pride?
Gently (ever so gently), Kurt's lips close around Puck's earlobe; and Puck groans like he's ran his tongue along the entire length of his dick.
It’s enough.
Violently, Puck wrenches his hands out of the other boy’s grip, curling them tight in Kurt’s belt instead and pushing him back until his spine hits the wall and their mouths crash together, Puck grinding up against him until they’re both trembling and breathless, and instantly hating himself when Kurt digs his hands in and shoves Puck away, giving him just one last, vaguely pitying look before he stalks off to get changed.
*
There she is.
Rachel Berry turns to meet him with an indulgent smile glossed across her face, hair still cascading over her shoulders in those ridiculous schoolgirl ponytails:
“Mr Shuester I-”
But Will just pulls to a stop two inches in front of her and jabs a finger in her face:
“Do you understand what you did today?” He demands, wishing bitterly he hadn’t trained her to have such a resilient show face. “You lied to me. And you ruined our chances-Figgins already has your ass on the line after Quinn Fabray supposedly walked into a locker door… Why not just go the whole hog and start setting fires in the locker room, huh? Or putting laxatives in the Cheerios’ master-cleanse? Don’t you realise how little rep New Directions are clinging to right now?”
“But Mr Schuester, they loved it.” Rachel reminds him, eyes big and beseeching like freakin’ Hanukkah Barbie. Will gets the feeling she’s been rehearsing it for a couple of days now. “You know as well as I do, sex sells. The rest of the school will be pounding down the door to join us now.”
Will narrows his eyes, and Rachel lifts her chin. He’s not too sure what she’s being defiant about- but she’s definitely been working on the facial expression.
Will takes a step closer: stares her down.
“I don’t know what you’re up to Rachel.” He admits, forcing his voice into spine-chilling evenness. “But take this as a warning: if whatever it is has cost us the Glee Club-you’ll be blacklisted for every performing arts course here to Pasadena.”
Will doesn’t stick around to watch Rachel’s reaction, too preoccupied with his dramatic storm-out; but by the sudden crumpling noise behind him, he’s pretty sure she falls away in a dead faint.
Or something like that.
He really shouldn’t feel this good about bullying students.
*
Emma perches on the arm on Figgins’ chair, balancing her forehead against her fingers. She has a tension headache like you wouldn’t believe.
It’s been almost six minutes now that the little emergency gaggle of staff members have spent sitting in disbelieving silence. Emma wonders if the others all have the same image of Rachel Berry climbing Finn Hudson like a redwood tree on vomit-inducing repeat in their brain.
“…Let me be one to break the silence.” Sue suggests after a moment; Emma peeks through her fingers to see if the cheerleading coach’s face is expressing anywhere near as much unbridled joy as her voice is.
Sue’s eyes are gleaming with triumph, even as she smacks one damning hand against the top of Figgins’ desk:
“That was the most offensive thing I’ve seen in twenty years of teaching.” She pronounces. “And that includes an elementary school production of Hair.”
“We’ve received angry emails from a number of concerned parents;” Figgins concurs, as Emma’s brain is further accosted by the image of tiny hairy hippy children wailing around Sue Sylvester’s ankles “many of whom thought their children were going to hear a Special Olympian talk about overcoming adversity.”
On the other side of the desk, Will Schuester’s forehead crinkles beneath his freakishly bouncy little-girl curls as he tries to work out Figgins’ logic progression. Eventually, he just gives an irritated little sigh: “I really don’t know what to say-”
“-Well let me help you out then.” Sue interrupts, grinning like a python as she meets Will’s defiant gaze. “My first thought was that your students should be put into foster care. But then I pondered: who’d have such mal-adjusted, sexually abhorrent delinquents? It’s clear: you’re their director-- you’re the one who should be punished. I demand your resignation from this school, as well as the disbanding of glee club.”
Figgins holds up a weary hand before Will can start throwing furniture: “Now hold on Sue.” He warns. “The issue is content. There’s no denying those kids are talented- that new boy from the football team seems to have re-energised the whole ensemble! But I never again want the school to be so intimately acquainted with the patterns on Miss Rachel Berry’s panties! And there is of course the issue that William says he was totally unaware this number was being plotted!”
“Exactly!” Sue leaps on the accusation, eyes flaring. “Will Schuester’s clearly unable to reign in the rampant hormones of his charges-”
“Unfair, Principal Figgins; the kids have been practicing ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ for over a week, there’s nothing I could have done to predict they were gonna do this-”
“-Outwitted by a group of horny sixteen year-olds!-”
“-She has it in for my glee club!-”
“-Ha, that’s rich Schuester, your lead singer just disabled my head cheerleader’s face! How am I supposed to put her at the front of the yearbook photo now??!-”
“-Faculty, faculty, faculty!” Figgins begins chanting, like it’s a meditative chorus. “Faculty please!”
“-She started it!”
“-Oh for god’s sake Will!” Emma bursts out, unable to take the rabble any longer. She glowers daggers into Will’s sudden rabbit-eyed expression, and in the unexpected silence, he drops back into his seat like a sack of potatoes.
Even Sue looks flabbergasted.
“Well, yes.” Figgins is the first to recover, glancing appreciatively in Emma’s direction. “And that’s why Miss Pillsbury’s here. You see Will, I’m mindful that tomorrow is meant to be your first round of open auditions for the Glee Club. But in light of today’s spectacle, I thought the best way to reassure parents that their children will not be introduced into a harem would be to appoint a chaperone to oversee your audition sessions.”
Emma had almost zoned out to pleasingly quiet lilt of Figgins’ reprimand; but now her spine goes instinctively ramrod-straight: did he say ‘chaperone’…?
“I’m appointing Miss Pillsbury to supervise your auditions-”
“-No…” Emma whispers, suddenly light-headed with despair.
“-She’ll be present throughout the process to make sure there are no freaky-deaky shenanigans going on behind the scenes. We all want a fair show now, don’t we? Don’t we?”
Slowly, the furious clouds seem to fade from Will’s expression, as his eyes travel up Emma’s body (resting briefly on her breasts) before meeting her own. As Sue begins calling dishonour on Figgins’ family for a thousand generations, the Spanish teacher’s mouth forms into the tiniest, tiniest little grin.
If it wasn’t so desperately unhygienic, Emma would set herself on fire.