fic: dreams of starry nights - glee, puck/santana, nc-17
Title: Dreams of Starry Nights
Author: zerodetorres
Characters: Puck/Santana
Rating: NC-17
Length: 3,088
Summary: Puck and Santana's summer adventures.
Notes: Written for snoozin81 as part of the glee_rare_pairs fic exchange (pinch hit).
The first time it happens, she's twelve.
Puck had been with her, and in hindsight, trying to hammer shit in the dark isn't the greatest idea he's ever come up with, but they'd managed not to wake anyone or break their necks in the process, so their venture had been mostly deemed a success.
It'd been hot, she remembers, even in the dead of night, and Puck hadn't quite filled out his muscular frame yet, so she'd ended up doing a lot of the heavy lifting.
But by dawn, every piece of lawn furniture that Kurt Hummel and his father owned had been firmly nailed to their roof.
--
"I did all the work," she complains, drenched in her own sweat.
He smirks at her. "Wanna make out?" he asks, tugging her against his chest and leaning down to nip at her neck.
She bites back a smile and pulls away. "I'm sweaty."
He shrugs, and maybe that's what wins her over. "Whatever. You're still totally hot."
She drags him into the abandoned Hummel backyard and pins him against the fence. They make out until neither can breathe.
--
It becomes a sort of annual tradition after that. They'd wait for the Hummels to leave on vacation, then sneak over in the middle of the night with a pair of hammers and a box of nails. He grows stronger, so she has to do less of the work, which suits her just fine.
It gets boring pretty quickly, but Puck seems to be into it, so she lets him show off a little. Besides, by the summer after freshman year, he's totally ripped, and Santana isn't one to turn down a little eye candy.
They'd been on and off for as long as either can remember. In the summers, they tended to be on, if only out of boredom. She likes it better this way. There's no pressure to be anything more than they are, and the fooling around? Totally hot.
Puck hammers in the last nail and climbs down from the roof. Hands tucked in his pockets, he steps toward her with a sheepish grin. As soon as he's close enough, he presses her against the chain-linked fence and kisses her. Her hand slips to the back of her neck.
"You like that, babe?" he murmurs against her lips, and she fights a shiver.
"You're all right," she replies, feigning indifference. "Don't let it get to your head."
He grabs her wrists and pins them above her head. She tries not to let it show that his aggression turns her on, but it totally does, and she knows from the shit-eating grin spreading across his face that he knows as much.
He kisses her again, and it's softer than she'd expected, even as his grip tightens around her wrists. He shifts slightly, sliding one hand to cover both her wrists. His now-free hand dips under the waistband of her shorts and burrows inside her underwear. She hears him groan when his fingertips slide across her.
"Your hands are dirty," she complains, her head falling back against the fence.
He drops a kiss to her throat. "I wiped them on my jeans."
Before she can retort, he presses his lips to hers. He dips a finger inside her, and she moans, hips bucking for more.
"Bet you don't get this wet for anyone else," he teases as he plays with her clit.
She bites back another moan. "Are you going to fuck me or what?"
He chuckles and plunges two fingers inside her, slowly fucking her until her hands are struggling against his grip, making the fence behind her rattle. But it's good, so good, and Puck's fingers are practiced and sure as they thrust in and out at a torturous pace.
"Faster," she gasps, straining against the weight of his body pressed against hers.
He slows down momentarily, and she knows he's doing it to be an asshole, but she's so close, so instead of chewing him out about it, she finds his lips with hers and dips her tongue into his mouth. He picks up the pace then, adding a third finger as his thumb draws lazy circles around her clit.
When she finally comes, he's watching her with eyes that are almost curious. He releases her wrists and leans in to kiss her, even as she's gently pushing against his chest.
As soon as she recovers her breath, she wordlessly slips her hand inside his boxers to return the favor, her fingers wrapping indelicately around his straining erection. His eyes never leave hers, even as he's groaning and pushing his length shamelessly into her fist. His hands are anchored against the fence on either side of her head, his fingers brushing her neck. It's tender in a way that he isn't.
He peaks quietly, jaw clenching tightly, and for a moment under the glow of the moon, he looks grown up, older than his fifteen years. His forehead falls against hers, and the kiss they share is too soft. Her heart beats.
--
They're long broken up by the time everyone finds out the truth about Quinn's baby, but it doesn't take a mathematician to figure out that Puck and Santana had been on one of their rare 'on' phases when it'd happened.
Santana's not stupid. She knows all about his pool cleaning business. But it's different when it's Quinn, head cheerleader and chastity fucking princess. The cougars are about feeding his limitless libido, but Quinn-that one cuts Santana deep, and she can't even explain to herself why.
The first moment she gets him alone, she punches him - hard on the chest - and he takes it without a fight. His head is dipped, chin tucked in, but he doesn't apologize. She hadn't expected him to.
"You fucking asshole," she hisses, swallowing against the unanticipated lump in her throat. "The hell are you going to do?"
"She's calling the shots," he replies, eyes flashing with something she doesn't recognize. Much later, she'll realize it as fear.
"You're such an idiot," she rages. "You're going to be stuck here for the rest of your pathetic life, taking minimum wage jobs to scrape together enough pennies to buy diapers for a barfing baby who hates your guts."
"Why does that even matter to you?" he snaps, his voice booming in the bedroom. It startles her.
She says nothing, because the truth is tougher than she knows how to express or even handle. She has plans that are larger than him, larger than this town and this state, but the very thought of leaving him here with Quinn and a baby she knows he's unprepared to look after makes her want to fuck something up. She doesn't exactly see him in her future, but she doesn't not see him there either, and the reality of the situation - that this could be it for the two of them - hits her hard.
Puck runs his hand across his mohawk. "I messed up, okay? Stop making me feel like shit about it."
Santana narrows her eyes. "You did that to yourself."
He takes a deep breath and doesn't meet her eyes when he says, "I just need you to be easy." Immediately, he shakes his head. "Not like that." His eyes dart to hers. "We take shit from each other all the time, but-if you're not on my side in all of this, then who the fuck is?"
He tries to harden his words, speak them with rough conviction, but she hears it for what it is: a plea. A peace offering, because despite the antagonistic nature of their relationship, sometimes they're the only ones who really understand each other.
Santana swallows hard, fighting the sudden affection in her chest. "You're still an idiot."
"I know." He smirks a little and reaches for her.
She sighs and lets him pull her close. And when he leans in to kiss her, she doesn't stop him.
--
They are who they've always been. Only he's about to have a kid and she has this thing with her best friend that nobody knows how to define or dares to mention to her. They're moving in a thousand directions, pulled by the currents of the high school hierarchy, trying to strike that delicate balance between popularity and Glee.
But on the days when Puck's mom yells too loudly, or Santana's house feels too empty, he drives over in his clunky truck, and she pulls him onto the couch and lets him bury his face against her neck as he pounds into her. It's not romantic, but then neither of them has really ever been into that. He fills her up, and it's fun. He's good at what he does, and most days, he's the simplest thing in her life. She thinks that maybe, she's the simplest in his, too.
Afterwards, he kisses her down from her high and brushes the hair away from her face, and though she'll never admit it, she really likes when he does that.
--
"We shouldn't do this anymore."
Santana squints at him in the dark. "Are you serious right now?"
Puck's shoulders rise in a shrug. "He's our friend or whatever."
Santana actually laughs at that one. "Let me guess; you're gay and you're fucking him."
"If I were fucking everyone whose lawn furniture I didn't nail to their roof, I'd be a walking STD."
"Oh, do you know what those are now?" she fires back. "Did you learn to glove up before you stick your dick inside a girl too?" It's too soon for that, she knows, but she can't help herself.
"Shut up," he replies weakly. "I just think it sucks that Kurt and his dad have to climb up there every year because we're a pair of delinquents."
Santana smirks. "Growing a conscience, Puckerman?"
Puck turns away and drops down, leaning back onto the same chain-linked fence they'd spent so many summers messing around against. She sighs and takes a seat next to him. The Hummel backyard is empty, eerily silent, and she watches Puck twist the hammer in his hands for a few moments.
"We could've worked out, you know?" His words are quiet, and he immediately looks like he wants to swallow his own fist for letting them slip past his lips. He swings his head back against the fence and laughs up at the sky.
Santana stares straight ahead. "Before or after you went and knocked up the Virgin Mary?"
"San, don't be like that," he says, tossing the hammer angrily to his side. "You dumped me over my fucking credit score."
"I dumped you," she counters, "because I knew you were going to go and fuck it all up."
He actually looks mildly hurt by that one. It's the expectation of inadequacy, and she knows that one well. Sometimes she wonders why they can't stop hurting each other when it feels like they're the only ones who really get each other. She leans over and kisses him, rough and quick, her tongue dipping unceremoniously into his mouth.
"I didn't mean it," he murmurs against her mouth before pulling her onto his lap.
She knows it's as much an apology as she's ever going to get out of him. But it's enough, and she kind of hates him for it.
"You idiot," she mumbles, unintended affection bleeding into her words.
She rolls her hips, feeling him hardening under her. He hikes her skirt higher on her thighs and rests his palms against her hipbones. She lifts to her knees and reaches down to unbutton and unzip his shorts. His erection springs free.
"Why don't you ever wear underwear?"
The corners of his lips upturn. "Hoping you'd follow my lead one day," he replies, reaching between her thighs to cup her.
She laughs breathlessly. "Ass."
He hooks his hands around the waistband of her panties and tugs them down to mid-thigh. She swings away for a moment to remove them, and he pulls a condom out of his pocket. He has it rolled over his length when she swings back, her knees bracketing his hips. She grips his cock and positions herself above him; the head presses against her entrance, and he groans. She sinks down onto him, watching his face contort in pleasure as his head falls back against the fence. Before she starts to move, he grabs her hips and stills her.
He's looking at her, but he doesn't say anything.
"Puck…"
He shakes his head and loosens his grip, and she rolls her hips experimentally against him, feeling him shift inside her. She moans. His hands fumble under her shirt, reaching around to her back to unclasp her bra. His palms find her breasts, and he's rolling slow circles around her nipples when she picks up the pace and starts to ride him hard.
A low, guttural sound escapes his lips. She rocks against him, and he's sliding in and out. Puck's hips buck up, matching her thrust for thrust. He tries to lean in and kiss her, but it messes up the angle and she's pushing against his shoulders, pinning him to the fence. Her skin buzzes with ecstasy, the tension coiling at the apex of her thighs. She feels his body tightening underneath her.
A few more rocks of her hips, and she's gone, limbs quaking as pleasure courses through her. He's right there with her, eyes closed and mouth slightly opened. A strange mixture of mischief and maturity fleshes out his features. She leans down and kisses the corner of his mouth, feeling her chest clench when he turns his face and kisses her back.
"Santana," he murmurs. He's still inside her.
She doesn't pull away. "What?"
"You-" He ducks his head. "Shit, you made the past couple of months bearable."
She smiles a little. "You're still the bane of my entire existence."
He shoves her playfully and chuckles. He looks like he's about to say something else, but instead, he pulls her closer and kisses her again. His hand slips out of her top, and he seeks out her arm. His fingers slide over her wrist to interlace with hers. It feels intimate in a way they've never really been.
She gives his hand a squeeze, and he squeezes back.
--
They spend the last two years of high school growing up.
She's determined to get out of Lima without a penny of her father's money, and he just wants to show everyone he's not the screw-up they all seem to think he is. They're not dating - she's pretty sure they've never really dated - but they're friends, still. Fuck buddies, on occasion. They never talk about what it means, or why, and Santana prefers it that way.
On quiet nights when she lets him into her bed and curls up next to him, they exchange stories, secrets, fears. Darkness and familiarity breed comfort, and when one doesn’t feel like talking anymore, the other rolls over and settles between parted thighs, ever-eager to replace ugly memories with carnal pleasure.
They reach equilibrium.
She doesn't want to love him, but sometimes in the mornings, when the light strikes him just right and he smiles crookedly at her, for a moment, she does.
--
The last time it happens, she's eighteen.
"For old time's sake," she'd told him with a small grin, and if he'd been surprised, he hadn't shown it.
It's the middle of the day, but he doesn't ask questions. Four years of high school, ten years of a tumultuous relationship that she wouldn't exchange for the world. But they're leaving Lima. Him, a couple hours away to OSU; her, across the country to UCLA. Her flight's in a week, and she misses him already, not that she'll ever let him know.
"We're going to tell that Hummel kid what we did, aren't we?" he asks from the passenger's seat of her car as he fiddles with the radio.
She laughs, unsurprised by his uncharacteristic foresight. "I guess. Whatever."
He nudges her in the shoulder with his fist. "Who's the one with a conscience now?"
"You're not stopping me," she points out lightly.
"You didn't stop me when I said we should stop messing his place up two summers ago," he counters.
She glances briefly at him. "I was only in it for the mediocre sex anyway."
"Mediocre," he sputters. "Fuck you." But his eyes are soft, and she laughs.
The memory is still fresh in her mind. He'd look young then, unsure of his choices, directionless. She doesn't think he's ever going to lose that infuriating troublemaker grin, but now, he carries genuine confidence on his broad shoulders. It suits him.
"Bet you're ready to get out of this cow town, huh?"
He pushes back his seat and stretches. "Hell yeah."
Santana hides a smirk. "You're gonna miss me."
"I'm gonna miss fooling around with you," he corrects, holding out his hands and jiggling his fingers.
She rolls her eyes. "You're such a romantic."
"Me not giving a shit about romance is the only thing that made us work." He laughs then, a little bitter, mostly amused. It's probably the most truthful thing she's ever heard him say.
Santana pulls up to the Hummel driveway and puts her car into park. She turns to Puck.
"Don't screw around with too many girls, all right?"
He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans closer, his hand tangling in her hair. "You don't get to tell me what to do."
She presses her lips briefly against his. It's a sweet kiss, one she'll take with her to California. She reaches up to run her fingers across his mohawk.
"I can't believe you still have this stupid thing," she murmurs, tilting her head back to give him access to her skin.
He kisses a path down the column of her neck. "I won't screw around with too many girls if you visit once in a while." His words are muffled against the base of her neck. "You know, give me a blowjob or two."
She nudges him away to meet his eyes, and because she knows him, she knows what he means by that. "I'll be home for Christmas," she tells him.
His features ease into a smirk. "We turned out all right," he says, reaching up to cop a feel, his palm curving over her chest.
"Yeah, Puck," she laughs, swatting his hand away. "We turned out all right."
fin.
Author: zerodetorres
Characters: Puck/Santana
Rating: NC-17
Length: 3,088
Summary: Puck and Santana's summer adventures.
Notes: Written for snoozin81 as part of the glee_rare_pairs fic exchange (pinch hit).
The first time it happens, she's twelve.
Puck had been with her, and in hindsight, trying to hammer shit in the dark isn't the greatest idea he's ever come up with, but they'd managed not to wake anyone or break their necks in the process, so their venture had been mostly deemed a success.
It'd been hot, she remembers, even in the dead of night, and Puck hadn't quite filled out his muscular frame yet, so she'd ended up doing a lot of the heavy lifting.
But by dawn, every piece of lawn furniture that Kurt Hummel and his father owned had been firmly nailed to their roof.
--
"I did all the work," she complains, drenched in her own sweat.
He smirks at her. "Wanna make out?" he asks, tugging her against his chest and leaning down to nip at her neck.
She bites back a smile and pulls away. "I'm sweaty."
He shrugs, and maybe that's what wins her over. "Whatever. You're still totally hot."
She drags him into the abandoned Hummel backyard and pins him against the fence. They make out until neither can breathe.
--
It becomes a sort of annual tradition after that. They'd wait for the Hummels to leave on vacation, then sneak over in the middle of the night with a pair of hammers and a box of nails. He grows stronger, so she has to do less of the work, which suits her just fine.
It gets boring pretty quickly, but Puck seems to be into it, so she lets him show off a little. Besides, by the summer after freshman year, he's totally ripped, and Santana isn't one to turn down a little eye candy.
They'd been on and off for as long as either can remember. In the summers, they tended to be on, if only out of boredom. She likes it better this way. There's no pressure to be anything more than they are, and the fooling around? Totally hot.
Puck hammers in the last nail and climbs down from the roof. Hands tucked in his pockets, he steps toward her with a sheepish grin. As soon as he's close enough, he presses her against the chain-linked fence and kisses her. Her hand slips to the back of her neck.
"You like that, babe?" he murmurs against her lips, and she fights a shiver.
"You're all right," she replies, feigning indifference. "Don't let it get to your head."
He grabs her wrists and pins them above her head. She tries not to let it show that his aggression turns her on, but it totally does, and she knows from the shit-eating grin spreading across his face that he knows as much.
He kisses her again, and it's softer than she'd expected, even as his grip tightens around her wrists. He shifts slightly, sliding one hand to cover both her wrists. His now-free hand dips under the waistband of her shorts and burrows inside her underwear. She hears him groan when his fingertips slide across her.
"Your hands are dirty," she complains, her head falling back against the fence.
He drops a kiss to her throat. "I wiped them on my jeans."
Before she can retort, he presses his lips to hers. He dips a finger inside her, and she moans, hips bucking for more.
"Bet you don't get this wet for anyone else," he teases as he plays with her clit.
She bites back another moan. "Are you going to fuck me or what?"
He chuckles and plunges two fingers inside her, slowly fucking her until her hands are struggling against his grip, making the fence behind her rattle. But it's good, so good, and Puck's fingers are practiced and sure as they thrust in and out at a torturous pace.
"Faster," she gasps, straining against the weight of his body pressed against hers.
He slows down momentarily, and she knows he's doing it to be an asshole, but she's so close, so instead of chewing him out about it, she finds his lips with hers and dips her tongue into his mouth. He picks up the pace then, adding a third finger as his thumb draws lazy circles around her clit.
When she finally comes, he's watching her with eyes that are almost curious. He releases her wrists and leans in to kiss her, even as she's gently pushing against his chest.
As soon as she recovers her breath, she wordlessly slips her hand inside his boxers to return the favor, her fingers wrapping indelicately around his straining erection. His eyes never leave hers, even as he's groaning and pushing his length shamelessly into her fist. His hands are anchored against the fence on either side of her head, his fingers brushing her neck. It's tender in a way that he isn't.
He peaks quietly, jaw clenching tightly, and for a moment under the glow of the moon, he looks grown up, older than his fifteen years. His forehead falls against hers, and the kiss they share is too soft. Her heart beats.
--
They're long broken up by the time everyone finds out the truth about Quinn's baby, but it doesn't take a mathematician to figure out that Puck and Santana had been on one of their rare 'on' phases when it'd happened.
Santana's not stupid. She knows all about his pool cleaning business. But it's different when it's Quinn, head cheerleader and chastity fucking princess. The cougars are about feeding his limitless libido, but Quinn-that one cuts Santana deep, and she can't even explain to herself why.
The first moment she gets him alone, she punches him - hard on the chest - and he takes it without a fight. His head is dipped, chin tucked in, but he doesn't apologize. She hadn't expected him to.
"You fucking asshole," she hisses, swallowing against the unanticipated lump in her throat. "The hell are you going to do?"
"She's calling the shots," he replies, eyes flashing with something she doesn't recognize. Much later, she'll realize it as fear.
"You're such an idiot," she rages. "You're going to be stuck here for the rest of your pathetic life, taking minimum wage jobs to scrape together enough pennies to buy diapers for a barfing baby who hates your guts."
"Why does that even matter to you?" he snaps, his voice booming in the bedroom. It startles her.
She says nothing, because the truth is tougher than she knows how to express or even handle. She has plans that are larger than him, larger than this town and this state, but the very thought of leaving him here with Quinn and a baby she knows he's unprepared to look after makes her want to fuck something up. She doesn't exactly see him in her future, but she doesn't not see him there either, and the reality of the situation - that this could be it for the two of them - hits her hard.
Puck runs his hand across his mohawk. "I messed up, okay? Stop making me feel like shit about it."
Santana narrows her eyes. "You did that to yourself."
He takes a deep breath and doesn't meet her eyes when he says, "I just need you to be easy." Immediately, he shakes his head. "Not like that." His eyes dart to hers. "We take shit from each other all the time, but-if you're not on my side in all of this, then who the fuck is?"
He tries to harden his words, speak them with rough conviction, but she hears it for what it is: a plea. A peace offering, because despite the antagonistic nature of their relationship, sometimes they're the only ones who really understand each other.
Santana swallows hard, fighting the sudden affection in her chest. "You're still an idiot."
"I know." He smirks a little and reaches for her.
She sighs and lets him pull her close. And when he leans in to kiss her, she doesn't stop him.
--
They are who they've always been. Only he's about to have a kid and she has this thing with her best friend that nobody knows how to define or dares to mention to her. They're moving in a thousand directions, pulled by the currents of the high school hierarchy, trying to strike that delicate balance between popularity and Glee.
But on the days when Puck's mom yells too loudly, or Santana's house feels too empty, he drives over in his clunky truck, and she pulls him onto the couch and lets him bury his face against her neck as he pounds into her. It's not romantic, but then neither of them has really ever been into that. He fills her up, and it's fun. He's good at what he does, and most days, he's the simplest thing in her life. She thinks that maybe, she's the simplest in his, too.
Afterwards, he kisses her down from her high and brushes the hair away from her face, and though she'll never admit it, she really likes when he does that.
--
"We shouldn't do this anymore."
Santana squints at him in the dark. "Are you serious right now?"
Puck's shoulders rise in a shrug. "He's our friend or whatever."
Santana actually laughs at that one. "Let me guess; you're gay and you're fucking him."
"If I were fucking everyone whose lawn furniture I didn't nail to their roof, I'd be a walking STD."
"Oh, do you know what those are now?" she fires back. "Did you learn to glove up before you stick your dick inside a girl too?" It's too soon for that, she knows, but she can't help herself.
"Shut up," he replies weakly. "I just think it sucks that Kurt and his dad have to climb up there every year because we're a pair of delinquents."
Santana smirks. "Growing a conscience, Puckerman?"
Puck turns away and drops down, leaning back onto the same chain-linked fence they'd spent so many summers messing around against. She sighs and takes a seat next to him. The Hummel backyard is empty, eerily silent, and she watches Puck twist the hammer in his hands for a few moments.
"We could've worked out, you know?" His words are quiet, and he immediately looks like he wants to swallow his own fist for letting them slip past his lips. He swings his head back against the fence and laughs up at the sky.
Santana stares straight ahead. "Before or after you went and knocked up the Virgin Mary?"
"San, don't be like that," he says, tossing the hammer angrily to his side. "You dumped me over my fucking credit score."
"I dumped you," she counters, "because I knew you were going to go and fuck it all up."
He actually looks mildly hurt by that one. It's the expectation of inadequacy, and she knows that one well. Sometimes she wonders why they can't stop hurting each other when it feels like they're the only ones who really get each other. She leans over and kisses him, rough and quick, her tongue dipping unceremoniously into his mouth.
"I didn't mean it," he murmurs against her mouth before pulling her onto his lap.
She knows it's as much an apology as she's ever going to get out of him. But it's enough, and she kind of hates him for it.
"You idiot," she mumbles, unintended affection bleeding into her words.
She rolls her hips, feeling him hardening under her. He hikes her skirt higher on her thighs and rests his palms against her hipbones. She lifts to her knees and reaches down to unbutton and unzip his shorts. His erection springs free.
"Why don't you ever wear underwear?"
The corners of his lips upturn. "Hoping you'd follow my lead one day," he replies, reaching between her thighs to cup her.
She laughs breathlessly. "Ass."
He hooks his hands around the waistband of her panties and tugs them down to mid-thigh. She swings away for a moment to remove them, and he pulls a condom out of his pocket. He has it rolled over his length when she swings back, her knees bracketing his hips. She grips his cock and positions herself above him; the head presses against her entrance, and he groans. She sinks down onto him, watching his face contort in pleasure as his head falls back against the fence. Before she starts to move, he grabs her hips and stills her.
He's looking at her, but he doesn't say anything.
"Puck…"
He shakes his head and loosens his grip, and she rolls her hips experimentally against him, feeling him shift inside her. She moans. His hands fumble under her shirt, reaching around to her back to unclasp her bra. His palms find her breasts, and he's rolling slow circles around her nipples when she picks up the pace and starts to ride him hard.
A low, guttural sound escapes his lips. She rocks against him, and he's sliding in and out. Puck's hips buck up, matching her thrust for thrust. He tries to lean in and kiss her, but it messes up the angle and she's pushing against his shoulders, pinning him to the fence. Her skin buzzes with ecstasy, the tension coiling at the apex of her thighs. She feels his body tightening underneath her.
A few more rocks of her hips, and she's gone, limbs quaking as pleasure courses through her. He's right there with her, eyes closed and mouth slightly opened. A strange mixture of mischief and maturity fleshes out his features. She leans down and kisses the corner of his mouth, feeling her chest clench when he turns his face and kisses her back.
"Santana," he murmurs. He's still inside her.
She doesn't pull away. "What?"
"You-" He ducks his head. "Shit, you made the past couple of months bearable."
She smiles a little. "You're still the bane of my entire existence."
He shoves her playfully and chuckles. He looks like he's about to say something else, but instead, he pulls her closer and kisses her again. His hand slips out of her top, and he seeks out her arm. His fingers slide over her wrist to interlace with hers. It feels intimate in a way they've never really been.
She gives his hand a squeeze, and he squeezes back.
--
They spend the last two years of high school growing up.
She's determined to get out of Lima without a penny of her father's money, and he just wants to show everyone he's not the screw-up they all seem to think he is. They're not dating - she's pretty sure they've never really dated - but they're friends, still. Fuck buddies, on occasion. They never talk about what it means, or why, and Santana prefers it that way.
On quiet nights when she lets him into her bed and curls up next to him, they exchange stories, secrets, fears. Darkness and familiarity breed comfort, and when one doesn’t feel like talking anymore, the other rolls over and settles between parted thighs, ever-eager to replace ugly memories with carnal pleasure.
They reach equilibrium.
She doesn't want to love him, but sometimes in the mornings, when the light strikes him just right and he smiles crookedly at her, for a moment, she does.
--
The last time it happens, she's eighteen.
"For old time's sake," she'd told him with a small grin, and if he'd been surprised, he hadn't shown it.
It's the middle of the day, but he doesn't ask questions. Four years of high school, ten years of a tumultuous relationship that she wouldn't exchange for the world. But they're leaving Lima. Him, a couple hours away to OSU; her, across the country to UCLA. Her flight's in a week, and she misses him already, not that she'll ever let him know.
"We're going to tell that Hummel kid what we did, aren't we?" he asks from the passenger's seat of her car as he fiddles with the radio.
She laughs, unsurprised by his uncharacteristic foresight. "I guess. Whatever."
He nudges her in the shoulder with his fist. "Who's the one with a conscience now?"
"You're not stopping me," she points out lightly.
"You didn't stop me when I said we should stop messing his place up two summers ago," he counters.
She glances briefly at him. "I was only in it for the mediocre sex anyway."
"Mediocre," he sputters. "Fuck you." But his eyes are soft, and she laughs.
The memory is still fresh in her mind. He'd look young then, unsure of his choices, directionless. She doesn't think he's ever going to lose that infuriating troublemaker grin, but now, he carries genuine confidence on his broad shoulders. It suits him.
"Bet you're ready to get out of this cow town, huh?"
He pushes back his seat and stretches. "Hell yeah."
Santana hides a smirk. "You're gonna miss me."
"I'm gonna miss fooling around with you," he corrects, holding out his hands and jiggling his fingers.
She rolls her eyes. "You're such a romantic."
"Me not giving a shit about romance is the only thing that made us work." He laughs then, a little bitter, mostly amused. It's probably the most truthful thing she's ever heard him say.
Santana pulls up to the Hummel driveway and puts her car into park. She turns to Puck.
"Don't screw around with too many girls, all right?"
He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans closer, his hand tangling in her hair. "You don't get to tell me what to do."
She presses her lips briefly against his. It's a sweet kiss, one she'll take with her to California. She reaches up to run her fingers across his mohawk.
"I can't believe you still have this stupid thing," she murmurs, tilting her head back to give him access to her skin.
He kisses a path down the column of her neck. "I won't screw around with too many girls if you visit once in a while." His words are muffled against the base of her neck. "You know, give me a blowjob or two."
She nudges him away to meet his eyes, and because she knows him, she knows what he means by that. "I'll be home for Christmas," she tells him.
His features ease into a smirk. "We turned out all right," he says, reaching up to cop a feel, his palm curving over her chest.
"Yeah, Puck," she laughs, swatting his hand away. "We turned out all right."
fin.