Chapter 1: Work hard for the money
This chapter has fairly dark dub-con.
Puck’s not gonna admit it but he’s kinda desperate. He needs money. He'd do anything to support Quinn. It’s not like with any of the chicks he’s gone for before. She’s carrying his kid. Of course he’s gonna take care of her.
He tries selling pot first, but he ends up using too much of it himself to make much of a profit.
Next he figures he’ll add hot-tubs to his pool cleaning business. At least those’ll still be used in the winter. But there aren’t enough hot-tubs in Lima to really up his income.
It’s Kurt Hummel, though, who gives him an idea. The Hummel kid starts talking about how Glee should do an homage to “Pretty Woman.” Puck says how he always thought Pretty Woman was some kind of makeup or something. Kurt gasps and says, “I cannot believe you have never seen “Pretty Woman.” It’s only the best movie of all time.” And all the girls kind of glare at him, like he’s some kind of dirt, just cause he’s never seen this stupid chick movie. So he goes home that night and watches it. And then he comes up with a plan.
The next morning he calls Mrs. Hooper and says, “How’d you like a little servicing?” (He calls Mrs. Hooper first because, unlike any of the other cougars in Lima, she’s divorced and he won’t have to worry about a husband with a shotgun.) She tells him she gets off work at five, let himself in with the spare key; he knows where she keeps it.
So he drives over to Mrs. Hooper’s as soon as practice is over. He lets himself in and arranges himself on her beige sofa. Mrs. Hooper is pretty beige in general. She wears her hair up in a tight bun with these librarian glasses, only when she takes them off, she looks even more boring than when they’re on. She always wears pantsuits in browns and grays, no matter what time of year it is. Beigest of all, she never wants anything other than straight sex, missionary position.
When she pulls in the garage, Puck takes a second to make sure he’s ready. Showered: check. Teeth brushed: check. Condoms (yeah, he’s not making that mistake twice): check.
Mrs. Hooper walks into the room and he says, “So here’s the thing, I kind of have some unforeseen expenses coming up, so if you want this,” here he gestures at his greatness, “you’re gonna have to pay for it.” And Mrs. Hooper has no problem with that, no problem at all. She says how she’s gonna use alimony, screw the bastard over for screwing her over or something.
After that, it’s just like it always is with Mrs. Hooper. She likes it when he strips her, so he does, takes his time teasing every garment off like it’s some kind of present underneath. In a way it is. Just because he’s been around the block a few times doesn’t make him lose any appreciation for the feminine form. Mrs. Hooper is all milky pale skin and pink lips that belong on a girl half her age. And even though Puck doesn’t get as much out of the deal as he does with some of the wild ones (like Mrs. Donahue and Mrs. Stevenson) he still gets to come, and better yet, he gets to make a pretty lady feel good in the process.
Another reason he goes to Mrs. Hooper first is that he figures she won’t stiff him. She always gave him an extra twenty when he was done with cleaning the pool. So when she leaves a crisp hundo on the dresser after they’re done, he figures that’s about what he can expect from the others.
He waits ‘til Friday to make his next call, cause Mrs. Ling has a tendency to leave marks. Also, Mrs. Ling’s husband likes to take business trips over the weekends. Puck doesn’t know if Mr. Ling’s making business trips or if he’s really making business trips, but he figures, what Mr. Ling doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Puck spends three solid hours Friday night going down on Mrs. Ling, and he has all the scratch marks to show for it. He also has another Benjamin Franklin to go towards the baby Puck fund.
On Sunday, he gives Mrs. Frasier a call, cause she’s always in such a rush to get a ride on the Puckzilla they don’t have time to take their clothes off. And ride him she does, wet and rough. Afterwards he tugs her up the bed and goes to town on her pussy until her whole body goes to jelly. She shoves the hundred bucks in the back of his jeans, giving him a farewell slap on the ass.
Monday morning he pulls Quinn aside. He pulls an envelope out of his letter jacket and shoves it in her hands. She says, “What’s this?” looking at him suspiciously.
“Just open it,” he says.
She opens the envelope and her eyes look like they’re gonna pop right out of her head. “Oh my god, Puck, there’s two hundred and fifty dollars in here.” (Yeah, he used the last fifty on a bottle of Jack and a case of Marlboros. He’s not perfect, Christ.)
“All for you, baby mama,” he says, cause he knows how much girls love it when he uses pet names. “And there’s more where that came from.”
“That’s great, Puck, just great.” And wait, is it just him or does Quinn not sound majorly pleased with him here. “Two hundred and fifty bucks. Do you know how much it’s going to cost for all the doctor fees? I’ll give you a clue. Two hundred and fifty bucks is peanuts. Maybe fifty times that would be able to cover it all. Maybe.”
Suddenly Quinn starts crying, and Puck, he doesn’t deal well with that crying shit. It makes him say anything to put a stop to it. “Hey. Hey, I got this. I can get the money.” When she looks up at him with a little smile, it’s like sun coming through a storm. He looks in her eyes and then he can’t help his gaze from drifting down, down until it’s there, right on baby Puck. “I got this,” he says looking at the bump that will someday be part of the world—already part of him.
By Wednesday his back’s healed up enough that he’s able to meet up with Mrs. Stevenson. Mrs. S is about as far opposite Mrs. Hooper as a woman could be. She’s one kinky cougar, and she totally embraces it. Her husband is the minister at Our Savior’s Church, so he’s never really been able to fill her needs. It also makes the sleeping around really easy for Puck; he heads over to casa Stevenson while Pastor S is giving the weekly advent service.
Mrs. S is into roleplaying. Puck’s always supported her in that, but he never really went out of his way to get into it. Over the summer there was a constant rotation of hunky younger mechanic, hunky younger plumber, hunky younger handyman, hunky younger dude who puts up siding…pretty much all he needed all summer was a tool-belt and different dirty talk. When he was the mechanic he always talked about how he wanted to overload her engine, and when he was the plumber he said how he wanted to plumb her wet depths (yeah, he read some of his mom’s romance novels…sue him).
But he figures he can probably get more money out of Mrs. S if he’s willing to be a little more adventurous. So when she opens the door, he says, “Anything you want, sugar.”
What she wants is him on hands and knees, wearing a ball-gag. He’s not even naked, still has a shirt on, “To prevent chafing,” she says. Chafing of what he doesn’t know, and it’s not exactly like he can ask with the gag and all, so he just waits while she fastens some kind of belt around his chest. When it’s actually on, and she steps back to get undressed, he can tell there’s a lot more to it than just a belt, something long and silky trailing down his backside and teasing at his ass crack. In front of that it feels like…no way is this happening to him.
Except apparently it is—“Good horsie,” she says, trailing a hand over his Mohawk then down, down skipping over the saddle til it’s over his frickin tail. And then she’s straddling his back, and from the way she takes just a little too long to sit, from the noises she makes, he can tell there’s a dildo attached to the saddle somehow.
That moment alone is enough to cement this experience as one of the strangest of his life, but the next thing he knows there’s a crop coming down on his ass while Mrs. S is saying, “Giddyup,” and clucking her tongue. He doesn’t move, shocked to stillness, and that must be just what she’s waiting for. Next thing he knows, she’s laying into his ass with God only knows what. He topples forward a little. She clucks again and says, “Bad horsie, c’mon, Giddap.” The hit comes as less of a shock this time, and with no conscious decision he’s moving forward, almost falling over again in his haste to move.
He spends over an hour on his hands and knees (Pastor Stevenson is known to give really long sermons, sadly) and by the end of it, he aches all over. His knees and hands are rough from the Berber carpet everywhere in Mrs. S’s house, his back feels like he spent all afternoon in the weight room, and worst of all is his ass, red and swollen feeling from something Mrs. S called a flogger. She came a record four times, screaming and writhing. Puck never even got hard.
For the first time, he doesn’t know if he can keep doing this. Mrs. S gives him $150 and a dirty smile, and he’s never felt so low in his life. Even Quinn’s never made him feel this degraded. And the money’s nowhere near good enough. He needs to get ten grand and doesn’t have a clue how to get it anymore.
Thursday night, Puck gets a call from Mrs. Hooper. “Would you like a little something extra to add to that nest egg of yours?” she asks, and he’s stumbling over himself to spit out a simple yes. Sounds kind of like Finn, truth be told. God, how gay can he get?
Mrs. Hooper’s in the mood for a long slow fuck, which usually would be right up his alley. After the night before it’s practically impossible. Five minutes into it and he can’t tell which hurts worse, his various body parts or his ego, cause for the first time in his life, he can’t stay hard. He tries everything, thinking of Quinn in that nasty little bikini of hers, thinking of Rachel grinding on him, thinking of Santana and the thing with the tongue she does so well. Nothing works.
He gives it up as a lost cause, sits on the edge of the bed and does the only thing he can, owns up to it. Like a man. “Sorry Mrs. Hooper, guess I’m not able to service you tonight after all,” he says in the same tone his mother uses when she talks about how bad of a mom she is. It tastes bitter on his tongue. He sits for a second more with his head bowed—in memory of the days when he thought his dick was invincible—then shoves himself off the bed.
He’s about to start gathering his clothes when her voice cuts him off—“Noah, what’s wrong?” The thing about Mrs. Hooper is she’s really sensible. She can always tell when something’s wrong or when he’s lying about something. It blows.
The words come out of him almost against his will. “I’m just sore. From yesterday.” He’s toeing his jeans where they’re lying on the carpet. Thinking about how easy it would be just to make a quick break for it.
“Okay Noah, I’ll bite. What happened yesterday?” she says.
He looks up at her then, quick furtive glance up, then he’s looking back at the clothing strewn in chaos across the floor. His face flushes then for the first time all night, which he figures is God’s way of laughing at him or something. He shakes his head once, even though he knows it won’t work. She’ll keep pressing and pressing until he’s broken even more.
Only that’s not how it works. What actually happens is she sighs long and low and says, “Oh Noah, what am I going to do with you?”
Apparently what she’s going to do with him is relax every bone in his body. Mrs. Hooper nabs him by the arm and leads him into her bathroom. She keeps a running commentary the whole time, but not like Rachel…like something smoother instead, maybe a sportscaster or something.
She gets him to sit down on the closed toilet and starts running a bath in her ginormous bathtub, talking all the while. “I never even considered having a bathroom like this until my husband and I were divorced.” And looking around him, yeah, Puck can see the appeal, all shining surfaces and dim lighting and shit.
She turns to him and says, “—Afterwards, it was the first thing I changed. See, when you’re married you don’t have time to think about baths, let along take them. But after you’re divorced, well, you don’t have a whole lot other than baths to fill your time.”
By then the bath is almost full of bubbles. Mrs. Hooper grabs him again, this time by the hand, and sort of maneuvers him over to the tub. She gets behind him and gives him a soft sort of shove and as he makes to step into the tub, she makes a sort of hissing noise. And then he realizes this is the first time tonight she’s seen him from behind. He’s frozen for a minute, in shame, in humiliation, until, almost against his will, his leg moves just enough that his foot touches the surface of the water.
The thing is, the water is hot—practically scalding. It’s almost too hot, until he’s been completely immersed in it for a good twenty count. Then all of his muscles relax as one. Mrs. Hooper kneels down and puts something soft behind his neck, and while she’s bent over like that she says, soft, so soft, for his ears alone, “You know you need to get out of this.”
He means to say a million things: explain himself, talk about Quinn and the baby, about how he wants to do right by them, say how this--this--is the only thing he knows. Instead what comes out of his mouth is: “Why’d you keep your husband’s name?”
Mrs. Hooper looks down at her hands for a second, small smile on her pink, pink lips. “Everyone at work calls me Mrs. Hooper. But it wasn’t because of that. My maiden name—my maiden name was Klimbachefski. It wasn’t because of that either. It was because I wanted to screw him over. Wait, nix that, it was actually because I wanted to hurt him, take anything from him I could. He took everything from me.”
“What’d he do, anyway?” Puck asks. “What did he do that was so bad, Mrs. Hooper?”
“Bonnie. You can call me Bonnie, Noah. After all, we have seen each other naked.” She chuckles a bit, under her breath.
She folds herself down until she’s sitting pretzel-style on the rug, and leans over the tub, fingers trailing through the water. She looks at him then, and it’s kind of like she can see all the way inside of him, into his heart, or maybe his soul. “Mr. Hooper—“ she says (in that same exasperated way Puck’s Ma talks about his deadbeat Dad), “—Mr. Hooper lied to me, Noah. Never build a marriage on lies. It’s just asking for destruction.”
“So what’d he lie about?” he asks.
She laughs again, only this time it sounds more bitter. “It’s funny. No, really, you’ll laugh.” She takes her hand from the water and brushes it across her forehead. “I came home early one night, and found him with someone. But it wasn’t his secretary, Janet, or my best friend, Cynthia, or even my sister Sue. No, it couldn’t be as simple as that. He couldn’t be as simple as that. I found him with his hair-dresser. Henri. And there was money on the dresser. He had just told me the week before that we couldn’t go on our annual trip to Europe because we couldn’t afford it. And here he is, paying this…this…manwhore to blow him right under my fucking nose. I took a few pictures with my phone, called my lawyer, and filed papers forty-eight hours later.”
An idea starts to take shape in his head. “So, how long had he been…before you ended it?”
“The whole marriage, if you’ll believe that,” she says. “He spent more money on male prostitutes through the years than we spent on this house.”
And suddenly that idea is fully formed and begging for attention. Puck turns to Mrs. Hooper with a dastardly smile and asks, “What was your husband’s name again?”
Chapter 2: And so the insanity begins
Puck takes off shortly after that with a hundred dollar bill tucked into his hand. “You need to get out of this, Noah,” she says as a parting shot, but now he knows he doesn’t need to get out. Instead he needs to get deeper in.
He figures what he really needs is to plan this out, so seven o’clock Friday morning catches him waiting by the dumpsters. When Hummel pulls into the parking lot, he gives Puck a resigned look. He marches over to Puck shucking his bag and jacket. “Puck,” he says, “I thought we were over this immature bullying stage.”
Puck gives him his fiercest grin and says, “Hummel, walk with me, talk with me,” grabbing the kid’s bag and coat in one arm and wrapping the other firmly around Kurt’s shoulders to drag him along.
Kurt starts babbling right away. “Oh, god. Is this because of the time I fantasized about you doing pushups? It was only once, I swear. And—and it was just because of football. It’s not my fault you look that good without a shirt on.” When Kurt notices they’re en route to the shed, his babbling picks up speed and volume. “Don’t kill me now. I’m too young to die. I promise to never look at your pecks again. Not even clothed. In fact, I promise to never check out any guy on the football team.” He tries to break away, but by that point Puck’s got the door open and drags him in by the back of the shirt. Kurt says, “Actually, I’ll never check out any guy. Ever. Again. I’m straight. This is me, scared straight.” Puck backs him up into the wall and leans forward, arms braced on either side of Kurt’s head. Kurt shrieks a little ‘Eep!’ and closes his eyes tight.
“Relax, Princess. I’m not gonna kill you. Actually, I need a favor,” Puck says.
Kurt opens one eye with caution, then, apparently noticing the lack of immanent bloodshed, opens the other one as well, giving Puck a slow once over. “Well, I’m never one to turn down a challenge, but this would even be a tough one for me. You are willing to grow out your hair, right?”
Puck huffs out a ‘huhn?’
Kurt puts his hands on Puck’s shoulders and gives him a little shove, enough to slip under his arm. Slowly circling him, Kurt continues, “Well, if I’m going to turn this beast—“ with a gesture at Puck, “into any kind of beauty I’m going to need full control. What is this anyway?” Before Puck can react, Kurt grabs his collar and flips it over. “You’re kidding me. Old Navy? Talk about living the cliché. This,” he gives the collar a sharp tug, “will have to go first.”
Puck grabs Kurt’s hand and slowly (and from the way Kurt reacts, painfully) removes his fingers from Puck’s shirt. “What. The hell. Are you talking about, Hummel?”
“Your makeover,” Kurt says, wincing and ineffectually trying to tug his hand away from Puck’s grip. “I assume that’s why you needed advice. After all, who else would you turn to in this school?”
“Makeover,” Puck scoffs. “Why the hell would I get a makeover? The women love the Puckinator. Why change a good thing?”
Kurt arches his eyebrow.
“No, man," Puck says, giving Kurt a lecherous grin, "I need help with gay sex.”
Kurt flushes bright red, eyes as big as saucers.
Then his face gets as pale as a ghost, and he faints right into Puck’s arms.
“Well, that didn’t go as well as expected,” Puck says, and throws Kurt over his shoulder.
“No, not the Versace!” Kurt mumbles, coming to on one of the cots in the nurse’s office. Puck snorts in amusement as Kurt jerks upright, looking around himself with quick rabbit-like movements. When Kurt spots Puck he noticeably pales, then, gulping, asks, “So, was that just a vivid dream brought on by inhaling the fumes from the leftover tuna surprise, or did you really just proposition me?” He cringes a little, as if he realizes just how bad that sounds, then he seems to grow a spine, tipping his head back and meeting Puck square in the eyes.
“Proposition you?” Puck scoffs. “As if. No, I just figured if I wanted to get good at the whole gay sex thing I should go directly to the source.”
“See, from here, it still sounds like you’re propositioning me,” Kurt says, folding his arms across his chest.
Puck’s spurred to movement, shifting from his nonchalant lean against the wall to a slow stalk towards Kurt. “Well, sorry, Hummel, but this,” he smacks his chest, “is made for better stuff than your sorry ass. Like I said, what I need are tips.” He stops a foot short of the cot Kurt’s currently occupying.
“Tips,” Kurt says, with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah, tips,” Puck says. “Like, when you give head, how do you deep throat? There’s gotta be some kinda trick, right? Hummel? Is there a reason you’re humming “It’s a Small World After All”?”
Kurt’s got his hands covering his ears, eyes screwed shut and a creepy smile on his face. Puck gives him til the refrain starts then he forcibly pulls Kurt’s hands from his ears, and yells, “If you don’t stop right now, I’m telling Azimio it was you who stole his jock strap.”
Kurt’s eyes pop open, big and scared. “You wouldn’t,” he says, but apparently he sees something in Puck’s eyes to show just how much he really would. “You’re cruel.”
“You think that’s cruel? What about that little trip down Disney lane? That’s what I’d call cruelty. I don’t get this man. It’s not like I’m being the withholding one here. This is me being friendly. And all I’m asking from you is a little help with blow jobs and butt-sex.”
Kurt tries to cover his ears again, but Puck’s still got a firm hold of his wrists. “Okay,” Kurt says, “I’m just going to say this once. I know nothing about sex, Puck. Every year when the school gives the sex awareness seminar I get dad to call me in sick, so technically I know even less about sex than Rachel Berry. And we all know she’s going to die a virgin.”
Puck lets go of Kurt’s wrists, in order to run his hands through his ‘hawk. “So you’re saying you’ve never had sex with another dude.”
Kurt flushes bright red and shakes his head no.
“God, Hummel. You’re a disgrace to gay men everywhere,” Puck says. He grabs Kurt’s bag and tosses it at him. “C’mon. You and me are going on a little fieldtrip.”
Kurt scrambles to keep his bag upright so all his froofy girly shit doesn’t fall out all over the floor. “Fieldtrip. Where?”
Puck slaps him on the back. “We’re gonna make a little visit to the person who’s paid to know the answers to my questions.”
Ms. Pillsbury sits down across the desk from Puck and Kurt. “Noah, Kurt. What can I do for you today?”
“Well, Ms. P, we were wondering,” Puck says, tossing a loose arm over the back of Kurt’s chair, “what’s up with gay sex?”
Ms. Pillsbury’s pencil flies into the air, as her eyes get as large as saucers. Her mouth works soundlessly for a few seconds then she closes her eyes and says, “Um…Oh my goodness.” Her eyes open, and suddenly there’s a big smile on her face. “I didn’t know the two of you were seeing each other. I’m so happy for you both.”
Puck shoves himself away from Kurt hard enough that Kurt’s chair completely overturns. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Chill out Ms. P. Hummel and I aren’t dating.”
From the floor, Kurt says, “I’d sooner date Jesse St. James.”
Puck shoots Kurt a dirty look, then offers him a hand up—only fair since he’s the reason Kurt’s on the ground in the first place. “Nah, Hummel here and I are just friends.”
Kurt raises an eyebrow and ignores Puck’s hand, getting back into his seat on his own.
“I see,” Ms. Pillsbury says. “Kurt’s just helping you realize some things about yourself. How long have you known you were gay, Noah?”
“What?” Puck says, incredulous. “I’m not gay, Ms. P. Hummel here is. I’m just helping the kid out. Did you know he’s never been to a single one of the school’s safe sex seminars?”
Kurt flushes bright red. “Puck, I—“
“And can you blame him,” Puck says, cutting him off mid-sentence. “There’s no information on gay sex at these meetings Ms. P. And as the most sexually active student at McKinley High, I’ve decided to make it my mission to get little Kurt here just as informed on all the dope on gay sex as the rest of us are on straight sex.”
“Well, that’s very noble of you, Noah,” Ms. Pillsbury says. Her smile seems a bit strained around the edges. “You know, abstinence is a valid lifestyle choice. There’s no reason to have sex until you’ve graduated from college. After all, it’s important to keep up in your studies.”
“Studies are very important,” Kurt says. He sends a small smile to Ms. Pillsbury, then shoots a cautionary look at Puck that promises slow and painful death if he doesn’t stop.
Puck ignores the warning. “Come on, Ms. P, let’s cut the crap. It’s your job to advise us, so give us some advice. What’s up with gay sex?”
“You’re right, Noah. It is my job to advise you,” Ms. Pillsbury says. She gives Puck a cornered look, then turns to Kurt. “When a man and woman—or, well, in your case, when a man and another man—love each other very much they—they—“ her eyes dart wildly around until they land on something on her desk, “they get married.”
“But gay marriage is illegal in Ohio,” Puck says. (He only knows this because Rachel went into great detail about how her gay dads had to go to Canada to get married.)
“Exactly,” Ms. Pillsbury says with a big smile, “and I can’t advise you to do something illegal. I’m sorry Kurt. I guess you’ll have to wait until new legislation passes in Ohio.”
“Thank you for the advice Ms. Pillsbury,” Kurt says, like the little suck-up he is. “You’ve been most helpful.” He stands up and holds out his hand, and Ms. Pillsbury shakes it, like they’ve been in this together the whole time. While they’re complimenting each other on their makeup or some shit, Puck sneaks a peek at Ms. Pillsbury’s desk. An issue of ‘Tying the Knot’ is half-buried under Ms. Pillsbury’s giant lunch box.
Puck snorts to himself. It figures that little Ms. P is all set on the perfect white wedding. He’s making his way to the door, when he hears Brittany’s voice on the other side of it. “Giving head is like eating a hotdog. It’s way more fun if you can put it all in your mouth at once.”
Puck turns back into the room and grabs Kurt. “C’mon, Hummel. We’ve got one more stop to make on our little fieldtrip.”
Kurt gives him a resigned look, then turns to wave goodbye to Ms. Pillsbury as Puck drags him out the door.
“So, Brittany. You’re good at giving blowjobs,” Puck says. He’s leaning, one hand against the wall, the other holding Kurt by the scruff of his neck.
“I am,” Brittany says, vapidly. “I am totally the best in school. Other than Popcorn.”
“Wait a minute,” Kurt says, “isn’t Popcorn an iguana.”
“Yeah. So?” Brittany says, turning to look at Kurt. “Oh, hey Kurt.” She smiles at Kurt and gives him a little wave.
“Hey Brittany.” Kurt waves back.
“So,” Puck says, “if you’re that good, think you could give my man Kurt here lessons.” He shoots a feral look at Kurt and Kurt cowers as much as he can with Puck’s hand around his neck.
“Totally,” Brittany says.
“Great,” Puck says. “When and where?”
“We’d better not meet at my place. Lord Tubbington’s mad at me,” Brittany says, looking sad.
Kurt sighs. “I know I’m going to regret this,” he says under his breath, then continues in his normal girly voice. “Brittany, why is Lord Tubbington mad at you.”
“I ate his catnip,” she says.
The boys look at her for a second then look at each other.
“Well, my place is out,” Puck says. “Ma’s having an epic revival of “The Diary of Anne Frank” with her book group.”
Puck and Brittany turn to Kurt as one.
“We’re not doing this at my place. There is no way! If my dad found us he’d chew my head off, then castrate you with his power saw and send you on a one-way trip to Indonesia. We are not learning how to give head at my house.”
Puck tightens his grip on Kurt’s neck until Kurt’s face goes an unhealthy shade of purple.
Kurt pulls a white handkerchief out of his pocket and waves it around. “Okay,” he says, hoarsely, “okay. I give.” Puck loosens his grip as Kurt continues. “We’ll meet at my house. Seven o’clock. Dad has bowling league tonight.”
“Awesome,” Brittany says. She turns to Puck and says, “I’ll bring the bananas, you bring the peanut butter.”
“Wait, why do we need peanut butter?” Puck asks.
“For afterwards,” Brittany says. Then, when the two boys just stare at her, “You can’t have peanut butter and banana sandwiches without peanut butter.” The bell rings for first period. “What class do I have again?” Brittany asks, wandering away and talking to herself about catfish.
They both spend a second looking at her then Kurt breaks free of Puck’s grip. “I’ve agreed to this, but I will only follow through with it on one condition.”
“Okay, fine,” Puck says as the two of them start walking down the hall together. “You can give me a makeover. But I’m not changing the ‘hawk. And no girly shit.”
Kurt’s eyes light up. “Oooh. I can see you now. A little Armani, a touch of Kenneth Cole…” Kurt stops in the middle of the hallway, putting his hands on his hips. “Wait. You’re just trying to distract me from my main objective.”
“What?” Puck asks, confused.
“I want to know what precisely is going on. This is no fair-will mission to bring sex-ed to the under-informed. You have some kind of ulterior motive, Puckerman, and I, for one, want to know what it is.”
Puck’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t want to talk about this shit with anybody, but the thing is, when Hummel’s got his mind set on something neither hell nor high water will make him change his mind. “Okay,” Puck says. “We can talk about it. Monday.”
“No, actually, we’ll talk about it tonight. 6:30, my place. Oh, and if you’re late? I’m telling Jacob Ben Israel about your sudden interest in gay sex.” Kurt says, sounding smug as hell.
“Fine. 6:30,” Puck growls, slamming into the lockers as he switches direction. He was going to actually go to first period today, but considering how shit it’s gone so far, he figures he deserves a nap in the nurse’s office. After all, tonight’s going to be a long night.
Chapter 3: Home with the Hummels
By 6:30, Puck figures he would have been better off if he’d never gotten up this morning in the first place. About fifteen minutes into his nap, Rachel had wandered into the nurse’s office whining about a strained fibula or some shit, so Puck ended up going to first period after all. Of course Mr. Collins mocked him for being late, which wouldn’t bother him too much if it weren’t for the fact that Mr. Collins always did the same thing with tardy students, ask them to answer every single question for the rest of the period, like there weren’t twenty-five other students in the classroom.
The day actually went downhill from there, with disappointed looks from Quinn, and Finn actually walking into the chick’s bathroom to avoid him. At lunch time Becky Jackson spilled her chocolate milkshake all over him, and he couldn’t even beat anybody up. Even he didn’t sink low enough to beat on the disabled.
By the time glee rolled around, he’d racked up a whole month worth of detention, somehow gotten himself signed up as transportation for the chess club, and lost his nun chucks in a totally rigged game of Texas Hold ‘Em. Then, the whole hour of glee was taken up with the epic battle of Finn and Jesse.
At 4:30, Puck had finally gone out to start up his truck. Only his truck was somehow out of gas. He couldn’t even get a ride, since he’d stayed afterward to work on a new Ben Harper song, and everyone had already taken off.
Pulling up to the Hummels’ at 6:29, Puck figures there’s not a chance in hell he’ll make it through the night unscathed. He almost starts his car back up to turn right around, but he’s not the kind of dude who avoids his problems. He grabs the paper bag from his passenger seat and walks up to the front door.
The doorbell doesn’t ring like a doorbell should ring; it plays some twinky song instead. At least Kurt opens the door before Puck has to ring the bell a second time.
“Puck. So nice of you to come. Please. Enter.” Kurt’s leaning against the door, gesturing in front of himself like those dudes at the airport with the glow-sticks.
Puck takes a second before he steps in, reminding himself that punching Kurt would probably not be very helpful for his cause. He shoves the bag in his letter jacket then steps in the Hummel’s front door. “So, this is the casa Hummel,” he says, taking a quick look at his surroundings. “It doesn’t look that gay really. I was expecting more frills.”
And the thing is he really was expecting something else, something other than the kinda manly feel that the living room gives off. It’s just tan carpet and a big-screen TV and a brown couch. A brown couch that, on second glance, has a baseball cap topped head poking over the top. The head slowly turns to face him, and Puck takes a gulp. Because, the thing is, Puck is brave—there’s no questioning the fact that Puck’s brave—but there’s a difference between brave and stupid. And even Puck’s not stupid enough to make fun of a chick in front of her dad—he learned his lesson there when he mocked Tina in front of her step-dad when he was fifteen; he’s still got the lead in his throat—and as far as Puck can tell, making fun of a gay dude in front of his dad would be even worse.
His mouth opens and he says, “Frills are awesome,” before he even knows he’s going to say anything, but it seems to throw Mr. Hummel off track for a second. He doesn’t look like he’s going to kill Puck anymore; mainly he just looks like he’s constipated.
Mr. Hummel looks at him like he’s measuring him against something, and Puck doesn’t really add up to enough. Then Mr. Hummel looks at his face a little closer. “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asks.
Kurt steps in front of Puck like he’s trying to protect Puck’s virtue or something. “Noah’s in Glee with me, Dad. You probably recognize him from the invitational.”
“No, that’s not it,” Mr. Hummel says, adjusting his hat. He looks at Puck’s letter jacket then shoots a look up at his hair. “Wait a second. Now I remember. You were one of those punks who stapled the lawn furniture onto the roof.” Mr. Hummel’s face goes red and he gets up from the couch, stepping closer to Puck, threateningly.
Puck swallows hard. He tries to think of something to say, and is just opening his mouth when Kurt interrupts him, throws an arm in front of Puck and saying, “Dad, calm down a second. This is all just a misunderstanding. Remember how I was on the football team. That was just a hazing ritual that all the footballers go through. They do something like that to all the new guys.”
Mr. Hummel’s looking at both of them kind of incredulously. “Really?” he says, dryly.
“Really!” Kurt says, nodding his head and bouncing a little, like if he’s energetic enough his dad’ll have to believe him. Then he turns his bouncy energy to Puck. “Noah, tell him what they did to you when you made the team.” And he sounds almost beseeching, all pleading with big eyes.
Puck ducks his head, remembering. “Uh… They shaved my head. And stole my clothes to hang from the flagpole. And the only clothing they left in the locker room was a dress—it was pink. Oh, and they wrote ‘Azi’s bitch’ in permanent marker on the back of my neck.” Puck scratches the back of his neck, a little self-conscious. It had taken a week to get the marker off. He actually wore turtlenecks until it was finally gone.
When he looks up both of the Hummels are looking at him weird. Kurt looks at Puck like he’s never seen him before or something. And Mr. Hummel keeps shooting confused glances at Kurt then back at Puck, like there’s something new to add to the equation and he’s not sure if he likes it very much.
“What!?” Puck asks, all pissed off. He feels wrong-footed and doesn’t like how off-balanced this conversation is leaving him.
Mr. Hummel turns to Kurt. “So, Kurt. Noah, here—who is he to you exactly? ‘Cause if this is your first boyfriend, I’ve gotta say, I’ve always hoped you’d have better taste than to date some punk kid who’s not even willing to admit who he is.”
“Boyfriend!?” Puck and Kurt say almost simultaneously.
Then they’re speaking over each other, Kurt’s “You have got to be kidding me! As if I’d date someone who dressed in homeless chic,” almost overpowered by Noah’s, “C’mon man. I’m not even gay. And if I ever went for dudes it wouldn’t be for Hummel.”
Mr. Hummel seems to get enough out of their gibberish to get the lay of the land. He noticeably calms down, and as soon as the boys are finished talking he turns to Puck. “Okay, maybe neither of us does well at first impressions. I guess we’re even then.” He holds out his hand to shake Puck's, and says, with a tight smile, “Hey, nice to meet you, Noah. Any friend of Kurt’s is welcome in this house.” He turns to Kurt. “Aren’t you going to offer your friend here something to drink?”
Kurt turns to Puck with a slight grimace. “What would you like? We have water, diet cola or milk?”
Puck starts to say he doesn’t need anything, when Mr. Hummel interrupts him. “Kurt, I’ve got a twelve-pack of root beer in my car. Why don’t you get Noah one of those?”
Kurt looks at his dad with a whiny little expression on his face. “But Dad, they won’t even be cold.”
“We’ve got ice, haven’t we,” Mr. Hummel says, and when Kurt looks like he’s going to throw one of his major diva fits, he cuts him off at the pass with a low, “Kurt.” Kurt spins around and stamps out.
As soon as Kurt’s well out of the room, Mr. Hummel turns back to Puck with a serious look in his eyes. “Noah, I think you and I need to come to an understanding. I realize you may have hurt Kurt in the past, but he obviously sees you as a friend now. If you ever hurt him from here on out though,” Mr. Hummels in a way that makes Puck shiver, “you’re going to wish you were dead.”
And Puck probably shouldn’t be offended at that. Before glee, Puck would’ve been first in line to throw Hummel into a dumpster, or slushie him, or throw him into some lockers. But those are the key words, aren’t they. ‘Before glee.’ Before glee, Puck would’ve done a helluva lot of things he wouldn’t think about doing now, ‘cause like it or not, glee has made him a different person.
“Mr. Hummel,” Puck says, “I’m not gonna lay one finger on Kurt. I’m not that kind of dude.”
Mr. Hummel looks at him then, and says, “I believe you Noah. I believe you’ll never lay a hand on my boy. But remember, some things hurt worse than physical pain. Words can cut just as deep as knives, Noah. Hell, sometimes they cut deeper.”
Then Mr. Hummel’s patting him on the back with a big smile on his face, and Kurt’s prancing back into the room with a fancy-ass glass of root beer on ice.
They spend ten minutes or so shooting the shit, then Mr. Hummel clears out for his bowling league. As he leaves the room, he sends Puck a glance that very clearly says, If you hurt my son, I’ll come after you with a cleaver.
Puck figures he’s probably screwed. He’s never really been any good at not saying the first thing that comes to mind, and his mind seems to be pretty mean.
Kurt seems completely oblivious to the undercurrent between Puck and Mr. Hummel, he just tells Mr. Hummel goodnight and makes him promise not to stay out too late.
As soon as they hear Mr. Hummel’s truck pull out of the driveway, Kurt practically pounces on Puck. “All right, I’ve waited long enough. Now out with it. What made you develop this sudden interest in gay sex?”
Puck pulls the paper bag from his pocket, and takes a swig from the bottle of Beam inside. “Irish courage,” he says, then offers the bag to Kurt. Kurt shakes his head, so Puck just shrugs and takes another swig. “Before I tell you this, I need your word that you won’t tell any of this to anyone.”
Kurt puts his hand over his heart. “I promise. No one. Ever.”
Puck growls, “If you do, when they pull your body from the dumpster this time it’ll be in a body bag.” He sighs then drinks once more from his bottle. “Quinn needs money for the doctor bills. So I started doing the cougars for money.”
“Only you would think prostitution was a good idea after watching ‘Pretty Woman,’” Kurt says, rolling his eyes. “So, what happened next.”
“It wasn’t enough money. One of my clients mentioned that her ex-husband had spent a fuck ton of money on male prostitutes. So I figured if I could get him to partake of the Puck experience often enough, Quinn wouldn’t have to give birth to our baby on the floor of the girl’s locker room.” Puck picks at the label on the bottle.
When Kurt touches his arm, Puck looks up at him. “That’s almost sweet of you, Puck, in a kind of creepy way. You know all of those people could be sent to prison, right. Heck, you could too. Prostitution is illegal, you know. But I guess it is one of very few skill sets you do have.” Kurt raises his knuckle to his mouth, lost in contemplation. “Honestly, it probably is the only way you’ll be able to pay off the pregnancy bills. Does Quinn know?”
Puck snorts. “Nah. I know I don’t have a shot in hell of getting with her again, but if she knew, she’d make sure I’d never get with anybody at school again. I really can’t handle two years without any action. I have needs.”
Kurt raises his eyebrow and gives him a funny kind of smile. “Yeah, I guess you do.” Then he changes topic completely. “So what do you have in place for protection?”
Puck feels himself blush. “Look I know I was stupid with Quinn, but that shit ain’t happening twice. I use condoms now, Christ.”
“That’s not what I mean.” And now Kurt’s blushing too. He says, “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a pimp. I mean, there’s a reason why prostitutes throughout the ages have used pimps; no matter how crooked they are they at least protect the prostitute’s interest.”
And Puck’s never really thought about it that way before. He’s always been a lone wolf, even more since Finn found out about the baby. But Puck’s a tough dude. He knows he can protect himself. “I’m not like you, sweetcheeks. I’m not frail as china. I can hold my own against anybody in school.”
“Yes, you can hold your own against any one person, unarmed. But what would happen if they had a knife? What about a gun? You need protection in place. Do you actually care about this baby?” Kurt’s voice has been rising steadily throughout, by the end it’s screeching.
“Yeah,” Puck says, and it’s practically torn out of him, how much he means it. “Yeah, of course I do. I wanna be there for her.”
Kurt plants his hands firmly on his hips. “Well, you have a mighty funny way of showing it. If you just step into this blind, you won’t be there for her birth, let alone for the rest of her life.”
Puck’s about to agree with Kurt, but he doesn’t even get his mouth open when he’s interrupted with: “Hey guys. Did you know there’s lawn furniture on your roof? Is that where the fairies live.” Puck turns and sees Brittany with at least two dozen bananas and an empty cat-carrier.
“Guess we’re all here, then,” Puck says, and heads off toward what he assumes it the kitchen, to lick his wounded pride.
Chapter 4: Teacher teach me tonight
Brittany and Kurt follow Puck into the kitchen too soon for Puck’s composure. He’s only managed to drink another shot worth of bourbon—root beer makes a terrible chaser.
“So, Brittany, what’s up with the cat-carrier? Lose a cat on your way over?” Puck asks, giving the empty carrier a poke.
“No. Duh. Kurt’s a cat. I brought it in case he wants to come home with me.” Brittany opens the door and says, “Look, Kurt. It has a feather toy and a bouncy ball and I even took the rest of Lord Tubbington’s catnip, see?”
“Brittany,” Kurt says, “what would possibly lead you to believe that I’m a cat?”
“Puck,” she responds, tossing her hair. “He calls you a pussy all the time.”
Puck snorts bourbon up his nose. Kurt glares at Puck and says, “Brittany, I’m not a cat.” Puck starts choking on bourbon fumes. He goes to drink some soda, to clear his throat, but somehow he takes a drink from the container in the wrong hand. The bourbon makes him choke more. Kurt’s look turns disparaging. “Puck’s just a moron,” he says.
Puck goes over to the kitchen sink and manages to drink enough water to subdue the cough.
Behind him, Brittany says to Kurt, “Guess what else I brought. Orange condoms. They don’t taste like oranges, though. They taste like tar.”
“That’s nice, Brittany,” Kurt says. “But I have to ask, why did you even bring condoms at all?”
“Banana outsides taste gross,” Brittany answers.
“Logical. I’m impressed,” Kurt says.
Puck finally turns back around. “So. We ready to get this party started?” he asks.
“Okay. Everybody take a banana and a condom,” Brittany says, passing them out. “Now put the condom on the banana.”
Kurt’s in the middle of trying to put the condom on upside down when Puck grabs the banana and helps him out. Kurt blushes so red he looks like he’s going to start something on fire. He shoots Puck a look. “Thanks,” he squeaks.
“No problem,” Puck says.
“So Brittany, what’s next?” Kurt asks in a strangled voice. He’s looking at the banana like it’s gonna eat him or something.
Puck figures he’s gotta be the one who gets this show on the road. “Yeah, Brittany. What’s a good way to start off giving head?”
Brittany looks at him a little vacantly. “Hey, Puck. Why am I teaching you how to give head? You’re not gay. We’ve had sex.”
Puck scrambles for a second. “Yeah, but Kurt’s too chickenshit to do this on his own, so I’m showing him anyone can do it.”
“That’s true,” Brittany says. “And it’s easier for guys. They don’t have gag reflexes.”
Puck and Kurt share a look. After a second Puck says, “How d’you figure that?”
“Because they have apples in their throats,” Brittany says.
Sadly, Brittany is wrong about the gag reflexes thing. Puck can’t even get half the banana in his mouth without feeling the intense need to upchuck.
Kurt’s just as bad at first, eyes watering and drool everywhere, but when Brittany says to try swallowing as they go down, Kurt’s suddenly three-fourths of the way down the banana, no problem. Puck stares, mesmerized, as Kurt’s head bobs, up-down, up-down, up-down. It’s kinda hot. Then he snaps out of it and reminds himself Kurt’s a dude, an extremely obnoxious dude whose dad is probably already going to kill Puck without any blowjobs involved.
Puck tries to get back on track with his own banana, but at some point he must’ve squeezed it too hard; now it’s complete mush. He grabs a new banana from the counter, throws a new condom on it and gets back to work—only to gag as soon as it’s a third of the way in his mouth.
Brittany walks over to him and pats him on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Puck,” she says. “Not everybody can deep-throat. Maybe you just suck at oral sex.”
Puck tosses the banana on the counter, pissed. “Maybe it’s because I’m not gay. Straight dudes aren’t supposed to be good at blow jobs. I’m great at oral with chicks. Hell, you know I’m great at oral with chicks, I went down on you.”
Brittany pats his arm again. “Yeah, I know you went down on me. Like I said, maybe you just suck at oral sex.”
Kurt clears his throat from behind them. Puck turns back to Kurt and doesn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved that he’s no longer felating the banana.
“Despite Puck’s inability to perform oral sex, I think we’ve all learned some valuable lessons here tonight,” Kurt says with a big smile. “Brittany, why don’t you take the rest of the bananas and your carrier and head home for the night. Thank you for being such an effective tutor in the arts of—of oral sex.”
Brittany looks at the cat-carrier then back at Kurt. “Are you sure you don’t want to come home with me? Lord Tubbington is a great roommate. His tongue tastes like rainbows.”
“Yes, Brittany, I’m sure,” Kurt says. As Brittany is gathering up the bananas, Kurt turns to Puck and pats him on the back. “Buck up champ. There’s always anal.”
“Who could we get to teach us anal sex? In this town?” Puck asks incredulously. “You’re like the only out dude in all of Lima.”
“You should ask Santana,” Brittany says, busy wrapping each of the bananas in condoms. “She never says no to anything. I know she’s done anal before.”
“Who with?” Puck asks, disbelievingly.
“Like I’d tell you,” Brittany says, wrinkling her nose.
“Tell me?” Kurt asks.
“Okay,” Brittany says, beckoning him over. She cups a hand and whispers something into his ear.
“No way!” Kurt says, giddy from gossip.
“I know, right,” Brittany says. Then, after a pause, continues, “I have to go now. Santana and I aren’t having sex on her kitchen table.”
Puck and Kurt look at each other then wave her goodbye.
“Well, tonight wasn’t a total wash. We know who to go to for anal, at least,” Kurt says.
“We?” Puck asks.
“Yes. We,” Kurt says, huffily. “I’ll join you in this little insanity, but only to keep you from getting shanked in a back alley. We can’t lose sectionals because we’re a member short.”
“You wouldn’t be a member short. We have Jesse now,” Puck says. He can feel a smile start to stretch across his face. “Admit it. Your dad was right.”
Kurt’s face goes bright red. “Um…” he says.
“We’re friends,” Puck says. He laughs a little. He never figured he’d have a gay dude for a friend, but he figures if he’s going to have one, there’s probably not a better one than Kurt.
Kurt sighs a little, then gives Puck a smile. “Friends. I can do that.” He shoots Puck a calculating look. “Since we’re friends and all now, I’ve been meaning to ask. Did you really wear a pink dress freshman year?”
Puck grins a wicked grin. “Nah.”
“I knew it,” Kurt says, smugly.
Puck says, “I just streaked.”
Kurt’s face goes red, then white, then red again. “Oh,” he says, faintly.
“Hey. I’ve been meaning to ask. Noah? What’s up with that?” Puck asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, well, that was just so my father didn’t slaughter you. I may have, at some point, mentioned that one ‘Puck’ throws me into dumpsters and ruins my clothes with slushies on a regular basis,” Kurt says, with a little sideways grin at Puck. “I figured calling you Noah was better for everyone involved.”
That’s when Mr. Hummel’s truck pulls back into the garage. Puck’s too busy gathering up condom wrappers and demolished bananas to wonder how he and Kurt had become friends.
Chapter 5: Everything's alright
I believe this is the only chapter of the story with actual non-con. It's only referenced here, and probably wouldn't even be considered non-con by most. But something non-consensual does happen in this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
The next day, Puck glares down at the little piece of paper in his hand. Kurt had pressed it into his palm the night before, saying, “Don’t do anything—don’t even think of doing anything—without contacting me first.”
The thing is, Puck’s really not a stupid guy. He knows it’s not really safe to be involved in prostitution, even in idyllic Lima, Ohio. But another thing Puck’s always been is stubborn. He hates depending on anyone.
Ever since his friendship with Finn petered out, though, he’s been feeling the absence in his life. It’s just—the thing he’s missing is a best guy friend. And no matter what Kurt’s like biologically, he’s really not a guy in the way that Puck’s used to guys being. He’s not hairy or rude or crude, and he’s really really not dirty, in either sense of the word. Kurt’s probably the cleanest dude Puck’s ever met.
As stupid as Finn always was, and as terrible as he would’ve been trying to help Puck out in this predicament, Puck would’ve been fine getting him involved in this. Finn was a man’s man. He watched porn and got into fights and he at least tried to have sex. Getting Finn into this wouldn’t really corrupt the dude at all. Getting Kurt involved, on the other hand—well Puck’s got this feeling he’s gonna rot in hell.
He stares at the piece of paper for a second longer before he figures, what the hell, he’s already doomed from impregnating the head of Celibacy Club anyhow. He picks up his cell and punches in the number Kurt’s written in loopy purple numbers. It doesn’t even get to the second ring before the other end is picked up and Kurt’s voice is sounding in his ear. “Oh thank god,” Kurt says in a breathy little voice.
“Yeah, I figure he’s not gonna be very involved in this. Unless he smites us.” Puck raps his knuckles against his nightstand. It’s plastic, but he figures it’s better than nothing.
Kurt giggles a little, almost as if he can’t help it.
“Whatever. So, why’d you want me to call anyway?” Puck asks. He’s getting antsy. After this is done he’s gonna go out and shoot some hoops, maybe even go on a jog. Get where he feels like he fits in his skin again.
“Now hear me out, okay?” Kurt says, his voice getting a little nervous. “I’ve come up with a plan, a foolproof plan.”
“I’m going to hate this, right?” Puck says.
“How am I supposed to answer that Puck? It’s not like I know you well enough to judge whether or not you’ll enjoy yourself,” Kurt says, sounding a little pissed off. “This isn’t exactly fun for me, you know. It’s not like I’ve been spending my days yearning for the day you’d get me involved in your sordid little prostitution schemes. I have a life, an actual life with—“
“Hummel,” Puck says, cutting him off. “What’s the plan already?”
“I don’t think I’m going to explain it to you. It’s several steps long, and I may need to change it depending on how everything goes,” Kurt says, his usual superior self.
“Fine,” Puck huffs. “What can you tell me?”
“Mm,” and now he’s back to sounding timid, “well, the first step, the first step is research.”
“Fuck, Hummel. I know you’re pissed at me, but c’mon. You can’t actually expect me to do homework on Saturday. Hell, you can’t expect me to do homework period.”
“Uh, not that kind of research Puckerman. What are you doing the rest of the day? Can we get together?” Kurt asks.
Puck feels his plans for the rest of the day slipping away. “Yeah, fine,” he says. “Meet over at your place again?”
“No!” Kurt yelps. And then a little more calmly, “No, that’s—that’s definitely not a good idea. Dad’s home today and this is not the kind of research that goes well with parental supervision. How about your place? Anybody home?”
“Well Ma’s at temple with Nana, and Sarah’s at Gracie Byerdorf’s house. So if you come over now we’d have about an hour,” Puck says.
“Okay. See you in about ten minutes,” Kurt says and hangs up before Puck can even try coming up with an excuse.
“Damn,” Puck says to himself, punching the wall behind his head. “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.”
Eight and a half minutes later, Kurt’s knocking on Puck’s front door. Puck yanks the door open and manhandles Kurt inside, saying “Christ, get in. Do you want the whole neighborhood to see you?”
Kurt still has one hand raised from knocking on the door. It looks so stupid, makes him look like a little kid somehow. Puck snorts, feeling his irritation vanish. He punches Kurt in the shoulder, giving him a little grin. “So. Research, huh?”
Kurt’s face goes blotchy-red startlingly fast. “Um,” he says, fist lowering. Kurt’s other hand twitches, making a crunching noise, and Puck notices the bag he has clutched in his fist. Kurt’s clutching the bag so tightly his knuckles are white.
Puck grabs the bottom of the bag and gives a fierce tug. The paper splits in two and half a dozen DVDs come tumbling out the bottom. On closer look, though, they’re not DVDs so much as—“Porn,” Puck crows, elbowing Kurt in the side. “Gay porn. Really filthy looking gay porn.”
Kurt won’t make eye contact with him, gaze trained on his boots. “Puck—“
But Puck cuts him off, “Look at you, Hummel. All growed up.” He gives Kurt a quick noogie, then bends over to scoop up the pornos. “Hm. What do we got? ‘Back Door Bliss.’ Nice. And, the ever popular ‘Oral Explosion.’ Oh, and my personal favorite, ‘To the Rim and Back.’ Wow. I never realized you were such a kinky fuck.”
Kurt’s face has been going steadily redder throughout. Finally he breaks. “You—you utter ass. Did you even wonder—even consider—how I got these in the first place? I’m underage! It’s not like I can just walk into Good Vibrations.”
“Uh—“ Puck says, but Kurt just keeps talking, which is kind of lucky ‘cause Puck’s got nothing.
“Do you know what I had to do?” Kurt says, eyes flashing with anger. “I had to watch a creepy pervert my Dad’s age m-m-masturbate.” And suddenly, between one breath and the next, he’s crying, big fat tears streaking his face. “I—I—“
Puck feels helpless, just completely helpless, but then Kurt’s sort of clutching onto his collar, weeping all over his shoulder. Without conscious thought, Puck’s hands come up, one patting Kurt’s back, the other in his hair.
“Sh, shhhhh,” he’s saying. “It’s all right. Everything’s all right.” And suddenly he remembers when Dad took off, and Noah was the one being comforted. Ma had held him, just like this. Said, Everything’s going to be all right, Noah. Hush. Hush now. And then she’d sung this song for him. His Ma’s voice isn’t really good, she always says she couldn’t hold a tune in a bucket, but just then—just that one moment—she had the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard.
So Puck strokes Kurt’s back and sings soft, soft and low, “Try not to be worried/Try not to turn on to/Problems that upset you/Don’t you know/Everything’s alright …”
It’s some indeterminate amount of time later when Kurt’s tears finally let up. He buries his face more deeply in Puck’s shoulder for a minute, then sighs and pulls back. In less than a minute he steps back into himself, reintroducing everything ‘Kurt’ to a body that had been lost only seconds before. Granted, he’s a Kurt that looks like crap, all blotchy skin and red eyes and wrinkled clothes, but it’s actually good to see him getting some of his own back.
“I know you think I’m silly, being upset over such a little thing,” Kurt says. His voice is rusty, like he smokes two packs a day, but at least he’s meeting Puck’s eyes again. “It’s just—I wanted it to be with someone I loved. I never learned about sex or watched porn or even looked at the guys in the shower room because I wanted to give everything to the man I loved. I know it’s not…well, it’s not exactly realistic, but…”
And this, this right here is the part Puck sucks at. He never knows what to say when chicks are all needy like this, and it’s even worse with Kurt. He keeps hearing his father’s voice saying, Boys don’t cry, son. “Uh—“ he starts.
Kurt starts speaking at almost the same time, grimacing a little. “It’s just—I didn’t ever think it would be this demeaning. I imagined roses and romantic walks in the moonlight and a picnic in central park. It was just so demeaning.”
This part, this part Puck has down. “What happened?” he asks.
Kurt’s gaze drops again. “Like I said, I couldn’t even get into the sex shop. But this guy outside said he would get me whatever I wanted if I would just watch while he—“ Kurt makes a little gesture with his wrist. It’s probably supposed to mean jerking off, but to Puck it looks more like a pantomime of rolling dice.
“Did you—“ Puck stops himself, starts again. “Where did this even go down?”
“In the alley, behind the shop. It, at least it didn’t last long.” Kurt sighs, closing his eyes. “When it was done, he went in and got the videos. I tried to give him money to pay for them, but he said they were on him. ‘For services rendered,’ he said.”
And something about that image just doesn’t sit right with Puck. He knows it’s hypocritical of him to think it’s fine if he’s doing it but not okay if it’s done to someone else, but he keeps seeing this image of Kurt in the alley, maybe kneeling, watching as this fat bastard goes at it. It makes him a little sick to his stomach.
He opens his mouth to say how he’s going to kill the jerk or maybe offer to let Kurt punch him, but instead, all that comes out is, “Thank you.”
But when Kurt looks at him, he doesn’t look at him like he messed up at all. He looks at Puck like he’s finally done something right.
Puck sings "Everything's Alright" from Andrew Lloyd Weber's "Jesus Christ Superstar." ...yeah, I don't even know what I was thinking, but as soon as the lyrics were down they weren't going to be changed. Whoops.
Chapter 6: Look ma, no hands
By the time his Ma gets home, Puck’s got both Kurt and Kurt’s porn tucked away up in his room. He’s in the kitchen making hot chocolate when his Ma comes in.
“Noah,” she says, kissing his forehead. “Sarah’s home already?” She’s looking at the cocoa.
“Nah,” Puck says. “I got a friend over.”
“Are you and that Hudson boy finally over your little spat?” she asks. “Thank God in heaven. You’ve been moodier than a cat in heat since you boys got into your little fight.” Puck’s Ma grabs a plate from the cupboard and puts some Oreos on it. “That boy has a sweet tooth a mile long. You’d better bring this up with you too.”
Puck stops her. He doesn’t know exactly what Kurt eats, but he does know, from a few too many glee discussions that he doesn’t eat cookies. Or cake. Or pie. Or butter. Normally Puck would just eat the cookies all himself, but he doesn’t have the stomach for it just now.
Puck says, “It’s not like that—Finn and I still didn’t make up. I got a new friend, Ma.” A throat clears behind him. Puck turns and shares half a smile with Kurt. “Ma, this is Hummel.” At Kurt’s raised eyebrow, Puck corrects himself, “Kurt. Kurt, this is my Ma.”
“Donna,” she says, holding her hand out. “You can call me Donna. So, how do you two boys know each other?” She glances at Kurt, looking at his hair and outfit then shoots an inscrutable look at Puck.
“Noah and I are in glee club together,” Kurt says, running a hand through his hair. “We’re working on a project.”
“Oh, what are you boys doing for your project?” she says, focusing all her attention on Kurt, like Puck’s not even in the room.
“We’re doing a mash-up,” Kurt says, clearly thinking fast. “Uh, we’re mixing Randy Newman and—and—oh! And David Bowie.”
“That sounds—well, that sounds interesting. I’m sure you boys will do a great job. That Mr. Scooter—“
“Schuester, Ma,” Puck corrects her.
“Scooter, Schuester, whatever. That Mr. Schuester doesn’t seem to know anybody in that glee club exists other than the Hudson boy. When he called me into his office after the boys fought it was all ‘Finn’ this and ‘Finn’ that. It must be difficult always being in that boy’s shadow.” She looks all pissed off, like she’s ready to go down to the school and give Mr. Schue a piece of her mind.
“Well Finn is a giant,” Kurt says and chuckles a little at his own joke. Puck’s Ma joins in, just to be nice Puck can tell. “But seriously, I know he’s a talented young man, but even Puck—excuse me—Noah has more potential than Finn. Personally, I’m planning on going to college in New York. Hopefully they’ll appreciate me a bit more over there.”
“Isn’t that nice,” Ma says. “Isn’t it nice that you care about college. I can’t get Noah to care about anything. Nothing but the girls and getting in fights and breaking his poor mother’s heart.”
Puck decides to cut that line of conversation off at the head. God only knows what would happen if the two of them got to talking about what a bad son he is. He slides the cocoa over to Kurt saying, “Think fast.”
Kurt nabs it at the last second, glaring at him. Then when he notices what he’s clutching he goes from a glare to a sort of soft look. “Thanks Noah.” He takes a big whiff of the cocoa, then says, “Mmm. I love warm beverages when—well any time really. Thank you.”
Puck’s Ma looks at Kurt like he’s the best thing since sliced bread. Puck thinks quick, says, “Okay, Ma. We’re gonna go work on our project. Upstairs. So if you hear any noises it’s just us working on our project.”
“Wait, Noah,” his Ma says, grabbing his arm. “Look at what a mess you are. Here.” And before he can lift a finger to stop her, she’s started the secret mom attack, spitting on a tissue and wiping his face. “I don’t know why you can never take care of yourself. Look at your friend here. I’m sure his mother never needs to iron his shirts or wash his hair. Am I right?”
Kurt’s breath all comes out in one big whoosh.
“Kurt’s Ma is dead,” Puck says, harsh.
“Oh,” she says, crushed. “Oh, you poor thing.” She smacks Puck then, hard, on the arm. “Noah, why didn’t you tell me? You should have told me.”
“It wasn’t for him to tell,” Kurt says. “It’s fine. Really. I’m fine. It’s been years now. It’s just—sometimes it still catches me off guard.” Kurt smiles a shaky smile at Puck’s Ma. Puck can see her heart melting.
“If you ever need anything, anything at all, you can always come to me. Costumes for those shows you boys put on or treats for class or help with the girls. Anything,” she says.
“Uh, I—I mean I don’t—um…” Kurt says, lost for words.
And yeah, Puck didn’t really plan on telling his Ma, but what the hell. “Kurt’s gay, Ma.”
She’s flabbergasted, Puck can tell. “You poor sweet boy,” she says. She’s taking it a helluva lot better than Puck thought she would. “A homosexual. And without a mother to go to. A man just can’t deal with that kind of thing the way a woman can. It’s the woman’s intuition. Well, you’re going to come to Tuesday night dinners from now on. And afterwards we can talk. You can tell me about the boys you like. And we can talk about other things.” She wiggles her eyebrows lewdly.
And that’s the last straw for Puck. That expression should never cross his mother’s face. “Great, Ma. Great. Hummel will come by for Tuesday night dinners. And now we need to go work on our project. Upstairs.” He grabs Kurt by the forearm and starts to lead him out of the room.
“It was lovely meeting you Mrs. Puckerman,” Kurt says, on the way out the door.
“Call me Donna,” Puck’s Ma calls.
When they get to his room, Puck flings himself on his bed. “She took that better than I expected.”
Kurt hits him over the head with a pillow. “Why, precisely, did you feel the need to out me to your mother?” he asks, all pissy.
“Huh?” Puck says.
“Seriously, Puck. Don’t you know it’s a very personal thing to tell someone about your sexuality?” Kurt sighs, sitting on Puck’s desk chair. “She’ll probably hate me now.”
“Are you kidding? She already likes you more than me. She’s probably on the phone with your Dad right now asking him to trade sons,” Puck says.
“You really think she likes me?” Kurt asks, straightening up in his seat.
Puck just looks at him, giving him a sharp nod.
Kurt’s whole face seems to light up.
Puck starts flipping through the pornos for something to do. Kurt catches him at it and suddenly goes still, still enough Puck has to check to make sure Kurt’s still breathing.
He looks down at the pornos, back at Kurt. “You don’t have to watch this shit, Hummel,” he says. “I can watch them on my own after you leave, or hell, we can burn them for all I care.”
“I want to watch,” Kurt says seemingly shocked at his own words. But he doesn’t take them back. “I—it wasn’t fair—what happened wasn’t fair. He tried to make sex into something dirty—wrong. But it isn’t, right?”
Puck smiles to himself. “Nah. Not always. Sex is—intense. It’s like, you lose total control of your body or something.” He thinks back to that time with Mrs. S. “But you’re right. People can make you feel like you’re dirty—like it’s dirty. You know what I say? Screw ‘em.”
“Screw ‘em,” Kurt says contemplatively. “Okay. Okay. So these,” he gestures at the videos. “Are they—will they be accurate? Will they show what it’s really like?”
Puck looks through the videos. The cover of ‘Oral Explosion’ seems the most likely. Both guys seem to be really getting off on it, not just the guy getting the blow job but the guy giving it as well.
“Here,” Puck says, holding the porno up for Kurt to approve. “That look okay to you?”
Kurt flushes a bright bright red. He says, “I trust your superior judgment.”
Puck gets up and grabs Kurt’s shoulders then, making eye contact. “If this freaks you out, you let me know. We’ll stop the porno. Maybe put some ‘Friends’ on instead or something. Got it?”
“Got it,” Kurt says, sounding relieved.
Puck goes over to his little crappy TV and puts the DVD in the player. The title menu starts up. Behind him, he hears Kurt gasp as images of guys going down on each other pop up on screen, one after another. He hits play, turning around to shoot Kurt a wolf grin. Kurt’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his head, they’re so huge. He’s got a hand covering his mouth, while the other has a white-knuckled grip on the arm of the chair. Puck chuckles as he slumps back onto the bed, propping himself up with a couple pillows.
The porn is good, no real plot, just two guys in a bedroom. They start fully dressed, making out with lots of tongue, then strip down to boxer-briefs, adding some nipple play. Both of the guys are obviously hard, bulges clear in their underwear. After a couple minutes they lose their underwear too, and then it’s on to the main show. The guy lying down starts pushing the guy on top of him towards his cock. The guy on top whines, sounding wrecked.
To the side of him, Puck hears Kurt whine too. He’s moved so now both hands are gripping the chair arms, body squirming a little. His mouth is open; he’s panting a little, flushed, and staring at the two guys on the TV like they’re the Holy Grail or something.
It must be some general rule of porn or something that it’s really erotic, no matter what, because Puck’s hard in his jeans. He reaches down to adjust himself and hears a moan from Kurt.
Puck turns back to the TV figuring the porn must’ve gotten really hot. And it has, the cock-sucking is already well underway. The guy on top is deepthroating the other guy’s cock like it’s the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth. The thing that’s really awesome about it is the guy giving the blow job is really hard too. As Puck watches the guy on top starts jacking himself, hard. And Puck’s really frickin’ turned on.
One of Puck’s favorite pornos is this chick giving this dude a blow job. Only the chick gets so turned on by in she starts to get herself off. By the time the dude comes, she’s come three times.
On screen, the guy getting the blow job starts pulling the other guy’s hair. The guy sucking him comes up a little, cock sliding out of his mouth. And then the guy on bottom sits up a little, starts fucking into his fist. He pulls the other guy down, then comes all over his face.
Puck hears Kurt make a little squeak. When he turns to him, Kurt’s this mixture of fucked out and embarrassed. Puck’s eyes trace down Kurt’s body ‘til he sees, yep, the boy came in his pants.
“Geez, what’s wrong with you,” Puck says. Kurt turns big scared eyes on him. “Why didn’t you just rub one out like a normal person?”
Kurt raises one eyebrow. “Are you telling me it’s normal to masturbate in front of somebody else? Is this something you normally do?”
“Well, yeah,” Puck says. “Finn and I watch porn together all the time. What, do you think we just don’t come because there’s another dude there? Come on, Hummel.”
“Why, why, why,” Kurt says, “didn’t I just pretend I was straight all these years? I could’ve seen what Finn’s dick looks like.” He claps his hand over his mouth. “Uh—I don’t suppose I could convince you to pretend I never said that?”
Puck shoots him a look.
Kurt sighs. “Fine. Just let me know before you tell him. I’d rather not die in last season’s clothes.”
“I’m not gonna tell him, you moron,” Puck says, getting up from the bed. “You know he’s totally not into dudes, right? And if he ever did go for dudes it would be for older ones. I think he has a man-crush on Mr. Schue.”
“No way,” Kurt says, fluffing his bangs. “He thinks of Mr. Schuester as a father figure.”
“Oh come on, have you seen the way he looks at him when he sings ‘Journey.’ Finn wants to have his love-child,” Puck says. “But seriously, Hummel. You gotta get over that. This is me telling you as a friend. It’s never gonna happen.”
“I know,” Kurt says, looking down at his hands. “I know. But a boy can dream, can’t he.”
Puck goes over to his dresser and pulls open a drawer, digging around inside ‘til he has what he wanted. He turns back to Kurt. “Here,” he says, holding out a pair of sweatpants.
“Oh,” Kurt says, flushing and looking away. “Thanks. Do you have a restroom?”
Puck directs him down the hall. He flops back on the bed, noticing the action has moved on to a new pair of dudes. This time they’re in a gym. The one dude sits on a bench, and the other dude kneels in front of him, pulling his shorts down, out of the way. Puck gives his cock a half-hearted pull through the denim.
The kneeling guy has just started mouthing his way down the other guy’s cock when Kurt comes back. Kurt stares from the doorway. “Well, this is one scene I never pictured. If I had I might have stayed on the football team a little longer.”
On screen, the guy sitting down suddenly thrusts up into the other guy’s mouth, hard. The camera angle changes, zooms in on the kneeling guy’s face. He’s gagging on the cock and crying a little.
“Huh,” Kurt says, moving back to the chair. “Looks like there may be a call for your services after all.” The television shows the tear tracks slowly lengthening, finally dripping to the floor.
Chapter 7: Step 1.5
I took a few liberties with this one--sort of implied Puck had never watched news before in his life. What? It's possible.
It’s a few hours after Kurt’s left when Puck notices the email sitting in his inbox:
Subject: The current plan to establish you as a male purveyor of sexual favors (subject to change)
Here it is, in all its glory. Don’t even think about acting on this on your own. We will start in on step two of the plan tomorrow. If you feel terribly motivated tonight, let me know. I’ve thought of a step 1.5 we can add to the process.
2. Q&A with Santana and Brittany (scheduled for 12:30 tomorrow).
3. Obtain protection (tentatively scheduled during school hours Monday).
4. Establish yourself on the scene (tentatively scheduled after school Monday).
5. First appointment (???-to be determined).
I hope this satisfies you. Let me know if you have any questions or additions I should take into consideration.
p.s. I had to go through Berry to get this email address, so don’t be surprised if she tries to contact you tonight. Is there a reason you never check your school email? FYI, to set her off the track I had to tell her we’re performing a mash-up together on Wednesday.
Puck checks his spam box(he put Berry’s email address in spam after she sent him one too many of those creepy cat-people cards), and there they are. Five progressively more pissy emails from Berry, including one about how Puck and Kurt will sound worse together than Gwyneth Paltrow and Huey Lewis, whatever the hell that means. He sends off a quick message back to her saying he has to do it for community service or some shit, hoping it will cool her the hell down.
Then he goes back to Kurt’s message and hits reply:
Subject: what the hell man
dude did you really have to sic berry on me??? she sent me five emails already. gonna be a long fucking night.
and what the hell? Brittany? seriously, man, don’t you get that i don’t want everybody in school to know about this shit???
also, no way in hell am i doing a duet w/ u.
oh, what the hell. what's up with 1.5 anyway?
He doesn’t even have to wait five minutes before there’s a ping in his inbox. He opens Kurt’s response:
Subject: re: what the hell
Whoops. Well, really Berry wasn’t all my fault. If you’d just given me your email in the first place I would never have been forced to resort to getting my information from her. Hopefully she’ll be unduly impressed when we perform on Wednesday. (Which we are going to do, no matter what you say about it. I already set it up with Mr. Schue.)
And Brittany really wasn’t my fault. Santana absolutely refused to take part in our little info session without (a) Brittany taking part and (b) a meal from Breadstix. Considering how averse you are to Brittany’s participation, I’m willing to pay for our meal.
Step 1.5 is “Know your enemy” which I believe is pretty self-explanatory. You mentioned that you had a specific client in mind, so look him up online. See what dirt you can find on him.
One half of the best duet in history,
Puck chuckles a little, then checks back in his spam box. Two more emails from Berry, subjects: “Some Ideas on Which Artist You Should Sing,” and “Captain and Tennille! A Duet Made In Heaven!” Puck sighs. It looks like he was right. It really is gonna be a long night.
After five minutes of no response from Puck online, Berry had switched to his cell phone. Puck put it on silent, but Berry was even more devious than expected. After another ten minutes and half-a-dozen calls from Berry, Puck’s Ma had called up the stairs. “Phone call for you, Noah.”
“Who is it?” Puck had asked.
“That nice girl from temple. You know. Rachel,” his Ma had said.
“Shit. Tell her I’m sick. No, wait, tell her I’m dead,” Puck had said, but by that point Puck’s Ma had been at his door and after the five minute tongue lashing he got from her, he was forced to actually have a civilized conversation with Berry. That went on for an hour. Eventually he’d had to tell her Barbara Streisand was in town for a surprise book signing just to get her to hang up.
That was half an hour ago. Now he’s just trying to figure out whether or not he actually wants to follow Kurt’s ‘Step 1.5.’
In the end he figures what the hell. He opens a browser and types ‘allen hooper’ in the google bar. He ends up with tons of info, only it’s info on the wrong Allen Hooper—some dude who casts movies in LA. He goes back up to the address bar and adds ‘lima oh.’
And there he is, smiling a smarmy smile right back at Puck. The caption for the picture reads, “Allen Hooper, WOKL News.” He clicks the link, and there the picture is again, only bigger. The guy is built like a linebacker, all broad shoulders and big arms. Puck can’t figure out how old the guy is—he looks like he could be anywhere between thirty and fifty. Allen Hooper’s got black hair and a smile that doesn’t really reach his eyes. He looks a little like Frankenstein.
Puck reads the paragraph article. There’s not much there, just where he went to college, and how long he’s been with the station, and that the dude loves football (which anyone with eyes could see from looking at the guy). He’s the lead anchor, though, whatever that means. Puck figures that’s gotta count for something. He takes out a pen and writes on the back of his hand: ‘Frankenstein’, ‘football’, and ‘WOKL.’ He figure’s that’ll be enough to keep Kurt off his case tomorrow.
Then he brings up his favorite porno. He deserves it after spending a full hour talking to Berry.
Puck wakes up at noon on Sunday. To Kurt Hummel pounding on his bedroom door. So much for a nice Sunday-morning session with his right hand.
“Puck,” Kurt’s voice seeps through the door. “Noah Puckerman, if you’re not out here in the next ten seconds I will not be held accountable for my actions. One…Two…Three…”
Puck rolls out of bed and grabs his jeans. Kurt’s at “Seven” when Puck pulls the door open. Puck glares at Kurt. Kurt glares back, then his eyes sort of drift downward. “You—you’re not wearing a shirt.”
“Got it in one, Princess. Want to know what else I’m not wearing?” Puck says.
Kurt swallows hard. His eyes track up and down Puck’s body so fast Puck’s not sure if he just imagined it. Then Kurt seems to shake himself out of it. “Ew. Gross. Put a shirt on Puck.”
Puck grabs his shirt from yesterday off the floor. He gives the armpits a sniff. Then, satisfied, he pulls the shirt over his head.
Kurt’s staring at him, mouth hanging a little open. “Oh no. Tell me you did not just do that. Do you honestly rewear clothes? Without washing and ironing them first?”
“Sorry to have to break this to you Sweetcheeks,” Puck says, “but I’ve never ironed before in my life.”
Then behind him, Puck’s Ma says, “That’s right. It’s because I do it for him. Never should have done it in the first place, but when he was six years old I never imagined I’d still be doing it ten years later.” She pushes past Kurt, and gives Puck a once-over, then tsks, “Tch-tchk. You’re not wearing that out of this house, Noah. Here.”
She hands him a striped button-down shirt he’s never seen before. If he had it’d be in the trash by now. He wears enough of that shit at glee, there’s no way he’s wearing it anywhere else.
But then Kurt’s saying, “Ooh. Look at that.” He takes the shirt from Puck’s hands and holds it up to his neck kind of like he’s picturing how it would look on Puck or something. “This color would be absolutely perfect for you, Noah. Lavender brings out your skin-tone like you wouldn’t believe.”
Puck preens for a second, then remembers how he doesn’t even like the shirt. “I’m not wearing this crap. It’s purple. There’s no way you’re getting me to wear a purple shirt.”
“Noah, we do not use those words in this household,” Puck’s Ma says, while Kurt’s saying, “We just wore lavender for glee last week.”
“Ma, crap’s not a bad word,” Puck says, then turns to Kurt. “And you. It’s one thing when Berry forces me to wear something. It’s impossible to change that girl’s mind. But there is no way you’re getting me to wear a purple shirt.”
Puck and Kurt pull up (in Kurt’s Navigator) in front of Santana’s house fifteen minutes later. Puck is driving. He is also wearing the purple shirt (after five minutes of Kurt and Puck’s Ma talking about what a bad son Puck was, Puck finally pulled it on in self-defense—Puck’s pretty sure Kurt just let him drive so he wouldn’t get strangled as soon as they were alone together).
While waiting for the girls to make an appearance, Puck half-turned towards Kurt. “So, ‘Step 1.5.’ Dude, you gotta admit that’s a really gay name for it, right?”
“Whatever. So, here’s what I found out.” Puck waved his hand in front of Kurt’s face a little, to get him to see the words written on it.
“You wrote on your hand. Do you know how terrible that is for your skin? Why am I even surprised anymore?” Kurt said, grabbing Puck’s hand and holding it still. “Frankenstein—so he animates dead matter in his free time?”
“Nah. He just looks like Frankenstein,” Puck said.
“You mean Frankenstein’s monster?” Kurt said.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever man,” Puck says.
“Football,” Kurt says. “So he’s a football player?”
“He’s not professional or anything. Just plays in his free-time,” Puck says.
“And what’s this last one. Woah? Is he really rich or something?” Kurt asks.
“No. That’s WOKL. That’s where he works,” Puck says.
“So, what, he’s a lighting guy or something?” Kurt asks.
“No, I think he was a ‘news actor’ or some shit. News actor. Does that mean they act the news out for people?” Puck chuckles, thinking about this dude acting out the winners of a Cheer competition. The dude would look seriously fucked up in a Cheerios uniform.
When Puck comes back to the conversation, Kurt looks like he’s about to have a stroke or something. Kurt says, “News Anchor. He’s a News Anchor! Puck, are you serious? A News Anchor? Please tell me you’re not planning to bed Allen Hooper.”
“I’m not planning to bed Allen Hooper,” Puck says.
“Thank god,” Kurt says.
“I figure he’ll want to do it in the office or something,” Puck says.
“Puck! Are you mental? Is there actually something wrong with you? Allen Hooper has single-handedly won the title of “Ohio’s Number One News Channel” for WOKL five years running! And when I say single-handedly, I mean single-handedly. He’s the only anchor they have. He’s so good that every time they try to pair somebody up with him they leave in tears, never to anchor again they think they’re so inferior. I heard that Nancy Dixon honestly ended up in a nut-house. Seriously Puck, are you completely bonkers? This man has charisma pouring out his ears. There is no way he’ll sleep with you!”
Chapter 8: Better than sliced Breadstix
Puck never noticed before, but Kurt’s sullen when he’s pissed. From his seat behind Puck he’s completely quiet. Every time Puck’s eyes land on him in the rear-view mirror Kurt’s glaring right back at him, arms crossed and chin raised. Puck flips the rear-view mirror up so he can’t see Kurt in it anymore.
“Is there a reason why all the presets in this car are set to Broadway shit? Jesus, Hummel. You’re such a pussy,” Santana says, flicking buttons on the console. She’d pulled Kurt out of the front seat as soon as he’d opened the door, shouting “Shotgun” and claiming it for her own.
“I like Broad Way,” Brittany says from her seat behind Santana. “Sometimes I walk on Broad Way in the middle of the night without any clothes on.”
“You’re thinking of Broad Street, Brittany,” Santana says. “Wait, you walk naked downtown?”
“Uh huh,” Brittany says.
“Is that why there was a ten-car pile-up last month?” Santana asks.
“Yeah, totally,” Brittany says. “It was awesome. Like fireworks.”
They pull up to the restaurant. Puck gets a spot right next to the door—score. Santana hits him in the arm. Puck winces, Santana hits frickin’ hard. “Are you trying to turn me into a fat person? How am I supposed to burn off all the calories from eating at Breadstix when you park right next to the door?” she asks.
Puck rolls his eyes. “Christ, fine,” he says under his breath and pulls back out. He circles half-way around the building and parks in the back where the employees park.
“Oh, great,” Santana says. “Now Brittany and I are going to have blisters on our feet from walking half-way across the country just to get a free meal.”
Kurt chuckles from the back seat. Not so quiet after all.
“Did you know when you touch your pointer fingers together and hold them right in front of your eyes it looks like you just have one long finger?” Brittany says.
Puck sighs and gets out of the SUV. At least he has a free meal from Breadstix to look forward to.
Kurt had tried to sit across the table from Puck, but the girls squeezed into one side of the booth together too fast for him to maneuver successfully. So it was boy-boy girl-girl, and at least the boy side of the table was uncomfortable as hell.
“So you wanted to know about anal,” Santana says to Kurt just as the waitress walks up to their table.
Kurt’s ears go bright red. “Retentiveness,” Kurt blurts out. “Anal retentiveness. Yes, I did want to know about anal retentiveness Santana, thank you for asking.” He sends a wobbly smile to the server.
“That’s not what you said on the phone,” Brittany says. “You said you wanted to learn about anal sex.”
Kurt’s eyes go big, and he reaches across the table, covering both of the girls’ mouths with a hand on each. He looks at the waitress. “I don’t suppose I could get you to believe we’re rehearsing a play?”
“I really don’t care what you’re doing kid,” she says. “All I care about is whether or not you’re ready to order.”
Puck steps in then. “Yeah, we need a minute. Could you get us all cokes?” Brittany and Santana make protesting noises from under Kurt’s palms while Kurt says, “Diet coke for me please.”
“Three diets and a regular. Got it,” the waitress says then walks away.
All of a sudden Kurt makes a little gasp sound from next to him, pulling his hands back toward himself and looking at one critically. “You licked me,” he says. “Brittany, why did you lick me?”
“I wanted to know whether or not you were really a cat,” Brittany says.
“And you thought licking me was the easiest way to find out?” Kurt says. “For the last time, Brittany I am not a cat.”
“Is he a catperson Brittany?” Santana asks, like Kurt never even opened his mouth.
“I can’t tell,” Brittany says. “He tastes like cat but also like popcorn.”
“I sincerely hope you’re talking about the food, and not the reptile,” Kurt says.
“So what are you getting, Brit?” Santana asks.
“Mac ‘n’ cheese,” Brittany says, “with chocolate syrup. What are you getting?”
“Marinara,” Santana says then turns back to Kurt. “So do you want to learn at the feet of the master or don’t you?”
“I don’t,” Kurt says. Puck elbows him in the ribs. Hard. “Do,” Kurt corrects himself, choking a little. “I do, most definitely, want to learn what you have to teach me.”
“Yeah, what’s up with anal?” Puck says. “Little Kurt here really wants to know how to do the dirty deed.”
“You did not just call it that,” Kurt says, all huffy. “This, from a boy who’s planning on giving it up to—“
Puck elbows him again, cutting him off with, “Come on, Santana.”
Santana gives him a considering look then turns to Kurt. “Okay, so here’s the deal. Anal is just like regular sex for a girl, frickin’ painful the first few times, then boring. Get him to buy you dinner first, then bitch and moan about how much it hurts afterwards and he might get you jewelry. Or electronics.”
“Wait, it’s painful,” Puck says. “How painful are we talking here?”
“I don’t know,” Santana says. “It frickin’ hurts, all right?”
“On a scale from having a tooth knocked out painful to getting a compound fracture painful, how painful?” Puck asks.
“Getting run over by a car,” Santana says then gives him a calculating look. “Wait a second. Why do you even care, anyway?”
“What. I don’t,” Puck says, backpedaling. “Just looking out for my man Kurt here.”
“Mm hm,” Santana says. “Kurt is it? Not ‘homo’ or ‘fag’ or even ‘Hummel.’ Kurt. My man Kurt.” Her eyes light up with unholy joy. Puck is instantly terrified. “Oh my god. You two are totally boning each other. You’re gonna fuck Hummel up the ass and don’t want to hurt him. Or, wait... You never cared about whether or not you hurt me... He’s gonna do you! He’s gonna take your ass virginity!”
“Three diets and a regular,” the waitress says, putting the glasses of soda down in front of them.
This time Puck’s the one with a hand across Santana’s mouth. “Hummel and I aren’t dating,” he tells the server. She raises her eyebrows in what he takes for disbelief. “No, really,” he says. “I’m not even gay.”
“He’s not gay,” Brittany says.
“Thanks Brit,” Puck says.
“He just wants to know how to deep throat and have anal sex. But he’s not gay. Really,” Brittany says. “We did it. It was really bad.”
“Thanks a whole lot, Brit,” Puck says. Kurt giggles next to him.
“You’re not ready to order, then?” the waitress says. “Put your menus on the end of the table when you’re ready.”
After giving him the cold shoulder through the entire first plate, Kurt seemed to be too mortified by Brittany and Santana sending all their food back to hold up his resentment toward Puck. He shot Puck a look that seemed to say, I’m done being mad at you for now, but wait, just wait, until we’re alone again. Kurt’s looks were really deep.
Everyone’s almost done with their second plates of pasta when Santana gets back to talking about sex again.
“Just remember the three ‘L’s, lube, latex, and oral,” Santana says.
“Okay, I’m confused. Why is oral included? It doesn’t start with an ‘L’,” Kurt says.
“It has an ‘L’ in it, doesn’t it?” Santana says.
Kurt frowns a little. “Yes, but usually when you make a list like that it’s composed of all words that start with the same letter. For instance—“
“Jesus Christ, Hummel,” Santana says. “If I wanted to talk to Berry, I’d have gone out to eat with Berry. Actually, no. If I wanted to talk to Berry I’d shoot myself in the head.”
For some reason that pissed Puck off. “You’re such a bitch, Santana. Just because Kurt has a better voice than you, it’s no reason to treat him like shit. He’s right. It shouldn’t be ‘the three ‘L’s’ if there aren’t three ‘L’s.”
“Look at you, standing up for your boyfriend. Fine, we’ll call it ‘LOL.’ It’ll get confused with emoticons. Yay,” Santana said, dryly
“Emoticons confuse me,” Brittany said. “Are they happy? Are they sad? It’s too confusing.”
“I know, Brit,” Santana said. “When we get home, I’ll explain them to you again.”
“We aren’t dating!” Puck said. He was really starting to get pissed that everyone seemed to assume that the two of them were like going steady or something. “This is such bullshit.”
“Puck’s right, we’re not dating,” Kurt says. Then he brushes his thumb across Puck’s lower lip. “We’re just having sex,” he says, raising his eyebrow at Puck. “Can you really blame me? Have you seen this boy’s abs? It’s like he’s a modern-day Da Vinci.”
Puck feels himself blush, for some reason. He opens his mouth to say how wrong, wrong, wrong Kurt is. Then Kurt leans toward him and whispers in his ear, “Just play along, Puckerman. Trust me on this one.” Puck’s mouth closes, almost against his volition. He turns back to the girls.
“I love Da Vinci,” Brittany’s saying. “Especially in ‘Old School.’”
“That’s so hot,” Santana says, looking between the two of them. “So, which one of you tops?”
Kurt smiles a private little smile. “We’d rather not say. I hope you understand. It’s something very private for homosexual and bisexual men.” He turns his smile on Puck. “Suffice it to say, Pucky here is a Titan in the sack.”
“Separate checks?” the waitress asks, giving them all a quick glare.
“Actually,” Kurt pauses for a second while he checks the server’s name-tag, “Sandy, I’ll take the check.”
“I knew it,” Santana crows as the waitress hands the check to Kurt. “I knew Hummel was fucking you up the ass.” She laughs low and long.
The waitress sighs a little bit, but when she sees the tip Kurt leaves, she gets an extra bounce in her step.
“For all the inconvenience,” Kurt says to her with a little smile.
“Thank you sir, please come back again,” the waitress says as they’re getting up to leave. She pulls Kurt a little closer. “Only, next time just bring the boyfriend. Leave the fag-hags at home, hey?”
Kurt’s smile freezes into place. “Right. We’re leaving, now. Buh-bye.”
“Santana, what’s a fag-hag?” Brittany says. “Is that like Lebanese people?”
“What? No,” Santana says, then gives Brittany a funny look. “Lebanese people? Really?”
“Yeah, Lebanese. Like, what you and me are like when we play doctor,” Brittany says.
Puck follows Santana and Brittany to the SUV listening to their argument about what constitutes Lebanesity. Whatever the hell that means.
They get back into the Navigator, Kurt in the driver’s seat this time. Before he starts the car, though, he turns to the girls and says, “If you ever tell anyone about me and Puck, I’ll be forced to remove your eyeballs with a spoon. Any questions?”
Santana just shakes her head no.
“What was I supposed to know about you and Puck again?” Brittany asks.
“Nothing, Brittany,” Kurt says, starting the car and pulling out. “Now who’s up for ice cream?”
As he’s licking the double-fudge swirl cone Kurt bought him, Puck’s inner bliss is interrupted by Kurt saying, “So I get why everything else is included, but why is oral on the list anyway?”
“What?” Puck says. Then he remembers the list. Santana’s stupid-ass list of anal sex. He thinks about it for a second, then remembers the banana disaster. “Actually, Hummel’s right. Why oral?”
“Well,” Santana says around a spoonful of black forest cake ice cream, “think about it. If you blow a guy first, he’s gonna blow his wad a heckuva lot faster than if you don’t.”
“Totally true,” Brittany says. She’s decimating a double scoop cone: bubble-gum and lemon-meringue.
“But what if somebody has a tendency to gag,” Kurt says, pointedly looking away from Puck. “Wouldn’t it be better to just deal with the anal?”
“You mean somebody like Puck? He’s really bad at oral sex,” Brittany tells Santana.
“How do you even know that?” Santana asks Brittany. Then she turns to Kurt. “Yeah, you can just let him fuck you. If you don’t mind not being able to sit the rest of the week,” Santana says.
“Huh, well I guess oral’s in then,” Kurt says. He looks down at his banana ice cream like he doesn’t even know why he bought it.
Puck’s appetite’s pretty much gone, too.
But he finishes his ice cream anyhow for good luck. His Nana always says ‘the sun won’t shine tomorrow unless you clear your plate.’ Puck figures he’s gonna need all the help he can get.
Chapter 9: Super secret ninja stealth
The next morning Kurt corners Puck before he can even get into school. “We need to talk,” he says.
“C’mon Hummel,” Puck says, “it’s too early for this crap.”
By the time Puck’s done talking he finds himself back in the shed again, with a weird sense of déjà vu.
“Allen Hooper? Really, Puck?” Kurt says, arms crossed looking all pissy.
“Yeah, well, what about you,” Puck says. “You told Brittany and Santana we were having sex. What the hell, Hummel?”
“That was very simply self-preservation. This business with Allen Hooper is exactly the opposite.” Kurt sighs and drops his arms. “Do you know how much influence this man has? He’s news program is the most watched news program in the entire Midwest! Couldn’t you just settle for your average middle-age millionaire and leave Allen Hooper to the women?”
“Wait, what do you mean ‘women’?” Puck says. “The dude is gay.”
“Just because he looked at you in the super market, or wherever else, doesn’t mean he’s gay, Puckerman. It just means he was bored waiting for his eggplant to get tabulated on the scale.”
“Does anybody actually buy those things?” Puck asks.
“What?” Kurt asks.
“Eggplants,” Puck says.
“Yes, people actually buy eggplants. I actually buy eggplants. They’re fantastic roasted, and moussaka is one of my favorite dishes,” Kurt says, then gives Puck a steely-eyed look. “Why are you changing the subject?”
“I’m not changing the subject,” Puck says, running his hands through his ‘hawk. “Anyway, I’m right. The dude’s gay. I have proof and everything.”
“Oh, really,” Kurt says. “What kind of proof do you have?”
“His ex-wife caught him sleeping with a manwhore,” Puck says.
Kurt looks at him for a second, then his eyes grow huge in his head. “Oh my goodness. You’re serious. His wife caught him with—Wait a second. How do you know his wife caught him with a male prostitute?”
“ ‘Cause I sleep with her sometimes,” Puck says, shrugging.
Kurt thwaps him with his man-purse a bunch of times. “What is wrong with you? You’re planning on sleeping with a husband and wife? What’s next? Are you gonna bring the kids into the mix?”
“Ex-husband and ex-wife,” Puck says, holding his arms up defensively. “Christ, what the hell is wrong with you.”
Kurt stops swinging the bag. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I just—I thought better of you than this.”
“What the fuck about this situation would make you think I’m anything other than dirt, Hummel?” Puck says. “I’m sleeping with people for money. This ain’t no fairy tale Princess. No one’s gonna climb my fire escape just to sweep me away in a limo. I’m not sure if you noticed, but I don’t have a fire escape. This is real life. You’re just gonna have to accept that. Unless you want out.”
Kurt turns away and starts walking to the door. “I’m in this for the long haul, Noah Puckerman,” he says over his shoulder. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy. Even if you did choose the stupidest person imaginable to lose your anal virginity to.”
“Oh, come on,” Puck says, following Kurt outside. “There’s gotta be somebody worse than Allen Hooper.”
“Really? Who?” Kurt asks.
“What about Bob Barker?” Puck says.
Kurt giggles a little as they walk into school. “You’re right. That would be worse.”
“Yeah, just picture it. You’re in the middle of things and suddenly he’s all, ‘That’s toooooo much.’ It would totally kill the mood,” Puck says.
Kurt snorts, then covers his mouth. “Oh my god. You’re a total moron.”
“I may be a moron, but I’m a damn pretty one,” Puck says slinging an arm over Kurt’s shoulder. He feels a smile stretched across his face. He’s not sure what put it there, but he’s not questioning it.
As they enter school, Kurt shakes Puck’s arm off of him, then corners Lauren Zizes. Puck comes up behind him, just as he’s saying, “So what would it take you to work out a full protection detail?”
Puck feels his eyebrows shoot up. “Hummel, do you really think Zizes is the right person to—“
“Sh,” Kurt cuts him off, swatting at his chest. “The adults are talking. Now, Zizes, what do you say?”
Zizes shoves her glasses up her nose. “I could consider, provided you offer an even dozen boxes of a different confection for every job. How many people do you want on this detail?”
“I’m thinking half-a-dozen would suffice,” Kurt says.
“What!” Puck says. “No way. I just need one person. Somebody scary as fuck. Maybe Santana. Or your dad.”
Zizes shoves him up against a locker. “What. You sayin’ I’m not scary enough for you? I once broke someone’s sternum just by sitting on him.”
Puck tries to push Zizes arms off his chest. Then he tries harder. Finally he just gives up. “Okay, fine. You’re scary.” Zizes gives a little push to his chest. “You’re really scary,” he chokes out. “But I still don’t want six people involved in this.”
“Puck, from now on, you’re leaving the actual thinking parts of this to me,” Kurt says. Puck can just barely see his hair over Zizes’ shoulder.
“Hummel, remember what I said about not wanting everybody in school to know about it? I think having a six-person security detail would make it a little obvious.” Puck tries to direct his voice in Kurt’s general direction, but he’s not really sure Kurt’ll be able to hear. Lauren’s got him by his throat, so his voice is practically gone.
After a minute that seems more like an eternity from Puck’s position, Kurt says, “Lauren, drop it. What about if you just did this all yourself? What would be the payment, then?”
Zizes turns back to Kurt. “Like I said, a dozen boxes of different confections. What’s the matter, Hummel? You deaf or something?”
“Or something, all right,” Kurt says, looking at Puck. After a few seconds he walks over and smacks Puck on the back, hard. “Breathe, Puckerman. You’re no use to me dead.”
Puck breathes. He shoots a look at Kurt, then looks at Zizes, then he breathes some more. He figures there’s a pretty good chance he might not be able to soon; he might as well get the air while he can.
Puck’s on his way to shake some lunch money from Jacob Ben Israel, when he sees Quinn grabbing a book from the bottom of her locker. “Here, let me get that,” he says.
She grimaces up at him. “I would tell you ‘no,’ but your spawn’s currently kicking me, so it’s the least you can do. I need Biology and Trig.”
Puck nabs the books, then ends up holding them awkwardly in his hand. “So—uh—how are you? How’s the kid?”
“It’s not a kid yet, although, at this point I’m ready to get it out of me,” Quinn says, rubbing her lower back. “I—well, I’m about as well as can be expected. Frannie is driving me absolutely nuts. She keeps insisting that I’m eating the wrong things.”
“Jeez, just tell her to shut up already,” Puck says. “You’re doing what the doctor said, right? Taking all the supplements and shit. She can just calm the fuck down already.”
“It’s not that easy,” Quinn says, finally taking the books from him. “She’s my sister.”
“Yeah, well I don’t take that shit from my sister. I don’t know why you have to,” Puck says.
“Your sister’s ten. Mine is twenty and already happily married,” Quinn says. “God Gregg is such a freak. He won’t stop talking about his stupid UPS depot.”
“Speaking about jobs,” Puck says and slips her the $250 he has rolled up from last week.
“Where are you even getting this, Puck?” Quinn says. “Actually, wait, do I want to know?”
“Let’s just say I’m opening a new business and leave it at that,” Puck says. “There should be more soon.”
“You know I’m not—“ she says, then stops herself. “You know we’ll never be together.”
“I know that. Christ!” Puck says.
“I don’t want to mislead you,” Quinn says.
“Yeah, yeah. Rub a little salt in the wound, why don’t you,” Puck says.
“I just meant—Thank you,” she says, then she’s giving him a big hug.
Across the hall he sees Kurt look at them then do a one-eighty.
“Gotta go,” Puck says, giving the baby-bump a quick pat. “Tell your sister to shut it about the food, okay?”
He takes off after Kurt, not even waiting to hear her reply.
“Hold up Hummel,” Puck says, grabbing his shoulder. “Where’s the fire?”
Kurt slips out of his grasp. “Excuse me, Puckerman, but why, exactly, is it any of your business?”
Puck feels himself frown. For some reason that stings.
Kurt sighs and rolls his eyes a little. “Oh, stop pouting you big baby. If you must know, there are a limited number of salads available and I want to get to the cafeteria before all the Cheerios clear them out.” He turns away from Puck. “I saw that you and Quinn are back together. I’m—I’m very happy for you both. If you decide to keep the baby—well it would be a far better environment with both a mother and a father. I should know,” he says with a crooked little grin. Then, looking at Puck, he says, “Actually, you should too.”
“I’m not back with Quinn,” Puck says.
Kurt shoots him an incredulous look.
“Hummel. Kurt. I’m not back together with Quinn,” Puck says.
“Forgive me for my disbelief,” Kurt says, opening the doors to the lunch room.
Puck grabs his shoulders, looks him straight in the eyes. “I don’t know how many ways I can put this. I’m not together with Quinn.” He lets go of one of Kurt’s shoulders to scratch the back of his neck. “Actually, she was just saying how we’re not gonna get together no matter what. She was kind of being a bitch about it.”
“Really,” Kurt says. Puck glares at the tops of his shoes and nods his head, sharp. “Huh, so she’s as much of a moron as you are, then.”
Puck looks up at Kurt, confused.
“No, really,” Kurt says. “The two of you should be dating. You’re both such morons you’d be perfect for one another. You’re trying to sell yourself to a husband and wife duo.”
“Ex,” Puck cuts in.
Kurt keeps talking over the top of him. “And she’s too stupid to see you’re willing to sell yourself to a husband and wife duo for her. Really. She’s a moron.” Kurt gets into line, grabbing a tray.
Puck grabs another tray, getting into line behind him. “Well, she may be a moron, but she’s the moron who’s carrying my kid. It kinda sucks that she won’t even think about getting back together.”
Kurt turns around to look at him. “This really hurt you, huh?” He slips a hand around Puck’s wrist. “It’s going to be okay, you know. Someday you’ll meet someone who will make you forget Quinn Fabray ever existed.”
“Yeah,” Puck says, “that’s great. But the thing is, someday’s not now.”
Kurt rolls his eyes a little. “Would it make you feel better if I pay for your lunch?”
Puck’s mouth curls into a smile.
For the first time in the history of Lima High, Kurt and Puck sit together at lunch. They also sit alone.
Santana and Brittany start moving toward them like they’re gonna sit at their table, but as soon as he notices them, Kurt makes wild motions with his spoon and the girls flee in the opposite direction.
Rachel actually gets as far as pulling out the chair when Kurt gets a sudden coughing fit. “It’s nothing,” he says to Rachel. “Just the swine flu.” Rachel flies out of the cafeteria spraying Lysol in her wake.
“You’re one devious motherfucker, Hummel,” Puck says, looking at Kurt with a new-found respect.
“Takes one to know one,” Kurt says.
Puck raises his milk in agreement.
“Now that we’re guaranteed privacy for the rest of lunch, let’s get to work,” Kurt says, pulling out a giant notebook. On one of the first pages is the same list he sent to Puck, only this one has additions and crossed out words all over the place. “As you can see,” Kurt points to the list, “we should be moving on to step four, ‘establish yourself on the scene.’ Sadly, your choice of partner has added another step that must come first. Any guesses as to what that step might be?”
“Anger management?” Puck says.
“What? No,” Kurt says grabbing a pen from his man-purse. He writes the word “Makeover” between step three and four.
Puck glares at him.
“Don’t even think you’re getting out of this one, Puckerman,” Kurt says. “I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, but the fact of the matter is that Allen Hooper will expect a certain level of dress from his escorts. And frankly, you have less style than Miss Piggy.”
“Christ, fine,” Puck says. Kurt claps his hands together with giddiness. “But, if I catch you trying to put me in anything purple—“ Puck makes a chopping motion across his neck.
“No purple, check,” Kurt says, sipping from his water bottle. “One more item to add to the agenda: we need to fill Lauren in on what we actually need her for.”
“C’mon. We really need to tell her? Just stick her out front with my nun chucks. Nobody’ll even think about stepping out of line.” Puck takes a bite from his burger. He’d tried to get pizza, but Kurt had just put it back. ‘Please don’t tell me you eat this excuse for nutrition. Do you know how much saturated fat there is in just this one slice of pizza?’ Kurt had grabbed a hamburger ‘no cheese’ with green shit all over it and put it on Puck’s tray with one of those giant soft pretzels.
“Yes. We really need to tell her,” Kurt says, eating a bite of salad. “We can’t just let her walk into this blind. There are some truly unsavory people in this town. How would you feel if she ended up getting shot because of you?”
“Bored,” Puck says. At Kurt’s incredulous look he continues, “What? It’s Zizes. She’s like indestructible. I think her skin is bullet-proof or something.”
“Problem,” says a raspy voice right behind them. Kurt shrieks like a girl and clutches Puck’s arm.
Puck looks over his shoulder. “Zizes,” Puck says with narrowed eyes. “How much did you hear?”
“I was here since you scared Berry off,” Zizes says with a snort.
“I think you scared five years off my life,” Kurt says, clutching a hand to his chest.
“Five? Really? I must be slipping,” Zizes says. “Didn’t you boys notice the gaping hole you have in your plan?”
“Really? What?” Kurt says, and then he’s flipping further through the book. There are pages and pages of plans. There’re even diagrams. Puck snorts out a laugh. Trust Kurt to over-plan something like this.
“Allen Hooper has a security detail of his own,” Zizes says. “Granted, I could take them all out, but it would take time. Time that might be of the essence in getting Puckerman here out of a sticky situation.”
“Sticky situation,” Puck says, wagging his eyebrows. “Oh yeah. I’m gonna be in a sticky situation.”
“What are you, twelve?” Kurt says, giving him a dirty look. He turns back to Zizes. “Okay. So what’s the plan?”
“Easy,” Zizes says with a big grin. “We only offer little Puckerman here if Hooper’s willing to meet without any of his security detail present. He should go for it, if the word on the street is anything to go by. He likes underage ass.” She gives Puck a little leer. “Underage virgin ass is even better.”
“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask about that,” Kurt says. “Are you going to actually give it up to Allen Hooper? You could experiment first.”
“You heard what Zizes said,” Puck says. “Virgin ass. I’m as virgin as they get, baby, and that’s what he’s getting. Besides,” he scoffs, studying his knuckles “who do you expect me to experiment with? You’re the only gay dude in school, and that’s not happening.” Honestly Puck’s terrified. After Santana used the words ‘car crash’ he can’t get it out of his mind. This guy he doesn’t even know, who looks like Frankenstein, plowing his ass. If Kurt had any experience at all, he’d probably be begging the dude to do him—to do him gentle, make it good for him. But Kurt’s never done jack shit and Puck doesn’t want to turn somebody else’s life to dirt. It’s bad enough he ruined Quinn’s life.
When Puck looks back up, Kurt’s flushed a bright red. “That wasn’t what I meant, Puckerman. I meant there are sex toys in the world for a reason. You could easily pick something up and experiment a little on yourself. You and me together,” he says, looking away, “as if.”
“Yeah, still not happening,” Puck says, feeling kind of hurt. “I’m going to him as is.”
“Fine,” Kurt says. “Don’t come to me if you can’t sit for the next week.”
Puck shoves pretzel in his mouth so he can’t say anything. He’s not sure what would come out of his mouth, and he really doesn’t want to find out.
“So we have our plan in place, then. Puck walks into the lion’s den completely unprepared but well protected. Right, Lauren?” Kurt and Puck both turn to look at her. There’s no one there, just an empty Snicker’s wrapper. “How does she do that?” Kurt asks.
“Ninja stealth,” Puck says. “Like ‘Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.’ Which do you like better, Hummel? The 1980’s version for Nintendo or the ’07 version for Wii? Not to shoot down any gaming console, but Wii is really gay. I mean really, really gay. It’s gayer than you.” He looks back at Kurt to see him fondling a spoon with an evil gleam in his eyes. Puck swallows hard, looking at the clock. Only ten minutes ‘til math. Puck has never wanted to be in a class so much in his life.
Chapter 10: Secrets secrets are no fun
Puck managed to make it through the rest of lunch through willpower alone. Kurt tore him a new one, screaming about how ignorant Puck is and how much of an asshole Puck is and about how stupid video games are anyway. As the bell rang he seemed to calm down a little. “We have an appointment scheduled at eight ‘o clock tonight to meet with our connection to the Lima chickenhawks. Which means that before eight ‘o clock tonight I will have to work some makeover magic. Oh, and Puck,” he’d said, just as the second bell rang, “there will be purple. Purple and lavender and possibly fuchsia. I hope this teaches you a very important lesson—never speak about video games again.”
Puck’s not sure why he has to get dressed up just to meet with some weird bird watcher. Actually, he’s not sure why they’re meeting with a bird watcher period. But he’s finally starting to get that it’s easiest to deal with Kurt when he doesn’t ask any questions.
So he pulls up to the Hummels’ at five on the nose and doesn’t even stop to think about whether or not he’s going in. If he’s honest with himself, he knows Kurt’s way better at this planning shit than he ever even has a chance of being. He does take the rest of the bottle of Beam, though. There’s knowing someone’s right and then there’s Kurt giving him a makeover. It doesn’t matter how many times Kurt tells him it’s ‘vital to their cause,’ Puck’s still gonna need some kind of buzz to make it through this without killing Kurt.
Mr. Hummel answers the door when Puck knocks. Kurt’s probably still pissed at him, then.
“Noah,” Mr. Hummel says, sort of blocking the doorway. “What brings you to visit us this fine evening?”
Puck looks at the snow falling down all around him and pulls his coat a little more snuggly around himself. “Here to see Kurt,” he says, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them a little.
“Kurt!” Mr. Hummel calls. He doesn’t say anything else until Kurt’s footsteps clip up right behind him. “Did you invite Noah here over, or should I kick him out?”
Kurt peers over Mr. Hummel’s shoulder. “Noah. So glad you could make it.” He pulls on his dad’s shoulder until Mr. Hummel’s turned around. “Actually Dad, Noah and I are going out for the evening. He needs my expert advice in shopping.” Kurt grabs his man purse, then pushes past his dad out the front door. “I should be home by nine or so. There’s turkey pot pie in the oven.”
“Hey Kurt, before you go can you program the VCR to tape Big Brother for me. I think I’m gonna go out with the guys later,” Mr. Hummel says.
“I can’t believe you watch that trash,” Kurt says. “Are Sydney and Austin still together?”
“Nah,” Mr. Hummel says. “Last week Austin burned all of Sydney’s clothes. They had to call in the fire fighters. It was a helluva blaze.”
“How can you watch that?” Kurt says over his shoulder, as he’s going back inside the house.
Mr. Hummel steps out onto the porch and shuts the front door. “So. Noah. I got the strangest phone call the other day. A ‘Mrs. Puckerman’ called me saying our sons were such close friends she had invited Kurt to her house for family dinner. I found that a little odd. I mean Kurt has friends, he has plenty of friends, but mostly he has girlfriends. So I asked her what her son’s name was, to which she replied Noah. Noah. You can imagine my shock. The boy who put lawn furniture on our roof is suddenly such close friends with my son that his mother is inviting my son to family dinners.”
“We’re real close, Kurt and I,” Puck says. “Just like that.” He holds up his hand, fingers crossed.
“Close, huh,” Mr. Hummel says.
Puck thinks he maybe said something wrong there.
“Real close,” Mr. Hummel says. “So, since I was so confused and all, I asked Mrs. Puckerman to repeat herself. She said her son’s name was Noah—Noah Puckerman—but that I might know him as Puck.”
“Shit,” Puck says.
“That’s about right,” Mr. Hummel says. “Shit. As in how much shit you’re gonna be in with me from now ‘til the end of eternity.” He grabs the front of Puck’s shirt. “So you said you were close, huh? I bet you were real close. I bet you were real close when you were throwing him into dumpsters and covering him in slushee. I bet you were close as hell when you were calling him a homo and a faggot and a goddamn queen.” He pushes Puck back a step.
And then Kurt’s there. “Oh my god. I can’t believe you! What is wrong with you!” he says pushing between the two of them.
“Kurt, you don’t have to deal with this punk-ass kid. Is he threatening you? Beating you up?” Mr. Hummel grabs Kurt’s shoulders and looks at him. “Is he hurting you?”
“What? No,” Kurt says. “Of course not. Dad, what is this? Noah and I are friends.”
“Friends,” Mr. Hummel scoffs. “Right. I know all my friends threw me in trash cans. Kurt, why can’t you see—“
“No, why can’t you see, Dad,” Kurt cuts him off, “that Puck’s not the same as he was then. You always talk about how you were sort of cruel growing up. Why can’t you give him a little benefit of the doubt?”
Mr. Hummel looks at Kurt, hard. Then, he turns to Puck and glares at him. “Is that really what you want, Kurt?” he asks. “Because I’ll do that. I’ll give this punk the benefit of the doubt. And when it all falls apart, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces. But are you sure you want to go through all that?”
“I trust him, Dad,” Kurt says, grabbing Mr. Hummel’s arm. “I know it’s difficult for you to understand, but Puck has his own kind of honor. It’s more devious and far more rude than most people’s, but it’s honor nonetheless. Hopefully you’ll see it for yourself one day.”
“Okay, Kurt,” Mr. Hummel says. “Okay. If it’s what you want.” His voice gets an edge to it again. “But, Noah, if I catch you so much as looking at him funny, there won’t be enough of your body left to ID.”
Kurt grabs Puck’s arm then, and the two of them walk to Puck’s truck, Kurt calling “Have a good night, Dad,” over his shoulder. He lowers his voice a little. “I was wondering why there was a mutilated tape in the VCR. At least this probably means that we don’t need to by a new player.”
Puck looks back at Mr. Hummel over his shoulder. Mr. Hummel points at Puck, then points at Kurt, then makes a bunch of stabbing motions. Puck turns back to the truck, shivering. For some reason he doesn’t think it’s from the weather at all.
Puck pulls up in front of the Hummels’ again, two hours later, with three new outfits and a shaved head. The clothes he’s surprisingly okay with—everything’s tight, but he’s got an awesome body, why not show it off? The hair, not so much. But Kurt had been adamant. “If it was a faux hawk it would pass, but it’s not a faux hawk. Let’s face it, it’s not even a Mohawk. It’s a skunk stripe.” Puck had sighed, but let the barber—“stylist, Puckerman, stylist”—buzz his hair without a fuss.
And now, looking in the rear-view mirror critically—“I look like a sheep, Hummel. Like one of those sheep who’s just lost all his wool and is sitting in the freezing rain. Bleeting.”
“For the last time, Puckerman, you look terribly handsome and anyone would be lucky to have you by their side,” Kurt says. “And now—will you shut it about the damned hair already? It’s just hair. It will grow back.” Under his breath he mutters, “More’s the pity.”
“I heard that,” Puck says.
“Okay, I’m getting out of your vehicle now,” Kurt says, “and into mine. And if I hear one word about your hair while we’re in my car I’m shoving you out of my car. No matter what speed we’re going.”
Puck sighs again, looking at his scalp once more in the mirror, then transfers cars.
“I don’t get why we need to be all dressed up and shit just to meet with some bird dude,” Puck says as he clicks the seatbelt into place.
Kurt puts his arm on the back of Puck’s seat and backs out. “We need to be dressy because we’re meeting with the liaison for our client. Wait—bird-dude?”
“Yeah. You called him a hawk-man or something. Does he sell birds or just watch ‘em? I always figured anybody who watched birds had to be insane,” Puck says.
“His sanity is neither here nor there. But I can’t for the life of me figure out why you think he’s in some way associated with birds,” Kurt says, glancing at him then turning back to the road. “Unless—you’re thinking of when I called him a chickenhawk.” Kurt chuckles a little.
“Chickenhawk, birdman, whatever,” Puck says, crossing his arms.
“Chickenhawks are older men who chase young men,” Kurt says with smirk.
“Well how the hell was I supposed to know that?” Puck asks. “It’s not like I’m gay or anything.”
Kurt’s smirk folds in on itself. “No, it’s not, is it?” The Navigator pulls to a stop. “Well, we’re here.”
Puck looks out the window. They’re at Lima High, by the football field. The SUV is parked in back of the bleachers, and about a hundred yards away from the car there’s a really familiar-looking dude with his back turned toward them. “You have got to be kidding me,” Puck says.
“I’m afraid not,” Kurt says, getting out of the SUV. “I don’t exactly have all that many acquaintances involved in underage sex trade, believe it or not. It’s lucky we knew anyone at all.”
“I am so fucked,” Puck says, keeping pace with Kurt. He sends up a quick prayer, I’m not sure if you’re really up there, God, or if you really care about your non-practicing Jewish sons, but if you do, help! He keeps walking, stomach settling like a stone. Talk about a shit day.
“Lovely evening, Kurt. Noah, nice to see you walking again,” Sandy Ryerson says. He’s wearing a tan trench coat and a weird little hat.
“The doctors said it was a miracle,” Puck says. “I ate a shark taco and suddenly it was all healed. Must have been karma.”
“Right,” Ryerson says, then shuffles a little closer. “I heard the apricots were ripe in Timbuktu, but there was a swarm of elephants,” he says in a low chanty voice.
“Well, they say elephants like peanuts and cotton candy, but I know they prefer garlic bread with cement,” Kurt says.
“Schoolboy4sale? Is it you?” Ryerson says all gaspy, giving Kurt a nasty grin. “I always knew you had a thing for older men, the way you flaunted yourself—“
“Actually,” Kurt says backing away, “it’s Puck, or rather, I was writing on behalf of Puck.”
“Really,” Ryerson says with a calculating look. Then he looks a little closer. “Really. Oops, you have a little—“ he brushes his hand across Puck’s chest, shuddering. “Oh, my. I may have to break you in before you see the Head Honcho.”
“Break him in! There was no discussion of breaking him in,” Kurt says, all pissed sounding. “You said you could get him an assignation with Allen Hooper—“
“Sh,” Ryerson says, finger across his lips. “Head Honcho. Head Honcho. Remember we don’t use real names here. There are spies everywhere.”
“Fine,” Kurt huffs. “You said you would get him an assignation with—Head Honcho. There was no mention of breaking anybody in.”
“I often break in the young studs for Head Honcho,” Ryerson says, fondling Puck’s arm.
“There will be no breaking in of this young stud,” Kurt says, hands on his hips.
Ryerson continues fondling Puck, eyes locked on his pecs.
Suddenly they hear, “You heard what the man said. No breaking in.”
Kurt shrieks and jumps into Puck’s arms. Over the top of Kurt’s head, Puck sees Zizes in all her glory.
“How do you keep doing that?” Kurt asks.
“I told you, ninja stealth,” Puck says. Kurt hits him. “What’s up with you, anyhow? You’re more nervous than a cat, Hummel.” He starts untangling their limbs.
Puck looks up from setting Kurt back on his feet to see Zizes holding Ryerson up by the back of his collar.
“Who’s going to be doing the breaking in?” Zizes asks, shaking Ryerson a little.
“N—not me,” he says.
“Can you keep your hands to yourself if I put you down?” Zizes asks.
“Of course,” Ryerson says. “I have a girlfriend you know.”
Zizes gives him one last shake then lets him go. He lands in a sprawl.
“A little help?” Ryerson says.
“I don’t think so,” Kurt says. “Now when is our appointment with Hooper?”
“Head Honcho,” Ryerson says. Zizes kicks him in the ribs a few times. “Excuse me, I’m sorry. You’re meeting with the Head Honcho tomorrow at nine ‘o clock sharp.”
“AM or PM?” Kurt asks.
“Oh, silly me. I didn’t think to ask,” Ryerson says. Zizes makes to kick him again. He raises his hand, shouts out, “PM. It has to be PM. He’s still doing news at nine AM.”
Puck leans over and grabs Ryerson’s hand. He gives him a tug upright. “Thanks Ryerson, you’ve been useful.”
“It’s Big Cheese,” Ryerson says. His hand slips up Puck’s arm until he’s fondling Puck’s shoulder. “Have you been working out, Noah?”
Zizes tackles Ryerson to the ground. Puck can hear a muffled, “Ow,” from underneath her. “Payment?” Zizes asks.
“In the back of the Navigator,” Kurt says. “There should be enough there for at least the first two assignations as well.”
“Come on, Hummel. Tell me the truth,” Puck says. “Was assignations today’s word on your word of the day calendar?”
Kurt blushes bright red and won’t meet Puck’s eyes. “Are we ready to take off? I believe we have all the information we need from the Head Cheese.”
“Yeah, let’s get you home so your dad doesn’t kill me,” Puck says, opening the passenger door.
Chapter 11: It's a family affair
Puck’s Ma knocks on his door as he’s getting ready the next morning. “Don’t forget, your friend Kurt is coming for supper tonight,” she says, sticking her head in.
“Ah, crap,” Puck says. Family dinners are bad enough as is without adding anybody new to the table. Puck’s sister is going through what his Ma calls “a trying phrase.” Pretty much, she just throws everything she can lift and screams at the top of her lungs a lot. It’s lucky she doesn’t weigh too much. She can’t lift anything that can really do damage.
“Tch-tchk. Look at this son I have. Out every night doing God knows what—swearing and getting in fights, probably—and he can’t even spend one night a week with the woman who gave him life,” she says.
“Oh christ, here we go again,” Puck says, settling in for guilt—extended edition.
“Do you know how long I was in labor?” she asks.
“Forty-eight hours,” they both say at the same time.
“Forty-eight hours of pain you couldn’t even imagine,” his Ma continues. “But you’re too busy to spend an hour, maybe two, with me. Fine, fine. Just because I was willing to go through forty-eight hours of sheer hell is no reason why you should have to spend time with me. I’m just your mother. I’m sure you have more important things to be doing than spending time with the woman who brought you into the world. Maybe I’ll have Kurt come over anyway. Maybe he’ll be my new son. I’m sure he would spend a couple hours a week with me, even if I didn’t give birth to him.”
“Jeez, Ma. Fine. Fine. We’ll have family dinner tonight,” Puck says, running his hand over his scalp. It’s just not the same anymore without the ‘hawk there, though.
“With your new friend,” his Ma says.
“Yeah, yeah. With Kurt,” Puck says. “Just make sure Sarah’s gagged.”
“She’s your sister Noah,” she says. “I don’t want you talking that way about your sister.” She makes to leave, then stops and looks at him. “Oh, and Noah,” she says, “I like your new hair-style. Maybe now you can wash your own hair, hm?”
Puck shuts the door on her. It’s not his fault he can’t wash his hair by himself. He doesn’t get how people do it on their own—he always gets soap in his eyes.
Puck makes it through the first half of the school day without talking to Kurt once. Every time he tries to get close enough to Kurt to start a conversation with him, Kurt is suddenly not there.
At lunch, Zizes corners him. “Here,” she says, shoving a note in his hand. “Don’t expect me to do this all the time. I’m your muscle, not your messenger.”
Puck opens the note to see:
I’m sorry that I’m avoiding you today, but we need to cool down our friendship for a bit. I think Berry might have leaked something to Jacob Ben Israel, but suffice it to say, there’s been talk. Oddly enough, some of it has been close to accurate. I don’t think either of our reputations needs that kind of defamation right now, so, until further notice we’ll have to communicate outside of school only.
Your personal mastermind,
Puck crumples the note into a ball. Normally he throws this girly shit into the trash as soon as he’s read it, but to be on the safe side he drops it into his backpack. Never know when somebody’s gonna get a little too nosy for their own good.
When Puck gets home, his Ma’s at the end of her rope. Sarah had started biting people at school today, so she’d been suspended for the rest of the week. Usually by the time Puck gets home on Tuesday, the house is clean already, but since his Ma had been preoccupied with keeping an eye on Sarah, practically nothing’s done.
“Of all the days for you to act out, why did you have to choose today?” Puck’s Ma yells at Sarah through the door. She locked Sarah in her room after the third time Sarah knocked over the same candy dish, spilling Skittles all over the floor.
Puck’s Ma turns to him. “I’m so far behind,” she says. “You’ll have to go pick up Nana Connie from the nursing home.”
“You’re kidding me,” Puck says. “Nana Connie’s coming? Why didn’t you just invite Rabbi Greenburg? Then my life would be complete.”
“Don’t get fresh with me, Noah,” she says. “It’s the third Tuesday of the month. Nana Connie always comes to family dinner on the third Tuesday of the month.” She turns away and starts walking back downstairs. “Speaking of Rabbi Greenburg, I thought maybe you could go to temple after dinner. He’s having an outing with the teenagers tonight. You could maybe bring Kurt with you, hm? That nice Rachel is going to be there.”
“Sorry Ma, I can’t. Busy tonight,” Puck says. And then tries to think of an excuse. And tries. And tries. Then it comes to him: “Kurt and I have to work on our song for glee.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” Puck’s Ma says. She spots the clock and starts going crazy with cleaning, picking up snack wrappers and soda cans. “You have to go, Noah. Now. Nana Connie was expecting me to be there five minutes ago. And you know how she gets when you’re late.”
Puck’s grabbing his coat, when his Ma rushes up to him, all out of breath. “I almost forgot,” she says, pulling a wad of cash from her jeans. “You’ll have to pick something up for supper. I was going to make a roast but—well…Chinese will have to do. The Hummels’ eat Chinese, right?”
Puck takes the cash and heads out the door. “Of course, Ma,” he says. “Who doesn’t like Chinese?”
When Puck gets home, his Ma’s at the end of her rope. Sarah had started biting people at school today, so she’d been suspended for the rest of the week. Usually by the time Puck gets home on Tuesday, the house is clean already, but since his Ma had been preoccupied with keeping an eye on Sarah, practically nothing’s done.
“Of all the days for you to act out, why did you have to choose today?” Puck’s Ma yells at Sarah through the door. She locked Sarah in her room after the third time Sarah knocked over the same candy dish, spilling Skittles all over the floor.
Puck’s Ma turns to him. “I’m so far behind,” she says. “You’ll have to go pick up Nana Connie from the nursing home.”
“You’re kidding me,” Puck says. “Nana Connie’s coming? Why didn’t you just invite Rabbi Greenburg? Then my life would be complete.”
“Don’t get fresh with me, Noah,” she says. “It’s the third Tuesday of the month. Nana Connie always comes to family dinner on the third Tuesday of the month.” She turns away and starts walking back downstairs. “Speaking of Rabbi Greenburg, I thought maybe you could go to temple after dinner. He’s having an outing with the teenagers tonight. You could maybe bring Kurt with you, hm? That nice Rachel is going to be there.”
“Sorry Ma, I can’t. Busy tonight,” Puck says. And then tries to think of an excuse. And tries. And tries. Then it comes to him: “Kurt and I have to work on our song for glee.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” Puck’s Ma says. She spots the clock and starts going crazy with cleaning, picking up snack wrappers and soda cans. “You have to go, Noah. Now. Nana Connie was expecting me to be there five minutes ago. And you know how she gets when you’re late.”
Puck’s grabbing his coat, when his Ma rushes up to him, all out of breath. “I almost forgot,” she says, pulling a wad of cash from her jeans. “You’ll have to pick something up for supper. I was going to make a roast but—well…Chinese will have to do. The Hummels’ eat Chinese, right?”
Puck takes the cash and heads out the door. “Of course, Ma,” he says. “Who doesn’t like Chinese?”
When Puck gets back the house looks decent—at least, decent enough for Kurt. Nana Connie, on the other hand… “Donna, do you even own a vacuum cleaner? It looks like you haven’t cleaned since the last time I was here.”
“Don’t start with me,” Puck’s Ma says, taking the bags from Puck and rushing into the kitchen. Puck can hear her ranting the whole time she’s in the kitchen, but the words are too muffled to make out. When she comes back out again, she’s saying “…and the other one has started biting people. Biting people! I ask you, where does she get that from? It must be from her no-good miserable excuse for a father.” She grabs Nana Connie’s arm and says, “Come on, Constance, we’d better get you settled. They’ll be here any minute.”
“They?” Puck asks, but before anyone can answer him there’s a knock on the door. “I’ll get it,” he says.
He opens the door and then slams it closed. Please tell me she didn’t. “Ma,” he calls, “did you invite anybody to dinner other than Kurt?”
“Of course, Noah,” his Ma says. “I wasn’t very well going to leave Kurt’s father to eat a cold meal at home alone. What kind of woman do you think I am?”
Puck steels himself and reopens the door. “Mr. Hummel,” he says, with a weak smile, “so glad you could make it.”
Mr. Hummel grabs Puck’s hand and gives it a firm shake. “Thanks for having us.”
Puck winces. “Don’t suppose you could let go now?” he asks. “Before you break bones?”
“Now why would I want to do that,” Mr. Hummel says with a shark grin. He squeezes a little harder for a second, then lets go and steps into the house.
“Sorry,” Kurt says. “I had no idea he was coming until five minutes ago.” He looks kind of miserable.
“Hey, it’s fine,” Puck says. “Nothing’s broken.” He flexes his hand. “Hopefully.”
They walk into the living room together to see Mr. Hummel and Puck’s Ma in the middle of a conversation. “Well, at least he’s trying,” Kurt says.
Puck’s Ma tells everyone it’s time for dinner, then, and they head into the kitchen.
“I’m just going to go let out Sarah,” Puck’s Ma says.
“Ma, no—“ Puck says.
She cuts him off with, “It’s family dinner, Noah.”
Puck turns back into the kitchen. Nana Connie’s in the middle of telling Kurt the story about the first time Puck wore a dress, and Mr. Hummel is glaring at Puck from across the table. Puck starts to sit down next to Kurt, but then his Ma says, “No. Wouldn’t it be nice if you sat next to Mr. Hummel instead?”
Puck’s about to say, no, no, no way in hell, but he knows how that argument will go—his Ma’ll end up winning. She does every time. So, he sits next to Mr. Hummel.
Sarah ends up getting the seat next to Kurt. Puck tries to telegraph through eyebrow movements that she’s a feral little bitch, but something apparently gets lost in translation, because Kurt turns to her and asks her a question. And then—she actually answers him. Puck’s Ma’s eyes are huge with amazement, but then her look turns sly, like she expected it all along.
Puck’s stuck between Mr. Hummel and Nana Connie. It sucks. A lot. Every time he asks Nana Connie something, it somehow ends up with her telling an embarrassing story about him. Finally he starts talking to Mr. Hummel out of desperation. Of course, he doesn’t really know anything about Mr. Hummel at all, so he ends up saying, “Kurt’s a great guy.”
Mr. Hummel looks at him like he’s talking in French or something, so Puck tries again. “Really, Kurt’s smart. Really smart. He’s like one of those kids who’s actually gonna go to college. And not come back home the first year.”
“Yeah, he is,” Mr. Hummel says. “Is there a reason for the sudden interest you have in my son’s intelligence? Are you copying from him? Stealing credit for his work?”
“What? No,” Puck says, hunching his shoulders. “We’re not even in any of the same classes.”
“You better not be,” Mr. Hummel says, “because if I find out—“ and punches his fist into the palm of his other hand.
Puck looks desperately around the table. Kurt seems to be in the middle of a very involved conversation with Sarah. He also seems not to like Chinese. He hasn’t even touched his plate. Nana Connie is pulling her wallet out of her purse—the wallet containing a picture of him with makeup on. His Ma—his Ma is looking at him with a weird look on her face. She keeps biting her lip and shaking her head. “You okay, Ma?” he asks.
His Ma clears her throat. “Noah, is there something you want to tell us?”
“Uh—no,” Puck says, taking a bite of General Tso’s.
“Noah, are you sure there isn’t something you want to tell us? This is family dinner. We’re your family—your support group. Is there anything you want to say? Anything at all?” She says. Her eyes are all bright, like she’s only a couple seconds away from crying.
Puck tries to think of what he did wrong, but there’s nothing. He’s getting solid ‘C’s’ in school, hasn’t beat anybody up for over a month, and there’s no way she knows about the baby. He looks over at Kurt hoping he has some idea what’s going on.
Kurt’s eyes are huge, and he’s opening and closing his mouth like a fish. He turns to look at Puck, then closes his eyes tight and turns away—and then Puck gets it. She must’ve found out about the whole prostitute thing. He backs away from Mr. Hummel. When the shit goes down, he wants to be as far away from him as possible.
“I was cleaning your room before and I found something there that—well, I never expected to see in your room. Do you know what I’m talking about?” Puck’s Ma asks.
Puck hasn’t got a clue, but he nods anyway. Maybe he left the email from Kurt open on his computer.
“Well, aren’t you going to tell us? We’re your family Noah. When were you going to say something? Or were you even going to at all?” She stops herself, shakes her head a little. “Does Kurt know at least?”
“Yeah,” Puck says, all gruff. “He’s been helping me work it all out.” Then he thinks about it a little. “Wait, didn’t you know that he knew?”
“How would I know—well, that doesn’t matter. All that really matters is that I accept you. Everyone at this table accepts you as you are—a homosexual.”
Next to him, Mr. Hummel cracks his glass in his fist.
“Wait—what?” Puck says.
After Puck’s Ma is done making sure Mr. Hummel hasn’t sustained any serious damage, Puck finally gets a chance to explain how he isn’t gay.
Only nobody believes him.
“I should have realized it myself. Classic sign of closetedness, beating up on the gay kids because you see that bit of yourself in them. Still a stupid way to act about it, but I guess I can’t fault you for it,” Mr. Hummel says.
“Noah, bubala, of course you’re a feygele. You and your nice boyfriend here,” Nana Connie says, patting Kurt’s hand.
Sarah’s got a hold of Kurt’s other hand. “He can’t be Noah’s boyfriend. He’s my boyfriend,” she says. Then she bears her teeth.
“Wait, boyfriends. I thought we’d established there were no boyfriends. Just friends,” Mr. Hummel says, eyes narrowed.
“I think you’re all missing the very important fact that I’M NOT GAY!” Puck says, pissed off.
“Well, Noah. If you’re not gay, how do you explain what I found in your bedroom?” Puck’s Ma asks.
“I have no idea what you found in my bedroom!” Puck says, exasperated.
“You’re going to make me say it. You’re actually going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Puck’s Ma says, all disappointed. “Pornography. Gay pornography.”
Puck winces. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Kurt biting his lip.
Nana Connie cackles. “Look at my little Noah, all grown up and looking at the men. Do you have any of the prison ones? I love the prison ones. All that discipline…”
Puck and the rest of his family start talking on top of one another.
But then Kurt’s voice cuts through them all. “It’s not Noah’s. It’s mine.” He’s looking straight at Puck, with a little smile.
Puck opens his mouth to contradict him, but it kind of is Kurt’s—or at least half Kurt’s—so he ends up just closing it again.
In the end, he didn’t need to say anything anyway. “Yeah, right,” Mr. Hummel says. “I’m sorry Kurt, but that is not the kind of thing you would own. Ever. I know you, Kurt.”
“I’m glad you said it,” Puck’s Ma says. “Because even I can tell there is no way this sweet boy of yours would want to own anything of the kind. Now, Noah. Why would you own the gay pornography if you’re not gay?”
“I don’t suppose you’d believe I got them as a prank gift?” Puck asks.
“Six videos, Noah. Even that Hudson boy wouldn’t take a prank so far. And one of them has been watched,” Puck’s Ma says.
Think, think, think. Kurt’s looking at him desperately from across the table. “I—“ Puck says, and knows he’s going to regret the next words that come out of his mouth, “I bought them as a present. For Kurt.” Kurt looks like he might leap across the table and strangle him.
“Noah, what have I told you?” Puck’s Ma says. “You need to think about the person you’re shopping for before you buy something for them. I thought the time you got me weed whacker line for my birthday was the worst—we don’t even own a weed whacker—but this has officially surpassed it.”
“I told you they were dating,” Nana Connie says. She turns and pinches Kurt’s cheek. “It’s too bad you two can never have children. You would make beautiful babies, together.”
Mr. Hummel turns to look at him. “I don’t know whether to ban you boys from ever seeing each other again, or welcome you to the family. On one hand you obviously care enough about my son to buy him presents. On the other hand the presents are porn. I’m kind of leaning toward the first option just now.”
Through all of this, Puck’s had his eyes on Kurt, who goes from looking pissed off to a more calculating look. Suddenly Kurt crosses himself, then pastes on a big, phony smile. “Actually, Dad, when Puck said he bought the—the videos for me, he wasn’t quite being—accurate. You see, Puck has asked me to be his beau, but knowing his past I told him we would never work out. As you all know I don’t believe in s—s—romance before graduation from high school. But in trying to win me over he vowed to do without—a physical relationship until I was ready. He bought the videos to—well to relieve—uh—frustration.”
“All right,” Mr. Hummel says, “I for one am confused. Are you dating or aren’t you?”
“We’re dating,” Puck says at the same time Kurt says, “We’re not.”
Kurt hastily adds, “—not going public with it yet,” he chuckles a little to himself. “You know how high school kids are. Full of violence and wrath and anger. Noah, can I talk to you alone for a minute.”
“…yeah,” Puck says.
Kurt grabs Puck by his collar and pulls him from the kitchen into the bathroom. As soon as the door’s locked he rounds on him. “Are you mentally deficient or just totally insane?” Then he smacks Puck on the back of the head. Hard.
“Ow?” Puck says.
“Really, Puck. Telling them we’re dating. Do you know how much you screwed me over just now?” Kurt says, then he sneers. “Wait, no you probably don’t care because it’s not about yourself. How about this—do you know how much you screwed us over just now?”
“I will tell you just how much,” Kurt says, cutting him off. “We already can’t meet at school without arousing suspicion. Well, now we can’t meet at home either. My father will expect us to have the door open at all times. And as for your house, well, as lovely as your mother is, your grandmother is a dirty old lech.”
Puck smiles, fondly. “She really, really is.”
“If we tried to meet over here, I have no doubt she’d sit outside your room with a glass to the door,” Kurt says.
“Yeah, she probably would. But she doesn’t live here,” Puck says.
“Thank Madonna for small miracles,” Kurt says.
“But—“ Puck says, thinking things over. “You’re right anyhow. If we tried to meet in my room, Sarah would pick the lock and find some way to kill me, or at least incapacitate me. And then she’d probably kidnap you.”
Kurt giggles and slaps Puck on the arm. “Always the kidder. Sarah’s such a sweet girl. Did you know she has a systematic plan for world domination? It could actually work, too,” he muses. Then he seems to hear what he just said. His eyes grow as round as plates. “Uh, Puck. How serious were you about the whole kidnapping thing?”
“Well,” Puck says, thoughtfully, “last year when she was going through her Bieber phase, the dude actually put a restraining order out against her. She got past security into his changing room somehow. The weird thing was the show was in Atlanta. I don’t even want to know how she wound up in Atlanta.”
“Meeting at your place is out, then. Definitely out. And we’re back to where we started again,” Kurt says, with a sigh.
Suddenly, there’s a pounding on the door. “MOM!” Sarah’s voice is loud enough they can probably hear her three counties over. “Puck and Kurt are locked in the bathroom together! Alone!”
“Puckerman!” comes a bellow from the kitchen. Mr. Hummel sounds pissed. “If you’re not out of that bathroom by the time I get there, I’m knocking the door down.”
Puck hastily twists the lock open.
Before he opens the door, Kurt puts a hand on his shoulder. “If I can’t get out, you’re meeting Lauren at school. She knows the location. Just make sure you’re there by eight-thirty.”
Puck nods his head once. “Right, Zizes, school, eight-thirty.” Then he opens the door. On the other side, Sarah’s standing with her hands on her hips and Mr. Hummel’s just reaching the door with his hands balled up. “Mr. Hummel,” Puck says, “Kurt was just telling me what a great Dad you are—how you never hold a grudge.” Mr. Hummel’s fist comes out. “Please don’t kill me.”
Mr. Hummel punches Puck in the shoulder. Lightly. “Welcome to the family, Noah. If you ever hurt my little boy—well I think by now you know what will happen.”
Puck smiles helplessly. Then Sarah bites his thigh.
Chapter 12: A clandestine assignation
(aka, the beginning of the slashy sex)
So, I have to mention: the prompter who's idea this was wanted this or something lighter than this. Somehow I thought they wanted non-con with humiliation and other really dark aspects. I had the whole rest of this story planned out with that being the case. Luckily something the prompter said in one of their comments made me question what they wanted.
In reality, I think the story may be better for the lack of on-page non-con. It made me question just what Puck's motivations are. But, this section feels--well wrong at least, if not downright poorly written. This is still dub-con. This is still rather dark.
Puck pulls into Lima High’s parking lot at eight fifteen. His palms are sweaty on the wheel of his truck. Pull yourself together.
When Kurt had said he probably wasn’t gonna make it, Puck felt two things at exactly the same moment—relief and terror. Right now the terror’s winning out.
But still, Puck is relieved. Kurt shouldn’t be involved in this side of things. It’s too seedy. When Puck thinks back to what Kurt was like before this began, well there’s no two ways about it, the kid was naïve. And he still has some of that about him. If possible, Puck’s gonna keep it that way.
Which is why Puck gets a little upset when Kurt’s SUV pulls into the lot five minutes later.
Puck punches his wheel, then he gets out of his car. Kurt’s standing there, looking all smug. “Well, at least one problem is solved. Dad seems to actually—well like is too strong of a word—maybe not hate. Yes, that sounds accurate enough. Dad seems to not hate you now.”
Puck shoves his hands into his pockets—or at least he tries to, then is met with lack of pockets. He keeps forgetting the clothes Kurt got him don’t have any pockets. “That’s—nice. That’s nice Hummel.”
Kurt chuckles. “It is, isn’t it?” His expression turns a little sour. “He gave me the third degree, though. He was really angry that I didn’t tell him about you. And then—“ Kurt’s face turns a little green, “he gave me the—the S. E. X. talk. I’ve honestly never been so uncomfortable in my life. Of course, I truly think he was equally uncomfortable.”
Puck smiles—he can’t really help it. “So, were there diagrams? When Ma gave me the sex talk there were diagrams. And a really weird video.”
“No—no there—we just talked about how I should—well—wait. Just until I’m ready of course. There was mention of a Harvard graduate as well, but he wasn’t serious—at least I hope he wasn’t serious. I really hope he doesn’t have his heart set on me ending up with a bookworm. That’s really not my type.” Kurt flushes, then looks down at his shoes. “Not that I have a type—uh—excited for the big night?”
“Not. Really, really not,” Puck says, shivering a little. The jacket Kurt picked out may be sexy as shit, but it’s not very warm.
“Right,” Kurt says with a little frown. “Well, that’s understandable of course. But you don’t have to worry. Nothing will go wrong. I’ll make sure of it. Lauren and I will be right there, ready to step in at a moment’s notice.”
“No,” Puck says, hearing a vehicle approach them from behind, “you really, really won’t. I’m sorry Kurt.” He yanks open Zizes’ door and throws himself inside, slamming the door after himself. “Gun it, Zizes.”
“On it Puckerman,” she says.
Puck can’t help looking back at Kurt as they’re pulling out of the lot. He looks lost—like a lost little boy. Puck almost tells Zizes to stop, then firms his resolve. This—this is what Puck wants to preserve. There will be no coming back from tonight. There’s no reason to drag Kurt down with him. He turns, looks out the front of the car. He doesn’t look back again.
“I’ll be right outside the door if you need me,” Zizes says, giving Puck a quick once-over. “Yeah, I think he’ll go for you, Puckerman. You look the part.” She slaps him on the ass, then opens the door with a key-card. “Remember, yell if you want out. And if you’re not out in an hour I’m coming in whether you’re ready or not.”
“Christ, enough already. I heard you the first six times,” Puck says. Then he impulsively gives her a hug. “If anything goes wrong, tell Kurt—“ and there’s the thing, he has no idea what to tell Kurt, “ah—tell him I’m sorry. Oh—and don’t let him think it was his fault.”
“Nothing is going to go wrong, Puckerman. I won’t let it,” Zizes says. And with that she shoves him into the hotel room.
“Uh—hey,” Puck says.
Hooper is sitting on the cheap hotel room sofa. In real life he looks even more like Frankenstein. His head is almost square, and his body is huge. He looks down at his watch, then back up at Puck. “You’re late,” he says. His eyes track down Puck’s body. “But I’m inclined to forgive you, just this once.”
“Thanks?” Puck says.
“But, because you’re late, we don’t have much time. Generally I prefer working up to things a bit, but, well, needs will must—take off your clothes.” Hooper’s voice, though, is not what Puck was expecting at all. Not that he was really expecting anything, but he never would have imagined the way it makes him break into goose bumps all over.
After a few seconds Hooper makes a pissed-off sound. “Is there a problem with your hearing?”
“Nah—no,” Puck says, shaking his head.
“Then let’s try this again,” Hooper says, getting up. He slips his hands into his pockets. “When I tell you to do something I expect instant compliance. Now, take off your clothes.”
“Right,” Puck says. He unzips the coat. He thinks about throwing it on the ground, but then he remembers how Kurt was all, “if you ruin these clothes I’m not buying you more, Puckerman, so you’d better maintain them.” He folds it in quarters instead and tosses it on the sofa. Then he starts in on the pants. It’s not ‘til they’re around his ankles that Puck remembers he’s not wearing his own jeans—these ones won’t just slip over his shoes. He bends over to unzip the boots Kurt found. He hears an appreciative sound behind him, so he shakes his ass a little. Paying client and all.
It’s weird doing this in the clothes Kurt bought. He keeps picturing Kurt’s face as he rode away. Talk about something to put him out of the mood. He blanks Kurt out of his mind completely. Later.
The buttons on the shirt are too slippery to undo with sweaty fingers, so he ends up pulling it over his head. He takes a second to smooth out the wrinkles, then puts the pants and shirt on top of the coat.
He turns toward Hooper, looking at his toes. For some reason he can’t explain, he really is grossed out by the fact that he’s barefoot on this carpet that hundreds, maybe thousands of other people have been barefoot on before.
“Well, it looks like you may have had some training after all. Very well, then. Get on the bed. Hands and knees,” Hooper says.
“But aren’t—don’t you want me to blow you first?” Puck asks, thinking about Santana. Shit, she’s a bitch. Now he can’t help imagining how much this is gonna hurt.
“All in good time,” Hooper says, taking a handkerchief from his pocket. He slowly wipes first one hand then the other. “First, I believe we have a bit of discipline to deliver. Just so you know, every second you delay is adding a second to your punishment.”
Puck scrambles onto the bed, kneeling. After half-a-minute of Hooper not doing anything, he remembers, ‘hands and knees.’ He drops forward, bracing himself on his arms. On the bed he doesn’t have as much stability as he’d like, it feels like he could topple over any second.
“Much better,” Hooper says. A hand trails down his back to land on his ass. It feels dry—impersonal. Nothing like a woman’s hand.
The slap is sudden—unexpected. But for all that it’s not terribly forceful. “I’m going to ask you to keep count for me,” Hooper says. “If you forget or lose your place, you get another five. Right now we’ll start at ten.”
The hand comes down again, this time on his thigh. It comes down hard—hard enough that he forgets where he is for a second. “That’s another five,” Hooper says, after a few seconds.
“Christ, fine,” Puck says.
“Tut-tut-tut,” Hooper says. “Another ten for insubordination. This time I’ll help you out a bit. The next one is coming now.
Puck ends up counting to thirty-two before Hooper is satisfied.
He’s not quite sure how he ended up with the extra two, but by the time thirty-two comes around he’s seriously glad there aren’t more. His ass burns all over.
“Good job, surprisingly good, all things considered,” Hooper says. “I want you to kneel on the carpet, now, right here.” He’s pointing with his toe to the carpet right in front of him.
Puck gets off the bed and kneels on the ground. His knees are starting to feel a little rough. He’s really starting to reevaluate this whole blow job thing. Maybe it would be better to pass it by and just head to the end game.
When he looks up at Hooper, Hooper’s wiping his hands down again. “Very well,” Hooper says. “You mentioned wanting to perform fellatio. Have you ever done so before?”
“No,” Puck says. His voice is hoarse from holding in swear words.
“Well, then. We will see how well you are able to take direction. Lower my zipper. Oh, and don’t try and do anything fancy—there is no logical reason to lower a zipper with your teeth.”
Hooper’s hands land on Puck’s shoulders. Puck really wants to shake them off, but he doesn’t think it would go over well. He pulls Hooper’s zip down, then goes to unbutton the button.
Hooper’s hand catches Pucks in an iron grip. “Tut-tut-tut,” he says. “Not doing terribly well following directions so far. Hopefully you are able to change that. I wouldn’t want to have to end our night with more discipline.”
Puck flexes his hand in Hooper’s grip, but the man is strong, he’ not going anywhere.
“Now, I would like you to pull my cock out of my trousers. Please refrain from attempting to remove any more of my wardrobe,” Hooper says, finally letting Puck’s hand go.
Puck slips his hand into the slit in Hooper’s pants. There it is, another man’s cock. He tugs it out before he can chicken out. And then he can see it. It’s weird—looking at another dude’s equipment. It’s also kinda scary—the dude isn’t huge or anything, just normal sized, but he can’t imagine how that’s gonna fit inside him. Crap.
“All right,” Hooper says. “I want you to put your hand around the base.” Puck does, wraps a fist around—loose—just like he likes it at first. “Good,” Hooper says, patting his head. “Now you can put the head in your mouth.”
Puck licks his lips, reflexively. He lowers his head, mouth open. And then it’s there—right at his mouth. The tip slides against his lower lip. He tastes it then—salty, almost like a girl—except, indefinably, different. His tongue flips out to taste it again, try to figure it out, but then Hooper’s hand is at his head pushing slowly down.
“Did I ask you to tongue the tip? No, I very distinctly didn’t. Now, do what I said. Put the head of my cock in your mouth,” Hooper says.
Puck’s lips slide down, and it’s okay yet—still short of the place that makes him gag.
“That’s better,” Hooper says. He tugs his ear hard enough to keep his head still. “Now I want you to go down further then pull back up—as soon as I let your ear go.” Five seconds go by, ten, and then Hooper’s letting go.
Puck slides down a half inch before he starts to gag. He pulls back up to where he was before.
“Come,” Hooper says, “you can do better than that. Again.”
Puck tries again, but can’t go more than a half-inch without gagging. He pulls back up again.
“Now I’m beginning to think you want to be punished. Let’s try this: I’ll help you this time.” Hooper’s hand lands on his head, guiding. He pushes Puck down slow, slow…and when Puck starts to gag, the fingers of his other hand caress Puck’s throat. Hooper tilts Puck’s head a little, and then, for some reason, he’s not really gagging at all. Hooper slides Puck’s head down more…more…until Puck’s got more in his mouth than he ever managed with the banana. Puck’s tongue flicks, flicks, flicks. It’s almost uncontrollable.
Hooper groans, then pulls back. “Now there’s a good lad. Let’s try that again. Do you need any help?”
Yeah, of course Puck needs help. It’s not like he’s ever been able to do that on his own, but how he’s supposed to communicate that with cock in his mouth is anybody’s game.
He looks up at Hooper, though, and Hooper seems to have ESP or something, ‘cause he says, “Okay, once more, but pay attention this time.”
And Puck does. He pays attention to the angle his head’s at, to the way his throat moves, to the little movements his tongue can’t help but make.
So when he pulls back this time he can push back in again.
It’s quick, quick how fast he picks up on it. It almost surprises him. And the most shocking thing of all, is that he doesn’t hate it.
Hooper’s moaning fairly steadily throughout, although the longer it goes on, the louder his moans get. After an indefinable amount of time, Hooper says, “Enough.” It sounds loud, shocking. His ears feel almost raw with it. He can’t help but suck the cock down once more. But then a hand lands on his ear again. “Stop. Don’t make me say it twice, young man.”
Puck stops then, lips wrapped around another man’s cock. It scares him how right it feels.
“I think it’s time for us to move on, don’t you?” Hooper says, caressing his cheek.
Puck feels an overwhelming wave of despair. No matter what happens next, he isn’t going to come out of it whole.
Hooper’s on the other side of the room, digging through his luggage. “Lie down on the bed,” he says, “on your belly, but keep your bum in the air.”
Puck does as directed, past the point of arguing. At some point in the middle of the blow job he’s gotten half hard himself. He cradles his cock a little as he lies down. Later, he thinks, later for you too.
Puck hears Hooper come up behind him. “And so we reach the grand finale. I know you’ve never performed fellatio before tonight, but what about anal sex? Is this another first?”
Puck tries to nod, but can’t really get enough movement with his head in the pillow. “Yeah,” he says.
“Mm,” comes Hooper’s voice from behind. “Such a sweet innocent young thing.”
Puck bites his lip to hold in the laughter. After thinking the same thing about Hummel, it strikes him as funny somehow.
Hooper’s hand is suddenly on his ass. It’s weird—on hit overheated ass, the cool touch is almost soothing. Hooper caresses his ass a bit, really soft all over. Then, he’s grabbing an ass cheek in each hand and pushing. It feels—it feels kind of like the time Puck got that full-body massage as a gift from Nana Connie—rough and deep and totally relaxing. “Your bum is the type poets write about,” Hooper says, giving it one last squeeze.
His hands are gone for a minute, and Puck—misses them. He closes his eyes tight, bites his tongue. When the hands come back, one of them goes to his crack. A knuckle smoothes up—down—up—down. And then it’s a finger. A wet finger. Puck shivers.
The finger traces the same path as the knuckle, but it lingers at his hole, longer every time. He starts to miss the feeling every time it isn’t there. And then—suddenly—the hands are gone again. Before he can even think, Puck keens in loss.
“Sh-sh,” Hooper says. “You’re all right.”
And the hands are back. This time the finger feels even wetter. It stops the slow trace back and forth and focuses on his hole instead. It circles the hole, then dips in—just a trace. Circle—dip—circle—dip. And the next thing Puck knows the finger is in all the way to the first knuckle.
He wriggles—wants to move it, but doesn’t know whether he wants it gone, or wants it in more.
And then the finger is gone again, and he gets his answer. He whines, writhes on the sheets.
“Hey,” Hooper says. “Calm down. Calm. I’m just getting more slick.”
Before he knows it the finger is back—wet—wetter than before. It slides back in. It’s such a relief, Puck can’t help but move back to meet it. Then, suddenly, it’s in farther than it had been before. Puck can feel it now, and it feels like he wants—“More.”
“You’re a greedy thing, aren’t you,” Hooper says, with a swat to his ass. But the finger is moving in more. Eventually, though, Puck can feel the rest of Hooper’s fingers curled up against his ass, and it’s still not enough. “More—please.”
The hands are gone again, but when they come back, he feels fuller somehow. It’s—it’s amazing and frustrating at the same time. It’s more—it’s just what he asked for—but it’s still not enough. It’s like he has some kind of gaping hole inside him that he never knew was there, but now that he knows, he needs to fill it, any way he can.
After about another five minutes or so of fingers torturing him, Puck can’t take it anymore. “Please,” he gasps out, “please, fuck me. Now.”
“Very well,” Hooper says, “since you asked so nicely.” And then it’s there, the rubber tip rubbing right where he needs it. He tries to push back, but Hooper holds him still—still—and then, it’s like his body is opening up to Hooper on its own, throwing him some kind of party or something. He’s open—wide open—more open than he’s ever felt before in his life. And Hooper is sliding, slowly but surely, into him.
Puck groans, low and deep. He can’t help himself, can’t hold it back. And then Hooper is stutter-thrusting inside of him.
Puck has a moment of disorientation then—a moment of this feeling of wrong, wrong, wrong. But then Hooper hits something inside him, something that makes the world pause for a second.
Puck cries out then. His voice is suddenly high—higher than he’s ever heard it before. And he’s panting shallow—almost like a dog or something.
“There, hmmm?” Hooper asks. And he stutter-thrusts in again.
Puck feels this warmth inside him, this feeling of slowly expanding euphoria. “Oh, God.”
Hooper thrusts again and again, short and fast. And then, without ever realizing when it started, Puck’s thrusting back.
It goes on that way, for an eternity or mere seconds, Puck couldn’t say. Then Hooper’s hand is sliding down Puck’s belly—wrapping around his cock.
It’s a shock to feel how hard he is under Hooper’s hand. The feeling inside him is so all-consuming he didn’t realize.
Then Hooper is whispering in his ear, “I want you to come for me, now,” and he’s rubbing the head of Puck’s cock so perfect, rough and slow. And Puck’s coming, white lights swallowing him whole.
The next thing he feels is Zizes slapping him on the back. He’s stretched out on the bed, in the wet spot, naked as the day he was born. “Where’s Hooper,” he asks, voice completely hoarse.
“Guess he had to fuck and run,” Zizes says. “But he left you a tip.”
Puck props himself up enough that he can look Zizes in the eye. “I wouldn’t do this usually, but—ah—help me get dressed?”
Zizes raises an eyebrow. “He wear you out?”
“Yeah,” Puck says, wincing as he shifts. “Oh, yeah.”
Chapter 13: Utter confusion
Frequent use of the word rape in this chapter. No actual rape, though...
When Zizes drops Puck off back at Lima High, Kurt’s waiting next to Puck’s truck.
“Christ, Hummel. Tell me you weren’t out here the whole time. You probably have frostbite,” Puck barks, closing in on him. Kurt’s face is red from the wind and his whole body is shaking. “Crap, get inside the truck. I’m driving you home.”
“Wait,” Kurt says. His voice is all choked up. His hand lands on Puck’s jacket—clutches it. “Did—“ he gulps, “how—how was it?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Puck says, looking down. He can feel the blush spread up the back of his neck—can’t help remembering himself moaning and begging for it.
“Oh—“Kurt says, “oh, Puck. I’m so sorry for—for—“
Puck cuts him off with, “It’s not your fault,” before he can finish the sentence. He doesn’t wanna hear it. Doesn’t want to hear Kurt apologizing for making him gay.
And that’s it, isn’t it. He’s gay now. He’ll never like tits again in his life. It’s gonna be all cock all the time from here on out. And it’s too much, suddenly, all too much. His eyes start to water. He blinks fast, tries to hold it back, but there it is—a tear rolling slowly down his face.
And of course Kurt has to see it. “Oh, Noah,” he says and pulls Puck into a hug. “Shhh. It’s going to be fine. You’ll see. Come on, I’ll drive.”
Then he has Puck by the hand and is leading him to Kurt’s SUV. Kurt opens the door for him—like he’s some kind of girl or something—and there it is again, another fucking tear. He heaves himself into the SUV so he doesn’t have some kind of chick-flick break down in the parking lot. When he hits the seat he can’t hold back the wince—Hooper’s got a mean back-hand. God, he’s never going to be able to get tonight out of his head. It just keeps playing over and over on a loop of steaming hot sex. He winces again, thinking about it.
“Crap,” Kurt says. “Crap, shit, crap. FUCK!” He kicks one of the wheels of the Navigator. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck.”
“…uh, Kurt,” Puck says. He can feel his eyes are wide with shock. It’s just—Kurt’s not the kind of dude who swears—ever.
“Goddamnitall. DAMNIT! I KNEW this was a bad idea.” Kurt waves his hands in the air. “Look at you. Just look at you!”
And Puck does. Puck looks down at himself in his twinky clothes and then he looks down at his traitorous cock. Of course it’s his cock that gets him in trouble. His Ma always says that’s the only reason men ever get into trouble. And shit, is he in trouble now. Stupid man-loving cock.
He sniffs a little, rubs his nose on the back of his hand. It’s fucking cold out, and his nose always runs in the cold. For some reason, that’s what breaks through to Kurt. “Look at you, freezing to death out here,” he says, hand running down Puck’s shoulder in a quick pat. “Come on, get in the rest of the way so I can drive you home.” Puck twists his legs into the SUV, stopping for a second when he hits just that place on his ass just the wrong way. Then he’s in and Kurt’s closing the door for him. Christ, Kurt must think he’s a total girl now.
Kurt’s around the Navigator and climbing into the front seat in a blink of the eye. He turns the key in the ignition, and there it is, finally, blessed heat. It makes Puck bliss out—float away on warmth and almost forget the rest of the night. “Here, let’s get you buckled in,” Kurt says, and then he’s reaching across Puck and actually putting the seatbelt on for him. Puck would be pissed, but frankly right now, he doesn’t even care. Between the warmth and the leather and the comfort of being in a place that’s all Kurt, Puck is almost—content right now. Maybe it won’t be too terrible being a total girl.
He feels himself slip off as Kurt pulls out. “That’s right, Noah,” Kurt says. “Sleep. We’ll fix this all tomorrow.”
Puck wakes up the next morning from a dream about Brittany’s tits to a raging hard-on. “Christ—thank fuck!” he shouts, throwing his arms in the air. His dick isn’t broken after all. It still likes girls.
“Wha—Noah, wha’s wrong?” comes a sleepy voice next to him. A hand reaches out and slaps him on the shoulder, and then it’s patting him instead. “Sh… ‘s all right. Sleep now.”
And then Puck looks around himself. And notices that he’s in a bed that’s most definitely not his bed in a room he’s never been in before with—HUMMEL! What the FUCK did I drink last night?
He slips out of the bed—careful, careful to not jostle it too much. For the life of him he can’t remember the rest of the night—the last thing he can remember is passing out in Kurt’s car. But obviously he must have gotten drunk somehow. Or drugs, could’ve been drugs. Not that he had anything to eat after that Chinese, yesterday, but still, it could have been—in the lube! Of course! That was it. There were drugs in the lube and that’s why he—he—took advantage of Kurt. He’s not gonna call it that other word. It wasn’t that other word at all. Oh my god, I raped Kurt Hummel.
He starts pacing back and forth, trying to think—think dammit. Maybe it wasn’t that way. Maybe--maybe. After all, last night proved he was a total cock-slut. So, maybe it was the other way around… Maybe Kurt did him.
Only one way to find out, really. Puck steels himself, then walks to the bed, quiet as he can be. The sheet comes down without disturbing Kurt at all, and then it’s just one layer between Puck and knowledge. Puck slips his fingers under the band of Kurt’s boxers—“Is there a reason your hand is in my boxers?” Puck jumps across the room, like a startled cat. Shit. Fuck.
Kurt turns over and looks at Puck, and then his eyes broaden in understanding. “Oh. Oh my goodness. This—this is like that Lifetime movie. Where after the—well you know—after last night I’m sure you know—the girl can’t talk, so she points to where—well, ah—where it happened on somebody else’s body.”
Puck sighs in relief. “So it was the other way around.”
“Oh, thank Kenneth Cole! You can talk,” Kurt says. He sounds totally excited.
“Ah,” Puck says, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, last night…I…was I good? For you?”
Kurt smiles big and broad, “You were an angel last night,” he says. His eyes crinkle up at the edges. “You slept like a baby after…” he trails off and his smile disappears. “Oh, I forgot. You didn’t want to talk about it.”
Well, at least Kurt enjoyed himself then, even if Puck can’t remember it. Seems weird that he wouldn’t want to talk about it afterward, but that was last night—before he realized he still liked chicks. And then he can’t hold it in anymore. “I’m not gay, Hummel!” he says, totally hyped.
“I know that,” Hummel says, looking kind of hurt or something.
“This is going to be so much easier now,” Puck says, pacing again, “just knowing that…”
“Just precisely what is going to be easier?” Kurt says. His voice sounds deadly.
“The prostitution thing,” Puck says. “I mean, last night was rough, but now that I know…”
“No!” Kurt says, harsh. He’s panting like he’s run a mile in those crazy high heels of his. “No, Puck. There is no way you’re still doing this. After last night…”
And that turns Puck cold. After last night, after one night of fucking, Kurt thinks he owns Puck or something? What—the fuck! “You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Hummel.”
“After last night do you really think—“ Kurt stops himself. “What is this about, Puckerman? Money? I can get you money—just wait until the banks open up and I can get you as much money as you want.”
Puck can’t hear over the buzzing in his ears. It’s like Kurt slapped him—worse—it’s like—no it’s not like, it is—it’s Kurt calling him dirt. Worse than dirt. “Fuck you Hummel. You think you can just—“ his hands clench into fists. He’s never wanted to punch someone so much in his life. “I never noticed it before, but you’re a real asshole Hummel. You and me? Whatever the hell this is? We’re through.”
Puck walks up the steps and out the front door without looking back. It’s not ‘til he gets outside that he realizes, his car is still at school. Fuck.
When Puck gets to his truck he’s more pissed off than he’s ever been in his life. If being pissed at Kurt for treating last night like some kind of business transaction isn’t enough to push it over the edge, having to walk across town in just a pair of socks and a t-shirt and pair of boxers that don’t even belong to him more than does it. It’s the middle of winter for chrissakes, way too fucking cold to be walking blocks without shoes.
So, of course, since he’s so frickin’ pissed, he does something stupid. He throws a rock at the window of his truck, hard. It feels—christ it feels good. So he does it again. And again. And then there’s the sound of broken glass. It’s everywhere, all over the front seat. And it had to hit just the section of the window that would bring the rear-view mirror down with it.
He runs his hand through his ‘hawk, only the ‘hawk is gone, gone, fucking bye, bye birdie gone. And then the stupid tears are coming up again, only this time, they’re in his chest too, lodged in his throat and choking him. He slaps his thigh in frustration, and that’s when he feels it.
He noticed something hitting his thigh before, but couldn’t really tell what it was. He reaches down, now, and there’s pockets in the boxers, thank fuck. Inside he finds: his cell phone, an envelope, and his keys.
He opens the envelope first, mainly because he doesn’t remember ever seeing it before. Inside is money. A helluva lot of money. He starts counting, shivering—$3,000 dollars. He flips the envelope over, and there it is:
Tonight was surprisingly pleasant. I shall make sure to recommend you to some of the other local men. I am quite certain your client base will be expansive and—shall we say—profitable.
That’s good at least. He should be able to get enough money to pay for the baby easy if he really has a lot of dudes to service.
He flips his phone open next. It only takes a few minutes to get the number for a local tow truck.
Puck dials and the guy says he’ll be there in five minutes—he’s just down the street or something. At least Puck actually has the money for a mechanic now, thank fuck.
The tow truck pulls up. Puck shouldn’t be surprised, but for some reason he is. It’s Mr. Hummel. Of course it’s Mr. Hummel. Christ. Puck turns back to his truck and kicks it—which is when Puck remembers he’s not wearing shoes. “Ow. Jesus fuck.”
Mr. Hummel’s door slams, and then he’s walking up to Puck. “Noah. I have to admit, you’re pretty much the last person I expected to be picking up for a tow at 5:30 on a Wednesday morning.”
Puck checks his phone—yep, Mr. Hummel’s right. 5:30, fuck.
Mr. Hummel keeps talking like he never stopped. “Especially after the way you were conked out last night. I thought you’d sleep clear through to Thursday.”
…which is kind of weird. Not that Mr. Hummel checked in on them. Puck’s Ma checks on him every night. Like ten times. No, it’s weird that Mr. Hummel walked in on them—and was okay with it and all.
Mr. Hummel squints up at the sky, like he can even see anything up there. It’s still pitch black out. “You boys use protection, at least?”
“Yeah,” Puck says—he’s sure Kurt would’ve, pretty sure anyway. He got enough practice on the bananas, anyhow. Which brings to mind, in all its Technicolor glory, the image of Kurt going down on the banana. Makes him wonder if maybe Kurt did that to him last night. Christ—he wishes he could remember.
“I gotta admit, never figured Kurt had it in him,” Mr. Hummel says, laughing a little. “I thought—hate to say this, but I thought, with you being the tough guy and all, it’d be the other way around.”
“You and me both,” Puck says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You—you okay with this?” Puck asks. As much as he doesn’t really want to, he can’t help being terrified of Mr. Hummel. And if the dude’s gonna black his eye out or thrash him or kill him, he’d rather just face it now and get it over with already.
“Yeah,” Mr. Hummel says. “It’s not—it’s not what I wanted for him. I don’t think it’s what any father wants for his son. I wanted grandkids, ya know? But, it’s not in the cards for us I guess.” Burt shifts his cap. “The only thing that pisses me off about the whole business is that Kurt lied to me about it like that.”
Puck grunts. Shifts a little.
“I mean, he feeds me some cock-and-bull story about how you boys went to the drive-in theater and you passed out half-way through the movie. You really were passed out, kid. I tried to shake you, yelled in your ear even, and nothing. So I carried you downstairs.”
“Thanks,” Puck says, scuffs his feet a little.
“So, somebody messed up your truck, huh?”Mr. Hummel asks, walking over to give it a once over. “We’ll get her fixed up good as new, no charge.” He looks at Puck then. “There a reason why you aren’t wearing any clothes? I heard you boys fighting this morning, but I didn’t figure you’d be pissed enough to leave without your stuff.”
“You heard us fighting?” Puck says, and then he blushes, thinking of the other things Mr. Hummel must’ve heard if he could hear them fighting. Puck’s loud in bed. It’s something he’s never been ashamed of—until now.
“Yeah,” Mr. Hummel says, “over the baby monitor. You boys can do whatever you want to do on your own time, but you’re not having sex under my roof—at least not while I’m in it.” Mr. Hummel looks at him hard, then turns back and looks at the truck again. He turns slowly back to Puck. “It was somebody else, right?”
“Uh,” Puck says. He knows something doesn’t add up, but he can’t seem to figure out what. “Wait, back up a step. Hummel—Kurt and I can’t have sex under your roof, right? That’s what you said, yeah?”
“Noah, you didn’t—nah, there’s no way,” Mr. Hummel says.
“And you were home last night, the whole night? Didn’t go out for bowling with the guys?” Puck asks.
“Yeah, I was home,” Mr. Hummel says. He’s looking the truck over closer—bends down and picks up a rock. “Hey!”
“So then—Kurt and I didn’t have sex!” Puck says, then, spotting Mr. Hummel, hastily adds, “—in his room. We did it in the SUV.” Noticing the way Mr. Hummel is looking at him, Puck corrects himself, “…er, I mean, in the truck?”
“Noah, did you demolish your truck?” Mr. Hummel asks.
“Uh—I mean—“ Puck says, looking anywhere other than Mr. Hummel.
“It’s a simple question Noah, yes or no?” Mr. Hummel’s voice is loud in the early morning parking lot.
Puck’s eyes dart to Mr. Hummel’s face, then shoot to the truck. He bites his lip, shakes his head once. “Yeah.”
“Christ! What the hell happened last night?” Mr. Hummel asks. His gaze turns thunderous. “Did he hurt you?”
“What? No!” Puck says.
“Did he slip you something? Force you somehow?” Mr. Hummel asks. “Did he—Jesus Christ—did he r—“
“No!” Puck yells. “Fuck. How the fuck could you think that. Fuck. Fuck you!”
“I wake up this morning to you boys yelling at each other loud enough to wake up the dead. Then, half-an-hour later, I pull up here to find you standing in the clothes I put you to bed in last night with a totally trashed car that you yourself admitted to demolishing. To say nothing of the condition I found you in last night. What the hell am I supposed to think, Noah?” And suddenly, Mr. Hummel sounds different—broken. “Tell me, please—what else can I think?”
Puck swallows, hard. “It wasn’t—“ Then he replays what Mr. Hummel just said. “Condition you found me in. What the hell do you mean by condition you found me in?”
“Last night,” Mr. Hummel says, sounding a little confused, “after I brought you downstairs I got you ready for bed. You had obviously—well, had sex. Pretty rough sex.” He scratches his forehead a little. “What I don’t get is, I told Kurt I was getting you ready for bed, and he was fine with it. Went to moisturize just like always. I know that school of yours doesn’t teach kids enough, but I never thought it’d make you boys actively stupid.”
Puck starts laughing, then. Can’t help himself. “It wasn’t Kurt,” he says, through gasping guffaws of laughter. “It wasn’t Kurt.”
Mr. Hummel’s anger turns another direction then. “You boys haven’t even been together for a week and you’re cheating on him already?” He clenches his knuckles, takes a step closer to Puck then another.
Puck doesn’t want to die yet. He’s too young and pretty to die. He bites out, “I didn’t cheat on your son,” as a last-ditch attempt to avert looming death and dismemberment.
“Really,” Mr. Hummel says, moving closer still. “Then why don’t you explain to me—in small words—just how you ended up in the condition I found you in last night?”
Puck’s mouth opens and words just fly out. “It was a dildo.” He laughs to himself again. “It was a dildo.”
“Really?” Mr. Hummel asks with an arched eyebrow.
“What can I say, I like it rough,” Puck says. “I didn’t have sex with Kurt, I fucked myself with a dildo.” Then, hearing what he just said. “Oh my god. I didn’t have sex with Kurt. I have to tell him.”
“That you didn’t have sex with each other? I think he probably knows that, son,” Mr. Hummel says.
“No,” Puck says. “No, he doesn’t. That was what we were fighting over.”
“Better get in the pickup then,” Mr. Hummel says. “Knowing Kurt, he’s already thrown all your shit out on the street, but if you’re lucky maybe you can convince him you’re sorry,” Mr. Hummel says, climbing into the driver’s seat. Puck’s just closed the passenger door when Mr. Hummel asks, “Wait, how could you be fighting over whether or not you had sex last night?”
“Uh,” Puck says—trying to think of something…anything, “I was drunk,” other than that. Shit
After a fifteen-minute ‘conversation’ in the pickup, all about how Puck can do what-the-hell-ever he wants to do when he’s on his own, but if he wants to date Kurt he has to sober the fuck up. And about the fact that Puck will never be able to have sex again in this lifetime. And worst of all, about the fact that Mr. Hummel is calling Puck’s mom as soon as they get back to casa Hummel, Puck finally gets the okay to still see Kurt.
Which is lucky, seeing as how he has to go set Kurt straight on last night right now, right now, right now.
Puck bursts into Kurt’s room saying, “We didn’t have sex last night.”
“I know,” Kurt says. He’s standing in front of his closet in a towel—a short, white towel.
“No you don’t,” Puck says. “Kurt, you don’t get it. We didn’t have sex last night.”
“No, Puck, you don’t get it. I’m perfectly well aware of the fact that we didn’t have sex last night,” Kurt says. He bends forward to grab something from the side of his closet.
“No, you aren’t. I know you aren’t,” Puck says. “Listen to me, Kurt. You and I didn’t fuck last night. You didn’t fuck me, and, thank god, I didn’t fuck you.” Puck tilts his head.
If Puck turns just enough he can see all the way up to Kurt’s—“Noah Puckerman!” Kurt yells, rounding on him. “We did not have sex last night. We did not have sex at any other point in our lives. You did not anally penetrate me. I did not anally penetrate you. And I never, ever will! Ever! If we live a thousand years and you are the only other man on the planet, I will not have sex with you. I’d rather have sex with Rachel Berry.”
“Now, that’s just cruel,” Puck says.
“Well,” Kurt says, hands on his hips. “You were being dense.”
“Wait a second,” Puck says, putting a hand in the air. “If you knew we didn’t have sex last night, why did you offer to pay me for sex?” He thinks about it for a second. “Oh, wait. I got it. You’re dad told you too.”
“My dad told me too, what?” Kurt asks.
“That we didn’t have sex last night,” Puck explains.
Kurt opens his mouth. He doesn’t say anything for a minute. He goes to speak, then stops himself again. Eventually he says, “I don’t know which to be more freaked out by, the fact that you asked my father if you and I had sex last night, or the fact that you thought I did the same.”
“I never said you asked,” Puck grumbles under his breath.
Kurt’s eyes narrow. “Wait a second. Before—did you say— No, you didn’t. You wouldn’t.”
“I wouldn’t what?” Puck asks.
“Imply that I offered to pay you for—for services rendered,” Kurt says, all huffy.
“But you did. You said you would get me money,” Puck says.
“So you would stop prostituting yourself,” Kurt says.
“See, exactly,” Puck says.
“Exactly!” Kurt says. “Exactly what?”
“Exactly,” Puck says. “You wanted me to stop taking clients because you wanted to keep me to yourself.” He smirks. “Admit it, Hummel. You were jealous.”
Kurt’s face turns bright red. “I wanted you to stop prostituting yourself because you were raped last night!” Kurt says, voice loud enough to be heard in Cleveland.
“Wait—what?” Puck says.
Kurt covers his mouth. His face is white—white as a sheet. “…oh. I’m sorry I—I know you didn’t want to talk about it,” he says.
“I wasn’t raped last night, Hummel,” Puck says.
“I should never have—though I meant to say, you really need to see a counselor. Just—maybe you shouldn’t take this one to Miss Pillsbury,” Kurt says.
“I wasn’t raped last night,” Puck says.
“Oh, wait. I know this,” Kurt says. “This is denial. Okay, you weren’t—um—abused last night.”
“Hummel, read my lips, I wasn’t raped last night,” Puck says.
“Okay, fine. You weren’t raped last night,” Kurt says, happy as can be. “What happened instead? Did you play a nice game of croquet? Maybe catch the latest episode of American Idol? Seriously, Noah, I saw how scared you were.”
“I wasn’t scared ‘cause of that,” Puck says. “I was scared cause I li—“ he cuts himself off, can’t admit he liked it to Hummel, “ ‘cause I didn’t hate it.”
“Oh,” Kurt says. “You didn’t hate it. I’m so glad to know you didn’t hate it. What a rousing endorsement. ‘Try anal sex and you won’t hate it.”
Puck closes a hand over Kurt’s mouth. “I didn’t hate it,” he says low. “Didn’t hate it at all. It was sex, Hummel. And it scared the ever-living shit out of me that I didn’t hate sex with a guy. There. Happy now?” He let’s go of Kurt, takes a step back.
Kurt’s all flushed again, eyes round as saucers. “You—“ he licks his lips. “You said it—it was sex.” His voice drops until it’s coming out in a whisper. “Is it—is it like having sex with a girl?”
No, no, a thousand times, no. “Yeah—yeah exactly like that,” Puck says.
“So did you, um—“ Kurt says and makes a little motion with his hands.
“Did I—perform a magic trick? Hypnotize a herd of elephants? Come on, Hummel. Spit it out,” Puck says.
“Uh—“ Kurt says. He rubs his palms on the towel around his waist, only the knot must have taken enough abuse for one morning, because the next thing Puck knows, Kurt’s towel is on the floor.”
“Oh my god,” Kurt yelps, covering himself and running to the john.
“Oh. My. God.” Puck didn’t have all the time in the world for an unimpeded view of Kurt’s package, but he’s not called Noah Puckerman for nothing. He got plenty of time to check Kurt out, and Kurt—little Kurt Hummel—is hung like a horse. And Puck—Puck is as hard as a fucking rock. “…oh my god.”
Kurt races back out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, yelling about how “late, late, late” they’re gonna be. He drops Puck off in front of his house, saying, “If you’re not back in this car in ten minutes, I’m leaving without you.”
It’s kind of an idle threat. After all, Kurt’s driving him to school not someplace he might ever actually want to be.
Puck’s Ma is standing by the door when he gets in. “Drinking Noah,” she says and shakes her head. Then she tells him how he has exactly the same punishment he gets every time he gets caught drinking, no video games for a week. This time, though, after she’s done moaning about what an ungrateful son she’s raised, she says, “I told Burt—Mr. Hummel—that I would take your porn away too, but he said that was a bad idea. He’s too lenient I think—lucky his son is such a dear boy.” Puck turns to leave, when she says, “Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a package for you. I put it in your room.”
Puck takes the stairs two at a time. He only has two minutes before Kurt takes off, and he’d rather not go to school wearing clothes that smell like he had sex with a dude—he wears clothes that smell like he’s had sex with a chick all the time, but it’s a little different when it’s with a dude.
He shucks his pants, puts on a pair of jeans in their place. He scrambles to find a shirt that doesn’t smell like ass, but after a thirty-second scramble over the floor of his room, he has it—a plain black v-neck.
Then his Ma’s voice is coming from his door. “Why anyone got you a plant, I’ll never know. There’s a note. I can read it for you.” Puck’s eyes broaden in horror. It’s from Hooper. Has to be. There is no way she can read that note.
“Ma, it’s private,” he says. “It’s from Kurt.” His eyes trace all over the room trying to find a plant. Then he spots it—on his desk. It’s orange and kinda fugly—no way in hell would Kurt ever pick out a plant like that. But what his Ma doesn’t know, won’t hurt her. He reaches for the envelope, but he knows she’ll want to hear what’s in it if he doesn’t distract her. “What kinda plant is it, Ma?” he asks, pocketing the miniature envelope.
“Oh, let’s see,” she says walking up to it. “As far as I can tell it’s a tiger lily.”
Outside, Kurt’s horn honks.
“Crap,” Puck says. “I have to go. See you tonight.” He starts racing down the stairs.
“Earlier than that,” she calls after him. “I’m coming in today to hear you boys perform for your glee choir.”
Puck flinches. Crap, hope Hummel has something planned.
Kurt doesn’t have anything planned—at least, not anything Puck would ever consider singing.
“ ‘Another Suitcase, Another Hall’ is a song of love and loss from the stunning musical “Evita.” It is not a ‘gay-ass song’,” Kurt says.
“Whatever,” Puck says. “It’s stupid. It’s a song about somebody’s frickin’ luggage.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t care what you say, I’m not singing it.”
“Fine,” Kurt says, getting out of the SUV, “we’ll just stand up there staring blankly at everyone. Tell them it’s the ‘Sound of Silence.’ That ought to go over well.” He holds out his hand. “Give me your iPod. I’ll find something from one of your playlists.”
Puck hands the iPod over. There’s a pretty big chance he’s gonna regret this, but maybe Kurt will be able to pull something out of his ass.
They walk into school side by side. Puck notices some whispers following them, but he’s too freaked thinking of what Kurt might make him sing to really wonder what’s going on with the rest of the student body.
“Did you know every song on here has at least one Jewish singer?” Kurt asks.
Puck gives him a look.
“Right, okay then,” Kurt says, looking back at the iPod. “Hmmm.”
“Hm, what?” Puck says.
“Under ‘Jewish Compilations’ you have some songs by the Traveling Wilburys. Considering your voice is perfectly suited to either Dylan or Petty, and I’ve often been told I sound like a young Roy Orbison… Oooooh,” Kurt squeals.
“Ooh?” Puck says.
“Dirty World—that would be absolutely perfect for us,” Kurt says.
“How does that one go again?” Puck asks.
“Here,” Kurt says, handing him one of the earbuds.
They listen together for a couple seconds. A smile slowly spreads across Puck’s face. Looking at Hummel he sees his expression matched perfectly.
By the time lunch rolls around, Puck can no longer ignore it. He’s lost his mojo.
Sidney Spencer, the same Sidney Spencer who wet himself the first time he saw Puck last year, narrowed his eyes at Puck before English. Rusty Alberts—who’s given Puck his lunch money every day since he was ten—shoved Puck into a locker. And worst of all, Jacob Ben Israel pointed at him and laughed. Laughed. At him—Noah Puckerman.
Obviously, Puck’s worst fears have come true.
As soon as Kurt walks up to him in the lunch room, Puck drags him into a corner. “They know,” he says, as soon as they’re away from prying ears.
“They know…” Kurt’s eyes widen in horror. “They know that you’re prostituting yourself for money? Who knows? The police? Principal Figgens? My father? Puck—Puck, he’s going to kill you.”
“What are you talking about, Hummel?” Puck asks, looking at him funny. “None of the adults know I’m hooking. Actually, none of the adults know anything.” Puck sighs. “It’s the rest of the school that knows—that I’ve had gay sex.” He says the last two words as a whisper.
Kurt rolls his eyes. “They don’t know anything of the kind. You’re just paranoid.”
“Really,” Puck says. “Fine, watch this.” He walks up to Daniel Furst. The kid is about 5’2” and a hundred pounds soaking wet. Puck leans in, towering over him. “Get me a soda.”
Furst laughs at him. “Are you kidding, Puckerman? I’m not getting jack for you. You’re pitiful, man.”
Puck turns to Kurt, arms spread. “Okay,” Kurt says. “I see your point.” He frowns for a second then looks at Puck, smacks him on the arm. “Oh my goodness. You’re distracting me—when I need to plan out the arrangement for our performance. What is wrong with you?” He grabs Puck’s sleeve and pulls him into the cafeteria line. “Come on, we need to pick up lunch so we can get back to the auditorium to practice.”
Kurt pays for Puck’s lunch again without even blinking. Which is lucky, Puck left the pimp-wad at home and without being able to shake anybody down, he’s pretty much tapped for the day. This must be what being a chick feels like, Puck thinks, as the cashier rings Kurt up. Being a chick's gotta be awesome.
When glee rolls around that afternoon, Puck’s totally ready for it. Kurt had him play ‘Dirty World’ over and over again for the whole hour at lunch. And Kurt’s right, it is totally the right song for them—all about a kinky bitch of a woman.
“All right everyone,” Schue says, as soon as everyone shows up, “a couple of your fellow glee members have put together a special arrangement for you, so everyone listen up. Puck? Kurt?”
Puck’s Ma is sitting right next to Schue, glaring at Finn, but as soon as Puck and Kurt get to the front of the room, she turns all her attention on them.
“Take off your coat,” Kurt hisses at Puck. He does, then gets his guitar situated.
And then they’re perfect, on fire with it. Everyone is totally staring at them. In adoration—Puck knows. They—are the shit.
As soon as they’re done, Puck’s Ma says, “Look at them. My boys, my boys. So talented.” She tugs them down into a three person hug.
It’s as Puck’s in this undignified position that he hears Brittany say, loud, “Oh, that’s what I forgot. They’re totally doing it.”
Time seems to freeze for a second.
“Actually,” Berry says, breaking the silence, “generally, Brittany, I take everything you say with several large scoops of salt, but in this particular instance… Did you know, I have a bit of clairvoyance. And my senses are telling me that Brittany may be right. Noah, you can tell us—we’re your friends. Have you switched to homosexuality? Perhaps because of some misguided fear over soon becoming a father?”
Puck’s Ma’s grip switches from soft to as hard as iron. “Becoming a father?”
Puck wrenches himself free, and runs from the room. Puck’s usually the ‘fight’ type of guy. But he guesses there’s a time for everyone to turn into the ‘flight’ type, and this—this is his moment.
Puck’s stretched out on the chaise on Kurt’s roof when Kurt finds him, three hours later.
“Aren’t you cold?” Kurt asks, throwing Puck’s jacket at him.
“Who cares if I’m cold?” Puck asks, not taking his eyes off the sky. “I’m dead. Doesn’t really matter if I’m cold or not when I’m dead.”
“Actually,” Kurt says, “you’re not dead. We managed to concoct a rather elaborate story involving Tourette’s Syndrome, a fraternity, and a pogo stick. It was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard, but your mom seemed to believe it.” Kurt sits in the chair next to him. “Everyone collaborated, Puck. Everyone. Even Finn. Don’t you think maybe it’s time to apologize?”
“Screw that,” Puck says. “He wants an apology he can man up and ask me for one.” Puck shivers, slips the coat on, putting his hands in the pockets. As soon as he does, he feels a piece of paper in the left one. He pulls it out. The little card from the plant is sitting in his hand.
“Hummel,” Puck says, “you—ah—didn’t send me—ah—flowers, did you?”
Kurt sniffs. “Like you would know what to do with a flower if it bit you on the ass. No, I didn’t send you flowers, Puckerman.”
“Right,” Puck says, setting the note on his stomach. To open, or not to open?
“Oh—you…” Kurt says, agog. “He sent you flowers? Allen Hooper sent you flowers? Seriously? You were good enough for him to send you flowers? What did he send? Daisies, to represent taking your innocence? Or something more traditional—a dozen red roses?”
“Nah,” Puck says. “It was a plant, tiger lily or some shit. Ugly as fuck. I was kinda hoping it wasn’t from you. I really wanted to throw that shit in the trash the moment I saw it, but I didn’t want to hurt your—you know—your pride or shit.”
“A tiger lily? The actual plant? That would cost…” Kurt eyes him. “Just how good are you, anyhow?”
“What can I say,” he says, crossing his arms behind his head. “I’m a sex god.”
“Oh my god, he left a note?” Kurt says, spotting the envelope. “A love note?” He reaches out, quick, and nabs the little card from Puck’s belly.
“Shut it, Hummel,” Puck says. Then, after a second of nothing from Kurt, he says, “Come on. Aren’t you going to read it?”
“That’s—that’s okay?” Kurt asks. “You’ll let me—“ At Puck’s nod, he tears the little envelope open and pulls out the little card. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” He clears his throat, then opens the card. His eyes trace over the text, fast. “Uh—“ he says, smacking absently at Puck, “Puck. Puck, I don’t think this letter’s from Hooper.”
“Wait, what?” Puck says. “Let me see this.” He grabs the note from Kurt. It reads:
I received a rather—interesting call this morning. A certain—man—who we both know informed me of your recent interest in the—Lima sex market. This man and I have a—rivalry—that goes back years. You might say I have a—vested interest—in obtaining your wares.
Meet me tomorrow at nine—PM. The same room the same—outfit. And—the same services.
Looking forward to getting out of—my cage,
“What—the hell?” Puck says, looking up at Kurt.
Kurt’s looking back at him, eyes huge, giggling helplessly. “I’m so glad I’m not you right now.”
Puck tackles him onto the chaise.
The next day is weird—like really, really weird. If somebody took the weirdest day from the Guinness Book of World Records and compared it with this day, this day would win hands down.
It starts out with Jacob Ben Israel holding the door of Puck’s truck open for him as soon as he pulls into the parking lot (Mr. Hummel had handed him the keys the night before, saying she was as good as new). This in and of itself wouldn’t be too weird, but the kid has a big smile on his face. Puck tries to scare him, but his smile just gets bigger for some reason.
Then it’s Spencer, carrying his books to English, and Alberts shaking his goddamned hand after he gives a speech in history. The speech totally sucks; he completely forgot he had a speech to give. But the teacher is so confused by all the clapping afterwards that she gives him an ‘A’ anyway.
When Furst walks up to his table at lunch with five different kinds of soda, saying, “Yeah, I didn’t know which one you wanted, so you can have them all,” Puck finally cracks.
“Did the world get taken over by aliens last night and I was the last one to hear about it?” Puck asks, turning to Kurt.
“Maybe they just feel bad about yesterday,” Kurt says, with a little shrug.
“Hummel, do you see this,” Puck says, raising his hand. “It’s a 24 carat gold bracelet. With locket. With a piece of Bobby Friedman’s hair in it.” He shakes his fist under Kurt’s nose. “Don’t tell me that’s normal. What I wanna know is what the hell is going on?”
“Everyone knows you’re gay now,” comes a voice right behind them.
“Ah,” Kurt shrieks, jumping into Puck’s lap.
“Dude,” Puck says. “I’m starting to think you just wanna be in my lap.” He gives a little thrust up.
And Kurt’s out of Puck’s lap and across the table from him, like that. “I do not,” he says, face red and hands on his hips.
Puck smirks, raises his eyebrow. “Right.” He turns to Zizes. “Whadya mean everyone knows I’m gay. How can they know I’m gay. I’m not gay.”
Zizes raises her eyebrow.
“Shut up,” Puck says, flushing. “Besides,” he mumbles, shoulders hunched, “it wouldn’t be gay. It’d be bi. And I’m not. Bi.” Liar, liar, liar.
“Whatever you say, Puckerman,” Zizes says, sucking on her straw.
“But really,” Kurt says, “who spread the misinformation? I know everyone in glee is now under the mistaken impression that you and I are paramours, but they would never have mentioned a word.”
“Didn’t you see Sue’s Corner last night?” Zizes says.
“You’re shitting me,” Puck says. “How the hell did she even hear about this?”
“Ah—“ Jacob Ben Israel says, approaching their table, “that would be me.” He raises his hand in a wimpy little wave. “Coach Sylvester asked me to rig up a sound system to—ah—spy on the glee kids. Find out their—ah—weaknesses.” He shoves his glasses up his nose. “So yesterday, she caught every word of Hummel’s impassioned speech of love.”
Puck raises his eyebrow at Kurt.
“Especially the part about how great the sex was,” he adds.
Kurt closes his eyes and sinks down in the chair.
“Zizes. Check to see he hasn’t fainted again,” Puck says, eyeing him.
“No need,” Kurt says, waving his hand from his slumped position. “I’m just suffering from mortification, no actual harm.”
“So, why are all the dudes in school being nice to me?” Puck asks. “Is this some butter-him-up-then-pull-the-rug-out-from-under-him ploy?”
“What? No,” Jacob Ben Israel says with a squeak. “Now that we know you’re gay, the males of Lima High can’t help but be attracted by your rugged good looks.”
“But dude, I’m a dude,” Puck says. “And everyone that goes here is straight.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re so sexy you transcend people’s sexualities,” Jacob Ben Israel says.
“Really,” Puck says, with his dirtiest leer.
Jacob Ben Israel squeals and comes in his pants.
“Huh,” Puck says.
Puck cons Jacob Ben Israel into giving him his tape of last night’s Sue’s Corner. For some reason the kid tapes it every night—talk about a creepy obsession.
As soon as school’s over, Puck and Kurt crowd onto Puck’s bed and watch it.
The beginning of the tape is a creepy blonde dude and chick laughing and talking to each other about gophers. Then the man turns to the camera and says, “Those gophers will get you every time. Won’t they Sue?”
And then the camera switches to Coach Sylvester in all her track suited glory.
“They sure will Rod," she says with a smile.
“Today I was planning to talk about the upcoming tragedy known to most of you as Christmas, but in order to prevent a local suicide pact, I decided to table that one for next week.”
Coach Sylvester leans in, as the camera zooms in on her.
“Now as many of you know, one Noah Puckerman is officially swinging that bat for the other team. To those of you with ovaries, listen up. I have an important message for both Cheerios and common females alike: Don’t kill yourself.”
The camera zooms back out again as Coach Sylvester stands.
“I know it seems like the only option available right now, but Sue Sylvester didn’t get to be who she was without a little heart-break. Did Elvis Presley ever return my calls? No, he did not. He drowned in his own vomit. But did Sue Sylvester commit ritual suicide? No. She got over it, and went on to win Cheer Nationals six years running and earned a spot on the Spanish Parliament.
“Now I know none of you is me, or will ever be me. But someday maybe some of you will have a little of me in them. Why give that up over one man who I, for one, am glad is no longer reproducing?”
The camera zooms in again.
“Oh, and to those of you with less ov-ies and more testes, go get ‘em cowboys. I hear he’s a real stallion in the sack.
“And that’s how Sue—“ she says, holding her hand in a ‘C’—“sees it.
The camera swings back over to the dude and chick.
“Thanks Sue. I know we all want to have—a little of you in us. This is Rod—Remington. For Andrea Carmichael and all of us here tonight, stay—happening—Ohio.”
The tape fades to black and white fuzz.
“Well, I guess that sheds some light on today,” Kurt says.
“She said my name,” Puck says, shocked. “She used my full name on air.”
“Yeah, so,” Kurt says.
“Now even my cougars are gonna think I’m gay,” Puck says.
“Oh,” Kurt says, voice gone quiet.
Suddenly the tape goes from gray fuzz to full picture and sound. Jacob Ben Israel is dressed up in a jumper, his hair in pigtails, singing “The Sound of Music,” at the top of his lungs. Off key.
Kurt puts his hands over his ears. “Turn it off, turn it off, turn it off.”
“Where’s the remote?” Puck asks, searching through the sheets. Then he spots it—on top of the TV. “Oh, hell no. I’m not getting closer to that.”
On screen, Jacob Ben Israel’s voice reaches a shockingly high screech. Downstairs, Puck hears glass shatter. It’s probably just Sarah throwing things again, but Puck’s not taking a chance. “Come on, Hummel,” he says, throwing open his window. “Let’s make a break for it.”
The boys sing "Dirty World" by the Traveling Wilburys. It's a wonderfully dirty song that never uses female pronouns, instead using second person pronouns.
Chapter 15: Spanking the tiger
Puck/Rod Remington in this section with top!Puck...yeah, I don't even know.
Once Puck and Kurt get on the roof, they’re stuck up there for a couple hours. It’s not like Kurt’s house where there’s a nice convenient tree to climb down.
Puck keeps checking the video, hoping it’s over, but apparently Jacob Ben Israel did an entire remake of “The Sound of Music” playing every character himself. The time he goes down to check only to see Jacob Ben Israel in a nun’s habit singing “Climb Every Mountain” is enough to scar him for life.
When the coast is finally clear, it’s after 7:30. Puck has to scramble to get ready. He strips his shirt off, fast and is in the middle of unbuttoning his jeans when he hears a soft sound from Kurt. Puck looks up to see Kurt’s back facing him, but even from behind, Kurt looks tense. “Hey, you okay?” Puck asks.
“—yes,” Kurt says, but even Puck can tell it doesn’t sound right. His voice is all strangled like he’s been—Oh, crap. Don’t tell me he’s crying.
Puck rushes over to Kurt, in his half-undone jeans and nothing else. “Hey, it’s okay,” Puck says, putting a hand around the back of Kurt’s neck. He looks at Kurt, and Kurt doesn’t look like he’s been crying. But he does look like he’s maybe trying to hold back the tears. His face is all red and he’s biting his lip—hard. And his back’s sorta hunched—like he’s just barely holding back a sob. “This isn’t a repeat of this morning, right? It’s not rape, Kurt. It’s fine.” He soothes his hand up and down the back of Kurt’s neck. Kurt shivers—shit Puck knows this from chicks, here come the waterworks. “Come here,” he says, pulling Kurt into a loose hug. He runs his hand up and down Kurt’s back, up and down, up and down, up and down.
Suddenly Kurt’s talking. “If—if you don’t get dressed now you’re going to be late,” he says, all choked sounding.
Puck pulls back, tucks a hand under Kurt’s chin, and turns his face so he can see it. Still no tears. “Wow, Hummel. You’re a real trooper.”
Kurt laughs, a little weakly. “You’ll never know,” he says, then pushes Puck’s hands away. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”
“Haven’t you had enough of the cold for today?” Puck asks.
“Right now, a little cold would do me a world of good,” Kurt says.
Kurt makes his way to Puck’s door, but he’s still walking a little hunched. “Hummel—Kurt, you sure you’re okay?” Puck says.
“Fine, Puckerman. Just fine,” Kurt says, opening the door.
“Okay, then,” Puck says. “Just let me get naked for a sec and I’ll be right down.”
From the other side of the door Puck hears Kurt whimper. That’s it, then. Boy just wanted to break down in peace.
It’s 8:15 on the nose when Kurt pulls into the Lima High parking lot. Puck can tell the boy’s nervous, he keeps bouncing his knee and tapping the steering wheel and changing the radio stations. “Should I even ask if you’re going to allow me to accompany you this time?” Kurt asks, clutching the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip.
“Sorry, Hummel,” Puck says. “That ain’t no place for a boy like you.” He yawns, covering his mouth. “Crap, I hope this doesn’t go too late. I woke up at ass ‘o clock this morning.”
“I know,” Kurt says, hunching over again. “I was there.”
“Hey,” Puck says, putting a hand on Kurt’s shoulder, “I thought we went through this already. It’s gonna be fine.”
Kurt closes his eyes, tight—licks his lips. He says, “If I—If I asked you to tell me about it, sometime…would you?”
Puck opens his mouth, but before he can even think to say anything, Kurt’s looking at Puck, saying, “Not—I don’t mean—like this morning. I mean full Technicolor details. Tastes and textures and sounds. E-everything.”
Puck thinks for a second. Thinks about Kurt. About Kurt the blushing virgin who wanted his Disney fairy tale romance. Kurt has a right to know—he does—but Puck doesn’t want to take that perfect fairy tale away from him. “If that’s what you want,” he says, giving Kurt’s shoulder a little squeeze. “Is that what you want, Kurt?”
Kurt looks down at his hands on the steering wheel. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know if I’ll ever know.”
“If you ever figure it out and the answer is yes, let me know. I’ll—I’ll tell you everything, all right?” Puck says. What the FUCK am I even thinking. Fuck!
And then Zizes is honking her horn. “Ah,” Kurt cries, only this time when he jumps he doesn’t have anywhere to go, with the seatbelt on and all.
“Looks like my ride is here,” Puck says. And then, without really knowing why, he’s running a hand over Kurt’s head. “Pick me up?” he asks.
Kurt gives him a wobbly little smile. “Of course,” he says.
Puck makes himself leave after that. He knows if he doesn’t leave right now, he’ll end up sitting in the car the rest of the night trying to comfort Kurt. And that’s just plain not good business sense.
It’s kind of creepy walking into the same hotel two nights in a row, especially since the dude at the desk gives him a crooked leer as he hands over the key-card to Zizes.
Zizes smacks the counter, hard. A piece of Formica falls off. “Don’t even think about it,” she says. “You could never afford him.”
Puck punches her on the shoulder as they walk to the elevator. “You’re such a beast, Zizes. I bet you have to beat the boys away.”
She turns and squints down at him. “You couldn’t even imagine,” she says.
When they get to the hotel room, the creepy feeling gets stronger. The ‘9’ is hanging crooked on the door. Puck reaches out to straighten it, but it’s nailed on that way.
“Remember,” Zizes says, “I’ll be right outside the whole time.” When he still doesn’t move to go in, she continues, “Tiger comes up clean on the network. Absolutely no incidences.”
“Network? There’s a network?” Puck asks. “What of? Pimps?”
“It’s the Lima Chicken Network. LCN for short.” Zizes pulls a package of shortbread cookies from her bag. “It’s where all of you go to dish about the johns.”
“Why the hell didn’t I know about this?” Puck asks.
“Well, you know now, don’t you? Listen, I’ll email the link to Hummel later. That way you can check the johns out together.” She has a little smirk on her face.
“Thanks Zizes,” Puck says, “you da man.” He bumps his fist against hers.
She makes a disgusted noise and goes back to her cookies. “Anytime tonight Puckerman. Some of us aren’t being paid by the hour.”
Puck’s smirking as he opens the door. He hands the key-card back to Zizes, and gives her a quick salute.
He turns back around to see the same room from last night. And sitting on the same crappy hotel sofa in the same place is none other than Rod—Rod Remington from WOHN news.
“What can I say,” Rod says. “The Tiger likes—what he sees.”
“I—I, uh—need to get my—“ Puck says, and flees out the door he just entered.
Zizes looks up. She has an expression on her face that might be concern. In the right light. “Phone,” Puck chokes out. She reaches into her purse and pulls out his phone. He hits speed-dial two. It picks up on the first ring. “Kurt. Guess who my client is—just guess…it’s Rod Remington.” And with that, Puck breaks out into hysterical laughter.
“Crap,” Zizes says, and slaps him on the cheek.
It helps—cuts through the hysteria.
“Do I need to hit you again?” Zizes asks.
Over the line, Puck hears Kurt ask, “Do you think Coach Sylvester put him up to this?”
And he’s laughing—almost giggling—again. Zizes slaps him again, hard.
“Enough,” Puck says, hanging up the phone on Kurt saying something about Coach Sylvester putting mics up in the cafeteria. “Open the fricking door, Zizes. I have a job to do.”
When Puck gets back inside, everything is just as it was. Including Rod Remington.
The dude is giving him this totally creepy look, like he wants to eat him or something. Puck wipes his palms over his slacks. “So you—you ah—said you wanted the full service package.” Puck can’t help but look down at the dude’s hands. His fingers look like a chick’s—soft and unused. At least the spanking shouldn’t be too hard from hands like those.
“That’s it—exactly,” Rod says, standing up.
Puck’s hands go to his jacket. “All right, I guess strip first, then. That’s what I did Tuesday.” He grabs the zipper on the jacket and starts to tug.
“Now wait—just—a second,” Rod says. “I believe we’ve gotten our wires—crossed. When I said I wanted the—same services—I meant I—want you to do the same—things—to me that he did to you.”
Puck’s eyebrow shoots up. “Really. Well, in that case, strip. We don’t got all night.” He sits down on the sofa and waits while Rod Remington undresses. As the dude throws his shirt on the ground, Puck spots some ink on his back. “Wait,” he says. “Turn. I wanna see your back.”
And there it is. A fucking tiger. Jeez, he wishes Kurt was here. This is too good not to share. “Okay, already. Get the rest of your clothes off.”
The dude strips quick for an old guy, Puck gives him that. As soon as he’s stripped, he turns back to Puck with a big-ass smile on his face. “Where do you—want me?” he asks, arms spread.
“Hands and knees, on the bed,” Puck says, cracking his knuckles. He could get used to this.
After thirty-two smacks, Rod’s ass is all red and hot. Puck can totally see the appeal, who wouldn’t want to fuck someone proper after spanking ‘em good and hard?
“How can I—service you—next?” Rod asks, turning around to look at Puck.
The dude’s hard—naked and hard—and Puck can’t help liking that picture. “Blow me,” Puck says.
Rod kneels between Puck’s legs, rubbing his hands up and down Puck’s thighs. “Would you like to do the—honors—or should—I?” he asks, running a finger over Puck’s zipper.
“It’s all you, man,” Puck says, putting his hands behind his head. It’s not ‘til Rod’s opening the button on his fly that Puck remembers. “Crap,” he says. “Not the button, just the zipper. Take me out through the hole.” It seems weird, doing it with all his clothes on. He’s never gotten this far with a chick before without being completely nude. (Puck likes his body—sue him.)
“Kinky,” Rod says, undoing his zip.
As soon as Rod’s got him out in the open, Puck puts a hand in his hair and pushes down a little. “Put the head in your mouth,” Puck says.
And like that, Rod doesn’t just have the head in his mouth, he’s frickin deep-throating him. “Oh my god,” Puck says. He thinks about telling Rod there was no deep-throating involved Tuesday, but then he decides screw it and just holds on for the ride.
Rod’s sucking so perfect—deep and slick –Puck feels himself start to let go. He tugs on Rod’s hair, which doesn’t actually have the desired effect. Instead Rod sucks all the harder, moaning hard himself. Puck opens his mouth to tell him to let up, but only gets as far as, “I’m gonna—“ before Rod does this fantastic thing with his tongue that sends Puck right over the edge. As he spurts wave after wave of come into Rod Remington’s mouth, he can’t help but think, aw, screw it, all over again.
It doesn’t take Puck long to get hard again—he is sixteen, after all. He’s slowly fucking his fist, looking at Rod Remington spread out on the bed when Rod turns his head and says, “I do have one—request to make of you. Rod reaches into the nightstand and pulls out a ball gag.
“And you call me kinky?” Puck says with a raised eyebrow. “Whatever, but I’m telling my muscle about it so she’ll come in and check on us, make sure you’re not killing me or shit.”
“Actually—“ Rod says, “I’d like you to—use it on me. I enjoy the—unrestrained feeling of coming while—gagged.”
Puck looks at the gag then turns back to Rod with a smirk on his face. “Oh yeah, that works for me just fine.”
He fits the gag into place, snapping it closed. It makes a nice picture, the black rubber breaking up the bronzed skin and gold hair.
And then—and then it’s showtime. Puck kind of figured that he’d appreciate it, being on this side of things, but he’s never really done this before. Chicks are easy. Ever since his first time—that was just painful all-around, and way too short—Puck’s never had a problem getting a girl excited, never had a problem making them come. But looking at a dude’s ass all spread out, it’s sorta freaky thinking about how he’s gonna get his cock in there.
It’s just really tight looking, and—running a finger over the hole—pretty damn dry. Nothing like a chick.
So, what came first again? Oh, yeah—the lube. Puck looks around the bed trying to spot some. Nothing. He can’t see anything out anywhere in the room. Nightstands then. And there it is, second try’s the charm. He opens the cap, gets a little on his finger—and then it’s back to a little anal exploration.
He runs his finger up and down the crack, just getting used to the different equipment underneath his hands. It’s easier, in a way. None of the folds and shit to get in the way. And not having to find a clit makes his job a helluva lot simpler.
After a couple seconds of that, though, he’s starting to really get back with the program. Seeing that tiny little hole flinch every time he sweeps over it is hella-hot. So he gets more lube on his finger, and goes back to Rod’s ass, concentrating on just the hole this time.
And this is really not like with a chick—at all. Chicks open up so easy for him, slowly, like how the laminate is peeling back from his history book, a little more all the time. But with Rod, it’s like when Nana Connie pulls his tooth out—nothing happening for forever and then suddenly, everything all at once. He goes from not being able to get even the tip of his finger in, to the whole finger up to the knuckle just kind of getting sucked in.
It doesn’t feel too different from a chick inside—the same heat, the same pulsing feeling, the lube making everything kinda wet—maybe a little smoother, but otherwise pretty much the same. He pushes in a little farther and Rod shudders hard all over. It’s pretty sweet—when he shudders like that, it makes the tiger on his back look like it’s running or something.
Puck’s really fucking turned on—just thinking about what that tiger’s gonna be doing when he’s pounding the hell out of Rod Remington’s ass… He slicks up another finger and starts fucking Rod with both of them. And Rod’s like a fucking live-wire, arching and shivering all over.
Finally Puck can’t take it any longer. He wipes his fingers off on the comforter and nabs the condom from his pocket. It’s hell putting the condom on, but then it’s on and he’s ready, rarin’ to go. He lines himself up, waits for Rod to open back up.
But even when he does it’s slow going, Puck fighting for every fraction of an inch. He finally pulls back out, frustrated. He’s about to pull the condom off and say fuck it all, but then he kneels on something on the bed—the lube. Lube, of frickin’ course. He rubs a good handful all over himself, and then he’s pushing back in.
As soon as he’s bottomed out, Rod makes this high-whine and his shoulders start shaking uncontrollably. And it’s hot, so hot, hearing that noise—seeing that ink move for him. Puck starts really giving it to the dude, long and hard. He was gonna try and make it more of a slow fuck, maybe make the dude come on his cock, but now he has to face it—that shit just ain’t happening.
He reaches under Rod, anyhow—grabs for his cock. And finds a wet spot. A huge fucking wet spot. And that—that sends Puck right over. He thrusts in with a dirty twist two, three times more and then he comes hard, slumping right over that frickin’ tattoo.
After a minute of just lying there like dead weight, he reaches up and detaches the gag. The first thing out of Rod's mouth is, “Sweet Baby—Jesus and all the apostles.”
When Puck looks up at him, he’s weeping into the pillow. “Hey, dude, you okay?” Puck asks, shaking his shoulder a little.
“While we were engaging in mutually stimulating—activity—I saw the face—of God,” Rod says. “He looked like a modern Daniel—Day Lewis.”
“Right,” Puck says, slipping off the bed slowly. “You can just leave the money with my muscle. Or hey, mail it. Mailing is always a good option.”
He leaves the room quickly, suddenly glad he fucked with all his clothes still on. Hopefully the crazy isn’t catching. At least he wore a condom.
Chapter 16: The LCN
When Puck gets back to the parking lot Kurt is waiting for him, this time with hot cocoa.
“I thought you might need something to help you—uh—wind down?” Kurt says, holding one of the cups out for Puck.
He passes the other one to Zizes through her window. “Did everything go okay tonight?” Kurt asks her. “He have any problems?”
“He is standing right here,” Puck says, irritated.
They completely ignore him. “Well, if you discount the fact that he flew out of that room like the hounds of hell were after him, then yes, everything went smoothly,” Zizes says.
“What?” Kurt asks, rounding on Puck. He starts feeling him all over, like, to check if he has broken bones or something. “Noah, are you all right?”
“Well, not really,” Puck says, figuring he should play for as much sympathy as he can get. “After I fucked Rod Remington he turned into a real creeper.”
Kurt’s eyebrow shoots up. “You a-anally penetrated him?” he asks.
“Well, yeah,” Puck says, getting into the swing of it. “It was totally bizarre. The dude kept talking about weird-ass crap, like religion and shit. Except when he was blowing me. And when he had the gag in his mouth.”
And there goes the other eyebrow. Then Kurt’s face turns into a sneer. “Oh I’m so sorry for you. You poor baby.” He turns his back on Puck, turning back to Zizes.
“Here’s the payment,” Zizes says, handing it over. To Kurt. “I’m out for the night.”
“Dude,” Puck says, holding out his hand.
Kurt gives him a high-five, saying, “Yes, yes. I’m very impressed with your performance tonight, Noah.” He gives Zizes a big smile. “Thanks for everything, Lauren. It sets my mind at ease, knowing he’s being properly looked after.”
Zizes says, “No problem,” and pulls out of the lot.
And then Kurt turns back to the cash. He doesn’t even look up at Puck, counting through the money instead. Puck’s frickin’ put out, but he’s not gonna be a girl about it or anything. He takes a sip of cocoa, to keep off the boredom. Jeez that shit is good.
As Kurt counts, his eyebrows climb steadily up his forehead. When everything’s totaled, Kurt’s voice comes out as a squeak. “Ver-very imp—Puck. Noah Puckerman. Do you know how much money this man gave you?”
“Rod Remington,” Puck says, with a shiver. He still can’t get the feeling of crazy off him. He’s gonna take a long-ass shower as soon as he gets home.
“Three thousand dollars!” Kurt says, all shocked.
“Huh,” Puck says. “He really must have some kind of obsession with Hooper. I know he wanted the same treatment, but down to paying the same for it—christ that dude was weird.”
“Why are you not more freaked out by this? Three thousand dollars. Three thousand dollars, Puckerman,” Kurt says, pacing back in forth in the parking lot. Suddenly he stops himself, turns to Puck. “Same amount?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Puck says, taking another swig of the cocoa. He always figured this shit was for girls like Finn, but he obviously wasn’t giving it a fair shake.
“Same amount?” Kurt asks, voice gone shrill.
“Yeah,” Puck says, yawning. He’s not sure if it’s the marathon sex or the hot chocolate, but he’s suddenly freaking tired. “That’s what Hooper paid.”
“Why, just why would anyone pay three thousand dollars for sex?!” Kurt shrieks.
“Jesus christ, Hummel, calm down. You’re starting to sound like Berry,” Puck says, holding his hands to his ears.
“Puck—“ Kurt starts, face going all red.
Puck puts a hand over Kurt’s mouth. He waggles his eyebrows at Kurt. “What can I say, Hummel? I’m just that good.”
Kurt knees Puck in the balls.
As Kurt pulls out of the lot leaving Puck alone outside on a freezing Ohio night, Puck decides that maybe it’s not a good idea to taunt Kurt. At least, not without another ride.
“Listen, I’m sorry,” Kurt says the next morning, holding a giant slushee and a really amazing looking donut , all covered in chocolate and caramel and shit.
“I know, I know. I overreacted. It was—I was out of line,” Kurt says. “If you—you could retaliate if you want to.”
“Yeah?” Puck says, with a raised eyebrow.
“Just let me—“ Kurt says and sets the slushee and donut on the bottom of his locker. “Okay,” he says, bracing himself, eyes closed, “do your worst.”
“Nah,” Puck says, messing up his hair. “I was probably asking for it.” Kurt cracks his eyes open, then lets out a sigh of relief. “Besides,” Puck continues, “you hit like a girl. I hardly felt it.”
“That’s because you have nothing down there to feel,” Kurt says, then covers his mouth, eyes sliding closed. “Oh my god, what is wrong with me today?”
Puck pounds him on the back. “Nothing,” he says, nabbing the donut. “It’s called finally becoming a man, Hummel. I knew those balls would drop sooner or later.”
Kurt narrows his eyes at him then shakes his head. “You’re almost right. I do sound like one of you.” He looks at Puck really close. “How do you boys make it through the day without killing each other?”
“It’s called bluffing, Hummel. If you learn to bluff enough, nobody’ll ever beat up on you. They won’t have the balls to.” He takes a big bite of the donut. “Jesus, Hummel. Where the fuck did you even get this? Heaven?” he asks around a moan. He licks his lips, chasing the caramel off the side of his mouth.
Kurt flushes bright red. “I—I—“ He clears his throat. When his voice comes out again it’s really high. “Did you get a chance to check out the—the, uh, website…uh—you know. The one. The one Zizes…”
“Nah,” Puck says, swallowing the last bite. His fingers are all covered in chocolate so he starts licking ‘em. It doesn’t work too well, though, so he tries putting one in his mouth and sucking it off. Paydirt.
“Oh,” Kurt says, voice coming out all weak. “Well, then. I guess I’ll just—ah—check that out.” He starts walking away from Puck, still not tearing his eyes away from him. He bumps into a locker. “Oh—uh. Excuse me,” he says giving the locker a pat.
Puck finally has the last of the chocolate off his fingers. Now there’s just the palm. Out of the corner of his eye, Puck sees Kurt turn around and flee. Huh, must’ve seen a spider, Puck thinks, then goes back to licking his palm. Ah, sweet chocolaty goodness.
Puck’s on the phone, pacing back and forth in front of his door. Kurt’s on Puck’s computer, looking through the listings of local johns. “You wouldn’t believe how comprehensive this is,” Kurt says. “I honestly think this has a rating of every illicit gay sexual transaction from the past ten years.”
“Mrs. Fraiser, hey. It’s Noah. Noah Puckerman. You know, your pool boy?” Puck says.
“Listen to this one,” Kurt says. “ ‘Client pays well, but not well enough. After completion was reached he requested I help him cut his toenails.’ Toenails. Ugh, who would be so gauche?”
“No, I’m not actually gay, Mrs. F. I don’t care what Coach Sylvester says.” Puck runs a hand over his scalp, wishing he still had hair so he could tug it out by its roots.
“Hmmm. This one sounds intriguing,” Kurt says, turning to look at him. “Puck, get off the phone already and listen to this.”
“What do you mean, ‘less than whelming’? Mrs. F? Mrs. Fraiser!” Puck throws the phone on the bed in disgust. He turns to Kurt. “Is ‘whelming’ even a word?”
“It means to submerge,” Kurt says absently. “It’s a synonym for arousing, devastating, you know.” He turns and spots the phone lying on the bed. “So, you’re finished with that lesson in futility, then? Good. Come over here. I want your opinion on this one.”
“Oh, so I actually get to give my opinion now? I’m shocked, Hummel. I’m just the dude who has to bend over for these guys, why should my opinion matter?” Puck says, rolling his eyes.
“Don’t even start with me,” Kurt says. “Especially with that bending over business. Obviously there wasn’t a lot of bending over going on last time.”
“Christ, fine,” Puck says, throwing himself down on the bed. “You get to top one time and you never hear the end of it.” He crosses his arms behind his neck. “Lay it on me already. What’s interesting about this dude? He have a monster-cock or something?” Puck’s brain chooses that moment to remind him exactly who has a monster cock. And is sitting only a couple feet from him. Puck feels himself go hot all over. He can’t help but wonder if Kurt’s a grower or just a shower. ‘Cause if he’s not just a shower the dude’s packing some serious porn-star cock in his chick-pants.
Kurt interrupts his thoughts with, “All right, this guy has prostitutes dating back a couple years, so he’s obviously not a serial killer. Now listen to this: “The least I ever had to do for so much money.” And this one: “Never had so much fun with a john. Five stars.” This guy sounds promising. Although I’m not sure about this comment: “If you play a musical instrument, bring it. Seriously. Big tips.” The only thing I can figure is the guy has a secret desire to be a band instructor.”
“The guy have a name?” Puck asks, cracking his neck.
“Just a street-name. Calls himself the Lyin’ Mayan. Interesting. That must mean he’s a Latino.” Kurt spins in the desk chair to face Puck. “So, what do you think? Set up a session with him?”
“Yeah,” Puck says. “Let him know I’m bringing my guitar.”
“All righty then,” Kurt says, flexing his fingers. He turns back to the computer and starts typing.
From beside him, Puck’s phone starts buzzing. He picks it up and sees ‘Mrs. Hooper’ on the caller ID.
He takes a deep breath and answers it. “Hey, Mrs. H.”
“I have you set up for Sunday afternoon, three ‘o clock,” Kurt says. “I’m just going to clear it with Zizes, and then we’re good to go with operation ‘Lyin’ Mayan’.”
“Exactly I’m not gay,” Puck says.
“Although, that does seem like a stupid name for an undercover sexual liaison…” Kurt muses, finger to his lips. “Perhaps we should call it, Operation Music Lover. At least that has the word lover in it.” He goes back to typing.
“What do you mean, ‘confused about my sexuality’?” Puck says. He pulls the phone from his ear and gives it a dirty look. “For your information I’m not confused at all,” he shouts. “I’m very very unconfused. I know I’m bi.” He hangs up the phone. “There. That oughta show her.”
Kurt turns around and stares at him.
“What?” Puck asks.
“Are you sure he invited us to dinner?” Puck asks. “Us? As in both of us? To dinner?”
“Yes, Puck, I do know when my own father is serious, and he’s always serious about food,” Kurt says.
“But Breadstix? Seriously? I mean, I’ve never gone there when there wasn’t a chance of getting laid afterwards,” Puck says. “It’ll be a new experience for me. I’ll like, grow and shit.”
Kurt rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you’ll really grow all right. If you’re really lucky you might turn into an actual human being.”
“Hey!” Puck says.
“So, should I tell him yes, then?” Kurt asks.
“Yeah,” Puck says. “Yeah, all right. It’ll be a good experience. Getting to know the pops. Sign me up.”
“And this has nothing to do with the free meal?” Kurt asks.
“Nope, nothing at all,” Puck says with a broad grin.
“Right,” Kurt says. “So I’ll tell him then. Tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night,” Puck says.
Kurt gives him a little wave and heads out the door. Puck thinks he hears, “Sleep tight, Noah,” as Kurt’s leaving, but he’s probably just making it up.
The two of them had spent the whole evening together, just chilling out in Puck’s room, fucking around with music and reading about some of the really weird johns on the LCN. It was strange to even think about it, but somewhere in the last couple weeks, Kurt had become a really awesome friend. Kind of a better friend than Finn had ever been.
Just then, Puck sees Finn sign into Yahoo!Messanger. Impulsively, he sends him a quick message:
puckuhard: hey dude. kurt sayz i should say i'm sorry, so…
nofinnatall: what’s up with that, dude? are you seriously doing hummel now?
puckuhard: r u gonna b a bitch bout this?
nofinnatall: dude? seriously?!?/? your boning dudes now? what the hell puckerman?
puckuhard: I cnt tlk bout this rt now
puckuhard: but hummels a rlly nice dude
puckuhard: and the boi’s srsly gifted if u kno wut i mean…
nofinnatall: oh my god puck.
nofinnatall: my eyes
nofinnatall: that is something I never needed to know
nofinnatall: jesus, i'm signing off now.
puckuhard: we cool now?
nofinnatall: yeah, whatever puckerman
nofinnatall: just don’t tell me about you’re gay sexcapades
nofinnatall: or ask me to give a speech at you’re gay wedding to hummel
puckuhard: ‘m talkin pron star cock
puckuhard: liek a foot long
nofinnatall signs off
Chapter 17: Three-part harmony
This section has Puck/Bryan Ryan bad!sex.
I was actually tearing up while writing the Burt + Puck scene. Deals with Mrs. Hummel's death and Mr. Puckerman's abandonment of his family.
There is also some serious Kurt/Puck UST... *runs off laughing*
Breadstix is packed when they get there. “See, aren’t you glad I insisted on getting reservations?” Kurt says. “We wouldn’t have gotten a table until tomorrow in this mess.”
“Yes, Kurt. You were right. Like you’re always right,” Mr. Hummel says.
“I know,” Puck says, elbowing Kurt in the ribs. “This guy’s always gotta be right about everything.”
“Not always,” Kurt says, ears turning red. “There are some things I know nothing about. Like—well sports.”
“If he ever bet on basketball, he’d probably win—without ever having seen a game before in his life,” Mr. Hummel says, laughing. “This kid’s got the golden touch.”
“Your table, gentlemen,” the hostess says, laying down the menus.
Kurt tries to slide in the booth next to his dad, but Mr. Hummel gives him a funny look. So he changes direction mid-squat and slides in with Puck.
He gives Puck a little smile. “Just like old times, huh?” he says with a little laugh.
“I meant to ask,” Mr. Hummel says, “when did you boys start dating anyhow?” He grabs a breadstick and fiddles with it a little.
“Oh—uh,” Kurt says, waving his hands a little, obviously floundering.
Puck grabs one of Kurt’s hands in his and gives it a little squeeze, pastes a smarmy grin on his face. “We had our first date last week. Doubled with Santana and Brittany.” He turns his smile on Kurt. “Actually, our first date was right in this booth, wasn’t it, snookie-puss?”
Kurt’s nails bite into Puck’s hand. “That’s right, Noah,” he says around a grimace. He tries to extricate his hand. Puck holds on for dear life.
“That’s nice,” Mr. Hummel says. “A week, huh? You doing anything for the big anniversary? A week in high school must be like a month in college. Probably even longer past that.”
Puck thinks about what he did for Santana when they’d been dating for a week—gone down on her for a solid hour. For some reason he doesn’t think Kurt would appreciate that type of gift as much. Although—Puck turns an appraising look on Kurt. Who’s looking at him like he wishes he was carrying a knife just so he could shank Puck in as public a place as possible. Puck sighs and lets go of Kurt’s hand. “Nope, nothing special,” he says.
“So, that mean you’re free tomorrow, Noah? If you are you can join us in our annual father/son bonding experience.” Mr. Hummel looks up at him hopefully.
“What’s that?” Puck asks.
“We mainline a whole season of ‘America’s Next Top Model’ and order in from the vegan café down the street,” Kurt says. “Dad likes watching the scantily clad women, and I like seeing who Tyra can break first.”
“Darn. Shucks. Busy, tomorrow. Sorry to miss out on that one,” Puck says.
“You aren’t that busy,” Kurt says, putting a hand on Puck’s knee. “You should be free after five or so.”
“I wouldn’t want to stick my nose in where I don’t belong. Father/son bonding time—that’s a sacred ritual. Wouldn’t want to mess with that,” Puck says.
“Oh, you’re perfectly welcome, Noah. I wouldn’t invite you if you weren’t,” Mr. Hummel says.
Kurt gets up then. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m off to use the powder room.”
As soon as Kurt’s out of ear-shot, Mr. Hummel leans over the table. “Seriously. Come. If you’re there I can actually turn it to something that won’t make my ears bleed.”
Puck weighs the pros and cons—on the one hand, a night with the Hummels, on the other hand, a night with the Hummels. “If you’re sure, Mr. Hummel,” he says. “Only, I don’t eat vegan shit. I’m not sure what it is even, but I’m sure as hell not eating it.”
“Call me Burt,” Mr. Hummel says. “And no problem with the vegan. I’ll send him out to get some of this tofu ice cream and we’ll pop in a pizza while he’s gone.”
Puck smirks. “Meat lovers?”
“Noah, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Mr. Hummel says.
The two of them are shaking hands when Kurt walks back to the table.
“Why do I feel like this maybe wasn’t such a fantastic idea after all?” Kurt says as he slides back into the booth.
Puck and Mr. Hummel turn matching smirks on Kurt. “I don’t know what he’s talking about at all, do you Noah?” Mr. Hummel asks.
“No idea, Burt,” Puck says with a little laugh.
Kurt looks a little faint. That’s what you get when you play with the big boys.
“I know you’re disappointed I couldn’t be there with you.” Kurt’s voice comes through sounding tinny on speakerphone. “I will be there in spirit. But you do understand, don’t you Noah? I’m not blowing you off for just anything. This is an annual tradition my father and I have upheld for years now.”
“Hey, ‘s no skin off my back, Hummel.” Puck looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. Yeah, he’s hot shit.
“So, what did you decide on, anyhow?” Kurt asks.
“Sorry, Hummel. Think I can hear Zizes pulling up as we speak. Gotta go,” Puck says. He hangs up on Kurt saying, “What? No. She’s still here, getting her payment. Noah. Noah Puckerman don’t you dare hang u—” As much as Puck looks like a sexy beast right now, he really doesn’t want Kurt to know what he’s wearing. That purple shit really looks awesome on him, but he’s not sure if he could live it down if Kurt found out.
“Noah,” Puck’s Ma’s voice comes through the bathroom door. “Are you coming out sometime today? Your sister wants to take a shower before her recital tonight.”
Puck swings the door open, and there his Ma is, right on the other side of the door. “Oh, look at you,” she says, straightening his collar. “Don’t you look smart. Another date with your young man?”
“Yeah, Ma. We’re watching TV with Burt,” Puck says, putting his collar back to the way it was.
“Oh, Burt is it now? You boys are watching TV with Burt. Too good for the likes of me, now.” She sniffs a little.
Before she can start the water works in earnest, Puck says, “Burt’s just jealous ‘cause we’re having family dinner over here again this week.”
“Well, that’s right,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “That’s right, we’re having dinner together. And he didn’t get to hear your lovely performance last week. You boys—“ her eyes start watering up again— “you boys sounded so beautiful together last week. And you should have heard the way that boy talked about you. He’s a keeper, Noah. Don’t let that one get away.”
“I know Ma,” Puck says. Outside he hears a honk. Saved by the horn. “Gotta go, Ma. That’s my ride.”
“I mean it Noah. Don’t let that boy get away,” she says. As he runs down the stairs her voice turns to a shout. “If either one of you was a girl, I’d be telling you to poke holes in the condom right now.”
And then the image pops up in his head—his kid in somebody’s belly, only this time it’s not Quinn, it’s Kurt. He can’t decide whether to feel grossed out or turned on.
Zizes honks again, and takes away the need to think about it. Hopefully this Mexican dude is as good as people say he is, Puck thinks, hitching his guitar onto his shoulder and heading out the front door.
This time Puck’s finally in a different hotel. Only, when he gets there it’s a real hole in the wall. There’s stains all over the lobby—carpet and walls and counter-top all looking like they’re going for some kind of camouflage theme or something.
This time the dude at the counter looks like he already has one foot in the coffin.
As he and Zizes walk down the hall, Puck turns to her and says, “Did you see how crispy that dude was? I bet he doesn’t make it through the night.”
“Morbid-much, Puckerman?” Zizes says with a snort. “Some of those old people have lived as long as they have for a reason. I bet he outlives you. Jesus christ, Puckerman, you’re a prostitute.”
That thought’s kind of depressing, so Puck pushes it aside for now. “What’s the room number again?” he asks.
Zizes checks the key. The hotel is so crappy they still have actual keys. “I think it says ‘169’.” Zizes is squinting at it. “Hard to tell. Looks like the one is filed off.”
Puck chuckles. 69
Zizes gives him a condescending look. “You find that funny? Really? Hummel’s right. You are twelve.”
Puck snatches the key from her. “Christ, shut up already.” He marches down the hall and tries the key in room ‘169.’ Perfect fit, natch. “All right, Zizes. I’m going into this one a little blind. You might want to check on me after half-an-hour.”
“You’re such a girl, Puckerman,” Zizes says, twisting the key in the lock. “Have fun.” She shoves him into the room.
He looks around. The room is dark, despite the fact that it’s sunny for once outside—the curtains are drawn and all the lights are off.
A raspy voice comes out of the darkness. “Is that a g-guitar?”
It freaks Puck out a little bit, so he feels around on the wall until he finds the switch. He flicks it on. “Uh—yeah,” he says, hefting it a little.
“Not the light,” the voice says, and then Puck has a body to go with the voice. The dude’s not very big—around Puck’s size probably, but probably less muscle. He has reddish hair, and long skinny fingers. That’s all Puck can really see, ‘cause the dude’s holding his hands up to block out the light.
“Dude,” Puck says, “you’re not a Mexican at all.” He walks a little closer to the guy. Behind the dude’s hands, his eyes are blue—he has freckles. “Why’d you lie about your Mexicanity?”
“Why does everyone ask me that?” the dude asks. “Has no one ever heard of irony?”
His hands move away from his face. As soon as he drops them, it’s clear the dude’s coming down off something. His eyes are all red and he has the jitters. Puck thinks about calling Zizes, calling the thing off. Then he thinks about how Zizes keeps calling him a girl and shit. Yeah, he’ll just put up with this.
“It’s a gay-ass name, dude. I mean, why call yourself the Lyin’ Mayan if you’re not even from Maya-land or wherever?” Puck scratches his forehead with his free hand.
“Has the Lima Area School district really sunk this low? Maya-land? Next thing you know, you’ll tell me you think Never-Never Land is real,” the Lyin’ Mayan says with a sneer.
“That’s the one that’s next to Cleveland, right?” Puck says, laying his guitar case down on the bed and flipping it open.
“Uh—“ the dude says. His eyes trace the guitar with more want than certain of Lima’s Cougars have traced Puck with. “What were you saying again?”
“Nothing important,” Puck says, looking at the guitar himself. He really hopes the dude doesn’t actually get off on musical instruments. He doesn’t want to know how much it would cost to get a guitar cleaned of come. “So, what’s with the guitar, dude?”
“Wha?” the dude asks. He’s moving slowly towards the guitar like it has some kind of magnetic pull over him or something. “Oh my goodness.” He swallows hard. “You don’t—play do you?”
“Yeah,” Puck says, pulling the guitar into his lap. He strums a g-chord, then d-minor, then a c. “Any requests?”
The Lyin’ Mayan’s eyes light and mouth waters. There’s like obvious drool tracking down his face.
“Everything,” he says, staring at Puck like he’s prime rib at one of those five star buffets.
Puck cradles the guitar a little closer and starts playing.
He starts off with one of his favorites, ‘Cracklin’ Rosie.’ He’s barely sung the first word, when the Lyin’ Mayan joins in with a whoop of joy.
They make it through that one followed by three more Neil Diamond classics, ‘Kentucky Woman’, ‘Shilo’, and, of course, ‘Sweet Caroline.’ From there he moves on to Dylan, followed by Randy Newman, and, to cap it all off, Billy Joel. By the time he gets to ‘Piano Man,’ the Lyin’ Mayan is more like a Cryin’ Mayan, weeping tears of sweet sweet musical joy.
Puck takes a little breather. His fingers are gonna kill him tomorrow.
The Lyin’ Mayan says, “Thank you.” It comes out so hoarse, it’s practically a whisper. He pulls out his wallet and starts counting out bills. After a few seconds he says, “Screw it,” and just shoves the whole wallet at Puck.
“Wait,” Puck says. “Isn’t there gonna be any sex?”
The Lyin’ Mayan gives him a funny little look. “Usually I don’t go for that side of the services, but for you, I’ll make an exception. What are you up for?”
“Blow jobs?” Puck says hopefully. Ever since he saw the ‘69’ he hasn’t been able to get blow jobs out of his head.
The Lyin’ Mayan shrugs. “I’m so blissed out right now, I’d even be fine with you pissing on me and making me lick it off myself.”
Puck’s eyes widen in horror.
They lie on their sides on the bed, head to groin. It feels kinda weird lying with purpose like that, but it’s a hot kind of weird.
“I haven’t done this since I’ve been off crack,” the Lyin’ Mayan says. He gives Puck’s balls a lick. “Huh, tastes just the same.”
“Whatever. Let’s do this,” Puck says, and then he’s sucking in the head. It feels—like he’s found something he didn’t even know he’d been missing. Like not sucking cock for three days in a row had gotten under his skin somehow—made him hungry for it without even noticing.
And like that, he’s sinking down—almost to the point of gagging on it. It fills his senses. The taste and smell—the feel of it on his tongue. It’s like this whole new world opening up.
From somewhere far away he hears a whine, and suddenly his cock is surrounded by wet heat. It’s good—it’s so frickin’ good his head is bobbing down again on its own.
For a while he’s just gone, lost in sensation. He’s a bobbing-sucking machine. He comes back to himself to the dude raking his hands down Puck’s back.
Puck’s covered in saliva, mouth, jaw, neck—it’s all over. His hands are stroking over the dude’s ass without him even remembering putting them there. He thinks about getting some lube—going a little farther with all this—but he’s not stopping now for anything.
It’s easy, though, to shove a finger in his mouth next to the dude’s cock—to get it good and wet. And then it’s just figuring out where things are from a new angle. He slips his wet finger down the crack until he finds it—the dude’s hole—just waiting there for him. He’s just starting to push in, when the dude makes a sort of choking noise around Puck’s cock and shoots his load—right into Puck’s mouth.
Puck’s really not ready for it. He swallows the first spurt—but the next one makes him gag again somehow, and then he’s coughing out cock and come and saliva all over the Lyin’ Mayan’s thigh.
He doesn’t have long to be embarrassed, though, ‘cause as soon as the dude starts coming, he starts sucking with all his might—like he suddenly turned into a vacuum or something. It’s insane how fast Puck gets off after that, shooting straight into the dude’s mouth.
And then the Lyin’ Mayan is totally choking all over the bedspread, too.
“I am so bad at that,” the Lyin’ Mayan says, face gone red. “My pimp tried everything to get me to be able to swallow, but—“ he shrugs, “I guess some people just don’t have the natural ability?”
Puck looks down at him. “Dude. You’ve got come on your—“ he swipes at the dude’s ear.
“Yeah,” the dude says, “you’ve got it up your nose.”
Puck feels his nose. “Yeah—that’s officially the grossest thing ever.”
The two of them start laughing uncontrollably.
“So you did this too?” Puck asks. “Whoring?” The dude had pulled out a pack of cigarettes a few minutes ago and the two of them were making their way through the pack.
“Yes,” the guy says, making smoke rings. “Once, a long time ago, I was a member of a glee club. It ruined my life. I was addicted…to music—to the show.”
The dude turns onto his side, looks at Puck. “I went to Broadway—I was the most talented man of my generation, of course I’d make it on Broadway. Only I didn’t. Instead I picked up a nice addiction to crack and ended up back in Lima, whoring myself out to Lima’s seedy underbelly. Thank god I found Jesus.”
“Yeah,” Puck says, “I’m doing it for my baby momma. She’s gonna give birth in a few months and I want her to actually be able to pay the doctor to—ya know—cut it out or shit.”
“At least you’re doing it for a reason—a good reason,” the dude says, ashing out in a coffee cup. “Look at me—addicted to show music, living a lie. My name’s not the ‘Lyin’ Mayan.’ It’s Bryan—Bryan Ryan. My whole life is a lie. Three times a year I go off the wagon and pay prostitutes to fill my musical needs. I’m a failure. An utter failure.”
The dude—Bryan—covers his face with a hand. Puck throws a hand around his shoulders. “Dude—everyone needs a little music in their life. Until glee I was just your average unfeeling bully jock. Now I have a friend who’s a homo and I’m actually showing up to half of my classes. That’s gotta count for something.”
“You think?” Bryan asks, looking at Puck hopefully.
“Yeah, man,” Puck says, shrugging his shoulder. “It’s totally changed my life for better.”
Bryan looks at Puck and his eyes are practically glowing. “Wanna go again?” he asks.
“Uh—yeah,” Puck says, mouth watering. He’s gonna get as much of this cock sucking as he can, while he still can without it actually being all gay and shit.
“Great!” Bryan says, jumping from the bed. “I was really hoping you’d say yes. We didn’t even get to Elton John.”
Puck raises his eyebrow.
“Come on,” Bryan says, throwing Puck’s guitar at him. “What’s taking you so long? Music waits for no man.”
Puck groans—adjusts himself beneath the sheet. Guess I’ll have to wait to practice that cock-sucking then.
Puck doesn’t make it to Kurt’s until seven.
Kurt is less than thrilled.
“Puckerman,” he says, arms crossed across his chest. “You’re late.”
“Dude, I know, but you’ll never believe what happened,” Puck says, putting his hands on Kurt’s shoulders.
Kurt throws Puck’s hands off. “I am not a dude. I’m not your dude or anyone else’s dude. I’m a person, Noah, not a meaningless nickname.” Yeah Kurt’s pissed.
“Fine, fine,” Puck says. “Not dude.” He raises his hands, backs away a little. But then he remembers again about the plan. “But, Kurt…seriously, you’ll never believe…”
“Supper’s cold,” Kurt says. And if supper is nearly as cold as Kurt’s voice, it’s currently vacationing in the South Pole.
“Yeah, okay. I’m late,” Puck says. “But you didn’t actually expect me to eat some vegan shit anyway. C’mon, Hummel. I’m a man. Not some kind of nancy or shit.”
Kurt puts his hands on his hips. “I actually didn’t expect you to eat vegan food. I may be many things, Noah, but I’m not stupid. I ordered you a pizza. From Jeff’s.”
“From Jeff’s,” Puck says, mouth watering. Jeff’s makes the best pizza in Ohio, but nobody actually buys it ‘cause it costs an arm and a leg.
“From Jeff’s,” Kurt says. “Too bad you couldn’t show up on time, or just—I don’t know—call to say you’d be late.” Kurt’s neck is all red—he’s practically panting with how angry he is.
And then it’s there—this flash behind Puck’s eyes of how Kurt would look panting for another reason, panting for him. He’d be all spread out on the bed. The red would go down—all the way down—to his monster cock.
Puck swallows—swipes the side of his mouth, where the drool’s collected. Never gonna happen, he reminds himself.
When he comes back to himself, Kurt’s glaring hard enough to burn a hole right through his head. “Uh—“ Puck says.
Kurt sneers at him. “Of course you wouldn’t offer an apology. Why would you possibly offer an apology for being two hours late? Why would I ever expect you—“
Puck put’s a finger over his lips. “I’m sorry. ‘m sorry.” He thinks about it for a second then says, “I don’t get it, though. You knew I coulda been any time. Why are you freaking?”
Kurt looks down. “I was worried,” he says. He looks back up at Puck. “Obviously for no reason,” he says, shaking his head. Kurt’s still sounding pissy, but at least the real anger seems to have gone out of him. “Have fun did you?”
And that brings everything back to Puck again. He grabs Kurt by the elbows and dances him around the front porch. “Fun, fun—so much fun.” He stops them and smiles a crazy smile at Kurt. “And you’re coming with next time.”
Kurt’s mouth moves soundlessly for a few seconds. When he finally talks all that comes out is, “Excuse me?”
“It’s all settled,” Puck goes on. “For Saturday, ‘cause he doesn’t want his wife to find out.”
“You—you want me to come with you on Saturday—to a, uh, meeting with the—the ‘Lyin’ Mayan’?” By the end Kurt’s voice is coming out as a wail. “Puck!”
Kurt’s face is turning all red again—looks like the rage is building back up again. “Uh—is this one of those things where I should’ve asked first?”
“Yes! Yes, this is one of the times you should have asked first.” He looks at Puck then and something seems to bleed out of him. “You want me there?” he asks, voice gone quiet. “Really?”
“Of course,” Puck says. He and Bryan ended up singing for hours. “I had such a good time with him. And he said the more the merrier. And you’re, like—” Puck’s voice goes gruff, “you’re my boy, Hummel. Of course I want you there.”
“Really? Me? Not—not anyone else? Like Brittany or something?” And Kurt’s voice is starting to sound almost—hopeful—or something.
Puck thinks about it. Yeah, Brittany’s got some serious moves, but her voice is kinda shitty. Nowhere near as good as Kurt’s. “Yeah, you,” he says. “I mean I guess I could ask Finn, but I’m not sure he’d go for it. He’s not exactly open minded.” The dude doesn’t listen to anything made after 1990. It’s like some kind of sickness or something.
Kurt makes a weird choking noise. Puck pats him on the back until he can breathe normal again. “I think I just swallowed my tongue,” Kurt says.
“Gotta watch out for that man,” Puck says. “Tongues’ll get you every time.”
“So you want—you want me there to—to—“ Kurt makes a motion with his hands. “Ah—what exactly do you want me to do?”
And that makes Puck stop to think a little, cause by the end, he and Bryan really had a good thing going, but at first it was pretty rough, both of them stepping on each other’s toes, each trying to sing the melody. “Uh, I guess at first you can do that—ya know—that humming thing. But after you get used to us you can join in. Ya know, actually participate and shit.”
“And you really think I’m the—uh—man for the job?” Kurt asks.
“Who else?” Puck asks. “Just tell me who would do as good a job as you.”
“Well, then,” Kurt says, swallowing hard. “I guess…yes?”
“Really?” Puck says. He whoops and pulls Kurt into a bear hug.
“Just—just go, uh, gentle with me, huh?” Kurt says, blushing.
“Hey, you’re my man, Hummel,” Puck says, messing his hair up. “I’ll keep an eye out for you. We’ll start out with something easy. No three-part harmony shit ‘til the end.”
“Three-part harmony,” Kurt says with a little laugh. “I like that.”
“Yeah. I figure we’ll start out with—what? Show-tunes? That’s your thing, right? And by the end we can pull in some classic rock, maybe a little rap…” Puck trails off. Kurt’s looking at him funny again.
“So by three-part harmony—you mean three-part harmony?” Kurt says. His face suddenly—like—cracks, or something. “I have to go inside and die now.” He runs into the house.
“What else would I mean by three-part harmony?” Puck asks. He doesn’t get an answer.
After waiting a couple minutes to see if Kurt’ll actually come back out, Puck makes his way inside. The door’s still open, he figures that’s pretty much blanket permission.
He’s about to head downstairs to see what’s up with Kurt when he sees Mr. Hummel on the couch, half a pizza on the coffee table in front of him. He’s watching cage fighting with the volume turned off.
Puck steps up behind him and watches the match for a minute. “Garcia gonna pull it off?”
“Not a chance in hell,” Mr. Hummel says. “He’s been favoring his right side for the last two matches.” He continues without changing his voice, “Pissed Kurt off pretty bad, huh?”
“Yeah,” Puck says, dropping down on the sofa. “Yeah, guess I did.”
“He worries,” Mr. Hummel says, kicking the pizza box closer to Puck. Puck grabs a slice—mmm, cold pizza. “I used to come home late all the time,” Mr. Hummel continues.
“What changed?” Puck asks, around his mouthful of triple meat.
“His Mom passed, ya know,” Mr. Hummel says, turning to look at Puck. “His Mom passed, and for a while, I didn’t even leave the house. Kurt was the only reason I so much as got up in the morning. Well, finally I had to go back to work or lose my job. The first day back…it was like having a real life again. At home—well, between Kurt and me, one of us was always crying. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t’ve wanted it any other way. Amy—she was a helluva woman,” Mr. Hummel smiles to himself a little.
“She anything like Kurt?” Puck asks.
Mr. Hummel’s smile gets bigger. “Exactly—the two of ‘em were like peas in a pod, ya know? One time I came home from work—Kurt couldn’t’ve been more than four or five—but there the two’ve’em were, both of’em covered in flour from head to toe, and staring at this flat dumpy little mound on a plate. I asked ‘em what it was and they said how they’d tried to make a cake and it kept coming out like a pancake. So I ate that cake—the whole thing. It was as dry as the Sahara, and about as tasty, but I ate every last bite of it.”
And Puck can picture it, Kurt littler than Sarah, all covered in flour. Maybe wearing an apron or something. “He must’ve been a cute kid.”
“He was,” Mr. Hummel says. He chuckles a little. “He never did learn how to bake a cake, though.”
Mr. Hummel turns away, back to the cage match, but doesn’t really look at it as much as through it. “After Amy died, though, work became a sort of vacation for me. I’d go in, and the world would be fine for a few hours. Back to normal, ya know? Some days it was like she’d never died. Some days it was like I’d never met her in the first place.
“It was such a relief. Just to get away from the grief. I started staying longer and longer. At first it was just a few minutes. Nothing to really make a difference to anybody but me. But then it was an hour. And then it was two hours. And then, one day, I didn’t come home at all. I stayed up in the shop, just working on the cars until, must’ve been two, three ‘o clock in the morning.
“Then I hear this sound, right. So I get out from under the car I’m working on, and there Kurt is, in his pajamas, crying his little eyes out. ‘I thought you were gone,’ he said. ‘I thought you went up with Mommy’.” Mr. Hummel wipes at his eyes. “After that night, I never came home late again.”
“My Pops,” Puck hears himself say. “My, uh, Pops—he just took off one day, right? When I was little I still used to think he was coming back, ya know? Coming back home to Sarah and Ma and me? So, this one time, this car pulls into our driveway. And I’m sure it’s him, right? So I run out to the driveway to—I don’t even know—hug him or yell at him or… But I get out there and the window rolls down, and it’s not him. It doesn’t even look like him. It’s this really old dude, who, like, wanted directions and shit. And that was the day I swore I’d never trust a dude again.”
Puck stares at the pizza in his hand for a second, then throws it back into the box. He’s not hungry after all.
“Well, Noah—the way I see it you’ve got two choices. You actually trust Kurt…I’m talking one hundred percent trust here, or you walk away now and never look back.” Mr. Hummel looks at him, hard. “I wouldn’t think any less of you if you walked away. It takes a strong man to admit he can’t do something. But from what I know of you—I think you’re gonna stick around. Am I right?”
Puck swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you are.” He gets up from the sofa—moves to the stairs. “Tell me how the match comes out.”
“Just don’t tell him I’m watching this,” Mr. Hummel says, turning back to the TV. “He’ll block the channel again. Took me three weeks to figure out how to unblock it.”
Puck starts walking down the stairs. “Trust,” he says to himself.
When Puck gets to Kurt’s room he knocks on the door. He hears a muffled noise that’s maybe Kurt saying, “Enter.” Either that, or the Hummels have a rat problem.
He opens the door and steps into the room.
Kurt’s stretched out on the bed, head buried beneath a pillow.
Puck just looks at him for a minute, arranging what he’s gonna say in his head.
Kurt beats him to the punch, though. “You must think I’m stupid, huh?” Kurt’s voice is muffled by the pillow. “Stupid little Kurt with his stupid little—“
“Hummel!” Puck says, cutting him off. “Kurt. I—ah, have something to tell you.” Puck scratches the back of his neck.
Kurt peeks out over the top of the pillow. “You do?” Then he hides his face again. “Oh—oh, you don’t want to be friends anymore. That’s, well, understandable given the—“
“What’s wrong with you?” Puck says, cutting him off again. “Why would you possibly think I wanna stop being friends with you?”
Kurt peeks out at him again. Whatever’s on his face must convince Kurt, ‘cause he pushes the pillow down to his lap and scooches up into a sitting position. “Oh—that’s uh—good.” He smiles a little, but he looks more sad than happy. “I—being your friend is…” He makes a helpless little motion.
Puck closes the door and leans against it, closes his eyes. “Listen. I—I lied to you, Hummel.” It hurts to say, like the time he had to tell Nana Connie he broke her vase she inherited from that Czar-dude.
“Oh,” Kurt says. “What…actually, you know what, I don’t care. I—I forgive you.”
“No,” Puck says, looking up at Kurt. “No. You don’t—you can’t know if you forgive me until you know what I—what I lied about.” He swallows—opens his mouth to say it.
“I can too forgive you,” Kurt says, huffy. “I’ll forgive you if I want to forgive you.”
“Shut up for a second,” Puck says. He takes a deep breath then just says it. “I like it.”
“You like what?” Kurt asks.
“The sex,” Puck says.
“Yes. I know you like sex, Puckerman,” Kurt says, rolling his eyes. “I think people in Sweden know you like sex.”
“No, not just—“ Puck makes a frustrated noise. “Gay sex. I like gay sex.”
Kurt’s eyes are suddenly as large as saucers. “You’re gay. Oh my—“ He covers his mouth, eyes still huge with shock.
“What, no. I’m not gay,” Puck says.
Kurt narrows his eyes. “Well which is it, Puck? Do you like sex with other men or don’t you?”
Puck smirks, “Oh yeah.” He thinks back to the night with Hooper, “Oh hell yeah.”
“So, then…you do understand what gay means, don’t you? You didn’t somehow come across a dictionary and look it up…and think—oh my god, you think being gay is being happy,” Kurt says.
“What?” Puck says. “What are you on Hummel? I’m saying I’m bi.”
“No such thing,” Kurt says, waving a hand.
“There is too. Bisexual. Look it up. In a dictionary,” Puck says.
“Puck. Noah. There is no such thing as bisexuality,” Kurt says in his most condescending tone. “People who consider themselves bisexual are just confused. You’re probably just misinterpreting the pleasant response you get from gay sex as actual feelings.”
“What is wrong with you? I’m telling you I’m attracted to both chicks and dudes. I think I’d know better than you if I like both.” Puck’s almost hurt. He doesn’t get why Kurt wouldn’t believe him. “And I like both.”
“Oh, really,” Kurt says, with a raised eyebrow. “Have you even kissed any of these men you’ve had sex with?”
“Of course,” Puck says. But then he thinks about it—wait a second. Nope. Nope. And most definitely nope. “What the actual fuck?”
“See,” Kurt says, all smug. “You’re confusing your body’s responses with actual feelings. Feelings are something else, Noah.”
And, oh hell no. Kurt isn’t gonna get off with thinking that kind of shit on a technicality. Puck’s eyes narrow.
“Noah?” Kurt says.
Puck walks closer to the bed, leans down over Kurt.
“N-Noah?” Kurt says.
He grabs Kurt’s cheek, soft. Runs a thumb over his lips. Leans in, lips a breath away from touching.
Kurt puts a hand on his chest. Pushes enough to stop him in his tracks. Kurt swallows—says, “I-I believe you. You’re bi.”
Puck feels a smirk stretch across his face. He grabs Kurt behind the ear, drops a kiss on the top of his head. “You know I am.”
Puck turns around—walks out of the room. Behind him he swears he hears someone saying ‘not.’ Gotta be those rats.
Chapter 18: Mr. F
Slightly dub-con Puck/Russell Fabray in this section. With some voyeur!Zizes.
They spend the next couple hours stretched out on the couch, Kurt in the middle of Puck and Mr. Hummel. Puck throws an arm over Kurt’s shoulder—if they’re supposed to be dating it’s gotta be believable, right?
At first Kurt’s all tensed up, but after the first episode of his stupid show he’s relaxed back against Puck’s arm. It’s—nice. Weird that it’s not gonna end in sex, but still, nice.
Nine ‘o clock, Mr. Hummel makes a big show of yawning, saying how he’s gotta be up early the next morning. He pulls Puck aside, then. Says, “I’m leaving the baby monitor off tonight. Just don’t get used to it.” He pats Puck on the back. “You’re a good kid, Noah. You boys’ll be good for each other.”
Puck’s mouth is suddenly dry. “Yeah,” he says. For a minute—just a minute, he pictures what it’d be like if this was real. “Real good together. Good night Mr. Hummel—Burt.”
“Good night, Noah,” Mr. Hummel says. He turns to Kurt, then. “Kurt, remember what I told you,” he says, all serious.
Kurt flushes bright red. “Uh—I—I don’t think you have to—uh—worry about it, Dad,” Kurt says, laughing a little. “Goodnight, Dad.”
“Goodnight, son. You take care of my boy, now, Noah,” Mr. Hummel says then heads off to bed.
Kurt won’t meet Puck’s eyes. “Uh—want to take a look at the LCN?”
“Dude—Kurt—your dad just gave me total permission to deflower you,” Puck says. “Aren’t you going to take him up on it?”
“Very funny, Noah,” Kurt says, giving him a dirty look. “Either come down and look over the LCN with me or else head home. Stop. Just—stop—joking all the time.”
Puck wants to say how he wasn’t joking—or at least how he wanted to not be joking. But he figures his only chance of not getting kicked out is just to shut his mouth already. So he does.
“Coming?” Kurt asks.
Puck bites his lip. He does not open his mouth and say, “I’d like to be.”
“I’d like to be.”
It takes Puck a solid half an hour to convince Kurt that that one was a gimme. But eventually the two of them end up back in Kurt’s room.
This time they dig through all the candidates together.
“This guy looks good. ‘Really hot.’ That’s gotta be good, right?” Puck says.
“No, look here,” Kurt says, pointing at the very next entry. “Bad tipper.” His finger moves down the screen ‘til it’s hovering over the last entry on the page. “What about this one. ‘Fantastic tipper, really nice guy…’ “
“ ‘Small cock,’ that’s what it says next, Hummel. ‘Small cock’?” Puck raises his eyebrow at Kurt, then shakes his head. “No frickin’ way.”
“But wouldn’t it be—well—easier to…” Kurt trails off, face red. “Well wouldn’t it?”
“I told you, Hummel. I like it,” Puck says.
“You—you mean you like being the—the one on top. Right? Right?” Kurt says, looking at Puck.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Puck says, waggling his eyebrows.
“Uh—“ Kurt’s mouth moves for a second then he says, “Moving on.” He pages down.
The two of them read silently for a few minutes, then Kurt says, “Hmmm.”
“Where?” Puck says. Kurt points at it.
And there he is—Puck’s next client.
Puck reads aloud: “ ‘Oh my god’, ‘The best sex of my life!!!’, ‘You have to experience this guy to believe it’, ‘This man turned me gay’.” He turns to Kurt. “Found him.”
“So—uh…does that mean…” Kurt says, moving his hands helplessly.
“You asking, Hummel?” Puck says.
Kurt shakes his head. “No. No, I’m—but does it?”
“Sorry, Princess. Not telling you anything until you ask,” Puck says, grinning at him.
Kurt sighs in exasperation. “Fine. So who is this mystery man, anyway?”
They both look at the screen together. “Mr. F!” they say, almost in unison.
“At least he watches decent TV,” Puck says.
“Wait—you’ve seen ‘Arrested Development’?” Kurt asks.
“Who hasn’t?” Puck scoffs. “You know what the best part of that show is? Bob Loblaw.”
“You’re kidding,” Kurt says. “The best part is obviously George Michael’s illicit love of his cousin.”
“Oh, come on,” Puck says. “George Michael has nothing on Kitty. That chick was fucked up.”
“She was,” Kurt says, with a big smile on his face. “She really really was.”
Puck smiles back.
Kurt and Puck end up talking ‘til after midnight. At first it’s just about ‘Arrested Development’ but then they start talking about other TV shows and music, and by the end they’re just talking about everything they think of.
Puck’s really getting tired when they decide to call it a night.
“Are you going to be okay to drive home?” Kurt asks, sounding all concerned.
“Dunno,” Puck says, suppressing a yawn. “You’re bed’s too comfortable, Hummel.”
“Oh—uh—you could…could stay here. I—I wouldn’t want you getting in an accident, after all.” Kurt’s playing with the edge of a pillow.
Puck stretches, pulling his arms over his head. “You sure?” he asks Kurt.
“Sure—sure,” Kurt says, watching Puck in fascination. “Just to save your stomach—or, all of you. All of you. Just to—save—all of…”
“Kurt,” Puck says, snapping his fingers under Kurt’s nose. “You’re totally staring, man. Time for bed.”
“Oh, silly me. Too tired. Right,” Kurt says, getting off the bed and walking over to his dresser. “Do you want some PJs?”
“Sure,” Puck says, scratching under his armpit. He’d just sleep naked like he usually does, but he doesn’t think Kurt would appreciate that.
“Here you are,” Kurt says, and tosses the pajamas at him.
Puck pulls his shirt over his head, and slips the t-shirt on to take its place. He starts wriggling out of his pants. He’s getting to the good bits when he looks up to see Kurt watching him avidly. He flexes his hips a little. Kurt licks his lips. Huh. He pushes the pants down an inch more, then another—and that’s it. Kurt flushes bright red and runs out of the room saying, “I—uh—uh—just a minute.”
Puck pulls his pants off, chuckling a little. He grabs the sweats—thinks about leaving them off—really giving Kurt a show. But he figures Kurt’d kick him out if he pulled a stunt like that. So, he tugs the sweats on.
And not a moment too soon. Kurt’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom when Puck looks up from putting the waistband into place.
Puck smiles at him, predatory. “You gonna reciprocate?” he asks.
“What—what do you mean?” Kurt asks, tucking his arms around himself defensively.
“Re-cip-ro-cate,” Puck says, sounding each syllable out as long as he figures he can get away with it. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what reciprocate means Hummel?”
“I know what reciprocate means, Puckerman,” Kurt says all snotty. “I’m asking you what you want me to reciprocate in the first place.”
“My little show just now,” Puck says, curling his tongue. “I figure tit for tat, I show you mine, you show me yours. Then we’re all square.”
Kurt looks incredulous. “You don’t mean—you can’t mean…Noah, you don’t want to see me—“ He gestures at himself.
“Naked?” Puck asks. His Ma always says it’s nice to be helpful and all.
“Uh—that. You don’t want to see me—do you?” Kurt’s blushing now, not making eye contact with Puck.
“Uh—yeah,” Puck says. When Kurt looks up at him, he raises his eyebrow.
Kurt sighs, then starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Just—don’t laugh too hard.”
Puck stares in fascination. The red goes down to Kurt’s chest, stark against the white shirt. Must be hot to the touch. “Who’s laughing?” he says.
Kurt keeps unbuttoning, down, down, until he has to untuck his shirt from his pants. He gives a little tug, and there it is, Kurt’s stomach.
Then, Kurt’s sliding the sleeves off, and there he is, in just his pants. Boy’s fucking fine.
“All right,” Kurt says, tugging a robe from the back of the door and quickly belting it around himself. “I think that’s enough of a show for one evening.”
Puck thinks about what he would’ve seen if Kurt would’ve kept going. And then he thinks about what’s going to happen tonight if he and Kurt share a bed (he’s gonna talk his way into those tight pants of Kurt’s, come hell or high water), and then he thinks of Burt—with a shotgun.
Puck grabs a pillow, shoves it in front of himself. “Right. I’m sleeping on the couch.” It’s gonna be a helluva lonely night—just him and his hard-on.
When Puck checks the LCN the next day, he finds he’s somehow managed to get an appointment at five PM today with the mysterious Mr. F.
Kurt’s back to being all pissy with him all morning. Obviously, Puck did something wrong—again.
On the other hand, Mr. Hummel treats him like a long-lost son, or something. Puck doesn’t really get the reason for it—unless it was their talk the day before. Seriously, from the minute Mr. Hummel comes downstairs to find Puck just starting to slough toward awareness on the sofa, he treats Puck like the frickin’ Cher to his Sonny.
The whole prostitute situation is almost old-hat for Puck by now, but he still feels a sense of anticipation as it approaches five. “Best sex ever” keeps popping up in his head at odd moments through the day.
Kurt seems more nervous than ever, double-checking Puck’s outfit and going so far as to actually check he has “supplies.”
“It’ll be fine,” Puck says, grabbing Kurt around the neck. “You don’t gotta worry. Seriously. I’m used to it by now.”
“I’m not worried,” Kurt says with a sniff.
Puck gives him a look.
“I’m not,” Kurt insists. “Really, I’m not.” He looks away for a second, then looks back at Puck. “Just…are you sure you’re okay with it? The—the being on the—the bottom part, I mean?”
Puck’s hand starts massaging Kurt’s neck of its own volition or something. He grins. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Okay, then,” Kurt says, ears flushing. “We—we’d better get going. Places to go, people to sleep with.”
Puck chuckles. “You’re a keeper, Hummel.”
This time Zizes doesn’t pull up to one of Lima’s rat-trap motels. This time she pulls into the parking lot of a—a fucking mansion.
There’s something about it that niggles at the back of his mind, but he shoves it aside, gets out of the car and straightens his clothes.
Zizes joins him on the front lawn. “This should be something,” she says, looking up as the imposing building.
Puck silently agrees with her, shivering a little. Then he says, “Screw it,” walks up to the front door and rings the bell.
It doesn’t take long at all before it’s being pulled open. It’s kinda obvious that the dude is actually the owner of the house, which is a surprise. Puck was pretty sure some maid in a frilly apron would be on the other side of the door. Or maybe a butler. Like Alfred. He laughs to himself a little.
But this dude isn’t like any kind of butler Puck’s ever seen. First off, there’s the fact that he’s got some kind of booze in his hand.
Then there’s the fact that the dude practically oozes money. If Puck couldn’t see otherwise, he’d be sure the guy was actually dressed in money, that’s how rich he looks.
“Can I help you?” the dude asks, running his eyes over Puck once, lingering on all the good bits.
Puck preens a little to himself. Yeah, he’s one fine piece of ass.
“I—ah—have an appointment,” Puck says, leaning on one leg a little to better show off his assets, “with Mr. F.”
The dude smiles, dirty and wide. “I was hoping you were going to say that,” the dude says, setting his drink down inside the house and straightening the cuff-links on his shirt. He gestures for Puck to head back the way he came. “We’re going to be having our appointment in the boathouse,” he says, all white teeth and blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No skin off my back,” Puck says. And yeah, part of him wanted to see the inside of frickin’ Wayne Mansion and shit, but he’s good with whatever. After all, it’s his job to be good with whatever. “Lead the way.”
And Mr. F does. He walks down this perfectly groomed path to this boathouse that looks like it’s big enough to hold a yacht or three. “Watch your step,” he says ask he swings open the door.
The first room is exactly what Puck’s expecting to find, all boat shit—rudders and propellers and oars and whatever the hell else people need for boats. But then Mr. F is pulling one of the oars off the wall and a door appears—a door that goes deeper into the boathouse.
Puck walks in and suddenly it’s like he’s transported—not in Kansas anymore Toto, gone.
It’s like if someone combined an 1875 bordello with a sadist’s paradise—all maroon silky fabrics and throw pillows and shit interspersed with whips and chains and fucking handcuffs.
“Uh—“ Puck says.
“Yeah, I’m gonna just go out on a limb here and say I’m keeping the door open,” Zizes says, from behind him.
And thank god. Thank fucking god. Nothing against kinky shit. Puck’s a kinky dude. But something about this doesn’t seem very kosher.
“Perfectly fine,” Mr. F says. “Although I’m not sure there’s any reason for that. But whatever you want to ensure this young man here feels safe is fine with me.”
“Best sex of my life,” Puck whispers under his breath. “Best sex of my life.”
This is the weirdest experience he’s had so far, on so many levels. Knowing that Zizes is right there, hearing everything as it happens…yeah he’s not touching that one with a ten-foot pole.
But even when he tries to pretend Zizes isn’t there, he’s just plain freaked. It’s weird—too weird—to be doing this in a room surrounded by flogs and paddles and things he has no name for.
And Mr. F isn’t bad on the eyes, but Puck can’t forget that he’s the one who bought all these whips and chains and shit.
Puck closes his eyes—takes a deep breath in. You’re in your own bedroom. You’re in your own bedroom getting it on with someone you actually want to get it on with. An image of Brittany flashes to mind, but yeah, no, that’s not gonna work. Then Brittany loses her tits and gains a cock, and it’s not Brittany in his room with him at all anymore. It’s Kurt. Kurt, naked and shy—no naked and sure of himself and looking at Puck like he’s gonna eat him up. Sorry
He turns to Kurt/Mr. F, then. Says, “Okay, I’m ready.”
Kurt/Mr. F curls a smile at him. Says, “Strip.” And Puck remembers this, thank god, remembers to fold the shit and take his time a little. Remembers bending over is a good thing. When he’s done he stands there, clenching his fists and gnawing on his bottom lip, nervously.
“Good boy,” Kurt/Mr. F says. It makes goose bumps break out all over Puck’s body. Kurt/ Mr. F laughs a little, at him, probably. “That’s right. You’re a good boy.” He steps closer to Puck, grabs him by the neck. “Now I want my good boy to get all stretched out for me. Do you think you can do that?”
Puck feels himself nodding, says, “Yeah—yes.”
“Yes, what?” Kurt/Mr. F says.
“Yes, what, what?” Puck says, confused.
Kurt/Mr. F gives him a piercing look. “Yes Daddy. Every time you answer me, I want you to call me Daddy.”
And that—that breaks the fantasy. Suddenly Kurt isn’t superimposed over Mr. F anymore. That—that doesn’t sound like Kurt at all. Puck feels himself blush, from the tips of his ears all the way down to his chest. “Uh—I don’t think—“
“That’s right, little boy,” Mr. F says, running a hand over Puck’s head. “You don’t think. I do the thinking for you.”
Puck shivers again—bites his lip. “All right.”
“All right, what?” Mr. F says.
“All right, Daddy,” Puck says.
It’s embarrassing, is the thing—being all helpless and shit. But he grabs the lube from Mr. F when he hands it over.
It’s weird doing this to himself—for himself. Knowing that when he pushes his finger just this way it’s gonna make his body tense up. And when he pushes just that way it makes him have to bite his tongue to choke back a moan.
After a few minutes, Mr. F says, “Enough.” He grabs Puck’s hands and puts them on the top of the weird half couch thing, folding them around the velvety cushion. “I’m going to ask you to hold on to that for me. Do you think you can do it? For me?”
“Yes—“ Puck chokes out. “Yes—d-Daddy.”
“That’s a good boy,” Mr. F says, running a hand over his scalp. “Doing just what I tell him. What a good boy.”
And then Puck hears noises behind him, zippers unzipping and clothing swishing and the clicking sound of a belt being unbuckled. A tearing noise comes next, and it’s a relief only in that it’s familiar. Condom.
He’s tense, white-knuckling the couch. “I want you to relax for me now,” Mr. F says behind him.
And Puck tries, he truly does. He tries to make his fingers unclench, bend his back from the rigid arch it’s now in. But it doesn’t work—not at all.
“You can do this for me, boy, can’t you? For your Daddy?” Mr. F says.
And, no. Puck can’t do it for him. But Puck could do it for Kurt. He’d have to. With Kurt’s monster cock, he’d totally injure himself if he didn’t.
And then it’s Kurt again, but this time they’re in Kurt’s room. And when Kurt pulls open his huge-ass closet, there are all different kinds of sex toys on the door—whips and handcuffs and…and Kurt says, “Baby, you can relax for Daddy, can’t you.”
And Puck’s relaxing. He’s saying, “Yes. Yes Daddy. I’ll be good for you,” before he even knows he’s opening his mouth.
There’s a touch on his lower back then, just a hand holding him in place. And it’s good—good that he can’t move. That it’s not an option.
And then there’s a cock nudging him there, there, there. “oh god” he says, breathing it out on a sigh. It’s not enough, not enough at all, so he shoves back a little—impatient.
He gets a slap for it, and a voice whispers in his ear, “Do I have to get out the hobbles?” And that—that takes over his vision. Kurt hobbling him, maybe handcuffing him too. Not letting him move. Not letting him get away with anything.
It’s enough to keep him stock still for a few minutes, that thought. Enough to keep him still even through the initial push in. Just imagining not being able to thrust, not being able to touch himself.
And then his hole is full—full of thick, hard cock. It slips back a little, and a noise of complaint is ripped out of Puck, almost against his will. He wants to say, ‘no,’ wants to say, ‘don’t leave,’ but all that comes out is a scared sounding whine.
But then the cock is shoving in again, bottoming out and hitting—oh my god—that’s it right there. For some reason the pleasure isn’t fading between thrusts, just ramping up. He’s on fire, muscles quaking and jumping and making him feel like he’s flying somehow.
In this position he can’t do anything other than ride it out, so he does, clawing into the sofa as he feels thrust after thrust pummeling him right there, right there, right there. Suddenly he realizes he’s been rubbing himself off against the back of the couch without even noticing. As soon as he notices, he can tell he’s only seconds away from shooting off. “I’m gonna—“
A hand pinches him at the base of his dick, as a voice whispers, “Did I tell you that you could come?” And that’s just like Kurt, letting Puck get almost there, but then withholding the prize at the last second. Puck makes an impatient noise under his breath. “Well? Did I?”
“No,” Puck says, surly.
“No, what?” the voice asks.
“No. N-no Daddy,” Puck says.
The grip on his cock changes into more of a caress, too soft really, but that’s just like Kurt too. Always softest when he’s being cruel. “All right,” the voice says, “come for me. Now.”
And Puck does, comes in heavy spurts all over his stomach and chest and the upholstery of the sofa.
The cock’s still there inside him, though, and it’s too much, too much, too much. Stars go off behind his eyes and he blacks out.
When he comes to, Mr. F is there, standing over him. “Back with us I see,” he says.
Puck turns his head a little to get his bearings. Mr. F seems to have moved Puck to the sofa thing while he was passed out. Puck turns back to look at Mr. F, notices that the dude’s still hard. “Sorry,” he says, voice hoarse.
“What, this?” Mr. F asks, giving his cock a little tug. “No problem at all. Now I get to mark you.”
Puck wonders a little bit about that. Marking, like biting him or shit? ‘Cause Puck’s fine with that and all, but maybe it wouldn’t be the best for school.
But then Mr. F gets on his knees over Puck and starts jacking himself, hard. Puck can’t seem to tear his eyes away, watching that fist moving fast, back and forth. Mr. F’s cock is so dark it’s almost purple, and his cock is kind of bent at the tip.
Puck’s finger reaches down to touch that little bent bit, just see what it feels like, but Mr. F grabs Puck’s wrist, shoves it away. “You’re being naughty. Don’t you want to be a good boy for me?”
And now that Puck’s just lying there, he doesn’t really feel the need to follow this guy’s rules anymore, but he figures, if the dude’s paying…So he says, “Sorry Daddy,” makes his voice go whiney, a little high like Kurt’s.
Mr. F brushes his face, smiles at him, but it never reaches his eyes. “Now there’s my boy. There’s my good boy. I’m going to mark you now.”
And like that, Mr. F is coming over him, on his stomach, his cock, his thigh. Between Mr. F’s jizz and his own Puck’s gonna be a real mess when he takes off.
Which is apparently now. Zizes comes in, and says, “You ready man?” And Puck’s ready, Puck’s more than ready. It’s embarrassing knowing she was out there, hearing every word they said, but seeing her just walk in makes him hella uncomfortable.
When Puck looks back at Mr. F, he’s gotten up and is already mostly dressed. “It was real,” he says, for want of anything better to say.
Mr. F’s smile is cold somehow. “It was at that. I may request your services again.”
And Puck isn’t exactly excited about it, but he’s not going to turn down a paying gig. “Great,” he says.
Chapter 19: Family planning
When Puck gets back home he finds Kurt waiting there for him. It’s a slap in the face to see him standing there, looking at Puck as if he’s trying to tabulate injuries or something. “Noah, are you all right?” he asks.
Puck feels himself flush. “I’m fine,” he says, toeing off his shoes. “Seriously, Kurt, I told you. It’s fine.”
Puck can feel the jizz drying all over himself. Hell, he can smell it on himself. With Kurt standing this close he’s anything other than fine, but fuck if he tells Kurt that.
“So where’s the money?” Kurt asks. Puck hands over the wad Lauren had given him as he left her car. It’s a sizable wad. “And the rest of it?” Kurt asks.
Puck goes into his sock drawer, digs under his socks to the skin mags, then digs through them until he finds each of the envelopes he has crammed between the pages. He’d taken a couple different envelopes each time he’d gotten paid to make the money harder to find. “Here,” he says, shoving the envelopes in Kurt’s general direction.
“You know, if you did the laundry yourself you wouldn’t have to go through all this cloak and dagger routine,” Kurt says all snarky, and that’s it—Puck’s already had a long night. He doesn’t need to go through anymore of this bullshit.
“I’m taking a shower,” he says, grabbing a towel from the dresser. “You can let yourself out.”
“Puck,” Kurt says.
“Not now, Hummel,” Puck says, and pushes through to the hall. Hopefully his sister isn’t in the bathroom working on her Wicked Witch impersonation. He really doesn’t think he can wait even ten seconds to get the stink off him.
When Puck gets back from his shower, Kurt is still there.
“Thought I said you could let yourself out,” Puck says, pulling the towel a little tighter around his waist.
“Puck—Puck! Do you know how much money you have here?” Kurt says, all excited. “You have over ten thousand dollars here. Ten thousand dollars! How much do you need for Quinn, anyway?”
Puck feels his sour mood start to fade away. “Ten thousand dollars minus whatever I already gave her,” he says. A smile spreads slowly across his face.
“You know what this means, right?” Kurt says, all giddy with it. “You don’t have to prostitute yourself anymore.”
And that’s good. Sure, that’s good. No more prostitution means no more doing things that make him feel like he’s breaking apart. But…
But Kurt only became his friend because of this—this whole prostitution gig. That’s it. That’s the only reason Kurt’s friends with Puck in the first place.
After a second of silence, Kurt seems to explode or something. “Well, aren’t you happy about this? I mean—isn’t this a good thing?”
Puck mumbles out a ‘yeah.’
Kurt says, “What was that?”
“Yeah, Da—“ he catches himself, just in time. Daddy. “Da-damnit,” he says, voice breaking. “You gotta go, Kurt.” I was gonna call him—fuck.
“Noah, what’s wrong?” Kurt says, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Puck shoves Kurt’s hand off him, backs him up until he runs into the door. “Are you deaf Hummel? I asked you to leave. Skedaddle. Vamoose. Step the fuck off.” By the end, he’s practically panting he’s breathing so hard.
And for the first time in weeks, Kurt looks scared.
Puck licks his lips, sighs. He turns away from Kurt, “Just go. Please, just go.”
When Puck turns back around Kurt is gone.
The first thing Puck does after reaching school the next morning is corner Quinn. “Here,” he says, shoving the envelope at her.
“Nice to see you too,” Quinn says, sarcastic. “How is the baby doing? The spawn you impregnated me with? She’s giving me a rash. On my face.”
“Uh, sorry?” Puck says.
“No, you’re more than sorry, or you will be after I’m through with you,” Quinn says, curling her little hands into fists. She socks him in the stomach, hard.
“Jeez,” Puck chokes out, “what’s your problem?”
“What’s my problem?” Quinn says, patting her hair back into place. “Funny you should think I have just one! First of all, Kurt Hummel? You’re sleeping with Kurt Hummel now?”
“Uh—“ Puck says, and yeah, he’s got nothing.
“You’re going to break that boy’s heart, and who’s going to be there to pick up the pieces? We have Sectionals in a few months, Puck. If he leaves glee because of you, I’ll kill you with my bare hands,” Quinn says, and she kind of looks like she would, too. The baby must’ve made her an even bigger bitch. Puck didn’t really think that was possible.
“Kurt’s not gonna leave glee because of me,” Puck says, looking at the ground. And yeah, he’s pretty sure that he’s actually telling the truth here. Kurt’s not the kind of dude to pull out of something just because of somebody being a dick.
“He had better not, Noah Puckerman, because if he does?” She makes a stabbing motion, and yeah, he gets it.
Puck sighs, takes a deep breath and asks, “What’s the other problem?”
And Quinn looks a little sad. A little pissed, yeah, but a little sad, too. “Gregg saw the money,” she says.
“What money?” Puck asks, and then he gets it. The money.
“I had to tell him I picked up a job,” she says, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “And he said that if I was working a job I could pay rent. I tried telling him I’d never make enough to pay for the doctor’s bills and pay rent too, but he said that’s what loans are for. Like I could just go out and get a loan. I’m in high school.”
Puck feels a sinking sensation in the pit of his belly. “How much is rent?”
“Two hundred a week,” she laughs out a bitter sound, “backdated, the three grand you gave me just covered it—with about seven hundred left for baby expenses.” She’s crying, then. “Puck—I don’t know how I’m supposed to—how am I supposed to be a mother if I can’t even afford to bring her into this world?”
“It’s okay—it’s fine,” Puck says. “I’m taking care of it, all right.” He lifts her face, looks her in the eyes. “I will do anything in my power for our baby girl.”
She cries some more but the tears are interspersed with laughter. “Who would’ve ever pictured you as the responsible one?” she chokes out.
Not me. Puck thinks, certainly not me.
Puck needs to talk to somebody about this. He tries Kurt first, because…well, just because. But every time Puck looks for the kid he’s just—gone. It’d be like Kurt disappeared overnight except for the fact that Puck keeps seeing a strap from Kurt’s jacket out of the corner of his eye or hearing his laugh just far enough away for Puck to think he’s imagining things.
When he tries talking about it to Zizes, she just looks at him and says, “You couldn’t pay me enough.”
He considers talking to Ms. P, but considering how useless she was last time, he ends up not even trying her.
By the time school lets out he’s practically going out of his skin with it, holding it all in.
He gets in his truck not really thinking about where he’s going, just wanting to drive. So when he pulls up in front of “Hummel Tires & Lube” it’s almost a shock to him.
Mr. Hummel walks out of the garage, hands tucked into his coveralls. “Noah. What can I do for you?”
Part of Puck just wants to open up, spill, tell Mr. Hummel everything. But the rest of him remembers Kurt’s voice saying, ‘you could go to jail for this.’
He settles for saying, “I screwed up.”
“I figured,” Mr. Hummel says. “When Kurt came home last night he rearranged his shoes by name. It takes a heckuva long time to go through that many shoes. Want to talk about it?”
Puck nods his head—follows when Mr. Hummel gestures the way they’re going. They end up in Mr. Hummel’s office. “Sit down.” Mr. Hummel says, sitting behind the desk.
Puck slumps into the chair on the other side. He wonders, idly, how many other asses have slumped in exactly this spot before.
“You hurt him?” Mr. Hummel says.
“Yeah,” Puck says, thinking back to the scared look on Kurt’s face. “Yeah, I think I did.”
“That’s funny, ‘cause he said you didn’t do anything. He said it was his fault,” Mr. Hummel says, shaking his head and laughing a little. “I think we both know he was taking out his ass. So, what’d you do kid?”
Puck looks at his knuckles on the seat of the chair. “Something stupid.”
“Yeah,” Mr. Hummel says. “I figured as much. At least you know what you did. That’s half the battle sometimes. You ever going to do it again?”
Puck thinks about the fricking sex trade. He nods—can’t bring himself to say it.
“That’s not as good. This something stupid ever going to actually harm Kurt?” Mr. Hummel asks.
Puck shakes his head hard, says, “No.”
“How about you? You going to get hurt doing this?” Mr. Hummel asks.
Puck thinks about it for a second. The thing is, it could go either way. He could never get hurt at all. Or he could end up in a ditch somewhere, left for the fucking vultures. Carrion.
“Taking that long to answer isn’t a good thing,” Mr. Hummel says. “Here’s how I see it. You gotta get out of whatever stupid thing you’re involved in. The sooner you get out, the better. ‘Cause you gotta remember, Noah. If you get hurt, that hurts Kurt too.”
The sooner, the better. Puck thinks. He looks up at Mr. Hummel. “As soon as I can.”
Chapter 20: Paddle out
Non/dub-con punishment and dub-con sex Puck/Russell Fabray
Puck gets the call almost as soon as he leaves “Hummel Tires & Lube.” He knows who it is almost before he answers it.
“This is Mr. F,” the dude says. “I was hoping you’d be up for another session.”
Puck thinks about it for a second—about the amount of money he’s gonna need to keep Quinn going—and says, “Yeah, when do you wanna meet up?”
“Now, unless you have anywhere else you need to be,” Mr. F says.
“Fine,” Puck says.
“Oh, one more thing. Don’t bring the muscle. I’ll make it worth your time,” Mr. F says.
What Would Kurt Do, flashed through his mind, lightning quick. Not get into this in the first place. Not helpful. What would he do if we switched bodies like in that Friday movie with Jamie Lee Curtis—mmm Jamie Lee Curtis is hot. Shut up dick. Okay, if Kurt was in this exact situation— “No barebacking, no bloodplay, no tying me up, and I get to keep my phone in my hand the whole time.”
Not too shabby, if he says so himself.
“Of course,” Mr. F says, “whatever you need. Although I would pay a pretty penny to sink into you, skin to skin.”
“Not on the table,” Puck says, firm.
“Fine,” Mr. F says, and he’s starting to sound a little pissed. “Just be here in the next fifteen minutes—I really wouldn’t recommend being late.” The phone hangs up with a click in Puck’s ear.
“Wait,” Puck says, too late. “Hummel Tires and Lube” is ten miles out of town and Mr. F lives on the far side of Lima. Puck probably doesn’t have a chance in hell of getting there in less than twenty minutes. “Crap.”
Puck pulls into the parking lot of Mr. F’s mansion exactly seventeen minutes after Mr. F ended the call. Mr. F is waiting for him on the lawn.
“You’re late,” he says, all quietly pissed.
“Traffic was hell,” Puck says, “I got stuck behind a semi—“
“Did I ask you for excuses?” Mr. F asks.
Puck shuts up.
“Better,” Mr. F says. “Come, I don’t have all evening.”
This time the sex room is a little less intimidating somehow. Probably at least a little because Zizes isn’t there, with her eyebrows and silent judgments. Some of the things that were on the walls last time are missing this time. The cuffs and chains are gone, and so are the whips. All that’s really left is a pretty giant collection of paddles.
“Strip and get into the same position as we started last time,” Mr. F says.
It’s not ‘til then that Puck realizes he’s still wearing the shit he wore to school. Kurt would kill him. But Kurt’s not here, thank god.
Puck takes the clothes off, anyhow, treating them just the same as he would treat Kurt’s nice clothes. This time he pulls the phone out of his pocket, though, keeps it tight in his hand.
When he’s naked he has no real choice but to grab the end of the couch, get where Mr. F wants him.
A hand caresses his back. “I want you to look down and tell me what you see,” Mr. F says.
So Puck looks, and there’s dried come on the couch back, “It’s jizz,” Puck says, wondering whose it is, almost hoping it’s his.
“What did we say last time?” Mr. F asks, slapping Puck on the flank.
“Jeez—it’s jizz, Daddy,” Puck says.
“And who’s come is it, boy?” Mr. F asks. “I hoped I could trust you enough to maintain my property, but I was obviously wrong. You need to be punished, don’t you boy?”
And no, Puck’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to be punished, but it’s not like he can say that. “Yes, Daddy,” he says instead.
“But you’re not used to being punished, are you boy?” Mr. F asks, running a hand slowly up and down Puck’s ass.
“No, Daddy,” Puck says.
“That’s why I’ll keep it easy for you,” Mr. F says. “Just five hits from a paddle. That’s remarkably lenient, isn’t it? Don’t you want to thank me for being so lenient, boy?”
Puck grits his teeth, spits out, “Thanks Daddy.”
“Now choose your paddle and we’ll get started,” Mr. F says, giving him a slap on the ass.
“Wait, you mean I gotta…” and Puck looks around himself at all the paddles on the wall, wondering how the hell he’s gonna choose one that doesn’t hurt too bad.
“Choose, boy. The sooner we get on with the punishment, the sooner we can move to the reward,” Mr. F says.
Puck walks over to the wall and looks them over. There’re a few with holes all over, and one that’s gotta be three feet long. Puck rules those out immediately. Then he spots it—it’s stained black and only about a foot long. Perfect. He grabs it off the wall and walks back to Mr. F.
“Get back into position,” Mr. F says, taking the paddle from Puck.
Puck grabs the sofa, braces himself. He feels the wood running across his ass, trailing over the crack. It’s gone, and then it’s back, leaving a line of fire across his ass. Puck chokes out a cry.
The paddle is back to trailing slow, slow over his skin. When it leaves his skin the next time, Puck bites his lip. This time the strike hits him on the left side, makes his body stutter over to the right. Puck feels blood trickling down his chin, licks it off his lips.
Mr. F’s hand is on him then. “You need to stay still, boy.” The hand shoves him back into position, then stay on his hip, holding him in place. The wood is back again then, running across the right cheek this time. When the strike comes, Puck’s body tries to jump away from it, but Mr. F is right there this time, holding him in place.
It feels like a searing burn all across his ass now, almost pulsing with painful heat.
The next time the wood touches him it’s on his thigh, and somehow Puck knows that this is going to hurt worst of all. When the strike comes, white heat explodes behind his eyes. “Christ,” he spits out, struggling against Mr. F’s hand. That’s it, that’s enough. He doesn’t need any more of this shit.
“Calm down boy,” Mr. F says, dropping the paddle on the sofa, and grabbing him with both hands.
Puck looks down at the paddle. He expects to see blood or bits of skin or something. But the paddle just sits there, looking exactly the same as it had when he’d pulled it from the wall in the first place.
“Are you ready? Just one more stroke,” Mr. F says, trailing a hand across the fire that is Puck’s ass. Puck shivers. The feeling of cool hands on his burning ass is—christ. He feels himself nodding, without knowing what he’s saying yes to.
Then the paddle is out of his vision and trailing across his other thigh. The next hit seems to take forever to come down. There’s this frozen minute where Puck’s just waiting, just knowing how much pain is going to come in just a second. When it comes it’s almost a relief. The burning sear is nothing to how much pain his mind was expecting.
And then the paddle’s in front of him again and the hands are back on his ass, soothing, soothing. And it’s like he’s not even there anymore, not really a part of this world somehow—like he’s floating above it all.
After a couple minutes Puck comes back into himself. He gives his head a hard shake to get rid of the last of the feeling of floating.
“There we are,” Mr. F says. “Are you ready for your reward, boy?”
Puck licks his lips. “Yeah—yes Daddy.”
“Good boy,” Mr. F says, rubbing a hand up his back. “I want you to get on your hands and knees for me.”
Puck gets into position and waits for whatever’s coming next.
Then a slick hand is prepping him, getting him ready for a good fuck. Puck can’t help but feel relief. Sex is simple. Sex is something he knows.
He hears the tearing of a condom and then Mr. F is working his way inside. It feels—fuck it feels good. It feels like he needs in a way he never wanted to.
When Mr. F bottoms out, Puck feels a little surge of renewed pain. Mr. F’s thighs hitting his are like little explosions of heated sting. But for some reason, like this the pain translates to something good.
Then Mr. F’s dick is just attacking that spot inside him, over and over and—fuck. And every time Puck feels the spark of pleasure it’s overlapped with a feeling of pain. It seems to go on forever—just blissing out on pleasure—pain—pleasure until he doesn’t know what’s what anymore.
It’s a shock when Mr. F’s hand lands on his dick, when he says, low in Puck’s ear, “Come.”
Puck comes, spurting out hard for what seems like forever.
But he never really comes down after, somehow he’s hard again or still hard. And Mr. F is still going, grunting in his ear. He slaps Puck on the thigh. And it’s—it’s just like the sex. It’s this mixture of painpleasurepain, and it’s too much too much too much. And Mr. F is saying it again, or maybe for the first time, “Come, boy. Come for me.” And Puck’s coming again or still coming—until the white lights overtake him and he’s gone.
Puck comes back to the sound of a voice this time. “Does it really have to be now?” Mr. F is saying into the phone in his hand, running a possessive hand over Puck’s back. After a couple seconds of talking on the other end of the line Mr. F says, “Yes, all right. I’ll be there. Half-an-hour.” He hangs up without listening for a response.
“You’ll have to go,” Mr. F says, grabbing Puck’s clothes and handing them over. “I’m afraid there’s some business I need to take care of.”
“Fine,” Puck says. And it’s better than fine, it’s great. So what Puck doesn’t know who he is anymore, he’s not gonna figure it out here.
He throws on his clothes, slips into his shoes. And then Mr. F is holding out a wad of cash and Puck’s grabbing it, ‘cause yeah, that’s what this whole thing’s about, isn’t it.
“You were very satisfactory,” Mr. F says. “I may call you again, soon.”
And Puck says, “That’s great.” It’s not—not great. It’s something—something that should help with Quinn. But it’s also something that’s fucking him up more than he wants to admit.
He gets into his truck, winces at the feeling of his ass. Yeah, he’s not gonna be able to sit straight for a while. And when he pulls out he knows he’s going back to the Hummels’. It’s a bad idea, probably, but he needs to talk to Kurt, try and make things right between them. He needs to fix this.
Chapter 21: The lady of the house
When Puck gets to the first red light, he looks down to see his cell phone still clutched in his hand. It must’ve been there the whole time, without him even realizing it. He’s kind of amazed it didn’t crack somehow.
It’s only a couple seconds later that the phone rings. Puck jumps a little, startled. It seems weird he’d be getting a call at this time of the night, before the big fight Finn might have called any time, day or night, just to be a bitchy little freak, but Kurt’s not like that. Kurt’s more likely to set up a phone date or something, just to make sure they’re both on the same page.
But when Puck looks at the phone it’s not Kurt or Finn or even his Ma wondering if he’s dead in a ditch somewhere. It’s the same number that came up just a few hours before. “Mr. F,” Puck says, as soon as he’s got the phone open. “Did I forget something?”
There’s a pause, then a voice comes through saying, “This is Mrs. F, actually.” And yeah, it’s a woman’s voice.
“You want a threesome or something?” Puck asks.
“Not exactly,” Mrs. F says. “I was wondering if you could come back here. Meet with me.”
“Sure, yeah,” Puck says. “Anything special you wanted?” He can’t help hoping she’ll be good with missionary. His ass is gonna kill him if she rides him.
She laughs a little. “Let’s figure that out after you get here,” she says.
So Puck does a U-turn in the middle of the road and heads back to casa F. Gonna be a long night.
When Mrs. F meets him at the door, she’s a perfect match for Mr. F, all cool grace with perfect blond hair and perfect blue eyes, dressed to kill. Kurt would probably love her, in her little sweater and heels.
She looks him over, but not like she’s checking him out—more like she’s studying him. Like there’s gonna be a test on Noah Puckerman and she wants to get an ‘A’. After a minute, she holds the door a little more open and gestures him inside. “Excuse me. Look at me making you stand outside in all this cold. Come in, have a seat.”
They sit down in this fancy room all white and gold and full of light.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” she asks, half-rising. “A brandy? Scotch?”
“Uh…” Puck says. It’s not like he’d turn down some whiskey, or tequila or something. But he’s never tried brandy before and he’s got no idea what scotch even is.
She almost falls back onto the couch. “Don’t tell me you’re not old enough to drink,” she says. “He actually…” She swallows hard. Laughs a little hysterically. “Although, why that should surprise me when you’re…” She gestures at him then.
He looks down at himself, figures she’s talking about his crappy clothes. And yeah, the F’s may be made of money or shit, but that’s no reason to look down on him. “I’m what?” he asks, figuring he’ll at least make her say the words out loud. Maybe she’ll choke on them.
“You’re a male,” she says, looking away. “My husband is sleeping with a male.”
And that’s not exactly what Puck expected. After all, if Mr. F gave Mrs. F Puck’s number, he’s pretty sure he would’ve told her Puck was a dude.
Except…Mrs. F didn’t call on her phone. She called on Mr. F’s phone.
And it’s pretty obvious that Mr. F has done this before. For years maybe. And she didn’t know. “I—“ Puck tries, but he’s still got nothing.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, getting up and pouring herself a drink of something amber. It’s a pretty good-sized drink. She swallows it in one go, straight down the hatch. She sets the glass down, deliberately, turns back to him. “So, are you the first?”
Puck shakes his head.
She laughs again. “I don’t know why I should’ve expected anything else. It’s already happened to Cynthia and Rosemarie. I just thought we were—we were better than them somehow. That our marriage was built on something more. When I chose Russell over my baby girl I thought—I thought that was enough. That I was enough.” She makes a choking noise, pours more into the glass. “Obviously I was wrong.”
Puck gets that niggling again, but he pushes it aside. Gets up—goes to her. “You are enough,” he says. And he knows this—knows this woman is something. Just looking at her it’s clear she’s—she’s more than most chicks out there. She’s calm—strong in the same way Kurt is…what’s it called again. Resilient. Yeah, resilient. “You’re enough. Just—not for him.”
She takes the glass. And Puck’s kind of just waiting for her to swallow it again. Show just how much of a tough woman she is. But she doesn’t. She takes the glass—and throws it against the wall. “How—“ she says, choking. “How am I supposed to compete? It’s not that you’re—you’re younger or you’re p-prettier. It’s not—it’s not that you have a better body than me. It’s—you’re a man. No,” she shakes her head, “you’re not a man. You’re a boy.”
Puck puts a hand on her back, then snatches it away. It looks wrong there. Big and dirty against all that clean whiteness. “You wanna hit me?” he asks. “You can hit me if you want. It might make you feel better.”
She looks at him. Chuckles a little. “God you’re young, aren’t you,” she says. “Thinking hitting will actually help anything…how old are you?”
And this—this is bad. This is the prison thing and the never getting to see his baby thing and the never getting to apologize to Kurt thing all rolled into one. His eyes dart around the room wildly. He opens his mouth—is gonna say nineteen—is gonna convince her.
Only she takes that option away from him. “Don’t lie to me,” she says, harsh. “I can tell when I’m being lied to.”
He looks back at her then, bites his lip. He shakes his head, can’t say it.
“That young?” she asks. “Just graduated?”
And something in his eyes must tell her, cause she gasps then. “God, you’re still in high school.”
It’s not a question, but he answers anyway. “Yeah.” It feels good to say it. A relief somehow.
And she’s laughing again, long and hard. “You—you’re in high school. You’re probably going to school with my baby.”
And then she’s walking away from him, taking out a key and opening a little desk drawer.
She pulls a picture out of it—one of the ones in one of those really expensive frames. And Puck doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it before, but there’s this feeling in this room of something missing. There are holes in the walls, spaces where pictures should be and somehow aren’t.
“My baby girl,” Mrs. F says, holding out the picture for Puck to look at. And there she is, looking out at him—perfect in her Cheerios uniform. “My little Quinny.”
“Shit,” he says, backing away. When he runs into the door, he opens it—runs all the way out of the house. Shit
Puck sits in his car panting. His heart is racing—feels like it’s going to explode in his chest. He grabs his cell phone, dials Kurt before he can chicken out.
It rings once, twice, then Kurt’s picking up. “Puck,” Kurt’s voice says.
And—and Puck knew, knew that Kurt wasn’t going to answer. He knew that there was no way that Kurt would be over being pissed. But apparently, Kurt’s more forgiving than he thought or something. ‘Cause there Kurt’s voice is, sounding more concerned now. “Noah? Is something wrong?”
And he can’t say it, he can’t. But somehow his mouth doesn’t seem to know that, ‘cause before he knows it’s even happening, his mouth is opening and saying, “Mr. F is Quinn’s father.”
Kurt gasps on the other end of the line. Says, “Noah, are you sure.” And yeah, he’s sure, but he’s not gonna say it. “Are you all right?” Kurt asks after a minute.
“No,” Puck says. And he isn’t. He really frickin’ isn’t. Suddenly he’s crying, just sobbing—alone in his car except for Kurt’s voice on the phone coming through all tinny over the phone.
“It’s going to be all right, Noah,” Kurt’s saying. “It may not be all right just now, but it will be. You’ll see.”
Just then a knock comes on his truck door. Puck looks up to see Mrs. F—Mrs. Fabray standing there, looking at him. “It’s not,” Puck says. “It’s really not.” He hangs up, then. Turns the phone off so he can’t call Kurt anymore. He takes a deep breath and then he’s opening the door to meet his fate.
Puck follows Mrs. Fabray back into the house, wiping the tears on the sleeve of his jacket.
This time she walks past the parlor and keeps walking. “I’ve always hated that room,” she says to Puck as she leads him into the kitchen. “Actually, I’ve always hated this whole house. This was Russell’s baby. More than either of his girls ever was, anyway.”
She pulls out a chair at the island, gets him to sit in it. “Thanks,” he says.
“Don’t mention it,” she says.
She grabs a teapot off the top of the stove, fills it from the sink. “I’m having some tea. You’re more than welcome to join me.”
“Nah,” Puck says. Nana Connie tries to make him drink tea sometimes. It always takes like hacked up tree to him.
“Suit yourself,” she says, putting the teapot on the burner and cranking it up to high. “I’m going to assume that display of sentimentality means you know my little girl. Old boyfriend?”
And then his mouth is doing that talking without thinking shit again. “I’m the baby daddy,” it says.
Mrs. Fabray had been pulling a tea cup from the cupboard when he started talking. She drops it as soon as he says ‘baby daddy’. “Oh god,” she says, biting her knuckle. “Oh my lord.”
“Bad day for cups,” Puck says, getting up and grabbing the broom he spots in the corner. It’s fast work to sweep up the mess.
“I thought Finn—“ she says, making a helpless gesture.
“Yeah, they never even had sex,” Puck says, trying to find a dust pan. He ends up grabbing a piece of paper, using that instead.
“So—were—were you two dating at least?” Mrs. Fabray asks.
“Nah,” Puck says, shaking his head.
“Oh, god,” Mrs. Fabray says.
“It was one time, you know. A one-time thing. I knew it was never gonna happen again. She didn’t want anything more from me than that night. But we fucked up,” he picks the piece of paper up, finds the trash can. As he’s dropping the mess into the trash, one of the pieces of cup tilts off the page and runs into his hand, giving him a little cut.
He stares at the blood, dripping onto the white tiles. “Oh,” Mrs. Fabray says. “You cut yourself.” She grabs a towel from a drawer and wraps it around his finger. She looks up at him then. Says, “Do you—are you still communicating with her? Are the two of you—are you still friends? Or something more?”
“Yeah, we’re friends. I’m trying to help out with the—ya know—the costs, of having a kid. That’s why I got started doing this,” he says, making a vague gesture.
“Doing what?” Mrs. Fabray asks.
“You know—“ Puck says, but apparently Mrs. Fabray’s gonna make him say it anyhow—“hooking…”
“Hooking?” Mrs. Fabray asks, face as white as a sheet.
Apparently Mrs. Fabray didn’t know. Apparently she didn’t know at all.
Mrs. Fabray looks like she’s only a little ways away from fainting or something, so Puck guides her into a chair.
The kettle comes to a boil just then, startling him with its shrill whistle. He pours some water into a cup then looks around for those baggy things. There’s one of those fancy matching pot-things labeled ‘tea’ on the counter, so he opens it. Of course when he looks inside there have to be about fifteen different flavors of tea.
“Which one do you want?” he asks.
“H-hooking,” she says. “By hooking y-you mean…”
There goes that. He picks out the chamomile. That’s the kind Nana Connie always drinks. Kind of makes him want to pick anything but—but whatever, it’s the one he recognizes. For all he knows the rest could be poisonous or something. “Prostitution,” he says, setting the tea in front of her.
“Oh,” she says faintly. “That’s what I thought you meant.” She takes a sip of the tea, makes a face. “Would you mind pouring me another? The rooibos would be nice. I’ve never been able to stomach chamomile.”
So he gets another cup, looks for something that might spell the crazy sound she just made. After looking ‘em all over, he’s fairly sure he’s got the right one, only because it’s the only one that starts with an ‘R’. He’s just putting the bag in the cup when she says, “Did—is that what you were doing with my husband? Fu—Sleeping with him for money?”
Puck feels a blush rise up the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says, setting the new cup in front of her. He takes the other cup himself. Figures that’s what he deserves—regurgitated tree bark and all.
“I can’t believe him,” she says, flicking her watch open-closed-open-closed. “I can’t believe he would sleep with a—a prostitute—a male prostitute over me.”
And Puck doesn’t exactly have much to say to that, so he takes a sip of the crappy tea. Yeah, he still hates it.
“What really gets to me,” she says, still fiddling with the watch. “What really gets to me is how—how hypocritical he’s acting. He forces our daughter from our home for sleeping with a boy outside of marriage, and then he goes out and does exactly the same thing. Exactly the same thing with exactly the same boy.” Her voice cracks on the last sentence, something breaking inside.
She flicks the watch too hard and it springs off her hand, lands on the tile. Puck bends down to get it, but as soon as he’s down there he can tell it’s broken. “Sorry,” he says, handing it to her.
“That’s all right,” she says with a wicked smile. “He got it for me anyway.” She takes it from his hand, throws it on the ground. “Why are you sleeping with my husband?”
“Quinn needs money,” Puck says, folding his hands around the tea cup. “For the baby. And rent.”
“Is there any love lost between you?” she asks. At his confused look, she tries again, “Do you have any affection for the man?”
“No,” Puck says, harsh. “None at all.”
She gives him a calculating look, “Does my husband know you’re underage?”
Puck thinks about it. There’s no way to really know. “Probably,” he says.
“And just how old are you?” Mrs. Fabray asks.
“Sixteen,” Puck says.
A smile cuts across her face. “How would you like to do something for me? Something that would provide for your baby and screw Russell Fabray over for the rest of his life?”
“Sign me up on the dotted line,” Puck says.
“Well, if we’re going to be business partner’s I suppose we should properly introduce ourselves. I’m Judy Fabray.” She stands up, holds out a hand to him.
“Noah Puckerman,” Puck says, grabbing her hand to shake. He hears a crunching noise. When he looks down, Mrs. Fabray is crushing her watch under the heel of her shoe. For some reason, he thinks he can work with this woman.
Chapter 22: The perfect plan
Consensual Puck/Russell Fabray sex with slight voyeurism
It’s only a couple hours later when Puck places the call. He and Mrs. Fabray had headed out to the Lima Bean to do their planning. It’d taken them over an hour to iron out the details, but finally they had everything set in place.
The phone rings once, twice, three times, and then the line connects and a voice is coming through. “Did I ever tell you to call this number?” Mr. Fabray asks, voice gone steely.
“Well, I thought you’d want to know first opportunity. Barebacking is on the table,” Puck says. Mrs. Fabray had shown him Mr. Fabray’s full work-up, completely clean. Not that Puck had asked, but it was nice that she was actually looking out for him.
“Is that so?” Mr. Fabray says. “Well in that case I suppose I forgive you. How soon can you be here?”
“Five minutes,” Puck says.
“Remember,” Mr. Fabray says, “don’t be late.” He hangs up the phone before any more words can be exchanged.
“Oh, I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Puck says into the silence of his empty truck.
“On time for once,” Mr. Fabray says, looking at his watch. “I’m very impressed, boy.”
“What can I say,” Puck says. “I had—incentive.”
“If you’re ready—“ Mr. Fabray says then takes off for the boathouse.
This time Mr. Fabray didn’t have time to redecorate between Puck’s visits. The paddles are still the only things on the walls and there’s still one missing, left out on the sofa. Puck thinks about stealing it, giving it to Kurt. Then he gives himself a mental wash. Stop it. Get back into the game. Remember: What Would Santana Do?
You’ve got something he wants, you’ve got the upper hand. Puck turns to Mr. Fabray, gives him a shark-like grin. “Tell me—tell me how much you want it.” He starts unbuttoning his shirt slow—slow as he can get away with.
Mr. Fabray licks his teeth, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Oh, I want it,” he says, eyes tracking every movement Puck makes. “I want it more than you would ever guess.”
Puck undoes the last button on his shirt, lets it fall off him and to the ground somewhere. Then it’s the pants, button’s slipped and zip unzipped. And then they’re a pool around his feet. “Tell me just how much you want my underaged ass,” Puck says, giving it a little shake.
Mr. Fabray steps up to him, cups big soft hands around his ass. He gives it a little slap. “Boy, I want your sixteen-year-old ass like you wouldn’t believe.”
Puck kicks his shoes off quick, tugs the socks off. And there he is bare to the world. Bare as the day God made him.
“Why don’t you show me?” Puck says, grabbing the sofa and flexing his ass out at an obscene angle. “Why don’t you show me just how much you want it?”
And then Mr. Fabray’s hands are on him again, spreading his cheeks. He’s still a little wet there from before. Still a little sore from the paddling. But god it feels good, despite that or because of it, he isn’t sure. Then there’s more slickness, a finger shoving lube into him—more than he probably needs.
Then it’s not a finger at all, but a cock at his hole, slowly pushing in. It doesn’t feel different really, except for the way it does. There’s more heat, and everything is smoother somehow. He gets lost in it for a minute. But then he shakes himself out of it. Keep your eye on the prize. “How is it?” Puck asks. “How does it feel? How do I feel?”
“Perfect,” Mr. Fabray groans out. “God, you’re perfect boy. You’re being so good for me. Aren’t you boy?” He thrusts the rest of the way in on that, one long thrust.
“Yes, Daddy,” Puck says. He throws in a little whimper, says, “You’re so big Daddy. And I’m so sore from before.”
“You can take it, boy. You can be good for your Daddy.” And Mr. Fabray is biting him, then, right behind the ear.
“I—I don’t know, Daddy,” Puck says, making his voice tremble a little. “It hurts—it hurts a lot.”
But it doesn’t hurt, is the thing—at least, if it does, the pain and pleasure get mixed up in his brain somehow so the hurt is coming out more ohgodyesrightthererightthererightTHERE. So instead of trying to say anymore, Puck keeps up a steady stream of whimpers and moans that sound a bit more pained than pleasured.
It’s not long, thank God, before Mr. Fabray is picking up speed, thrusting into Puck harsh and there, there, there. It takes all that Puck has not to come his brains out, but he pinches the base of his cock and manages to hold off somehow. And then he feels it, the slickness in his ass getting even more wet, until he’s almost dripping it out.
And then Mr. Fabray pulls out and Puck’s ass really is dripping, lube and come leaving a wet streak down his thigh.
“That was better than I expected,” Mr. Fabray says, throwing a claiming hand on Puck’s ass.
There’s a click and then Mrs. Fabray’s voice is saying, “I certainly hope it was.” She slips into view holding the recorder. “That’s the last sex you’re going to be having for a long long time.”
Puck shares a look with her, both of their eyes lit up with exultation. We got him.
“So here are your options,” Mrs. Fabray says, holding up a finger, “either you (a) go to prison for a minimum of thirty years—sex of dubious consent with a minor—or you (b),” she throws up another finger, “divorce me, give me full custody of Quinn until her eighteenth birthday, and pretty much all your present assets.”
Mr. Fabray just sits there on the sofa, staring at his folded hands. “There wouldn’t be a third option, would there?” he asks, looking up at her.
Puck folds his arms across his chest. “No. There wouldn’t be,” he says.
“Russell, I think you know what happened here,” Mrs. Fabray says, walking up to him and running a hand through his hair. “You played a game, and you lost.” Her hand tightens, pulling on the hair until his head is cocked back at an awkward angle. “You should be grateful that I’m giving you an option, really. Do you know what they do to child molesters in prison?” She runs a careful finger over his face, tracing his lips, chin, cheekbones. “And pretty ones like you? Even worse.”
“So, I just give you everything? The house? The cars? Everything?” Mr. Fabray is running nervous fingers over the sofa. “And then that tape disappears?”
“I don’t want your things Russell,” Mrs. Fabray says. “Do you really think I want all the things you cared about more than me? No. I want your money.” She lets him go then, pulls her hand out of his hair rubbing it on her thigh as if to get the filth off. “The money, and the vacation house in Majorca.”
“All right,” Mr. Fabray says, wincing and running a hand over his head like she might’ve pulled a few hairs out when she grabbed him. “And the tape?” He holds out his hand, hopefully.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you think we’re stupid or something?” Puck says, tucking the tape more firmly into his side. “You’re not getting this tape until the divorce papers are signed and finalized.”
Mr. Fabray sighs. “Fine. You can have your divorce, and your money. And Quinn for that matter.” He sneers then. “It’s not like I want that filthy harlot in my life anyway.”
Mrs. Fabray chuckles. “Oh, I know Russell. It’s difficult sometimes when you have to see parts of yourself in your children. When I see Quinn I see those extra pounds I put on around the hips. When you see her you see what an adulterous bastard you are.”
Mr. Fabray doesn’t exactly have anything to say to that. Puck’s not exactly surprised.
“You sure you’re gonna be all right here?” Puck asks, letting Mrs. Fabray’s luggage drop to the ground. The motel room is another one of Lima’s finest. As much as Puck knows Mrs. Fabray is one tough lady, he doesn’t really want to leave her alone here.
“I’ll be fine Noah,” Mrs. Fabray says. “I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my hand, you know. I can certainly manage staying here until Friday.”
“If you’re sure,” Puck says. He stands there awkwardly for a few minutes then he makes to leave.
Her voice stops him before he even reaches the door. “Don’t forget our agreement,” Mrs. Faray says.
Puck sighs. “Yeah, I know. No more hooking and I can actually have a relationship with my kid.” Puck rubs the back of his neck. “I know you think I’m trash…”
“I don’t think you’re trash, Noah,” Mrs. Fabray says. “I just think you’re willing to do anything for your little girl. I only wish I’d been a little more like you.”
A knock comes at the door then. “Puck. I don’t know why you’d call me down here in the middle of the night like this, but if you think we’re going to relive the magic of our first night together, you’ve got another thing coming.”
Puck opens the door—steps aside.
“Quinny,” Mrs. Fabray says, putting a hand out in supplication.
“Mom? What—“ Quinn says, hugging her belly.
“I made a mistake,” Mrs. Fabray says. “I made such a big mistake. Do you think you could ever forgive me baby?”
“Mom? Mommy!” Quinn says. And then the two of them are hugging—crying and talking all over one another.
Puck cuts out while they’re distracted. Doesn’t want to stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong.
Chapter 23: Epilogue: A fairy-tale ending
Puck’s in his bed later that night when he hears a clang right outside his window. He sits up in bed, startled. He hears more noises then, a steady sound that he can’t quite place.
He gets up, walks over to the window. He doesn’t see anything when he looks outside, but then the sound comes again—from below—and he looks down. And there Kurt is, climbing up the side of his house.
Puck throws open his window, grins down at the kid. “Look at you Hummel. If you really wanted my attention you could’ve just called or something. Ever hear of cell phones?”
“Well,” Kurt huffs out, “considering the fact that I’ve tried to call you fifty times with no response, I really wasn’t expecting one more time to make any difference.”
Puck grabs his cell from his pocket. And, huh, Kurt’s right. ’50 missed calls.’ He checks the phone again. Sees it’s on silent. “Sorry?” he tries.
“Oh, you’re sorry all right,” Kurt says. “You call me with only the biggest news in the history of ever—say you’re not okay and then hang up, not answering your phone for hours.” Kurt’s finally got his hands on the top of the roof, he grunts, wriggles around a little trying to heave himself up. “I thought you’d jumped into a river somewhere. I thought—I thought…a little help here?” Kurt stops the wriggling, hanging limply from the edge of the roof.
It takes Puck a second to figure out that last sentence, and then he’s vaulting the window, holding onto the edge of it with one hand, and putting a hand out for Kurt with the other. “C’mon Hummel, I got you.”
And Kurt’s hand is in his then. Puck gives a good strong tug and Kurt ends up sort of slumped half on-top of him, half on the roof. “What happened?” Kurt asks between panting breaths.
“A lot,” Puck says, chuckling a little. “But all that really matters is it’s all over. Quinn’s been taken care of for good, and I’m all done with the hooking.”
Then Kurt’s laughing, great big giddy guffaws. “All done?” he asks.
“All done,” Puck says, tugging him a little closer. Wouldn’t want Kurt to fall off the roof or anything.
They lie there for a few minutes, just like that. Then Puck looks down at Kurt. “You know what this reminds me of? That movie. You know the “Pretty Woman” one?
Kurt hits him. Hard. “This is nothing like “Pretty Woman.” Are you crazy?”
“Come on, Hummel,” Puck says. “You climbed onto my roof to save me from my life of hooking.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Puck, but you’re not actually Julia Roberts,” Kurt says.
“Yeah,” Puck says. “Well you’re no Richard Gere.” He rolls away from Kurt a little and says, “He’s way hotter than you.”
Kurt looks outraged for a second, and then he’s tackling Puck.
When they fall off the roof Puck’s not exactly surprised. He figures he’ll be falling into a lot of things with Kurt from now on.