Fic: (for the very) First Time

[oddegg]

Title: (for the very) First Time
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Mention of past underage sexual encounters that could be triggery. Quite a bit of sex. And because it’s Puck nearly every other word is the ‘F’ one so there’s a LOT of swearing.
Pairing(s): Puck/Kurt, other background Gleek pairings, past Puck/many others.
Genre: Let’s call it ‘Drama’ shall we? Does that encompass angst, humour, smut and schmoop?
Word Count: 28,514
Disclaimer: I own nothing. (the walrus says he weeps for me, and deeply sympathises) 
Summary: Puck’s still got a first time he can give Kurt. At least he can if a) Puck can get him to understand that, b) Puck doesn’t fuck up, and c) if the prissy little shit’ll stop treating Puck like a fucking girl and just take it.

Author Note: In the note to my oneshot ‘Like a Virgin’ I said I was going to do a proper Puckurt follow up. Well, it’s only… *checks watch* eight weeks later and here it is! (Just in time to get Jossed by Season 2! Yay!)

This story… Jesus. It just became ‘The Fic That Won’t End’ and got longer and longer because they were both being such stupid, uncommunicative boys and I just could *not* get them to hurry along to the part with the fucking. To be honest, I’m not sure what I think of the whole thing myself. It’s pretty much 15 pounds of angst and 10 pounds of smut mixed up in a 5 pound bag of crazy. Still, you know. ‘Enjoy’ and all that.

A tip of the hat to alicebluegown16  for the scene where Kurt sings ‘Talk Dirty To Me’ and for the Stephen Lynch song! And, what the hell, she was so flatteringly psyched about this when I told her about it, so this is dedicated to audreytiphaine , ok? Hope you like it, honey.

As a side note, I seem to be developing a platonic OTP with my Puck/Santana friendship.



* * *

It’s midday, it’s mid July and it is, frankly, too fucking hot.

Puck doesn’t mind the heat – any excuse to go shirtless is a good excuse – but the heat means their weekly ‘New Directions Continued Contact’ meeting (yeah, Berry had named ‘em. Surprise) has morphed into a pool party at Brittany’s and the amount of naked flesh on display is distracting Puck from what he’s trying to talk to Santana about.

If you’d told him a year ago that there would come a day when he’d be trying to ignore hot chicks in swimwear because he wanted to talk then Puck would have laughed himself sick. And then probably punched you.

But although seeing Brittany or Santana in a bikini is never going to be a bad thing – or Quinn, who’s still carrying a few pounds from Beth and who suits every extra ounce; or Tina, who’s wearing a sporty one piece which doesn’t hide the sporty body underneath; or Mercedes, who’s just one loud, generous package of curves with the bright bows on her costume tempting you to unwrap her…

So, yeah. Not a bad thing, but a bit distracting.

Of course, it’s not just the chicks he’s looking at and that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s not even mainly the chicks he’s ogling, and that’s what you could call the opening chords of his problem.

Because what Puck’s mainly looking at is Kurt, lounging under an umbrella with Aretha and a drink, bitching about what the sun’s doing to his skin and insisting on wearing a shirt. But the shirt’s thin, thin cotton which doesn’t hide a thing and Kurt’s wearing it open over his smooth, pale chest, showing off the unexpected taut musculature of it and the neat shadowed edges of a discrete six pack that Puck has spent many happy hours tracing with his tongue.

The goddamn little cock-tease is also wearing the tiniest pair of shorts that Puck’s ever seen and his legs are fucking endless and Puck’s sort of imaging them wrapped round his…

What feels like a steel nail jabs him in the ribs.

“OW!! What the fuck, Santana?!”

You see what he means about distracting? Puck had even forgotten he was sitting right next to a raging psycho bitch.

Santana just raises an eyebrow at him. “Puckerman, you asked to talk to me, remember? Now, do you want to stop gazing soulfully at your nancy boy and tell me what’s wrong so I can make fun of you and then get back to my girlfriend?”

Puck looks over to where Brittany and Mike are practicing dance moves that involve Britt going down into the splits and sends an automatic, half hearted leer over at Santana. She rolls her eyes at him and prods him again, thankfully with her elbow and not her scary-ass sharp fingernails. “Come on. Give”

But Puck’s still watching Britt, who’s looking round now for something and he knows she’s found it when she looks their way and her face just lights up. And Puck knows that Brittany honestly thinks that fireflies are made out of moonlight, and that she believes her cat can understand what she says, and that she’ll sit through ‘Saw’ without blinking an eye but she cries like a baby when she watches ‘Toy Story’ and that she’s one of the kindest people he’s met in his life. And he knows that she doesn’t even see him right now because she’s looking at the girl sat next to him like Santana is the first, last and best thing she’s ever known.

And Puck wants to ask Santana ‘Do you ever want to give her something new?’ and he wants to ask her ‘Do you ever feel like you’ve made her dirty just because you’ve touched her?’ but that isn’t how they work and besides, he knows the answers anyway.

So he sighs and smiles sideways at Santana and tells her “It doesn’t matter, Lopez. Go on back to your girl. Give me something hot to look at, yeah?”

The leer is less of a token this time because, dude, hot lesbians making out is always a good thing, but Santana’s frowning and if Puck looked really close and the light was just right he might be able to claim he saw concern. He shakes his head at her and she shrugs and turns away to go and join Britt. Puck knows she’d beat it out of him if she felt she had to, so he must be faking it well enough to pass.

He listens to the splashing and squealing from the water fight Tina, Mike and Matt are having in the pool (the squealing coming mainly from Matt, and Puck absently reminds himself to give him hell for it later), watches as Artie swims about them, fluid and free from the weight of his wheelchair and his legs in the water – and then his eyes snap to Kurt before his brain’s even registered the boy had moved.

Kurt’s stood up from his lounger; stepped forward from the shade into full sunlight and he’s got one hand raised to shadow his eyes as he turns his head back to say something to Mercedes that has the girl laughing. He’s standing with one hip cocked and his shirt is pushed back slightly off his shoulders, the loose sides of it curtaining his chest and hell, the boy really can’t tan, can he? He’s so pale in the bright, harsh gold of the sunlight; clean and untouched and so white that he’s nearly shining. So dazzling that Puck has to duck his head and look away and focus on the chugging pool filter that’s between him and the water everyone else is enjoying.

Puck thinks he should offer to have a look at that for Brittany. He’s got the equipment, and it’s not like he hasn’t got the time. His client list has fallen off some now he’s made it clear he doesn’t provide extras with his pool service any more.


* * *


The thing is. The vague, inarticulate thing that he wanted to run past Santana is… It’s that Puck’s had a lot of new experiences, a lot of first times in his life, but none of them have been with Kurt and that’s starting to bug him.

Kurt’s had plenty of first times with Puck – not his very first kiss because that had been with Brittany during his brief and totally unconvincing attempt at heterosexuality (and Puck sometimes wonders if Santana finds the fact that Kurt and Britt had done that as weird and uncomfortably hot as he does) but definitely his first kiss with a guy, and he’s pretty sure his first proper French kiss as well.

Kurt’s not the first guy Puck’s kissed though, which yeah, he knows – call him Mr Hypocrite. But there’d been an out of town party and he’d just turned 16 and these two college chicks both stacked like porn stars had promised to make out with each other if Puck and another guy at the party did first and really, who’s going to say no to that? Dude, they were hot, blonde, college girls. And anyway, there was no-one at the party who knew him.

People who knew him or not, Puck remembered that he’d chucked Kurt in the dumpster the next Monday at school, and made sure to slushie him and he thinks slammed him into a locker as well.

Sometimes he wonders if the tight, sick feeling he gets occasionally when he looks at Kurt is always going to be there. ‘That’s called guilt, dumbass’ Santana had said over the phone when he told her about it once, cheap rum loosening his mouth a bit too much. ‘It means you might actually be growing into a real boy – congratulations and can we never talk about this again?’

He doesn’t think its guilt. Or not all of it anyway. He’s Jewish, he knows guilt. Nah, he’s pretty sure that most of its shame; which is a similar tune but a different beat and the bass line on that one really gets you in the gut.


* * *


So, while he kinda loves the fact that he’s Kurt’s first for a lot of things; loves the fact that his boyfriend has never felt these things with other guys, he also kinda hates that he can’t give that back to Kurt.

It isn’t that it’s not special; that Kurt kissing him and Kurt touching him and Kurt blowing him doesn’t make Puck feel really, really good – probably better than he’s felt with anyone else – but for fuck’s sake, he can’t even say that Kurt’s is the first dick he’s ever had in his mouth which, for an ex-homophobe-acting jock, is pretty fucking poor.

His first had been at a summer camp his mom had sent him to just before 9th grade. Jewish camp so there was no hot-dogs to roast at the campfires, you roughed it even more than usual on the Friday and – oh yeah – none of his friends were there. So fooling around with one of the teenage camp councillors hadn’t seemed such a risk; the usual rules forgotten. And half a dozen friendly jerk-off sessions had, on the last night, led to an even friendlier blowjob session.

Half the time Puck almost doesn’t think that counts, because it was just once and when he did blow Kurt for the first time his five minutes of experience at 14 had hardly made him an expert; he’d still gagged.

Anyway, if he’d ever wanted to be more knowledgeable about that shit before Kurt it wasn’t like he couldn’t have done something about it. He’d only ever taken the moms up on it but it wasn’t like the cougars were the only adults who offered to supplement his pool cleaning earnings; he just didn’t think calling out ‘hey Anklegrabber! Your dad said he’d pay me $40 to blow him’ on the football field would be a good idea.

Sometimes he’d wondered what it was about him that meant those couple of guys who’d given him discrete signs or carefully worded opportunities felt they could do it and not get punched. Puck was hardly a small guy, after all, even at 16. And what made them think he wanted that? What made them think it was ok to be so fucking skeezy?

He’d asked once, in another of the half drunk, late night phone conversations with Santana that have replaced their sext sessions now they’ve both been pussy and dick whipped into giving two shits about the person they’re going out with.

She’d snorted loudly and said ‘What makes it any more skeezy than the fact a load of 40 year old bitches passed you around like a party favour, you slut?’ ‘I’m a stud Lopez, you’re the slut. Get it right’ ‘Oh, that’s just a patriarchal double standard. Stud still means slut, Puckerman, it’s just a different spelling’ ‘What the fuck, Lopez? ‘Patriarchal double standard?’ Have you been hanging out with Berry again, you psycho bitch? Oh, and I’ll make sure that the four fifths of the football team you’ve fucked know about the spelling’

…Yeah. Well, he’d never claimed their friendship was a healthy one, ok?

‘But seriously’ he’d asked later, after their round of insults had descended into ‘your momma’ jokes ‘Why does it feel different?’

‘Oh, I don’t know Puckerman. Maybe because it’s outside the norm?’ and her usual sarcastic tone had taken on an extra bitter edge ‘Maybe because you get told you’re meant to want to fuck women and I get told I’m meant to want to fuck guys and we’re not supposed to complain when that happens? Maybe because when one thing’s a bit different about it you notice how fucking creepy it is that someone who’s 30 years older than you wants to fuck a teenager?’

Puck doesn’t know if Santana’s thinking is quite kosher there; he still thinks she’s been hanging out too much with Berry. But he supposes she’s right in a way, it’s not that much different. He just didn’t like the idea that those guys had seen something… something vulnerable in him like that.


* * *


So the gang all hangs out together under the hot sun throughout the summer. And part of Puck still feels like he leaves grime on Kurt’s skin when he touches him and that there’s nothing new he can offer him and that he doesn’t deserve to have this perfect thing that makes him happy.

He feels like he’s used up and second hand goods already and he’s not even 18 yet.

And feeling like that is really starting to piss him off.

Because he’s Noah fucking Puckerman. He is a hot, bisexual Jew with a banging body and a chiselled jawline and half this damn town would give their eye teeth to fuck him – don’t try to tell him they wouldn’t. Just look at his guns.

And yes, he’s a bit of an asshole, but he’s been doing his best to try and grow out of that, damn it. And he’s got proper friends that still want to hang with him even after all the crap he’s pulled and most of them are pretty clever so they must see something in him. And his Ma loves him (she must, the amount of shit she’s forgiven him for) and he knows his sister looks up to him no matter how many times she tells him to die in a fire. And most importantly of all, he’s got one of the hottest, sexiest guys in Lima on his arm and by his side (and in his bed) and if Kurt likes him then Puck must be doing something right.

And there is one thing he’s not done before. One ‘first time’ that he can still give to Kurt and despite the fact that he isn’t sure he wants to and that he gets a churning feeling in his gut at the thought of it, that’s what he’s going to do.

Because even though he knows in his head that he’s worth something and that Kurt cares for him, in his heart and his gut he’s still got that ‘second hand’ feeling and Kurt Hummel? That boy does designer. He does top of the line, this season, hot off the runway. And Puck’s a little scared of what’s going to happen when Kurt realises he’s hanging around with someone that’s more ‘thrift store’ than ‘Dior’.

So. He’s going to do this.

He’s going to let Kurt fuck him.


* * *


Only… he’s not quite sure how to go about alerting Kurt to that.

He knows his boyfriend well enough to be aware that a blunt ‘You get to fuck me tonight’ or a jocular ‘Hey, Hummel? Want to take my ass-cherry?’ would not go down well and would, in fact, probably lead to Puck not getting any of any description for a while.

But he can’t think how else to put it. He needs something subtle and romantic and that’s a problem, because romance makes Puck feel uncomfortable and he tends to be an ‘in your face’ kind of guy as well.

By which he means his ability to pull off ‘subtle’ sucks sweaty dog balls.

This, it turns out, is something of a problem.


* * *


He does try.

They’re back at school now and so he spends as much of Monday as he can reminding Kurt about the awesomeness that is buttsex. He gropes his ass in the lunch line and backs him up against the lockers to whisper filthy things about hot and tight into his ear and sends him texts (in the middle of Kurt’s biology lesson, appropriately) about whether they’ve got enough lube stashed and if Kurt’s ever fancied trying out some of the flavoured kind and hey – if he has, what’s his favourite flavour? How about cherry? Does he like the idea of cherry?

Puck figures that’s pretty subtle.

His efforts get him a squeak and a blush and some texts back that read ‘omg shut up’ and ‘no srsly, shut up. i hav 2 get up from this desk u no’ and ‘i will c u 2nite puckerman’

And Puck had thought that was the problem sorted but when he pounded down the stairs to Kurt’s basement room that evening he found Kurt laid out on his bed, naked, with two fingers already worked into his own ass and any thoughts of his original plan went right out of his head.

An hour of satisfying and very athletic sex later he’d rolled onto his back and pulled Kurt toward him as the smaller boy moaned sleepily that ‘I think you broke me, you bastard’ and Puck had vaguely tried to work up some annoyance that his Subtle-Fu had backfired but he kind of felt like his bones had been replaced with warm jello and he was so buzzed that he had to push his face into Kurt’s neck and kiss him to keep from giggling. So even though he didn’t get the result he was after he did get a pretty fucking awesome result and he couldn’t really be pissed.

He’ll just have to try again.


* * *


He sends the first of the links to Kurt’s iPhone at six the next morning, and then another every half hour on the hour until the end of the day. He thought about finding Kurt for a little bit of ass-grabbing during the breaks but decided to avoid his boyfriend and the texts buzzing his phone and let his words speak for him instead.

Or, you know, if not his words then the two dozen links he’d sent that led to either gay porn sites or pictures of lubed assholes (without the Goatse one because that shit just wasn’t a turn on).

He’s going for a less subtle message this time.

At five minutes past four he’s locked in the disabled bathroom on the first floor fucking Kurt up against the door and he’s starting to think his message has got translational issues.


* * *


Wednesday he leaves Kurt alone until Glee rehearsal and then leans over the back of Kurt’s seat and starts sing-humming ‘Back Door Man’ in his ear, changing the genders around to suit. He hasn’t got beyond the second verse before Kurt turns round and hisses to him “For heavens sake, Noah! It’s flattering that you can’t get enough of me but I’ve still got an imprint of the disabled toilet taps on my ass from yesterday and I’m starting to walk bowlegged, which isn’t a look that goes with Gucci jeans!”

Unfortunately he hisses this rather loudly in the few seconds between Mr Schue introducing the new theme and Rachel starting to talk everyone’s ear off about it, and the whole group learns more about their sex life than some of them wanted to, judging by the ill looks.

Artie says, in an appalled tone, “Wait. That was you guys who left those… stains there?” and Mike says “I think I just threw up in my mouth a little” softly to himself and Finn looks torn between wanted to upchuck as well and wanting to beat Puck down for soiling his sort-of-step brother and Tina looks interested.

Mr Schue says in a strangled voice “So guys! Speaking of bowlegged, how about we work on these Country & Western updates?” and then looks completely horrified by what he’s just said.

Puck finds out that he can still blush a bit.


* * *


Afterwards Kurt (who’d also blushed a fiery shade of red and either avoided Puck’s eye or glared at him all through rehearsal) rushed off as if he was being followed by the hounds of hell instead of just Mercedes and the girls. All the guys carefully avoided Puck’s eye as they sidled out.

Puck sighed and went to leave himself, only when he got to the door Santana was leaning on the wall outside.

She raised an eyebrow at him in the international sign for ‘WTF?’ and he sighed again and shrugged. “Think I’m in the doghouse”

She rolled her eyes and said “Come on then, you douche. I’ve got a new bottle of tequila I nicked from my dad”

Santana, Puck thought, was an awesome, awesome friend. Don’t let anyone tell you different.


* * *


Santana, Puck decided fuzzily, from where he was resting against the toilet, was a horrible, horrible friend. The next time he thought different he promised to punch himself in the head. That would hurt less then the hangover he had this morning anyway.

A pounding on the door made him jerk his head up and then groan and clutch at it when the movement made it feel like he had spinning knives in his brain. Luckily he’d already thrown up his entire digestive tract so at least the motion didn’t make him sick again beyond a brief, reflective dry heave. Shit. Had San let him drink the whole bottle by himself?

His sister’s voice came from outside, accompanied by more banging. “Noaaaah! I have to get ready for school, damn it! Get out of the bathroom already”

School. Sweet Jewish Christ, it was Thursday, wasn’t it? Possibly. Fuck, he didn’t even remember getting home last night so it could be he’d blacked out a day and it was Friday now. Puck dragged himself upright and if the protests his head and stomach were making hadn’t made up his mind, the sight of himself in the bathroom mirror cast the deciding vote on whether to ditch school or not. He looked like something George Romero would cast in his next feature.

He gargled with some mouthwash and opened the door, immediately getting shoved to the side by Sara as she went past. He ignored her wail of “Oh, gross Noah! It smells of puke in here you pig!” and staggered back to his bedroom to collapse back on top of his sheets.

He made vague plans to kill either Santana or the guy who invented tequila or both, and slipped swiftly into sleep with a very faint, nagging feeling that he was forgetting something important.


* * *


When he woke up it was 10 hours later, his ‘hungover’ headache was now a ‘slept too much’ headache, he was hungry, he was desperately in need of a piss and he had over forty texts or voice messages waiting for him on his phone.

He didn’t find that last one out until he’d gone to the bathroom, chugged two Tylenol and a whole litre of water and made himself a grilled cheese sandwich which he wolfed down standing up by the stove. Then he’d gotten a shower and wandered back to his bedroom and nearly choked when he’d casually checked his phone. What the hell had happened?

Scrolling through the messages he saw that the first ten were from Santana, then around lunchtime he’d started to get them from Mercedes, Tina, Quinn and Finn (mostly Aretha and Finn actually). He had one each from Mike, Matt and Artie, two from Rachel that were probably her complaining about how whatever everyone was so worked up by was effecting her and one from Brittany that he suspected was from Santana using her girlfriend’s phone because the ‘you douche, call back’ header was spelled correctly.

There was also precisely zero messages from Kurt, which gave Puck a very, very bad feeling.

Ignoring the five texts from Santana that all said ‘CALL ME 1ST!!!’ he hit number one on his speed dial and waiting anxiously as the phone rang. And rang, and rang, and rang – until the call was abruptly stopped.

Puck took the phone away from his ear and looked at it incredulously. Did Kurt just cut him off? That must be a mistake, surely. He hit one again. And again, three rings and then the call stopped. So he tried again. And again.

The last time it barely got past one ring before cutting out. Before he could try again his phone beeped to let him know he had another text and when he checked he saw it was from Kurt. He opened it.

‘I do not want to speak to you at this moment in time, Puck. If you ring again I’ll put your number on reject’

The prissily correct spelling told Puck how coldly angry Kurt was even without the text’s content and the use of his nickname, and he’s got no doubt that if he tried again his boyfriend would do exactly what he threatened to. He very carefully moved his finger off the number one on his keypad and tried not to notice that his hand is trembling.

What the everloving fuck did he do last night?


* * *


So he does what he maybe should have done in the first place and rings Santana. She answers on the second ring and the first words out of her mouth are “Oh, you have fucked up sooo badly, Puckerman”

It could be just an extension of their usual teasing but there’s a worried edge to her jeering tone that tells Puck yes – he really, really has. He asks tightly “What the fuck did I do, San?”

She drops the mockery immediately and that just winds the knot in Puck’s stomach up tighter. “Actually, I don’t know. I went down to the kitchen to get snacks and when I came back up you were on the phone to Hummel. I tried to grab it off you but the damage was kinda done by then”

Puck swallowed hard “What did I say”

She sighed “Didn’t hear all of it, of course. But when I walked in you were saying ‘and if you weren’t such a fucking girl you’d man up and take it, princess’” she paused then added reluctantly “Which doesn’t sound that much worse than your usual, and I’m editing out the slurring, but you sounded really fucking vicious, Puck. And Hummel looked like someone had pissed on his Prada all day at school.”

“He’s not taking my calls”

“Ah”

They’re quiet for a few moments, Puck pretending he’s not struggling to control his breathing and Santana pretending she’s not sending waves of sympathy down the line. Eventually Puck asks in a tight voice “Did I happen to mention afterward what in particular I was putting my foot in my mouth over?”

He got another sigh. “No. I think the tequila really hit you after that – you went into ‘deep brood’ mode and didn’t say a lot. You were trying to talk to me about something before that though”

“What?”

“I’ve got no fucking clue! You were skipping about all over the place – you kept talking about Britt’s pool party and rambling on and on about your current anal sex obsession, which – thank you for that by the way; it didn’t gross me out at all to have to picture you and Hummel going at it”

Puck says “You love it, bitch” but it’s purely automatic because his mind is whirring and oh shit, oh fuck. He thinks he knows what he said to Kurt, or, if not the exact words then at least the general topic of conversation and he’s got a feeling that what with the slight frustration of his plans so far not working and the fact that he’d had a large amount of Mr José Cuervo’s finest in him his decision to inform Kurt of potential Puck-ass-fucking opportunities might just have shot straight past ‘subtle’ at 90 miles an hour; giving the finger and mooning it as it went past. Puck is perfectly aware that if there’s a way to make an offer sound horribly offensive then that’s the way his drunk side will phrase it.

Just, oh please, oh holy Jehovah – don’t let him have mentioned the rest of the gay shit he did before he started going out with Kurt.

Santana’s sharp voice in his ear brings him back to the present. “Well, you moron – given you just said that out loud to me, what are the chances you didn’t say it last night to Hummel when you were drunk?”

Puck dragged a hand over his eyes and groaned. Fuck.


* * *


The next day ended up going onto Puck’s list of ‘worst days ever’.

And given that list included the day his dad walked out, the day his grandma died, the day he had to say goodbye to Beth and the day he tries not to think about too much when he was kinda-raped by his sister’s babysitter when he was 12 he felt that said something about what a cluster fuck the whole thing was.

And at least with the other days on the list some small part of him had known at the time that that day was the peak of the shitiness and even if he had more of the same to look forward to, it wasn’t going to get any worse. But after a night of no sleep Puck had started the day out feeling like he had a tight band around his chest and by the end of it he was feeling like his heart had been ass-raped dry with no reach-around.

And he didn’t think this situation had reached its defcon-oh-fuck limits quite yet. He was pretty damn sure that things could – and probably would – get worse.

Because Kurt hadn’t spoken one word to him or looked at him all day. Because when Puck had tried in desperation to text him at the first break he’d got back a clipped ‘I told you’ and then the next text had bounced back as rejected.

Because Kurt had been surrounded by a bodyguard of their friends all day that had made sure Puck couldn’t even get near him to try and explain and apologise – hell, beg if he had to.

Mercedes had nearly pushed him over when he moved toward Kurt in the corridor and told him he was ‘five seconds and a distracted teacher away from me cutting you, white boy, so back off!’ – and shit, but with the venom in her voice he’d believed her. He’d had stares of death from Tina and Quinn as well and purse-mouthed disapproval from Rachel and he swore he’d got chips taken out of his shins when Artie ran his wheelchair into him. Matt and Mike were pretty much staying out of it but they were staying away from Puck as well and Finn had damn well growled at him when he saw Puck at lunchtime.

Basically, all this added up to Puck sitting in his truck at the end of the day and realising that the horrible, gut-wrenching feeling that’d been growing in him all day was because he knew with stone-cold fucking certainty that if he didn’t manage to sort out the stupid situation his stupid, fucking mouth had gotten him into soon then he was going to be minus a boyfriend next week. And that was going to fucking kill him.

Seriously. Kill him.

And it wasn’t just that the whole Glee club and Mr Schue and even some of the less douchey football guys had made it perfectly clear that Kurt would be getting their friends in the divorce, so to speak. It wasn’t that he’d have to explain to his mom (who, after freaking out a bit at the start, quite liked Kurt) that he’d screwed up the most stable relationship he’d ever had, or tell Sara that the guy who gave her fashion tips and manicures wasn’t coming round anymore. It wasn’t even that he’d be losing a source of some pretty amazing sex.

It was that Kurt was such a big part of so much of his life now that Puck honestly didn’t know what he’d do if that was ripped away. Didn’t know how he’d function with that much of him missing.

It was that just the thought of having to do without Kurt; of going for even a day, never mind the rest of his fucking life without having Kurt smile at him… just the thought of that made him feel like ice water had washed over him and flushed out his veins, his heart. Made him shiver with the shock of it and then he couldn’t stop and by the time Santana snapped open the passenger side door and slid into the cab of his truck Puck was shaking and as close as he’d ever been in his life to having a panic attack.


* * *


They didn’t do hugs or ‘comfort’.

The nearest him and Santana ever got to physical affection was when they used to fuck, or the painful punches San gave him every so often on his arm. But when she saw the state of him Santana didn’t hesitate before she scooted over to the middle of the cab and pulled Puck’s head down onto her shoulder.

He fisted his hands in the sides of her uniform and gasped into her neck – shuddering, wheezing breaths that weren’t sobs, they weren’t damn it! – and she listened as he babbled about how everyone was going to hate him and how everything was going to be ruined and how he wouldn’t even have Glee anymore because he couldn’t take that away from Kurt so he’d have to stop going and how it didn’t even matter because he’d fucked up so, so badly and he wasn’t, Kurt wasn’t, he was going to… and he couldn’t, San, he couldn’t! Oh god. Oh holy shit. Puck wouldn’t be able to stand it.

Puck can’t see Santana’s face because he’s got his buried in her shoulder, wetting her collar bone with what are definitely not tears, but her arm is solid around his back, her hand steady as she strokes the fuzz of his hair, and her voice is the firmest thing he’s ever heard. It’s a promise; an absolute guarantee as she says “It’s going to be alright, Puck. I’m going to help you sort it”

And he starts to feel a tiny – a very, very tiny bit calmer. This is Santana, and if she says she’s going to sort it then even his own ability to royally fuck things up is going to get steamrollered into oblivion.

Because this is Santana: Queen Bitch of the school, able to bring football players to their knees at twenty paces with the edge of her tongue or at one pace with the rim of her kneecap. She’s the scariest person he knows. Hells fucking Angels would shit a brick if they saw this woman coming.

And she’s got his back.


* * *


Puck will admit that even in the face of Santana’s usual ‘bow before me, worm’ awesomeness he did still have a bit of depressing doubt.

Because San may be Queen HBIC but Kurt’s the GQ motherfucking Ice Princess when he wants to be and so stubborn sometimes that he may as well be a very pretty mule with longer eyelashes and Armani shoes.

But in the end Santana arranges things very neatly, through the simple method of exploiting her girlfriend.

Britt had been uncertain at first, twisting her fingers together and saying softly “Kurt’s my friend, San. I don’t like him feeling hurt” – and somehow, even after everyone else’s disapproval, that was a real kick in the gut.

Brittany… Brittany was just nice. Not the sharpest piece of chalk in the crayon box sometimes and a bit too happy to go along with Santana’s evil plots but she was sweet as sugar and… well, Puck didn’t know if innocent was the right word for someone who’d fucked around as much as Britt had, but she was. Sweet and innocent and nice, and if even she thought he was a shit who needed to stay away from Kurt…

But then Britt looked over at him and said “I don’t like that you’re all hurty as well, Puck” She frowned, all serious “This is really hard. Like math”

San said “Puck needs to talk to him, Britt. And he needs your help to do that”

Britt twirled a piece of her hair and looked at her feet. Shuffled them like a little kid and gazed out of the window. Cut her eyes back to Santana and looked up at her through her lashes. San stared back steadily and Britt sighed. “Ok. I’ll ring and ask him to come over for a makeover. He can’t say no to those” She frowned at both of them. “He’s going to be mad though”


* * *


Half an hour later and it seemed Britt knew Kurt well. Both about the fact he couldn’t say no to making someone over – he had arrived carrying an industrial sized makeup kit and wheeling a small piece of luggage presumably packed with more beauty paraphernalia – and about the fact that he was going to be mad.

He’d been smiling when he walked into the living room of Brittany’s house. A pale imitation of his usual bright one, but a smile at any rate. Then he’d spotted Puck standing nervously by the couch and the smile had slipped from his face like it had been melted off. His lips thinned as he turned away from Puck to look back at where Britt and Santana were standing, between him and the door, and he sneered slightly as he asked “Et tu, Brittany?”

Santana stepped forward and said very calmly “Look, just listen to the idiot for five minutes, Hummel. He’s been a stupid bastard but let him say sorry for it. Because he is” she looked over Kurt’s shoulder and met Puck’s eyes “And because I’m going to kick his ass if he doesn’t stop being a complete ‘tard and explain properly”

Puck grimaced because he’d totally heard the subtext of ‘that-means-everything-including-the-gay-stuff-and-why-you-were-freaking-out-Puckerman-you-douche’ in that last emphasised part and yes, Santana was more than able to slap him down like the hand of god if she had to. There was a reason he’d never told her about his fight club and that was because she’d have joined in, beaten them all bloody and been ruler of the club within a week.

Then Santana turned her evil eye on Kurt as she added “And you listen properly, Hummel. Or you’re on the ass-kicking rota right behind him. We’ll be outside in the garden. Come on, Britt”

And then she was pushing the blonde out of the house, with Brittany asking “But what did I eat two of, San?” as the door closed behind them and Puck and Kurt were alone.

There was a very, very long silence.

Then silence.

Then, just to be sure, some more silence.

“So. Is there anything you wanted to say to me or did you plan to spend the evening cataloguing the design of the carpet?”

Kurt’s voice was cool but when Puck snapped his gaze up from where he had indeed been eyeballing the carpet he saw the other boy had his arms wrapped round himself; holding onto his own biceps so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. And suddenly Puck’s mouth was dry and there was something in his throat that he couldn’t seem to swallow past, certainly couldn’t speak past. Explaining and apologising was a great idea, except that it meant he had to talk.

As he stared mutely at Kurt he saw anger creep over his face and after another minute of silence Kurt spat out “Fine! You know what? Screw you, Puck, keep your damn excuses!”

Then he whirled round to leave and Puck was moving before he knew it; grabbing hold of Kurt’s elbow and pulling him back, and the lump in his throat dissolved into words that poured out of him like a stream.

“No!! No, please, please, Kurt – I’m sorry! I’m so god-damn sorry and I don’t even know what I’m sorry for, ‘cos I was so drunk I can’t remember what I said, so I’m sorry for that as well – sorry for being drunk and being an ass to you – but I’m just shit at this! I’ve been trying to tell you something for weeks and I couldn’t fucking manage it and then I think I got frustrated and I’m sorry, Kurt! PLEASE! I wanted to tell you about… I mean, I wanted to ask…”

God! Even with verbal fucking diarrhea he can’t get this out! Puck slammed himself down onto the couch and forced himself to carry on talking, even if it was with his head in his hands, half muffled.

“It’s just that you’re always the one getting fucked and I don’t mind that – fuck, I fucking love that! I love fucking you, but I know that… I just thought that you might want to… What I mean is that I wondered if you might want to…”

“Oh, shut up”

Kurt plunked himself down next to Puck on the couch, and that plus the fact that he just sounded mildly petulant got Puck beginning to feel that he might be able to come out of this ok. His legs started twitching with nerves and he clamped his hands down on his knees.

”You are so dysfunctional”

Kurt sounded pissy but almost fond there and that gave Puck enough courage to look up and he saw that while Kurt did still look royally hacked off there was also forgiveness in his eyes and maybe Puck hasn’t fucked this up beyond all recognition after all.

“So this is what your incoherent, stream of conscious over-share about all the gay experiences and offers you’d had was about last night? Had during the same period of time you were throwing me in dumpsters and calling me a fag, I might add”

Puck winced and nodded, shamefaced. Looked like Santana was right on the money about him spilling that then.

Kurt carried on “And you didn’t think to just, oh – I don’t know, tell me that you wanted me to top?” he threw his hands up “Oh, who am I kidding! This is Noah ‘My Middle Name is Emotional Constipation’ Puckerman we’re talking about here! Of course you’re not going to admit that you want to be fucked – “

And Puck couldn’t help the tiny flinch he gave there and the panicked wish that Kurt wouldn’t notice barely had time to form in his mind before Kurt broke off and stared at him and oh shit, oh crap – his boyfriend was far too intelligent for Puck’s own good at times but please don’t let this be one of them. Please don’t let him say –

“Except you don’t actually want to be fucked, do you?”

Don’t let him say that.

Kurt was sitting so still. Like if he moved he’d shatter and indeed, when he spoke his voice was brittle and thin; like it could splinter at any moment “Tell me, Noah. At what point during our relationship did you form the opinion that I was the sort of person who wouldn’t mind if my partner was less than willing?”

He closed his eyes and breathed hard a couple of times and when he carried on his voice did break and crack as it rose to a shout at the end “I mean, what exactly did I do that made you think I’d be happy to RAPE you!!”

And apparently that was what was needed to get the emotional flood gates opened properly.

Because Puck heard that and the very next thing he knew he had Kurt’s arms in his hands and he was shaking him almost viciously, shouting back into his face “DON’T SAY THAT! Don’t you EVER fucking say that, Kurt! You’d never do that, ever – and I know, ok? I know what it’s like to have someone do that and you would never EVER do that! If I didn’t trust you why the fuck do you think I’d even consider letting you fuck me after I’d had that happen to me?!”

He was nearly wheezing now; heaving air into his lungs and in the face of Kurt’s wild, shocked expression it still wasn’t enough, still wasn’t getting rid of this black, acid stone in his chest that was preventing him from breathing clearly. So he carried on, words that he hardly even heard himself pouring out of him; telling Kurt about his dark room with just the shard of light from the hall light under the door to see by. About being pressed down onto the mattress and the harsh, herby smell clinging to her that he hadn’t known was pot till years after when he’d been passed a blunt at a party and nearly hurled at the heavy, reminiscent odour of the smoke. And about how he’d frozen. Been so scared that she’d had to put her mouth on him to get him even half hard and how his stupid, betraying body had in the end. How he’d been too frozen to say ‘no’ and that maybe, probably, it wouldn’t have made a difference, but god; he wishes he had – maybe then part of him wouldn’t feel like because he’d just laid there and let her it was his fault.

About how it felt to be young and small and helpless; to have something he’d imagined and dreamed about and nervously wanted someday forced onto him that day before he was ready for it.

About how the experience had smeared itself all over him, marked him ever since; an invisible mark that only some people – the wrong people – seemed to see. See and take advantage of. How he’d been damaged goods for people to chip more pieces off of ever since.

On and on. Thick dark poison that he hadn’t even known had been there, slowly building walls up around him; all of it dissolving and spilling out in stuttered words and half formed phrases that he was gasping out into Kurt’s chest now. Holding onto his shirt with white knuckled hands like it was the only thing keeping Puck afloat out of the flood.

And then it was quiet. Then Puck noticed that it had been quiet for a while. No words from him – just deep, gulping breaths – and no response from Kurt.

No verbal response, that is. Because Puck suddenly realised that Kurt was stroking his head, his neck, his back, and that he’d been doing so for a while – soft and gentle, like he was touching an injured animal. And now he was speaking as well, murmuring low; just as soft, just as gentle as his hands – a soothing litany of comfort.

“It’s ok, Noah. It’s ok. I’m here and I get it, I do. And don’t worry – don’t worry. It’s all going to be ok”

Puck sucked in air, trying to ease out the shudders in his breathing, and pressed in closer against Kurt’s chest. He listened to Kurt’s voice and tried to let himself believe what he was saying was true.


* * *


Puck wasn’t sure how long they sat like that. Long enough for his leg to go a little dead from leaning on it. Long enough for him to get mildly hypnotized by his own breathing; the rhythmic rise and fall of Kurt’s chest under his cheek, the slight rub of his hand on Puck’s back.

His mind felt slow, like someone stuffed cotton wool in his brain and at some level he’s thankful for it – doesn’t want to think too closely about the past couple of hours (or the past couple of days, in fact).

Finally Kurt gave a deep sigh and one last, firmer stroke down Puck’s spine before he said in a resolved tone “Right. You’re coming to my house tonight, Noah. I’ll call your mom and let her know you’re stopping over”

A soft, cool hand cupped Puck’s chin, gently forcing him to look up and meet solemn blue eyes. Kurt slipped his hand up to rest against Puck’s cheek, leaned in to kiss him feather light on the mouth and then rested their foreheads together. He said “Go on; go get in the Navigator. I’ll check with Brittany that it’s ok to leave your truck here because there’s no way I’m letting you drive anywhere”

And Puck would protest that he doesn’t need looking after, but he kinda still feels shaky after digging a tunnel up through the metric fuck-tonne of issues he’s apparently got and anyway, he just spent a good half hour wrapped around his boyfriend like the dude’s a teddy bear so he doesn’t have much credibility there. He’s tired. He just wants to lay down with Kurt and go to sleep for a week.

So he went out and climbed into the passenger seat of the Navigator. Closed his eyes and just tried not to think about anything in particular. He heard noise faintly through the thick, tinted glass; indistinct voices that must be Kurt talking to the girls.

Puck suddenly really couldn’t face the idea of talking to anyone else tonight, of having to bullshit his way to sounding vaguely normal. So he knew it was a limp-dick coward move but when he heard the scrape of movement in the gravel by the car he didn’t open his eyes and tried to pretend he’d fallen asleep and not react when the door opened by the side of him.

He knew it was her even before he heard Kurt say sharply “I think he’s asleep, Santana”. Could smell the perfume she always wore; something cool and crisp, with a spicy scent underneath. And he knew he wouldn’t have her fooled even though she answered out loud “Yeah, Kurt. I can see that”

Her scent got stronger and he could feel warmth as she leaned over him and – yeah, he was right – her voice whispered low by his ear “I know you’re not really asleep though, Puckerman”. Then he felt softness brush against his face and nearly opened his eyes in shock because had Santana – Santana ‘empathy will cost you and you failed my credit check’ Lopez – had she actually just kissed his forehead?

She whispered again, even softer “Be well, Puck. Call me if you need to” so, huh. Apparently she had kissed him. She’d been sweet. Puck wondered if the devil was enjoying his ice skate lessons.

The door clunked shut gently next to him.


* * *


Puck ‘woke up’ after Kurt pulled the 4WD out of Brittany’s drive and set off down the street. Though given the bland look Kurt threw him, along with the slightly raised eyebrow, Puck didn’t think he’d fooled his boyfriend about being asleep either.

They didn’t talk as they drove but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable and even though it was only ten minutes to the Hummel house Puck was close to nodding off for real by the time they got there and he stumbled a bit as he got out of the car.

It had completely slipped his mind that of course; the Hummel house contained Hudson’s now as well, because Finn and his mom lived there too. And Finn had been really spectacularly unhappy with Puck for upsetting Kurt, hadn’t he?

He remembered once he stepped inside and saw Finn looming in the door to the living room, looking pissed and dangerous as he moved forward, angling his body subtly to get in front of Kurt like a guard dog.

Puck thought ‘shit’, tiredly but what the hell. If he needed to take some lumps from Finn they might as well get it over with. He stepped forward himself out of the shadow of the doorway.

And Puck was still feeling completely hammered by all the emotional crap he’d been through tonight but he hadn’t realised till then that he must look it as well because Finn was scowling and he’d opened his mouth as he took another step, ready to say… something. But Puck never found out what because Finn met his eyes and then did a double take, his mouth still hanging open a little stupidly and a look of concern creeping into his eyes.

He shut his mouth and stared at Puck for a long, silent moment, frowning slightly, before he turned to Kurt and asked in a worried tone “Kurt? Are you… are both of you ok now?”

Kurt just nodded and said quietly “We’re ok, Finn. Noah’s staying tonight. We’ll see you in the morning, ok?” and then gently pulled on Puck’s arm to start him moving down toward Kurt’s room.

Puck managed a “See you later, bro” as he passed Finn. His voice sounded rough to his own ears, rusty like he hadn’t used it for a long time.

He could feel Finn’s eyes on them all the way to the basement stairs.


* * *


”Does Finn know?”

His brain still wasn’t quite running at speed and most of his attention was taken up with the appealing sight of the bed, so it took Puck a moment to get what he thought Kurt meant. “What, about the gay stuff? No, dude – I never told-“

“Not about that”

Kurt’s tone was flat and Puck thought, oh. And crap, he didn’t want… “No. Nobody knows about that. It… it’s ok, Kurt. It messed up my head a bit at the time but I’m not, like, permanently fucked up you know, Princess”

And that got Kurt wrinkling his nose at him and muttering ‘wouldn’t be so sure, you jerk’ but he shut up about it which Puck counted as a result.

It was the only kind of result he got though. Because sure, he auto-pilot-leered at Kurt’s smooth chest a bit after they’d stripped down to their shorts (hey, he’d have to be dead before the Puckasaurus didn’t take advantage of an opportunity to ogle), but Kurt said firmly “Bed. Just bed. We’re both tired and need to sleep. We’ll talk more later, ok?”

Puck didn’t even think about pushing it and was actually fairly glad ‘cos he was really starting to feel the comedown from the adrenaline now and was still pretty strung out and curling up with Kurt warm at his side and just crashing sounded fucking fantastic.

He started going under almost as soon as the light went out and they settled themselves down, and it was through the first creeping tendrils of dreams that he caught Kurt saying, soft and fierce at his back “If I ever meet that bitch I swear I will kill her”




(part 2)