olaf47: (Santana)
[personal profile] olaf47
Title: Like a Cloak
Fandom: Glee
Characters/Pairing: Noah Puckerman, Santana Lopez, Santana/OFC, Santana/Puck
Rating: R for language, discussions of sex and marijuana
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Living with Santana isn’t that bad. Actually, it’s kind of awesome.
Word count: 7,500
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. The words are.
A/N: Written for [livejournal.com profile] intobrakelights for the [livejournal.com profile] glee_rare_pairs fic exchange.

After meeting Santana for the first time, Puck’s roommate drops out of school.

Puck insists he’s got some family thing, but Santana is sure her intimidation tactics worked even better than usual.

“You weren’t even intimidating,” Puck says. “You said you guys were going to be friends.”

Santana laughs at him. He wonders if she’s going to lecture him about underestimating the effect of subtle changes in tone and a little crazy in the eyes. She’s done it before.

“Remember how I can get when I want something from you? And how you can never say no?”

He’d protest, but she’s mostly right. That’s why she’s currently moving half of her clothes into his roommate’s recently vacated closet. Her own dorm is on the other side of campus, but two of her classes are on this side. It only makes sense, according to Santana, for her to have a place closer to crash.

“What fuckhead thought it’d be a good idea to make me schlep across campus for an eight o’clock class?” she’d said. “I’ll sleep here Mondays and Wednesdays, have some clothes to throw on. You won’t even notice me.”

Puck hadn’t really agreed, but he hadn’t said no, either. You’ll barely notice me turned into an entire closet of clothes and even more pairs of shoes. The floor of his own closet now had his laundry hamper, sneakers, sandals, and football shoes—both for turf and grass—and nine pairs of heels—three of which are the same pair just in different colors.

So yes, Santana usually gets her way when it comes to him. He doesn’t bring up the notable exception—with Lauren—because he’s still trying to get Santana back into his bed. It was just over a week ago, three days into New Student Orientation, that she decided that just because she had loved Brittany didn’t mean she didn’t also love cock. Puck is honestly a little offended she chose someone else for the Welcome Back to Dudes sex. In fact, she hasn’t said anything to give him any indication she’d fuck him again, which is ridiculous—they were getting down on the regular before she swore off everything but Britt. He doesn’t understand why they can’t go back to that. Not that he’s hurting—Santana certainly won’t be the first girl spending the night in his dorm room—but established fuck buddies are so much easier than making new ones. Whatever, though, he knows she went through some heartbreak shit when Brittany followed Mike to that dance school in San Francisco, and he loves her or something—she’s had his back since he was 9, and he’s not too much of a pussy to admit that he cares about her—so it’s not like he needs her to fuck him. Not like that’s the only reason they’re friends, even if it was how they spent most of sophomore year. Still, he avoids mentioning Lauren and lets Santana get on her with stipulations about living together.

“No fucking people on the nights I’m here,” she says. “It’ll just be two days a week, plus maybe a weekend night if there’s a party. I’ll try to warn you about them so you’ll know not to bring someone home.”

He’s really not sure why she’s the one making demands, even if she has already moved everything in.

“I promise not to fuck our suitemates as long as you all put the seat down. And if you take a shit, you’ll light a match or something.” She looks at him, standing with her hands on the skin of her hips where her tank doesn’t quite meet her cutoffs, and says, “Well?”

“You won’t leave any girly shit in the shower,” he says. “None of those loofah things. And no razors—I don’t need to think about you picking designs for your pubes unless I’m seeing them when we fuck. You won’t fuck people here, either. And you’ll give me a back rub once a week.”

“Once every two weeks,” she counters.

They shake on it.


Living with Santana isn’t that bad.

Actually, it’s kind of awesome.

First week in she calls him, and he’s one hundred percent certain he is going to say no to whatever she asks, but then she wants him to bring her flat screen to his room instead of hers. He had been stuck playing his XBOX on the shitty TV he got at Goodwill, so he has no problem lugging her TV across campus in a stolen shopping cart.

She doesn’t even play Call of Duty, but she puts on the headset and trash talks with the best of them as he blows people away. He’s kind of pro at COD, so when she says “Next person to use the word faggot is getting fucking merc’ed for the next fifteen minutes.”, he actually can take out TrubluBalla92 more than once per minute.

It’s fun as fuck.

Their suitemates are okay with her, too. Chad and Andy. Chad’s kind of a douche—his parents should’ve expected it, naming him Chad—and he hasn’t stopped hitting on her, or telling her to make out with girls at parties. Puck generally wants to punch him, but Santana always says something along the lines of, “Like I need your encouragement, Allensworth. Don’t act like you get more pussy than me.” That seems to do the job of shutting him up.

Andy, though, he’s cool. He plays basketball and is kind of unnaturally tall. Santana says that’s why Puck gets along so well with him—since he had so much experience being friends with a giant in high school. Puck still keeps in touch with Finn and all, but Andy’s kind of legit. Like, Finn never stayed up til 4 on a Wednesday smoking with Puck and Santana and debating the merits of a mint chocolate chip milkshake. Plus Andy has a vape, so, yeah, it’s not that weird that he’s kind of Santana and Puck’s favorite person.

No one even really fights in the suite, since Chad is generally somewhere with the other lacrosse assholes. They have their little spats, but there’s no yelling until a month and a half in, when Puck finds Santana’s weed stash in her panty drawer—and he promptly smokes it. He’d offered to share it with Andy, but the guy takes what is probably the smart road and doesn’t want anything to do with it.

As is kind of expected, Santana flips shit.

“What the fuck.” It’s not even a question. “That was my weed, Puckerman.”

“This is my room, Lopez,” he says, even if he hasn’t been calling it that since the beginning of the fucking semester. “You don’t get to keep your entire stash here. I’d be a felon if they searched and found it, okay?”

She scoffs. “Yeah, it so obviously belonged to you. Given that it was in my panty drawer. Which, by the way—”

“Oh yeah, you woulda stepped up and claimed it? Gotten arrested alongside me?” As if he would have ever let her do that, anyway. It’s a good thing he knows her class schedule so he knew how much he could smoke and have sobered up by the time she got back. He tends to be overly honest when he’s high, and he really doesn’t need Santana knowing he’d go to jail for her. She’d take that as incentive or something to do crazy shit and blame it on him.

“Shut up, Noah,” she snaps. “And let’s talk about how you were going through my panty drawer.”

He rolls his eyes. “Chad said something about keeping his porn in his underwear drawer. I figure he’s basically got a pussy, so maybe you were hiding shit, too.”

She bursts out laughing at that. He doesn’t really get why, because it’s totally true, but he laughs along with her until she chucks her pillow at him.

“C’mon, fuckhead,” she says. “You’re buying me dinner. And never going through my shit again. I’ll keep my stash in my room if you learn some fucking boundaries.”

He shrugs. “Like I want to see your panties if I’m not taking them off of you.”

She doesn’t blush, but she also doesn’t say it’s never gonna happen. He holds out hope (and holds the door for her as they head to the caf).


Plus, it’s not like he’s actually living with, you know, a girl. She’s Santana. Sure, every once in a while she gets fucking pissy for no reason, but since he started packing the freezer of their minifridge with Fudgsicles, that’s gotten better. (And yeah, he wasn’t kidding about calling pretty much everything in his room “theirs” instead of his. It just sort of happened. And he’s okay with it.) She returns the Fudgsicle favor by buying him a York Peppermint Pattie every time she goes to the store. They never talk about it; it’s just something they do. Like how he’s gotten used to the fact that she actually spends Monday through Wednesday there, instead of just the two nights. She’s really into TV on Tuesdays, is what she says, but he really doesn’t mind. Especially since she’s taken to giving him that back rub once a week instead of once every two.

She does it at the most random times, too. Like when he’s in the middle of studying for stats, lying belly down on his bed, she’ll just climb the fuck on top of him. Or in the middle of doing pushups, she’ll sit on his back until he quits so she can massage his shoulders. He’s totally not complaining.

One time she actually gets into bed with him immediately after showering. She’s just wearing a towel, granted it’s one of those huge ones that hangs all the way to her feet when she wrapped it around and tucked it in above her boobs, but still. Just a towel. Plus one on her head, in that way girls wear them that he can never figure out. There isn’t really any less fabric between them than when she usually gives him a back rub, but it seems different.

Still, she hasn’t said anything to indicate that he has a chance hitting that again, though he knows a lot of people have. Not that she’s a slut, or anything; they’ve probably fucked the same amount of people, or close to it. Actually, they talk about it sometimes. It’s honestly kind of fun. When they both think a girl’s hot, they joke about becoming Eskimo siblings, but it’s not like they aren’t already, having both fucked Brittany (and, he thinks sometimes, Quinn, though Santana admits nothing).

They go to parties together and compete for girls. Though really, it’s more like competing for a number or a make out, since they both usually end up back at their place, giggling (which Puck does when he’s drunk but absolutely never admits) and attempting deep discussions until they fall asleep. Santana tends to wake up with the wrapper of a Fudgsicle or two in or near her bed.


She meets Alli at a party one Saturday night. Puck rolls his eyes when he sees them talking. Alli’s taller than her, with blonde hair in a messy braid over one shoulder. She’s got really good posture and a sort of goofy-cute smile.

They’ve fallen into the habit of bringing each other a drink when the other one is talking to a potential—target’s the first word Puck thinks of, but it seems a little too sinister—conquest. Really when they’re talking to anyone, alone. It’s a way to check up on the other one’s game, to offer aid in case they need either an escape or a way to make the conquest jealous. It’s one of the things they don’t really talk about, they just do.

When Puck brings Santana a beer, she barely even looks at him. Alli’s talking about what she was for Halloween, and Santana’s all sorts of enthralled. From what Puck hears, it involved stilts. He’s really not interested.

“Hey, remember when Britt was a peanut allergy?” he says, mostly to throw Santana off her game and point out that she totally has a type.

Except Alli bursts out laughing and says, “That’s fucking brilliant!” and Puck is absolutely certain Santana’s not coming home with him. He wanders away as she’s explaining the costume to Alli.

He picks up some sorority girl to take home for the night, but ends up stopping to fuck her on the walk back. Afterward, she still follows him to his dorm, but he doesn’t invite her up, doesn’t even take her number.

The room seems too quiet. He puts on headphones, cranks AC/DC, and eats the last Fudgsicle, leaving the empty box in the freezer.


He doesn’t see Santana until they run into each other getting coffee Friday. She’d texted, said something rude about how she’d be too busy getting fucked to come over. It’s not a big deal, but he’s grown really fucking used to having her around. Andy smoked him out and they watched the Blue Jackets lose to the Wings, and everything was pretty normal, except it wasn’t, it was weird. He thinks he missed her or something. Which makes him sound like a total pussy.

“How’s your week?”

She smirks. “Chock full of orgasms. Yours?”

“My fucking back hurts,” he says, and it’s true, he tweaked it on Monday, but he sounds like a fucking girl whining about it, so he just takes his coffee and leaves.

She texts him before he’s a block away. “Pussy. I’ll rub it tonight if you don’t say anything about other things I could rub.”

He makes sure to not be home the whole evening. When he comes back from a party at the basketball house, there’s a York Peppermint Pattie on his bed.


She texts him again on Monday, doesn’t say anything about him ignoring her. But apparently she’s still staying with Alli, because she says she won’t be over again. It’s been more than a week since he hung out with her. That hasn’t happened since she spent three weeks in Europe with her family, the summer between junior and senior year. At least then he got a box of fucking amazing Swiss chocolates. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t get souvenirs when Santana has a fuck buddy.

Instead, he gets a lot of homework done, all of it, actually. For the first time in college, he does all of his reading. He does it well, highlights, writes in the margins and shit. Andy wanders over and they talk sports for a little bit, but without Santana there, their conversation doesn’t have its usual momentum and bounce.

On Tuesday, Puck gets halfway through NCIS before remembering he doesn’t even watch the fucking show.


Santana shows up at 11 o’clock Thursday night in tears. Her hair coming loose from her ponytail, her makeup running in tracts down her face, she looks like a complete fucking disaster.

“Baby baby baby, what’s wrong?” he says without even thinking and tugs her tight to his chest.

She just cries for a while, clutching at his shirt as he shushes her and calls her baby a few more times. He can’t help it. It’s always fucking wrecked him when she cried.

When she’s calmed down a bit—though the tears are still coming—he gets her backpack off and pulls her into his bed with him, wraps his arms around her. She rubs her face into his chest. His shirt is damp with her tears, and probably has mascara and, honestly, some snot on it too, but he’s not worried about it. He’s too busy rubbing Santana’s back and feeling proud of himself when she’s breathing almost normally.

“Sunday morning,” she says finally, “after the first night, she said she wasn’t looking for a relationship. And fuck, I wasn’t either, you know? So I told her it was fine, we were just fucking and it was fine. And then she had to go treat me like her girlfriend or whatever for a week and a fucking half, and maybe I got used to it, and now she says she met some guy.”

“What a cunt,” he says and Santana can’t help the laugh that bursts out. “Seriously. She’s a cunt. And a stupid one, apparently, if she turned your hot ass down for some dick.”

Santana, a little watery-eyed still, but no longer actually crying, sends him a smile. It falls away pretty quickly though.

“It’s just—it fucking sucks, okay?” she says. “It was good sex, and I actually liked her. And it turns out that it wasn’t that she didn’t want a relationship, she just didn’t want one with me.”

“Because she’s an idiot.”

Santana just smiles and pushes at his shoulder. He thinks she’s just playfully nudging him and doesn’t get it when she pushes him again.

“Roll over, dumbass,” she says. “Does your back still hurt?”

It does, but normally he’d hold that over her to make her feel guilty, but tonight he shrugs, “Not really.”

Of course then she climbs on top of him and starts massaging, and he makes a noise pretty much like he’s coming. She laughs at him, but doesn’t call him on it.

He doesn’t know how long she gives him a back massage, but by the end, his whole body feels like jelly. Maybe that sounds weird, but it’s actually fucking awesome. He doesn’t really want to move, but apparently Santana’s staying in his bed, which means she shoves him onto his side so she can fit.

“She’s a total twat, baby.” It’s as close as he comes to saying thanks, though he doesn’t know why he’s still calling Santana that now that she’s stopped crying.

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” Santana says. “You don’t even know her.”

“I’m saying it because it’s fucking true.” He’s honestly not thinking about how to make her feel better. “Anyone who makes my girl cry is a dumb bitch.”

“Fuck off, Puckerman, I’m not your girl.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’ve been my girl since like elementary school, Lo. Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m not your fucking girl,” she says again, but she falls asleep in his bed that night, the front of his shirt curled in her fist.

He wakes up before her the next morning but just lies there, his hand heavy on her hip, their faces close. She stirs when he rubs his thumb over her skin, but not enough that he thinks she’s awake.

Except then she wrinkles her nose and says, “God, Noah, brush your goddamn teeth once in a while.” and rolls out of the bed.

“‘Scuse me if I was a little preoccupied last night.”

She looks out the window and mutters, “Thanks.”

He doesn’t push her about it. He just wasn’t going to take shit for his morning breath when it’s mostly her fault.

He yawns and stretches and debates waking up completely or just falling back to sleep. He can’t decide, yawns again, and watches Santana clean up her backpack from where they just dropped it in the middle of the room the night before. She takes some books out and puts them on her desk, looks at them for a while like she totally doesn’t want to study. Instead, she straightens her blankets. He and mornings are not really friends, and he’s in the middle of another yawn when Santana turns around.

“Okay, I’m trying to be fucking patient, but I’m all torn up about this break-up or whatever, could you get out of bed and buy me breakfast?”

He laughs at her, but only stretches once more before climbing out of bed and going to brush his teeth.

In the caf, when he asks, “What do you want to drink, babe?”, she doesn’t respond, just rolls her eyes and tells him not to call her that.

“How ’bout ‘Girl’? You know, short for my girl,” he grins.

She rolls her eyes again. He calls her girl for the rest of the day.


Girl gets filed in with the rest of his nicknames for her: Lo, Tana, San, bitch (often with an adjective attached, such as selfish or fucking), Degeneres (when she’s being especially gay). She seems to hate girl more than any of the others.

“You know it makes you sound gay, right?” she says. “As in, ‘hey girl heyyyy.’”

“I thought you weren’t into societal stereotypes of the queer community,” he paraphrases something she wrote for her gender studies class. “Otherwise wouldn’t you be too hot to be a lesbian?”

“I’m not a lesbian, fuckwad.”

“I know, girl. I was just saying.”

She groans in exasperation and throws her pencil at him. It scratches his cheek and he curses at her, but he doesn’t really mind. Earlier she’d showered and put on checkered pajama bottoms and a white tank, settled in to study for the night sprawled across her bed. She hasn’t slept in her own dorm room in a week.

Puck grins and tosses the pencil back.


“Can I fuck Andy?”

“Excuse me?”

They’re studying together—well, really she’s reading for chem and he’s studying for a psych test, but they’re doing it together, sitting quietly in their room. The best way to get Puck to do work is to put him around Santana when she has to work, too. He says three words and she threatens to rip his balls off, so he always ends up silently studying instead. Which is what they’ve been doing for the last hour until she interrupts with this absurd question.

“Can I fuck Andy?” she repeats.

“You agreed you wouldn’t fuck our suitemates as long as we put the toilet seat down,” he says slowly. It’s a pretty ridiculous arrangement, when he thinks about it.

“I know. Which is why I’m asking and not just doing it, dickhead.”

“Okay, well, no. Don’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“What the fuck, Santana?” he snaps. “I don’t want you to sleep with our suitemate, okay?”

“Jesus,” she says. “Are you jealous or something?”

“Maybe I am.” He doesn’t even really mean to say it, and he regrets that he did when her eyes widen. “Or maybe I just don’t want to go through the drama of you fucking someone who shares a bathroom with us. And I’d be so fucking pissed if shit hit the fan and you got my vape privileges taken away.”

She just looks at him, and he thinks he tipped his hand a little more than he would’ve liked, but fuck it—he’s not okay with her sleeping with Andy. It doesn’t matter the reasons; she said she wouldn’t and she can’t go back on that now.

“As much as I’d like to help out with your sex life, I’ve got a test to study for.”

She doesn’t say anything else. He can feel her looking at him, though, even after they’ve been studying for a half an hour. She just keeps glancing over, but she doesn’t try to be discrete about it or anything, like, she turns her entire fucking head to look at him. It’s throwing him off.

“Look, I don’t want to fuck you. Could you stop staring at me?”

She snorts. “One, methinks he doth protest too much. And two, as if.”

She stops looking at him, though, so he counts it as a win.


They go back to Lima for Thanksgiving, and seeing everyone is kind of weird. Well, not quite everyone—Rachel’s dads are visiting her, because they couldn’t get her away from the city if they tried, and Quinn has gone AWOL out in Seattle. Puck would put money on her never setting foot in Ohio again. As for everyone else, they all liked Glee club, sure, but none of them are the type of people to organize a reunion. Except Kurt, of course, and he is home, too, so they do actually get together.

Puck gives Santana a ride, since she’s already at his house anyway. That confused him, actually, the way she just hopped on a stool in his kitchen and started making small talk with his mother as she was making turkey sandwiches. Santana never liked his mom, and she liked her only as much as you could like someone you knew was casually fucking your son. And yeah, maybe they’re a little more grown up now, but Santana shows up before the party Friday with her hair in waves down her back, and this little one-shouldered black dress. She may look elegant, but both she and his mom have to know that he is trying to figure out how to get the dress off of her. Still, they chat like old buddies. Puck doesn’t worry about it too much, half because he’s trying to surreptitiously check Santana out, and half because his mom plops a sandwich in front of him—rye, loaded with turkey and smeared with mustard and salt, and that’s enough to take his mind off pretty much anything.

After he eats, he asks Santana if she’s ready to go. She eyes him up and down and says, “Sure, as soon as you get dressed.”

His mom bursts out laughing. Apparently jeans and a white t-shirt is not dressed up enough for a Glee reunion. What the fuck ever. He leaves the women to their catching up or whatever and goes to change. The jeans stay, but he puts on a black pin-striped button down that he knows he looks hot in—even Santana’s told him that. When he comes back downstairs, she gives him a smile like she’s thinking it again, and they head to the party. Party might be a big word for it, he’s afraid, given that Kurt referred to it as “a little shin-dig at casa de Hudson-Hummel.” There probably won’t even be booze.

Everyone else is already there when they arrive, because Santana wanted to make an entrance or something. They do—Finn and Artie let out a woop when they see Puck, and Brittany squeals and launches herself at Santana. Mercedes and Kurt are watching Santana and Britt like hawks, but Puck can’t blame them; he gives the girls a glance after hugging Finn. They’re both laughing, though, and when Santana catches Puck’s eye, her smile doesn’t look forced at all. The knot that had been building between his shoulders for the drive over releases.

There’s no booze, but there are enough delicious little finger foods to keep anyone satisfied. Puck spends most of the night with some combination of Finn and Artie and Mike, drinking a root beer and eating way too many mini-pigs in a blanket. Brittany and Santana spend the entire first half of the party talking non-stop. The fact that Santana doesn’t complain when Tina, Kurt and Mercedes join their conversation makes Puck think that maybe they’re all actual friends. None of them even talk about anything important, really, nothing heavy anyway. Everyone smiles the whole time. It’s weird, because it was never, ever like this in Glee club unless they were actually performing and the rush made them forget that they kind of hated each other. So it’s weird, but it’s also awesome, and Puck doesn’t even mind the lack of alcohol. He and Santana throw glances at each other throughout the night. She looks fucking radiant, all sparkling eyes and big smile and that damn dress. The smile does change to a smirk sometimes, though, like when Blaine shows up as a surprise and Kurt shrieks joyfully before trying to act nonchalant. When Mercedes goes on and on about her two best friends, Santana, who’s next to Puck now, says, “She’s finally Beyonce.” quietly, so only he can hear. He chuckles and bumps her shoulder with his.

Toward the end of the night, Kurt and Mercedes come over when everyone else is occupied in other conversations. Puck is pretty sure they planned this. They’re both smirking and glancing around like they don’t want to be overheard.

“So,” Kurt says.

“You and Santana,” Mercedes says.

He just looks at them. Did they really decide he was the one to girl talk about this with? Or did they already accost Santana only to have her tell them to fuck off?

“Spill!” Kurt says.

Honestly, Puck doesn’t know why they think anything’s going on. Yeah, he and Santana are closer than they were in high school, but when everyone was swapping stories, they talked mostly about other people. And it’s not like they’ve been hanging out all night or anything.

“Spill what?”

“You two are together, right?” Mercedes says.

“No,” he says slowly.

They look like they totally don’t believe him.

“We’re roommates half the week, but that’s it.”

“You’re living together?” Kurt says, all wide eyed and Puck definitely wishes there was booze at this party.

Santana turns around when they are all looking at her, and Kurt and Mercedes immediately fail at pretending they weren’t, but Puck just rolls his eyes. She smiles and jerks her head toward the door. It’ll probably just encourage the other two’s gossip, but he nods.

“Yeah, I’m going to get going,” he says.

Mercedes sees Santana saying goodbye and snickers. “Don’t you mean we?”

Puck just forces his smile and pats them both on the back—it may have been a nice evening but that doesn’t mean he’s going to hug them. He hugs Finn and Artie, though, and they make plans with Mike to watch the USC game tomorrow. He hugs Brittany, too, because it’s not like there’s ever been a choice not to, gives Tina and Blaine a wave, and follows Santana out to his truck.

If this were junior year, he’d catch her before she made it to the car, push her against the passenger door, and hope no one was leaving soon. As it is, he takes off his coat and pushes it into her hands when they climb into the cab.

“You’ve gotta be cold in that dress,” he mutters.

“Don’t you like it?” her grin is devious as she pulls his jacket on, and he just laughs at her.

“Don’t be stupid, girl,” he says to make her narrow her eyes.

She doesn’t give the coat back when he drops her at her house.

Whatever. It’s not like he’s never going to get it back.


Except two weeks go by, and she’s still wearing it like it’s hers. When he asks for it back, she pouts but lets him have it.

On his way to class, he finds a Peppermint Pattie in each pocket.


There are about twenty different parties for the last day of classes fall semester. Santana maps out a route, starting and ending at Puck’s dorm. There are eleven places they can go, with options to skip a few if they don’t want to stay out too late. And if they do, well, Santana’s got a bus schedule so they can get to the parties that are farther away.

When she shows all of this to Puck, he tells her it’s such a fucking Rachel Berry thing to do, he can hardly handle it. She smacks him and goes to turn on music so she can get ready.

She usually gets done up in her own room. Half of him just wants to watch. He can’t help it—he’s always thought girls are hot when they put on makeup, the way their mouths form that perfect O. But Andy calls him over to the other room to pregame. Santana follows to take a shot with them. She flits back and forth between the rooms as she gets ready, coming in to take another shot or say something mean about Puck or Andy. Each time she comes in, she’s a few steps more ready. She starts out in ripped jeans and an old WMHS hoodie, and the next time she comes in, she’s wearing the one-shouldered dress from Thanksgiving. She takes her shot then turns to leave and Andy stares. Puck slugs him in the shoulder. Next, her hair is done, half pulled back and the rest in messy ringlets. She’s got on knee high black boots that, if Puck remembers correctly, she generally refers to as her “fuck me” boots. Both boys swallow hard.

When she’s finally ready to go, Puck does not want to take her anywhere that other people can look at her. He doesn’t even like Andy looking at her. Except she grabs his fucking coat and puts it on, then taps her foot at him and Andy.

“Let’s go, boys,” she says. “Don’t have all day.”

“We’re coming, girl,” Andy says and Santana smacks Puck.

“He said it!”

“You trained him!”

Even with his coat, a big black and white checkered thing, she looks completely fucking gorgeous. He doesn’t know what she did with her makeup, but her eyes look all wide and beautiful instead of the smoky sexy look she does sometimes. Her lips are shiny with gloss. Before they leave, they take another shot and she has to check her lips in the mirror. Puck’s pretty sure she’s going to end the night with every single bit of lipstick or lip gloss or whatever kissed off. Unless he punches whoever tries it.

The alcohol starts setting in by the time they get to the first party. Four shots and a beer in half an hour is enough to give him a nice buzz, and he brought a couple beers in his coat pockets, so he settles into a corner and sips one. He likes watching a party before really taking part in it, likes to scope out his options and such. Santana is apparently in a straight mood tonight, because she’s talking to every even half-attractive guy in the place, letting her hand linger on a shoulder and laughing a little too loud. Puck’s hand squeezes his beer can a little too tight.

Andy makes him play beer pong. He’s pretty sure his suitemate noticed him being moody in a corner, so he’s embarrassed, but he appreciates the effort. Plus, obviously, they are fucking professional pong players.

They’re up three cups to seven when Santana finds them. She’s still perfectly steady on those heels, and her lips are still shiny—Puck hates that he notices, but he does. She hovers too close to him; he swears he can fucking feel her body heat. He can’t make a shot to save his life.

“C’mon, Noah.” Her boots put her at his height, so she says it right into his ear. God, everything about her is throwing him off tonight.

His next turn, she says, “I could blow on your balls for you. You know, for luck.”

“Fuck, Santana,” he says.

She doesn’t say anything after that, but still stands too close. He doesn’t understand what she’s doing. She’s dressed like she wants to get fucked tonight. He’s got enough contact knowledge from her gender studies class to get that women can dress however they like without necessarily wanting anything, but he also knows Santana. She’s got some kind of scheme going on, he’s just not sure what it is yet.

They win the game—only because Andy makes the last three cups—but Santana pouts about being bored until they give up the table in order to find the next party. They give her shit the whole walk there, though.

“We were on the table, Santana. You owe us so much,” Andy insists.

“I’m never buying you Fudgsicles again,” Puck says

Andy hits him. “No way, man, then I won’t have any food to steal from your room.”

Puck hits him back. Santana laughs. This feels more like a normal weekend to Puck, where they’re all fucking around going from party to party, the boys letting Santana lead the way because she’s the only one who cares what party they go to, plus that way they can check out her ass.

But then she drops them as soon as they get to the party. Puck isn’t interested in whatever the fuck she’s up to tonight, so he kicks it with Andy and scopes out potential conquests. Santana’s been spending most nights in their room, so he hasn’t exactly had a place to bring girls. And so maybe he hasn’t actually fucked anyone since Thanksgiving—not like he hasn’t gotten any. He’s fooled around and everything, but things have kind of piled up. Santana is pretty much living with him, he’s actually focused on his classes because he actually likes them. So he’s been getting the occasional orgasm, but lately hands and mouths have been enough for him. Tonight, though, he wants to fuck someone. He doesn’t want to think about whatever Santana is planning, or about the fact he has to spend the weekend studying hard for his finals, or that he’s going back to Lima for three fucking weeks soon. He just wants to find a girl who’ll fuck him right and not wake up when he sneaks out afterward.

Santana reappears, but not by their side. She finds a guy leaning against the doorframe. Even from across the room, Puck’s pretty sure the guy’s a dumbass. He’s smiling at Santana though, and she smiles back. Puck focuses hard on the guy being an idiot and wonders if he has ESP or something—okay, he might be a little drunk—when Santana glances up and looks right at him. He tries communicating with just a look that the guy’s a moron and she should move on, but she just gives him this doe-eyed look, this look that he knows means she’s up to something and he fucking doesn’t know what.

Unless it’s trying to make him jealous, because that’s clearly working.

Seeing her flirt with another guy, especially given the fact that she occasionally glances over her shoulder, not really at him, but kind of in his direction, makes him want to hit something. Preferably the guy. He doesn’t, though, and he thinks maybe that means he’s growing up. Maturing. Because if this were high school, yeah, he would have already been over there, saying something rude to the guy and pulling Santana away, to the bathroom or a bedroom or outside, anywhere with a little bit of privacy and something hard he could push her against when he kissed her.

“Dude, you looking like you’re about to fucking kill something,” Andy says. “You want to just get out of here and get high?”

Puck does, except he’ll be damned if he leaves Santana here. Then she can blame whatever happens tonight on him. If she’s actually the one to leave with someone, she’ll have to own up to it.

Not that that’s anything to own up to, really. She’s single, free to fuck whoever she wants. He doesn’t even—he doesn’t know why he’s feeling like this. Yeah, he gets that he has feelings for Santana. He’s not a fucking moron and he’s not in denial. But he hasn’t done anything about them, and he has no claim to her unless he does. It’s just—he was serious when he called her his girl, and she sometimes refers to him and Andy as “her boys,” and that seems like claim enough, or something.

Just when he’s thinking Andy’s right and they should just get out of here, Santana finally comes over.

She looks pissed.

“Andy, could you go find my coat—it’s in one of the bedrooms?” she doesn’t take her eyes off Puck when she says it, and he remembers their conversation from the beginning of the semester about how she can always get what she wants. She does, too—Andy leaves without saying a word.

She’s just staring at Puck, one hand on her hip, and fuck, it should be illegal for her to be this hot. He still doesn’t know why she looks pissed, though.

“Are you going to say anything or just glare at me?” he snaps.

“How many douchebags were you going to make me flirt with until you did something about it?”

Okay, wait.


“I get all done up like I fucking know you like—and you can’t deny it because you couldn’t take your eyes off me at that Glee thing over break,” she says. “You’ve been looking at me like that for months and haven’t done dick about it. So I dress up and flirt with other people to prod you into making a move because I know you’re a jealous fuck, and you just sit over here in the corner and pout.”

Honestly, he wonders for a minute if this is what Finn feels like sometimes. He’s just really fucking confused. And Finn might be his bro, but kid’s not the sharpest bulb in the box or whatever.

“Are you fucking joking?” he says.

Santana rolls her eyes. “You’re lucky I like you or whatever, or I would have moved about two months ago.”

Puck spots Andy on the edge of the room, holding Santana’s coat and trying to figure out if he can rejoin the conversation or not. Puck just smirks and heads toward him, leaves Santana standing there.

She follows him with a few choice words, but before she can say much, he’s grabbing her—or rather, his—coat from Andy and saying, “You might want to find a different place to sleep tonight.”

That shuts Santana up quick. But she doesn’t argue.

They don’t say anything again until they’re halfway down the block, heading back toward their room.

“I can’t believe you’re such a pussy you weren’t even going to make a move,” Santana snaps as she grabs the jacket from him to put on.

“I can’t believe you like me so much you went to all this effort,” he says. “You’re not going to, like, make us matching calendars or anything, are you?”

She smacks him, but she’s laughing and he wants to kiss her, so he does.

Goddamn, no one kisses like Santana Lopez. She does it dirty, which is obviously just a preview of what she’s going to do with her tongue once she gets you naked. He groans into her mouth and she laughs at him again.

Maybe it should be weird, but really, it’s not that different from any other party they’ve walked back from this year. They’re giggling and being assholes to each other, and the only difference now is that he can kiss her to shut her up. It feels like maybe they’ve been dating the whole semester, just without the sexual stuff.

He knows Andy won’t come back to his room tonight—kid’s not dumb. And he’s glad that Chad isn’t home when they get there, because he really doesn’t feel like sharing Santana with anyone. He tells her that and she calls him a girl but takes it back when he clarifies that he’s planning on getting her really fucking loud tonight and doesn’t want her to have to hold back.

“Clearly, I should have just kissed you ages ago,” Santana says when she’s got him pushed against his door. “That insecure shit seems to be long gone.”

He pulls back to look at her. “’Tana,” he half-whines, because he really wants to fuck her, but sex has never been what he was insecure about.

“Puck, I’ve been living with you for weeks and I buy you candy every time I go to the store,” she says. “You really gotta learn how to read me better if this is ever going to work.”

He reads her well enough to know that that’s as close as she’s going to come to admitting feelings for him.


She has some stipulations about them dating, which are pretty much exclusively about sex.

She asks him his preference in pubic hair styles, and he wants to just laugh his head off, but the idea that she’ll keep it the way he wants as long as he keeps his trimmed seems pretty legit. She also says he can’t give her shit about not shaving her legs, because she’s going to do it on a regular basis, but if she happens to be a little stubbly, she’s not jumping in the shower to freshen up when she’d rather just bang him.

“Oh, and if you ever make a Fudgsicle/penis reference, I’m not going down on you for two weeks.”

He only stops laughing when she kisses him.

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January 2013

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