A/N: This story deals with step-siblings engaging in a sexual relationship. If that squicks you out, just take a pass on reading the story. Seriously, kittens.
The first time her dad mentions Marlene is a full five weeks after he starts dating her. Santana is fifteen, and she isn't nearly as naive as her father seems to believe. (Honestly, if he knew the truth of exactly how not naive she is, he would probably break down in tears, and she can't remember ever seeing him cry.) His schedule has been all screwed up, and she knows the difference between his weird doctor hours and "I'm dating someone and I don't want you to know." She's been dealing with doctor thing forever, as long as she can remember, really, since her mom left when she was five, and while he's done the dating thing before, it's been years since he actually mentioned a woman by name.
Santana doesn't really care. Her dad hasn't been in a serious, long-term relationship since her mom left ten years ago. Really, he barely even dates anyone, probably because there aren't any prospects in fucking Lima. She doesn't have any reason to believe that this time will be any different than the rest of them, and she doesn't waste her time getting upset about things that don't matter. She's kind of an expert at it, really.
They're still dating three months later, and her dad's bringing up Marlene's name in conversation more and more even though Santana hasn't actually met the woman. One night when they're eating dinner, he starts telling her the story of how they met. She's a nurse at Lima Memorial, and they met one night at the hospital when her dad was on call and ended up working the emergency room after an enormous accident out on the highway. She'd helped him examine a little girl with a broken arm, which apparently led to them talking about how they both have daughters, and, "it just took off from there, bella. You know what that's like."
No, she doesn't actually. But she just nods her head and shoves an entire pot sticker in her mouth so she doesn't have to come up with some bullshit response to his assumption.
He tells her a little bit more about the woman, as if he thinks Santana cares or should know or whatever. She has two kids, a son who's a freshman at Parkcrest High School and an eight-year-old daughter. They're Jewish, apparently, since he mentions that she's active in the Jewish Community Center, and she likes to bake.
Santana tries really, really hard not to show her father just how much she doesn't care about this woman. He treats her like a princess: she has a credit card (which she maxes out and he pays off without question every single month) and the promise of a car when she turns sixteen in the fall and basically no rules. It isn't going to kill her to listen to him talk about the lady he's banging, especially since he isn't actually talking about the sex there's no way he's not having. (Whatever. It's not like she's picturing him having sex, but she isn't one of those girls who's totally freaked out by the abstract idea of parental coitus.) And yeah, he's talked about Marlene more than any other woman, but Santana isn't going to get her panties in a twist about this woman unless there's a ring on her finger.
She's never been as uncomfortable as she is right now, sitting at the table in her dining room with her father, his fiancée, and her two kids.
Fiancée.
Fiancée.
Jesus.
They've been dating for, like, six months, and she met the woman once a few weeks ago, but she still didn't take it seriously. Shit, her father wasn't supposed to find another woman to marry. (And if he didn't, wasn't it supposed to be some twenty-something bimbo with fake breasts?) Santana is supposed to be the only woman in this house with the last name Lopez, thank you very much. At least until she graduates from high school and gets the hell out of Lima. And now this woman is sitting at the opposite end of the table from her father, a big-ass diamond glinting on her left hand and a smile on her lips.
Yeah, to say Santana has a bad attitude about all of this would be an understatement.
She thinks the guy sitting across the table, scowling and not meeting anyone's eyes, probably agrees.
He's hot, with dark, messy hair and a strong jaw, and she takes a moment to appreciate that. Then she remembers that he's going to be her step-brother, and she thinks that if she'd actually eaten any of the food on her plate, she'd be in real danger of retching it up right now.
"Can I be the flower girl?"
Santana looks at this little girl, Abby, and if she didn't hate children, the kid might be cute. She's eight (apparently her birthday was a week ago and she thought Santana would care) and missing her front teeth, and it's a really good thing that her voice isn't too annoying since she runs off at the mouth. She's definitely been doing most of the talking at this super-bizarre first attempt at a family dinner.
"Oh, sweetheart, we aren't going to have a big, fancy wedding like that," Marlene tells her. "But we'll get you a pretty dress."
"Okay! Can I have flowers in my hair?"
"Sure," Santana's dad says, interrupting before Marlene can open her mouth. The woman looks t him and smiles, and there's this ithing/i in her eyes that makes Santana feel queasy again.
"So when exactly is all of this happening?" Santana asks, glaring at her father. He's screwing everything up, and she doesn't appreciate it. She likes being an only child, and now she's getting a brother and a sister? Bullshit. It's one of the many, many things in this situation that's bullshit, and she thinks of a new one every thirty seconds or so.
Her father gives her a stern look, then glances at Marlene and smiles. "May twenty-third. We're just going to have a civil service, to avoid having the Jewish versus Catholic wedding argument, and then the Puckermans will be moving in here. School will be out, so Noah and Abby can finish the year where they are." He looks at the boy - Noah - and smiles a little. She knows her father, knows that he isn't at all bothered by sullen kids since it's a tactic Santana gave up on long ago. "You'll be at McKinley next year with Santana."
Noah just juts his chin in her father's direction and shoves an enormous bite of sweet and sour pork into his mouth. (If they're Jewish, aren't they not supposed to eat pork?) His eyes are hot, but since he doesn't say anything or jump up or whatever, she thinks he's probably already had the changing schools conversation with his mom. Santana knows that if the situation was reversed and she was being forced to transfer, she would throw a fucking epic temper tantrum.
She thinks this whole thing with spur one on sooner or later. She'll save it for when it counts.
"So we won't have spare rooms any more?" Santana asks her father.
"This house has always been too big for the two of us, bella," he points out, using her childhood nickname. "And we haven't had a real house guest in years. It's wasteful."
Dinner basically goes on like that: Abby's excited babbling, Santana's snappish questions, Noah's near-silence, and the goo goo eyes their parents are making at one another across the table.
She volunteers to clear the plates when they're done eating, mostly so she can get out of this rom and partially because she doesn't want to answer any questions about the fact that her plate is still nearly full. She really doesn't have an appetite right now on account of the fact that her father is turning her life upside fucking down.
Marlene volunteers Noah to help her, and he trails her into the kitchen with a couple of plates and a handful of water glasses. He just watches as she scrapes the plates and runs the garbage disposal, and it pisses her off. She flips the switch off and turns to face him, her eyes hot on his face.
"I don't fucking want a brother," she spits.
"I don't want another sister," he counters, glaring down at her. She just stares at him, not backing down, and after a moment he lets out a sigh and leans back against the counter. "My mom's really happy right now or whatever," he finally says. Santana blinks. "She was really fucked up with my dad left, but Antonio makes her happy, so...fuck, whatever."
She considers that for a moment, and while she's mostly worried about herself, she knows that her father is happier than he's been in years, and she's pretty sure it's because of Marlene. It doesn't completely make up for screwing up her life, but it lessens the blow a little. "Yeah," she finally says, shrugging. It's something like an agreement. And, logically, she knows that this sucks for Noah, too, moving and changing schools and all the rest of it.
"And I go by Puck," he adds before turning and walking out of the kitchen, leaving her with the pile of plates to be stacked in the dishwasher. Jerk.
She realizes later, when she's Skyping with Brittany and telling her about the dinner weirdness, that Puck was the guy who tackled Alex Bland so hard that he cracked three ribs when they played Parkcrest back in October. If he can hit like that, he can't be a complete fucking loser. So, you know, at least her step-brother will have that going for him.
The second floor of the house is a complete disaster zone in the weeks leading up to the wedding. All four bedrooms are being decorated, the master for her dad and Marlene and the two spares for Noah and Abby, and Santana had batted her eyelashes and said, "Daddy, please," until her father had given in and agreed to let her redecorate her room as well. (And his arguments against her wallpaper choice were weak, at best, and brief. It's like he knew he didn't have a leg to stand on what with the massive life change he was putting her through.)
She finishes out the school year with a first place finish at Nationals in cheerleading and a 4.0 GPA. She dumps Mason Barker because she's been with him since Easter break and the sex is boring, and when she and Brittany are at senior party after graduation (the only freshman girls there, thank you very much), she lets Jackson Lynch go down on her in an upstairs bathroom of the house they're in. It's hot, so she puts him on her list of potential summer fuck buddies and goes back downstairs to do tequila shots with Brittany.
Santana has two main goals for this summer. First, she wants to knock Quinn fucking Fabray down a peg. (Bitch has been fucking unbearable since she started dating Finn Hudson, and she was bad enough bfore) Second, she wants to find a perfect fuck buddy. She cannot handle this relationship shit any more, but there's no way she can go more than a week or so without getting laid, so she's going to find someone who's willing to be on call and won't bring any of that emotional shit.
The thing is, while it won't be hard to find someone willing to fall into bed with her, she thinks it's going to be hard to find someone who is the perfect combination of talented and reliable and detached. She's willing to teach a guy what she likes, but she really doesn't want to start at square one; she has neither the time nor the patience for that shit. So she's on the lookout.
May twenty-third is a Friday, and Santana has given up on convincing her dad this is a terrible idea. (Not that she'd tried too hard; Noah's point about them being happy actually made a lot of sense, though she'll never admit it and risk giving him the upper hand.) Instead she just puts on the dark blue designer dress she'd talked her father into paying for and curls the ends of her hair and fastens a delicate gold bracelet around her wrist. Honestly, it's kind of a waste since they're literally getting married at Lima City Hall and having a private brunch at the country club, but whatever. She knows she looks good when she goes to the kitchen for a glass of juice, but she smiles and says thank you when her father tells her she look beautiful and kisses her temple.
They drive to the Puckerman house to pick up Marlene and the kids, and Santana has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing when Noah steps out the front door in his dress shirt and tie with a mohawk. Since he looked normal when they had a "family dinner" together last night, she's a little surprised. (And more than a little amused.)
Kid shaved his hair into a mohawk for his mom's wedding.
She can't help that she lets out a little snort when he slides into the backseat of the Lexus after Abby, and he shoots her a smirk over his sister's head. She can't tell Marlene isn't thrilled; her lips are a little thin when she closes her door. But then Santana's dad takes her hand over the console and raises it to his lips, and Marlene gives him this soft little smile that Santana thinks looks really good on the woman. Her step-mother.
Christ.
It's weird having other people, basically strangers, living in her house. Yeah, her dad and Marlene tried to throw all of them together as much as they could in the weeks leading up to the wedding, but Santana had cheerleading and Noah had baseball and they both had school, and there really isn't a way to prepare from going from spending the majority of her time home alone to having three other people in and out and all up in her space. She's incredibly grateful for her en suite bathroom, because adjusting to sharing with a fifteen-year-old boy or an eight-year-old girl would have been just too much.
Marlene hangs a big dry erase calendar over the desk in the kitchen and writes in everyone's schedules: her shifts at the hospital, when Santana's dad is on call, Cheerio practices, Puck's football practices (Apparently Coach Tanaka had been easily convinced of Puck's worthiness when he realized that Puck had legitimately broken a kid last year.), and the countdown to Abby's three-week summer camp at the end of June. There's more food in the kitchen than ever, including things like Twinkies, which Santana thinks are disgusting, and Lucky Charms, which she hasn't eaten in years and had forgotten were sort of delicious. Little trinkets and knick knacks have cropped up all over the house, personal things of the Puckermans' nestled among the largely impersonal items that have decorated the Lopez home for as long as Santana can remember. Puck's football gear (which smells completely rank, by the way) lives on the mud porch just inside the garage door, and there are Barbie clothes everywhere.
It's just a big adjustment, okay?
One morning at practice she hears about a party Dave Karofsky is throwing, and she and Brittany make plans to meet up with one of the other girls for a ride. Noah is the only one in the house when she gets home, lying on his bed in a pair of gym shorts and nothing else, reading her dad's new issue of Esquire and listening to headphones. She stands at the end of his bed with her hands on her hips, kicking the edge of the mattress and smirking when he jolts and looks at her.
She notices the way his eyes rake over her body, and she doesn't really mind. She's still in Cheerio-issue shorts and a sports bra, though she'd tugged her hair from its ponytail the moment she'd stepped into the cool air of the house. She's hot and she knows it, and other people should take the opportunity to appreciate it. She likes to be looked at.
"'Sup, sis?" he asks, and he immediately pulls a face. "Ugh, never again."
"Yeah, no." She's reminded of Chuck Bass circa season one, though Noah seriously lacks the sophistication (and wardrobe) necessary to pull it off. She shakes her head a little before getting to the point. "Listen, there's a party tonight, and I'm sneaking out to go."
"Yeah, that Karofsky fucker. I'll be there."
"Your mom will actually just let you go?" She's sort of gathered that Noah tends to get into trouble, and Marlene is obviously trying to keep him on a short leash.
"No." She raises her eyebrows expectantly. "Look, your dad's a heavy sleeper like my mom." She wonders how he's even figured that out, but she's a little impressed. "I'll just wait till they're in bed and walk out the front door. Not a big deal."
She offers him a condescending smile. "You're forgetting the security system. If you try to walk out the front door after eleven, you'll set off the alarm and it'll be a whole thing."
He swears under his breath. "So how are you getting out?" he asks after a long moment. She can't see how much he doesn't want to ask for her help.
"A few years back, a tree branch fell through that window during a storm and fucked it all up, and Dad never got around to having it fixed." She points to the right-hand window on his wall and shrugs. "Open window, step out, go from the roof down to the cover on the air conditioning unit, and you're golden."
He smirks up at her. He's still lying back against the pillows with one hand behind his head. His shirt has ridden up a little so she can see his abs just above the waistband of his jeans, and it's kind of fucking annoying that he looks like he could be modeling that tee shirt when he's just laying there. "So you want to use my window."
"No. I am using that window," she corrects, settling her weight on her left leg and cocking her hips. "And you're going to keep your mouth shut about it."
"Is that so?"
She rolls her eyes and lets out a heavy sigh at the smirk on his face. "Look, can we not pull this shit?"
"What shit?"
"The brother-sister crap that I don't get and I don't want. Life is going to be easier if we both just agree to either work together or stay out of each other's way." She says it simply because she's thought about it before. She knows guys like him; Puck is the kind of guy who does way more stupid things than he ever gets caught doing, not unlike herself. (Except, of course, he's been caught more than she has.) If they're playing on the same team, they'll both be golden.
He considers her for a moment, then sits up and nods. "All right, deal. Just don't pull and chick crap," he adds, holding out his hand for her to shake.
She's laughing when she puts her hand in his and squeezes firmly. "You really, really don't know me yet, Puckerman."
It's the first time they ever agree to work together, the first time they realize that they're actually a pretty good team, and soon enough he realizes that she isn't like other girls.
Her dad and Marlene wait until Abby leaves for camp to go on their honeymoon, ten days in France because Marlene has always wanted to go. They agree, as a family, that Noah and Santana are mature enough to stay alone as long as the housekeeper comes every day to check in on them and Noah's nana is on call in case they really need anything.
The night before they're due to fly out, the four of them sit down in the family room to discuss the rules. Santana has her Responsible Young Lady face on, and she can tell by the way Puck's sitting up straight in his chair instead of slouching that he's trying to do his version of the same thing.
"No parties," he father says seriously. She nods, because that one's easy. Someone else will always be willing to throw a party, and she is absolutely not interested in cleaning up the house and explaining stains and broken trinkets.
Marlene gives Noah a stern look. "Midnight curfew while we're gone, period. And we've set the alarm system to engage automatically. If you try to pull anything, the police are going to show up and we're going to get a call in France." She raises her eyebrows. "And you won't leave that room for anything but football practice and school until next year, Noah Puckerman."
"Okay." Santana sees that his eyes are a little big, and she wonders if his mom actually made him nervous or if he's just a better actor than she realized.
"You can each have one friend over, but make sure their parents know there aren't any adults here," her father says, his voice less serious than Marlene's.
"The liquor cabinet is locked adn we will notice if anything goes missing," Marlene says, again looking right at her son. It's obvious that they think - or at least she thinks - that Puck is the one who'll try to get in trouble; Santana thinks it's fantastic, because it really just proves that her innocent act has been effective.
"No candles, no incense, no fireworks, and for god's sake, don't leave the burners on in the kitchen."
"Keep the doors locked at all times."
"Don't forget to feed your sister's fish. If that thing is dead when she gets home, we'll never hear the end of it."
"Wear sunscreen if you plan to spend the entire week lying in the backyard by the pool. Skin cancer is serious, young lady."
"You're both to sleep in the house every night unless you've gotten permission beforehand from one of us to stay with someone else. None of that, 'I didn't think you'd mind' stuff."
It seems endless, the list of rules and orders they're tossing down, but none of it's a big deal. And she gets it, really, even if she thinks they're taking it a bit too far. Her father has never left her alone when he's left town, and she's pretty sure Marlene hasn't left Noah for an extended period of time either.
After what seems like forever listening and nodding and promising not to spend the entire ten days ordering pizza and Chinese, Marlene smiles at Santana. "I know having siblings is new for you, but it would mean a lot to me if you kept an eye on Noah. He can take care of himself," she says, glancing at him, "but I'll worry less if I know you two are watching out for each other. I know he'll look out for you, too."
That, at least, is true. She knows it is. Any time she sneaks out and he stays behind, he leans out the window and waits until she waves up at him to push it closed. She asked him why he does that (she was drunk and curious), and he told her that he was afraid she's slip and knock herself unconscious or break something and be lying out there till morning because she's too proud to yell and risk getting caught by their parents. (She'd pointed out that she always has her cell, so she could just call him if something like that happened, but knowing that he cares doesn't suck.)
"Sure, Marlene," she says simply. "You really don't have to worry about us."
"Well, of course I do," the woman laughs. "But this way, I'll worry less."
Their parents leave on Friday morning while Noah and Santana are both at practices at school, and they celebrate coming home to an empty house by spending the entire afternoon in the pool drinking beer that Puck has been hiding in the basement in some of the random boxes that came from the Puckermans' old attic. (And, yes, they both wear sunscreen.) That night, they climb out his bedroom window and walk the two blocks to a party at slutty Lacey Finch's house.
Finn Hudson is the first person she sees when she walks into the house. He barrels into her clumsily, knocking her back into Puck so that, for just a moment, she's pinned between their bodies, Puck's chest solid against her back. "Jesus fuck, Finn!" She wrenches her arm out of his grip, rolling her eyes when she realizes that he's completely drunk.
"Sorry," he mutters. His eyes light up when he sees Puck. "Dude!" They bump fists and Finn's grinning like a damn fool. "We played on the same little league team every summer for, like, six years!" he tells her, as if she needs some explanation. They have been playing football together all summer, so of course Finn knows Puck, and she truly doesn't care that they have a history that goes further back than that.
"Awesome," she deadpans. She's always thought Finn was a big goof, but now that he's dating Quinn Fabray, she kind of hates him by association. (Bitch just gets under her skin.) She walks away, leaving them to their bromance while she goes in search of a drink.
The party ends up being a bust. There's a disproportionate number of freshmen here (probably because Lacey is a freshman), and apparently this is the one weekend of the summer when people's parents are actually enforcing curfews, because the place totally empties out just before midnight.
"This party sucks," Puck says, coming up next to where she's leaned against the island in the kitchen not long after the mass exodus. "There's no pussy here."
Santana makes a noise of agreement; there isn't any viable pussy here since all the girls who are left, save Santana, are totally sloppy drunk. Too drunk for any guy who isn't just a completely shameless and disgusting prick. And for her part, there aren't any guys here that she'd do who she hasn't already had, and she''s really not feeling a repeat right now. "You wanna go?"
He nods, then smirks at her while he grabs a mostly-full bottle of Jameson from the counter behind her. She likes where his head is at, so she grabs a bottle of gin that hasn't even been opened, and no one tries to stop them when they walk out the front door. Hell, no one even seems to notice that they're straight-up stealing booze.
They cut through their neighbors' yards to avoid being spotted by anyone who happens to be driving around the neighborhood, and when they get home they decide to just save the booze for a night when they really need it.
(That lasts until about eight the next night, when they wind up in the media room watching Dazed and Confused and drinking Jameson and Coke until Santana feels the urge to take off her shirt and decides that it's time to go to bed before she does something awkward like actually taking off her shirt.)
She's pretty sure Coach Sylvester is trying to kill them. By the time she gets home from practice she feels like a complete mess: She's hot, her muscles ache, and she's pretty sure the queasiness in her stomach is from dehydration. Or maybe it's the heat. Whatever. She goes into the kitchen, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, and lies flat on her back on the tile next to an air conditioning vent because it's possibly the coolest place in the house.
Noah finds her there when he gets home from football just a little later. "Uh, are you okay?"
She opens her eyes and sees him peering down at her with concern in his eyes. "I might be dying," she tells him seriously, rolling her eyes when he says her name. "I'm fine or whatever, but everything hurts."
"Don't you guys have a trainer?"
"Yeah, but we don't really use her unless something snaps. Coach Sylvester believes in toughing it out." And up until today, Santana didn't disagree, but somewhere between drilling a potential dance number for regional competition and flying two dozen basket tosses, her opinion has changed.
"That sucks." Since he's playing The Obvious Game, she closes her eyes again and tries to decide if she should continue to lie flat, because that feels okay, or go use the jacuzzi tub in the master bath to try to loosen up her sore muscles. "I could give you a massage or something."
His lips are curved into a little smirk, and the tough, proud girl in her wants to say no. She's generally not into letting other people touch her unless it's sexual. But the tension between her shoulder blades and the ache in her triceps makes her say, "Okay," and leads him upstairs to her bedroom. She lays face-down on her unmade bed with her arms at her sides and groans a little when he straddles her thighs, the bit of weight he rests there making the muscles burn.
"What hurts?" he asks, his fingertips brushing the back of her neck as he pushes her hair to one side.
She's telling the truth when she says, "Everything," and she knows he'll get it. The kid plays sports and works out.
Thirty seconds into the massage, she decides that this guy has fucking magic hands. He starts, oddly, at her wrists, both of his hands moving upwards and working her forearms, biceps, and triceps in turn. He digs his thumbs into the knots in her shoulders and upper back, and it hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. She groans, and he mutters, "Easy," a little gruffly. She doesn't ask him to stop; she knows it'll be worth it in the long run, and once the knots are gone, she's able to relax into the feeling of his hands, just a bit rough, smoothing over her skin and sending little jolts of pleasure along her spine.
She vaguely registers him moving off her body, but she absolutely doesn't care when she feels his hands on her calves. She didn't even realize they were sore, but she just melts further into the mattress as he works the tension out and lets his hands slip higher, soothing her aching hamstrings.
He stops just after his fingertips have brushed up beneath the hem of her shorts, and it's kind of a good thing. "Better?"
She lets out a little moan of satisfaction, not bothering to open her eyes and looking at him even when she feels him get off the bed. "You're amazing," she murmurs.
"Fuck right, Puckzilla is awesome." She would scoff and comment on the third-person use of a stupid nickname, but she's half-asleep and only manages a little hum of agreement.
The last thing she's aware of before she falls asleep is the feeling of the cashmere throw blanket from the foot of her bed being pulled over her body.
He flirts with Brittany when the girls are lying out beside the pool one afternoon. The blonde flirts back, which is completely normal. Honestly, Brittany flirts with everyone, and Santana would be worried if she suddenly stopped. (In fact, Santana's pretty sure that Coach Sylvester is the only person she's never seen Brittany flirt with. And that's a good thing.) Plus, Brittany's hot, and there's no way Santana can pretend that Puck isn't attractive when he's walking around in nothing but board shorts and a pair of aviators. Truthfully, she sometimes thinks he should never wear a shirt, though she'd never say that and risk having it go to his head.
He sits outside talking with them for a little while, letting his feet dangle over the edge of the pool in the water, then announces that he's going to call Finn and find something to do.
"Your brother's cute," Brittany says after he's left the back yard.
"Step-brother," Santana corrects automatically, not even opening her eyes behind her oversized sunglasses.
"Have you made out with him?" Santana just shakes her head. "Maybe I should make out with him."
She doesn't say anything, but the idea of it makes her stomach feel a little weird, and she's not sure if it's the best friend aspect or the step-brother aspect that's doing it. "Let's swim," she suggests after a moment, standing and dropping her sunglasses on the lounge chair before turning and diving directly into the cool water.
Puck's birthday falls on a Sunday in late July, and Santana's pretty sure Marlene is more excited about it than he is. Really, all he seems to care about is going to take his driving test the next day. They grill for dinner, just burgers and stuff, and his mom makes a crazy delicious coconut cake that Abby insists they can't cut until they've all all sung "Happy Birthday" and Noah's blown out sixteen candles.
"Noah, we'll do presents after I've done the dishes," Marlene tells him, shooting Santana a wink when her son isn't watching. Santana's dad helps his wife clear plates and carry them into the house, and Abby runs out past the pool with her hula hoop, squealing and singing bits of The Beatles' "Birthday," including the guitar riffs. Puck and Santana are left sitting next to each other at the patio table, Santana still picking at her slice of cake.
"Your mom's really into birthdays, huh?" she asks, swiping her finger through a bit of frosting that's fallen to the plate and licking it off. Woman can bake.
"Yeah, and they're more fun when you aren't worried about whether or not you'll be able to make the mortgage payment that month." He says it casually, but Santana thinks she's starting to figure him out a little. He doesn't like to seem like he takes anything seriously, but she knows better. She knows their story now, how his dad wanted to be a rock star or whatever and left a pregnant wife and his little boy, how Marlene spent the last eight years working her ass off just to keep the three of them afloat. Neither she nor Noah has ever really talked about it (and Abby's totally clueless), but Santana's dad filled her in a little, and she isn't stupid. Being a single mom with two kids couldn't have been easy, and she can't imagine what her life would have been like if her father'd had to worry about money.
It makes sense that his mom would have fun with his birthday given their new circumstances, and Santana actually thinks it's pretty sweet. He almost smiles at her when she tells him that. "She nags me half to death, but my mom's pretty boss," he admits. It's the nicest thing she's ever heard him say about anyone. (Because complimenting girls' "assets" doesn't count, especially since his compliments are generally more offensive than nice.)
Their parents come back outside carrying a few wrapped packages, and some of Puck's nonchalance melts away. It's pretty obvious that the guy digs on gifts, and Santana can relate, because there aren't many things that make her happier than unwrapping something shiny and expensive.
Abby gives him this kaleidoscope thing she made when she was at camp (because she's eight), and Santana gives him the box set of iThe Godfather/i trilogy because she'd been horrified when he told her he'd never seen it. Marlene hands over this big, awkward box that turns out to be an acoustic guitar, which surprises the hell out of Santana because she had no clue he even played. (Apparently his old guitar had been damaged or something not long before the wedding and he's been saving for a new one since then.)
Her dad hands over this box that looks like it holds a watch, but Santana knows better. Noah, apparently, doesn't, because he looks completely fucking shocked when he pulls the lid off and finds a set of car keys.
"Are you serious?"
Her dad smiles at him. "As long as you keep your grades up and don't get into any trouble, yes. Your mother and I discussed it, and we decided that you would look pretty good driving a Jeep."
"Are you serious?" Puck repeats, and his mom just starts laughing and leans over the give him a hug.
Her dad's ploy is working, and Santana can totally see through it. This is classic buying of the affection, or maybe this time it's rewarding Noah for not being a complete asshole since they got married. Either way, she knows this game. She's got a closet and a jewelry box full of this game. (And in November, she expects that there will be some affection sitting in the driveway for her, ideally black and shiny.)
He can't actually go anywhere since he doesn't have his license yet, so he and Marlene go for a drive around the neighborhood, and when they get back, the five of them sit out on the patio while the sun sets and he plays songs on his guitar that Abby requests. Santana is surprised to learn that he's actually pretty good, and right this second, she doesn't totally hate the blended family thing.
She leaves her bedroom door cracked when she goes to bed that night, because when it's open like that, she can just hear the sound of Noah playing down the hall.
She nearly falls through the window because she's angry and, as her father has always said, anger makes her "rammy shove-y" and less careful than she should be. She swears aloud when she has to drop her shoes and her phone to catch herself on the edge of Puck's desk before she actually falls down.
"What the fuck is your problem?" he hisses at her from where he's sitting up in bed with his computer in his lap.
"Lynch started dating Katie fucking Samuels, and apparently getting me off is less important than spending his time convincing her to let him touch her boobs," she snaps. She'd told him way back at the beginning of June what was going on with Jackson; it seemed like it was only fair since she was climbing out his bedroom window a couple of times a week, and it isn't like she's ashamed of having a sex life.
"Hey," he says, glaring at her and gesturing toward his closed door as if to remind her that their parents are asleep down the hall. "You wanna keep it down?" She just rolls her eyes and turns to push the window closed, flipping the lock, and when she looks at him again, he's closed his computer and put it on the bedside table. "Did he get you off before he told you all that?"
"No," she practically whines. Okay, she's just a little bit drunk. They'd been sitting in the backseat of Jackson's car, making out and trading sips of vodka Diet Coke directly from the twenty ounce bottle before the jackass had sprung this on her. He's smirking at her, and it pisses her off. "What?"
He shrugs. "You're kind of hot when you're all pissed off."
"I'm frustrated," she corrects acidly. "Sexually frustrated."
The way he's looking at her, smirking and almost laughing, is really fucking annoying. She knows he's been getting laid regularly; Lauren Hilvert and Danielle Sacks got into a cat fight at Cheerio practice two days ago when they put two and two together and realized that they'd both fucked him that weekend. Santana, however, hasn't had sex in eight days which is way too fucking long.
"Did he, like, work you up first?" he asks, his eyes widening when she glares. "Holy shit. What a fucking prick."
No kidding. She really doesn't want to talk about it though. "Do you have any of that Jameson left in here?"
"Don't you still have a full bottle of gin?"
"Gin makes me weepy, which I really can't do right now, and especially not if you have whiskey."
He grins at her, rolling off the bed and walking to the closet. "What does whiskey make you?"
"Mean, usually," she answers, watching as he reaches up onto the shelf and snags the bottle of liquor from behind a duffle bag and some shoe boxes. She's actually pretty grateful for the fact that he just hands her the bottle and doesn't give her any shit about it; she's pretty sure this could be way, way more annoying than it already is.
Noah watches her as she puts the bottle to her lips and takes two long pulls, her nose wrinkling as the whiskey burns down her throat. He takes the bottle from her and takes his own drink, shrugging when she lifts an eyebrow. "Why not?" She doesn't care, so she takes two more deep drinks, watches him do the same, and shakes her head when he holds it out to her again.
"You know what sucks? Now I have to find someone new." She shakes her head a little, and she swears she can already feel the liquor working its way into her system. "Do you know how hard it is to find a guy who knows what he's doing and won't bring all that feelings bullshit into it?"
"Easier than finding a chick who'll do that," he counters, and yeah, that's probably the truth.
Later, she'll wonder if it was because she'd been drinking or because she was angry, or maybe it was just the way he looked wearing nothing but a pair of sweats that sat low on his hips. Whatever it is, it becomes perfectly clear that they're each describing the other, and Noah is hot and not ireally/i her brother, so she takes a step forward and stands on her toes and presses her lips against his, gripping his forearm when one of his hands falls to her hip.
It takes him a long moment to push her away, which she thinks is fucking stupid since she already had her tongue in his mouth, and goddamn he's a good kisser.
"The fuck, Santana?"
She blinks at him, then shrugs her shoulders carelessly. "It felt good."
"But I do-"
She cuts him off with her lips, kissing him hard. She lets her fingernails dig into his biceps a little bit and bites down on his bottom lip just a little too hard to be considered nice, but he grips her hip tighter and slides his tongue against hers, and the whole thing feels so fucking good.
Too good.
She pulls away from him with a gasp, taking two steps back so there's space between their bodies, and the only thing she can think is fuck. "I-" She cuts herself off and swallows hard, running a hand through her hair. "I'm going to bed."
She turns and leaves, not bothering to close his door behind her. She just needs space, she needs to not be able to feel him getting hard against her stomach, his fingers digging into her skin when he grips her hip. They aren't supposed to be doing that. Their parents are married - he's her istep-brother/i.
Doesn't that make it wrong?
On the first day of school, Santana walks into the kitchen for breakfast in her Cheerio uniform and realizes that none of her new family members have seen her in it before. She notices the way Noah's eyes linger on her legs when she comes through the door, so she makes a point of twirling around the island with her orange juice so her skirt does what it's meant to do and offers him a flash of her red spankies before she tells Abby what the letters on her chest stand for.
(He notices, and she likes it.)
They never talked about that night in his room. They've spent time together since then; they snuck out together the night before last to go to Brittany's party, the last anyone was having before school started. Neither of them acted any differently than they had before: He made sure that she didn't fall off the porch roof in her bare feet, and she'd paid attention to what time it was so they were both back in the house before her father got up at 5 to go to the hospital.
Being back at school sort of sucks, but at the same time, it feels pretty good to be back on top where everyone can see her. Puck, despite being the new kid, already has a reputation. He's Finn Hudson's friend, Santana Lopez's step-brother, the football player who broke a McKinley player's collarbone last year, the dude with the mohawk and a "don't fuck with me" expression. She thinks that of all the guys who could have become her step-brother this summer, she got pretty lucky.
She's walking down the hallway with Quinn one day, pretending that she cares about whatever celibacy club bullshit Abstinence Pledge Barbie is spouting, when she sees him standing at his locker talking to Rachel Berry.
"Why is he talking to her?" Quinn asks. Santana shrugs, because why the hell should she know? "He's trashy, but he could do better than Rachel Berry."
Santana looks sideways at her and glares a little, because how dare she call Santana's step-brother trashy. "Well, you're uptight and frigid, but Finn's still with you, so I guess there's no accounting for taste."
It isn't the first time Santana's said something like that - and absolutely meant it - so Quinn just rolls her eyes and says, "Rachel Berry?"
Which is exactly what Santana says that afternoon when she slides into the passenger seat of his Jeep when she finishes Cheerio practice.
He looks over at her, his hair still wet from his post-football practice shower. "What?"
"Look, you've already got everyone convinced that you're a badass or whatever, but if you want to keep that shit up, you can't be hanging around with Stubbles McJewNose."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he asks, looking over at her as he pulls out of the parking lot. She sort of wishes he'd watch the road instead of her because he isn't exactly the best driver in the world, but whatever. "I know her from temple and shit."
"Quinn noticed, and if she noticed, you can bet she's told people, and little shit like that always turns into a big effing deal at McKinley. Girls were already talking about it at Cheerio practice."
"Quinn Fabray?" She nods. "Hudson's girl. Isn't she, like, totally frigid?"
"Yeah." His voice is too casual, his gaze on the road in front of them too intent. Santana knows that look. He's totally hot for Quinn. "It'll never happen," she says flatly, and she knows he knows what she means. "Don't even."
They drive in silence for a while, because this conversation is weirdly awkward. "You should slushie her." She doesn't specify which girl she's talking about because she knows she doesn't have to.
He looks at her like she's crazy. "You want me to throw a slushie in her face?"
"It'll show everyone that you aren't into her, and I'll get to see Manhands covered in corn syrup. Win-win." Slushie facials might be a McKinley phenomenon, but he's been there long enough to know what it's all about. Hell, he watched Karofsky toss one at that Jacob Jewfro kid on the first day of school.
He doesn't say anything else on the drive home, but they leave a few minutes early for school the next day, and she can't help the smirk on her face when he stops at 7-11, runs inside, and comes back with a cherry slushie. She basically stalks him once they get to school, staying close until he finds Berry outside the auditorium and tosses the slushie in her face. He doesn't even pause his steps, just drops the cup on the floor and keeps waking, and Santana stands just down the hall and laughs while she watches the red dye drip down the girl's face and stain her pristine white button down.
Their parents decide to take a weekend trip to Cleveland with Abby to see Disney on Ice or something, and since there's a football game and Santana's Saturday Cheerio practices, they agree that Puck and Santana can be trusted alone for just two nights. This time, they don't bother to read them the riot act, and since the football game is in Westerville, they don't bother with the security alarm just in case the game runs late or the bus breaks down or whatever.
Basically, it's a free pass for them to stay out as late as they want without getting caught.
Santana's dad must know exactly what their plan is (even though they've only just heard about the weekend trip), because after Marlene leaves the three of them in the family room to go start dinner, he smiles at both of them. "Don't do anything stupid," he says simply. Santana blinks at him, trying to keep up the innocent act, but he just tilts his head at her. "Be safe. Don't drink and drive," he adds, looking pointedly at Noah.
"Okay, Antonio," Puck says, and she knows he's being serious.
They win the game when Westerville's quarterback throws an interception and their offense is so fucking shocked that Puck's able to run all the way for the touchdown. The bus ride back to Lima is sort of ridiculous, and so is the party at Calvin Stewart's house. Brittany and Santana work together to charm a junior boy out of a bottle of cheap vodka (girls making out can get anything from high school boys), which they drink with the cherry Kool-Aid they find in the fridge that Santana's pretty sure is supposed to be for Calvin's little sister.
Matt Rutherford is playing sober driver, and even though she isn't really ready to leave when he is, Santana likes Matt and doesn't want to argue with him. Sometimes, when they're both drunk, they make out at parties, and really, he's a pretty cool guy, so she texts Puck to meet them at the front door. She and Brittany end up sharing the middle of the backseat, crammed between Puck and Mike Chang because Finn stumbles his goofy ass out the door with them and asks Matt if he can catch a ride too.
Santana just laughs when Brittany places a lingering kiss on her lips before getting out with Mike at his house - there are worse people Britt could be hanging out with, and Santana doesn't really begrudge anyone for getting theirs. She passes the kiss along to Matt when he pulls into her driveway, then prances up the sidewalk behind Puck.
"This was a good night," she announces, heading toward the kitchen once he gets the door unlocked. She's starving because she's drunk and hasn't eaten in seven or eight hours.
She's dumping frozen Bagel Bites onto a plate when Puck walks up behind her and lays his lips on the side of her neck. "Do you know how fucking wrong it is that you and Brittany kiss like that?"
Actually, she's pretty sure that isn't wrong at all, and she wonders if it might be ironic that he's bringing this up now when he's sucking on her neck and letting the tip of his tongue trace the shell of her ear. Then he's got her turned around the pinned against the counter, and he's kissing her stupid. Honestly, between the vodka in her blood and his lips on hers, she's aware of nothing else until he pushes his hips against hers and she feels him hard against her stomach.
She breathes out a word that is either fuck or his name when his lips skim up her jaw, and he pulls back just enough that she can see him smirking at her. "What are you doing?" she manages.
"Kissin' you," he answers, and she feels his fingertips teasing the skin just above the waistband of her skirt.
"Oh."
He must like the answer, because he resumes his activities, nipping at her lips before lifting her up onto the edge of the counter, standing between her parted legs so she can feel him hard against her center. "This is a fucking bad idea," he mutters against her throat.
She brings one hand to the back of his head, threading her fingers through his mohawk and tugging the strands a bit. "Shut up." They went from zero to sixty in about fifteen seconds, and unless he does something to stop it, this is happening.
He's pushing at the hem of the top of her uniform, and she can tell that the uncooperative fabric is frustrating him. She generally isn't too worried about anything but getting off, and that includes being naked, so she bats his hands away and reaches between them to unbuckle his belt. He groans when she tugs down his zipper, which is sort of fucked up since she hasn't even touched him yet, but then she wraps her hand around his length and his head drops to her shoulder at the same time as his jeans slide down off his hips.
She twists her wrist once and he swears, pushing her hand away from him and sliding his hands up her thighs to hook his thumbs under the sides of her spankies. She puts her hands on his shoulders so she can lift her hips, gasping when her bare ass hits the cold granite of the counter top. "Fuck, you're wet," he mutters when his fingers brush against her, but she's too busy moaning to care.
"Condom," she gasps, because this is happening, and it's happening right here, right now, and while he's fumbling with his wallet, she's pulling at the back of his shirt (which she knows isn't really helping). He's fucking hot without a shirt on, and she wants to feel his skin, hot and slicked with sweat, beneath her hands.
She throws her head back when he pushes into her, knocking it against the front of the cabinet that holds water glasses, but it doesn't hurt. And even if it did, she's not sure it would register because Puck feels fucking amazing inside her, thrusting into her fast and rough, gripping her hips and pulling her against him hard each time he snaps his hips forward.
He puts his hand beneath her skirt and presses his thumb against her nerves, stroking fast and rough, not unlike the way he's moving inside her, but there's a hint of finesse there, something that tells her he knows what he's doing.
She's practically whimpering when she comes, her fingernails digging into his shoulders as the tension snaps, and he follows right after, biting out a curse and resting his sweaty forehead against her shoulder for a moment before pulling away and turning to take care of the condom.
And suddenly she's hyper-aware of the fact that she's almost fully-dressed, sitting in her kitchen with her nearly naked step-brother, who just fucked her on the same counter where she pours her morning juice. It doesn't feel wrong, just a little weird, and she thinks that's mostly because they're in the kitchen.
Puck finishes buckling his belt and leans back against the island opposite where she's still sitting. "Goddamn," he says simply, and she laughs. "You realize our parents would freak the motherfuck out if they knew?"
She shrugs her shoulders and hops down off the counter. "Then they can't know." She finishes arranging her Bagel Bites on a plate - she's still hungry and more than a little drunk - and pulls a bottle of water from the fridge while the microwave does its thing. "You aren't going to freak out about this, are you?"
"What? No." He shrugs his shoulders when she looks at him like she doesn't believe him. "It's just sex, and it's not like we're actually related." He watches her for a moment, then say, "Besides, this was a one-time thing, right?"
The microwave beeps, so Santana turns and takes the plate out. "Maybe," she answers, using her toes to pick up her spankies from the floor. She holds them in the same hand as her bottle of water and walks out of the kitchen, leaving Puck standing there as she goes up to her room to eat and fall asleep.