It's All About Who You Know

by Amory Sparkly Bat

In Hollywood, it's all about who you know, so when Puck lands a job working for old McKinley acquaintances turned superstars, a whole new world is revealed. (future!fic, Puck/Dave Karofsky/Santana, Dave Karofsky/Kurt, BDSM themes)

It's All About Who You Know
By: Amory Puck (pucktheperv on LJ and Tumblr)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: future!fic, slash, BDSM, threesome
Pairings: Puck/Dave Karofsky/Santana, Dave/Kurt
Total Word Count:11,269

Summary:In Hollywood, it's all about who you know, so when Puck lands a job working for old McKinley acquaintances turned superstars, a whole new world is revealed. (Puck/Dave Karofsky/Santana, Dave Karofsky/Kurt, BDSM themes)

Author's Note: This was written for fandomaid on LJ's Superstorm Sandy auctions. The prompt was 'Anything Where Puck starts a relationship with anyone as the submissive (Threesomes/Moresomes Preferred and I'd love to see Puck on his knees offering himself)' and was written for kproflostsouls. Big thanks for their patience, as I know it was a long time coming! Engagement and holidays made things a bit crazy! I went a little over on the word count, but I do that sometimes. Hope you like it!

o o o

"Say it again," the woman moaned as Puck thrust into her. Her platinum hair was spread out across the pillow like a halo of over-bleached hay and her big eyes were the color of a Caribbean seafront, a nice change from the disturbingly emerald color lenses she'd sported the day before.

Puck sighed as he squeezed her tiny waist, running his hands up and down her prominent ribs. "You're not fat," he said, doing his best to hide his annoyance. The bitch was the size of a bendy straw. Okay, that wasn't entirely true. She was actually the size of those tiny little red straws they gave you at bars to stir your cocktail.

The girl beneath him moaned as if he'd just stuck a glass slipper on her tiny little foot, writhing in pleasure.

Puck grimaced as his dick sagged slightly in response.

God, he missed the days when he'd had a cougar on every corner. Back then he'd been young and handsome, with bad ass pecks and killer biceps. He was still handsome, and thanks to the occasional steroid is his cappuccino his biceps and pecks remained firmly intact—and he did mean *firmly*—but he wasn't young anymore. Not by LA's standards anyway.

It wasn't like he was ancient or anything. In fact, in a normal city he'd still be considered quite a catch with his rugged features and perfect body, even if he'd just spent all night doing Jager bombs at an over-priced strip joint to celebrate his thirtieth birthday. But in the city of angels, Gabriel was already blowing his horn with Saint Peter standing by at the gates, ready to refuse entrance to yet another child of Moses.

Hell, Puck's pool service has started to fail the day he'd hit twenty-five. Thanks to a surplus of young, attractive men living pay check to pay check as they sought fame and fortune under the Hollywood sign, keeping hold of your cougars was a real challenge. There was plenty of prey to be caught that was just as attractive as Puck without the tarnish of age. Now, with Puck hitting thirty, Sex Shark Full Service Pool Cleaning was filing for bankruptcy. Not literally, of course, since Puck had never bothered to report his earnings lest he be forced to bear the weight of the Sunshine State's absurd taxes, but his client list had dwindled down to nothing and he'd had to sell his pickup truck just to pay rent.

"Oh, *Noah*," the woman below him cried out as he shoved in her one last time. It was a good try, but Puck had been around the block enough times to know that simultaneous almost always meant it was faked. LA was full of wannabe young actresses with low self esteem ready and willing to spread their legs for a low fat martini. This one was better than some. At least she wasn't screaming at the top of her lungs and waving her arms around like the one he'd had last week. Maybe this one was into Method Acting.

Puck rolled off of the girl—Candy, was it?—letting his head drop back onto his pillow. The rush of orgasm was over all too soon, and the depression was rising again. If you'd told him back in high school that he'd actually get *tired* of banging needy, desperate women, Puck would have laughed out loud. How could you possibly get tired of banging *anyone*? But apparently wisdom *did* come with age, because Puck was more than ready to admit that it just wasn't satisfying, that he really did want something more than this. Too bad said wisdom hadn't been applied to his business. But hey, he was making a new start. He had a job lined up with a temp agency tomorrow, and they paid in cash so he might even manage to avoid the homeless shelter.

"You need to go," Puck told the woman in a flat voice as he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Oh, come on," the girl said in a sickly sweet voice. "Dontcha wanna cuddle? In the morning I could eat syrup off your pecks."

"Sorry," Puck said as he grabbed his t-shirt, pulling it on, "but there are boxes everywhere for a reason. My rent's up. I have to be out by morning. Now get lost."

The woman let out a sigh, sitting up with a pout. "Okay, okay, fine. But say it one more time, would you?"

Here they go again. "You're not fat."

A bright smile flashed across her face and she shivered noticeably. "Mmmm, that's what I like to hear…"

o o o

"You know that I wanna, bluebonnet," Karofsky said as he bounced around the ring on his pony, looking more like a circus clown than a cowboy in Kurt's opinion, but then what did Kurt's opinion matter? It wasn't like anyone cared. "But I just can't. The Lone Star State is where my heart is."

"That's loco," Santana replied, tears rising up in her eyes. "You said your heart was mine. The government is sending me back to Mexico, so is that not where your heart will be?" Her heavy accent made Kurt want to puke.

Karofsky pulled on the reins, bringing the filthy animal he was riding to a halt. "I wish it worked like that, but the eyes of Texas are upon me, and I cannot get away."

Santana buried her face in her hands, letting out a choked sob. "Please, love, come with me!"

"I can't…" Karofsky hesitated, frowning slightly. "I can't… Uh…" He turned his head abruptly, looking off to the left, away from Santana. "Line?"

"I can't abandon the ranch, bluebonnet, not even for a flower as wild as you," one of the guys called out from behind the line of cameras.

"Right," Karofsky muttered, turning back toward Santana. "You start."

Santana buried her face in her hands again, sobbing loudly. "Please, love, come with me!"

"I can't abandon the ranch, bluebonnet, not even for a flower as wild as you," Karofsky said, swinging a leg over the saddle and landing easily on the ground. Mud splattered across his three thousand dollar Lucchese cowboy boots, making Kurt wince. That was going to take some polishing.

"Oh, Jay," Santana said, rushing forward into his arms. "I love you."

"I love you, too, bluebonnet."

"And… cut!" the director called out, a smile on his face. "Good job everyone. That's it for the day. Let's wrap up!"

"Oh, God, someone take this shit machine from me," Karofsky said, tossing the horse's reins to its handler. "I need a fucking shower, bad."

Santana smirked, the sweet innocence having been wiped instantly from her face as the call of 'cut.' "Call the gardner and tell him to get out the hose. You're not setting foot in our house smelling like that." She yanked at her long braid. "Someone get this thing out of my hair! It's giving me a headache."

"Coming, coming!" Kurt called out as he stepped into the set. "Here are your towels, Mr. Karofsky," he said politely, though what he really wanted to do was slap the fucker in the face, "and if you'll give me just a moment Ms. Lopez, I'll get the hair piece off of you."

"It's been a moment too long, boyo," Santana snapped back, shoving him hard enough that he almost slipped in the mud. "God, remind me again why the hell I agreed to do a fucking western?"

"Because you wanted a job and I got you one?" Karofsky said with a smirk. "You said, and I quote: 'God, I just want a job where I'm not the goddamn maid!'. You're not the maid. You should be happy."

"Oh yeah," Santana said in a sarcastic voice. "Because being the illegal immigrant is *so* much better."

"At least you get more screen time," Karofsky said with a shrug. "Maybe you'll actually get invited to the Academy Awards this year instead of being my 'plus one.'"

"Yeah, then you can make bitch boy your plus one," Santana said with a laugh, shooting a glance over at Kurt. "Maybe you can take him on a leash with you."

Kurt's cheeks reddened, anger boiling up in his gut, but he remained silent. Anyone who was anyone in Hollywood knew the troglodyte called Davey Karofsky, which meant that all it would take was a couple of phone calls and everyone who was anyone would lock their doors to Kurt Hummel, and then where would he be? Living alone in a one room apartment, doing skits at old folks homes to pay the rent like Rachel Berry? At least Kurt knew what an actual set looked like. The closest Rachel had ever gotten was when their Hollywood Stars bus tour had stopped outside Paramount Studios.

Let the queen of ugly sweaters call Kurt a sellout for climbing Davey Karofsky's fence, stun gunning his security guards, and literally begging the bastard to help him break into the business. He'd figured that it had worked for Santana Lopez, after all. Why shouldn't he give it a try? Back when 'Davey' had just been 'Dave,' he'd had a real thing for Kurt. Who could forget the gorilla suit incident? Kurt had been sure that Karofsky would toss him a bone, and he'd been right. He just hadn't expected said bone to have a permanent home lodged inside Davey's panties.

But hey, Kurt was here, working on a real live set, the real live assistant to two time Academy Award winner Davey Karofsky and his less renowned BFF, the goddess of daytime television, Santana 'Soap Opera' Lopez. His association to Karofsky got him into closed auditions that Kurt could never have touched on his own. It hadn't, unfortunately, actually gotten him any parts. In fact, a couple of directors had flat out informed him that, short of a part on the Disney Channel, Kurt didn't really have the looks of a Hollywood leading man. Something about needing to be at least equal in height to the leading woman, unless, of course, your name was Tom Cruise.

Kurt was sure he'd break in eventually, though, and he was a hell of a lot better off than his roommate, who had managed to snare one television role in her illustrious career as an extra in a crowd of a hundred people for a Geico commercial. She had exactly a half a second of screen time, with most of her head blocked by the fat guy in front of her. Kurt hadn't actually landed *any* roles, but at least he was auditioning for real parts.

Kurt still couldn't believe that of all the people at McKinley, David Karofsky had been the one to hit the big time. Kurt still remembered the first time he'd caught a glimpse of his former bully on screen. He and Rachel had been sitting in front of their TV in New York City. Their space heater had gone out and they had been forced to huddle together for warmth, but nothing could deter them from watching the new episode of 'Biggest Loser.' Jillian had yelled out one last curse, then it had gone to commercial and Karofsky's face had filled the screen.

"The Iceberg Lounge is invitation only," he'd growled as he pointed a shiny umbrella at Christian Bale. "I suggest you fly away, little bat, before you get into serious trouble." The tip of his umbrella had exploded as a fireball shot from its tip, hitting Christian Bale in the center of his Batsuit, then Karofsky had let out a loud laugh, spinning his umbrella around and leaning on it like a cane as he tugged idly at the lapels of his tux. A moment later the screen had switched to an image of the Bat Mobile, a deep voice saying, "Batman, The Dark Knight Flies, in theaters everywhere December 19th."

The next few hours had been a blur. Kurt remembered that they'd raced to the nearest internet cafe, searching desperately for any clue as to how the chubby, insecure brute they'd known in high school had landed himself a first time role as a DC Comics supervillian. Six months later "Davey" Karofsky had accepted his Academy Award of Best Supporting Actor for his role as The Penguin, and six months after that Kurt had been knocking at his door. Well, actually, climbing over his fence and sneaking in through the window, but the idea was the same. Now here he was, the personal assistant of a famous star. What a lucky man he was.

"Here, take this," Karofsky said absently, tossing his cowboy hat Kurt's way. "Get it back to costumes. I'm going to makeup. Meet me in my trailer in an hour." He smirked slightly, eyeing Kurt up and down. "I need some… assistance."

o o o

Puck looked around in disbelief. "Here?" he asked the cabbie, sticking his head through the passenger side window to look at the guy.

"Yup," the driver said, nodding. "This is the place."

"You're sure?" Puck said, staring wide eyed at the sprawling mansion. "*This* is the address?"

"207 Rodeo Drive," the cabbie said with a nod. "Just like it says on your security pass."

"My—wait, what?" Puck said, looking down at the printed page in his hand. "My security pass?"

The cabbie snorted. "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into, do ya, man? That there is a security pass. See the little barcode at the bottom? Use it to scan yourself through the gates. The guards will probably search ya—the stars gotta be careful ya know. Try and get a signature if ya can. It's worth more than whatever day's work ya got lined up, I'm sure. This one ain't a big socialite. He's got his fag hag livin' in his house, hardly ever goes out at all. His sig would go for big on eBay, or if ya got the time to wait, at ComiCon. Whoo-weee, he has comic book nerds lined up outside his place every other day. Anyhoo, if ya wouldn't mind gettin' your head out of my car, I need to be on my way."

Puck's brow furrowed. "Wait, whose house *is* thi—hey!" He jumped back as the cabbie took off, very nearly taking Puck's head with him. Asshole.

He turned with a sigh and stepped toward the massive iron gates, swallowing nervously as his eyes traced the long, curving driveway up toward the enormous house, wondering whose home, exactly, he was about to see.

In his twelve years in LA, Puck had seen the occasional star. He'd even cleaned out Miley Cyrus' pool once, though she'd been away, the Hollywood house just being her summer home. But stars hoarded their privacy, and even if you spotted one, you almost never got the chance to chat with them. Considering that Puck had gotten this job from the temp agency, he'd sort of expected to be picking up garbage on the side of the road. He definitely hadn't expected to be working for someone whose name might be on the Walk of Fame.

Puck held his security paper up to the little electronic device on the fence, jumping a little when it beeped, then feeling a little stupid for doing so. It was kind of nerve-wracking, standing outside this ginormous house with no idea who it belonged to or what he'd be doing. If he was really lucky, maybe who it belonged to was Kim Kardashian and what he'd be doing was *her*.

The words 'PLEASE WAIT FOR ASSISTANCE' appeared on the little digital screen and Puck began to shift nervously from foot to foot as he waited. Five minutes passed, then ten, and Puck was about to give up on the job completely when a prim voice came from the device, making him jump again.

"How may I help you?" they said. Though the voice was high and nasally, it obviously belonged to a guy. It didn't really match any stars Puck could think of, though. Maybe this guy was the butler?

"Uh, hi," Puck said, bending over a little to be closer to the device. "I'm from Hollywood Hills Temp Agency. I, uh, am supposed to, like, do a job for you or… something."

There was a long silence, and Puck was starting to wonder if he needed to push a button or something for the butler dude to hear him when the guy spoke up again.

"Right. Of course. They always send the brilliant ones, don't they?"

Puck didn't respond, since he was pretty sure that was an insult. Maybe. Probably. Either way, it was definitely rhetorical. The guy's voice did sort of ring a bell, though, and Puck was pretty sure he'd heard it before. Maybe this *was* the owner and he did chick flicks or some other sappy shit that Puck never bothered to see.

"Okay, fine," the guy said finally, sighing. "I'll buzz you in. Come straight up the driveway, and for God's sakes don't step in the petunias. He *hates* it when people trample his petunias." Okay, this guy was definitely not the owner of the place. So why did his voice seem so familiar? Talk about deja vu. "And make sure the gate shuts all the way behind you. If another Sheldon Cooper-esque loser slips into the estate, he's going to—" The guy cut off abruptly. "It doesn't matter what he'll do. Just make sure the gate is shut behind you!"

Puck nodded, then realized the butler dude probably couldn't see him. "Uh, yeah, okay."

"Good. Ring when you get to the doors." There was a clank as the lock on the gates sprung back and a mechanism started up, causing the metal to slide back. Puck slipped through, then waited a moment until they started sliding back. When he was sure that the gates had closed behind him, he started up the driveway, noting idly that the entire thing was lined with flowers. Someone *really* liked their petunias.

Puck took a deep breath as he stepped up onto a massive marble porch, staring at an equally massive door that had to be at least ten feet tall. God knew how anybody opened the thing. He stared at it for a moment, feeling unusually nervous, then reached out and pressed the doorbell, running a hand nervously over his scalp as the musical chime rang out.

o o o

Kurt spit into one of the houseplants, grimacing at the salty taste in his mouth. Fucking Karofsky. "'I'll pull out.'" Kurt said in a whiny tone, rolling his eyes. "'I promise I'll pull out.' Fucking liar." He spat again. "With his lying fucking semen."

The doorbell rang and Kurt sighed, grabbing Santana's panties off a Tiffany lamp and shoving them into his pocket. He couldn't believe that Rosita had called a damn temp service. Surely there was at least one dog groomer left in Los Angeles who was willing to come to their house? Apparently word spread as fast amongst puppy hairdressers as it did among your average stylists, because no one she swore no one wanted the job. It didn't matter what form they took, beauticians were always gossipy bitches.

Okay, yeah, Kurt could understand how walking in on Karofsky standing in the middle of the kennel with his dick hanging out as he tossed a rubber ball to a butt naked Kurt could freak someone out. And sure, him yelling 'Yes, Master, I wants to play!' probably hadn't helped either. But for what they paid the bastard, he should be willing to watch them recreate every scene from 'Deep Throat' with a homosexual slant. Besides, if he hadn't been a half an hour early, the incident never would have happened at all.

Karofsky's lawyer had gotten the man out of the city as fast as possible, putting a good fifty grand in his pocket to keep his mouth shut, so his fellow groomers didn't know the actual story, but everyone in Hollywood knew that when someone disappeared from a star's house, never to return, it meant that something nasty had gone down. Or that the star was secretly a serial killer.

After a couple of weeks the story would fade—they always did—and they'd have another groomer but, until then, it looked like they were stuck with the temp agency. The temp hadn't seemed too bright from their short conversation over the intercom, but Kurt supposed it didn't take much brains to spray a couple dozen pit bulls with a hose.

The doorbell rang again just as Kurt reached the door and he paused, waiting for the long, musical chime to end before reaching for the handle. It always paid to make a good entrance.

Kurt pushed the button above the handle that automatically opened the massive doors, the closest he could get to flinging them open majestically. The only one in that house strong enough to actually yank the things open was Karofsky, a fact that was slightly disturbing when you took into account that it pretty much meant if he locked up the auto-opener that Kurt would be stuck in the house.

"Welcome to Mr. Karofsky's house. For God's sake don't track mud—" Kurt cut off the sentence abruptly as his eyes fell on the man in front of him. No way. It couldn't be. It wasn't *possible*.

"Kurt?" The man said incredulously, looking just as shocked as Kurt felt.

"Puckerman?" Kurt replied, well aware that he probably looked like an idiot with his mouth hanging open as wide as it was.

"Kurt?" Puck said again, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Yeah, it's me," Kurt said, knowing that if he let Noah Puckerman control the conversation they'd probably go back and forth 'Kurt? Puck? Kurt? Puck?' for an hour.

"Are you *famous?*" Puck asked, running a hand nervously across his chest. His rather handsome chest, Kurt noted idly. Seriously, considering it had been almost fifteen years, Puck hardly looked any different. He certainly wasn't showing his age the way Kurt was starting too, not a single line around his eyes, not an ounce of muscle dropped.

"Uh, no," Kurt said, kindly deciding not to point out that if he was famous, Puck would know it. That being the definition of 'fame' and all. "I'm a personal assistant. Executive assistant," he said hastily. "I'm an *executive* assistant." Because giving blow jobs to giants and pedicures to bitches was what executive assistants did.

"Oh yeah?" Puck said, glancing around. "Must be someone super rich. Who is it?"

"Uh, it's, uh, Davey Karofsky, actually," Kurt said, blushing as Puck's eyebrows shot up.

"Seriously?" he said with a laugh. "I though you fucking hated that fat ass son of a bitch."

"Yeah, well, that was before he became famous," Kurt muttered, more than a little embarrassed. "Man, I hear he's a real prick. Well, that's what they said in the Enquirer, anyway. He didn't show for the tenth year reunion. 'Course neither did you. Or Santana. The Enquirer says she's a bitch, too, but then who the hell didn't know that?" Puck snorted. "Oh, man, I can't believe you're stuck working for that low down jerkface!"

"I'm glad to know how you feel about me, Puckerman," a deep voice said from off to the side of the entrance way. Karofsky stepped out from behind one of the enormous pillars, grinning. "I'll make sure and mention it when I call and cuss out the temp agency for sending your sorry ass."

Kurt flinched at the words, his stomach twisting as he silently willed Puck to keep his mouth shut. It was true—Dave Karofsky *was* a jerkface prick, but Kurt knew better than to fight back. He wanted to keep his job, after all, and if swallowing Dave's crap, not to mention his cum, was what it took to land him those major auditions, he was willing. The last thing he needed was Puck sullying Kurt's good behavior by association.

"Oh man," Puck said as he stepped through the doors, sort of shoving Kurt aside, "you are such a motherfucker. Make one move toward a phone and I will kick your fat ass!"

Kurt winced, hunching his shoulders as he watched the dangerous look brewing on Karofsky's face.

"Oh yeah? You think you can take me, Puckerman?"

"I could take you before and I can take you now, Sasquatch!"

"Oh!" Karofsky said, smacking a hand to his heart. "That one cut *deep*! C'mon, Puckerman, show me what ya got. 'Cause I'll tell you what *I* got. I got a personal trainer and six months of mixed martial arts practice to get me ready for the sequel to 'Urban Gun Slinger.' Bring. It. On!"

"Whoa!" Kurt cried out, stumbling back as Puck and Karofsky sort of leapt on each other, their bodies tangling as they fell to the ground, rolling around. "Oh my God," he moaned as Karofsky wrapped an arm around Puck's neck. Somebody was going to die.

o o o

"Okay, okay, okay, I give!" Puck finally choked out as Dave's very well muscled arm tightened around his throat. Dave chuckled and released him with a smirk.

"I told you I've been training, Puckerman."

"You must have," Puck said, rubbing his aching throat. "You're a son of a bitch, Karofsky."

Dave laughed, grinning widely at him. "I know, right? And you're a piece of shit."

Puck grinned back. "But I sure am one sexy piece of shit."

"I'll give you that," Dave said with a shrug. He looked off to the side and raised an eyebrow, a smirk blooming on his face. "You okay, fancy pants?"

Puck glanced over as well, letting out a short laugh as he saw Kurt sort of hiding in a corner, looking kind of terrified.

"Relax man," Puck said, giving Dave a light punch on the shoulder. "It was just a bro-fight. That's what bros do, you know. Fight."

"Yeah," Dave said as he moved toward Kurt and sort of knelt down, holding out his hand in a surprisingly gentle way. Puck raised an eyebrow as Kurt hesitantly took it, hiding a smirk at the way Dave goo-goo eyed the smaller man. Someone obviously had a real hard on for Kurt Hummel.

"I keep trying to explain that to Mr. Stick Up the Ass over there," a cold female voice said, "but he never gets it. I tell him over and over again, 'Whaddup, loser?' is jock for 'Hello, dear, how are you?' but he never listens."

A smile spread slowly over Puck's face as none other than Santana Lopez appeared out of seemingly nowhere, looking as haughtily beautiful as ever. Her smile had a cruel slant to it, but her eyes sparkled with amusement and maybe, just maybe, a little hint of happiness?

"Santana," Puck said, moving toward her. She looked hot as hell, dressed in tight pink sweatpants and a t-shirt with 'Diva' written on the front in sequins, and Puck felt a stirring in his downstairs brain. Why, why, *why* was it always the lesbians?!

"Hey, baby," she murmured, reaching out to give him a tight hug. "Long time, no see."

"Yeah, you guys didn't make it to the reunion. It was fucking hilarious. Mr. Schue's hair is all grey and, get this, Jacob Ben Israel is a Marine. Can you believe that? And, oh my God, Rachel is a freaking mess! She got drunk in the first ten minutes and spent the rest of the night swaying on the snack table singing Barbra Streisand songs."

"Oh, we've seen her," Dave said, rolling his eyes. "She doesn't want anybody's help, though. Stupid bitch."

Santana snorted. "Yeah, well, she's a *real* star, remember? Not a sell out like us."

"Stop talking about Rachel like that," Kurt snapped suddenly. Puck had forgotten he was even there. "She's trying really hard."

"It's not about trying, you dumbass," Dave said with a roll of the eyes. "It's about luck. I tried out for Batman because I lost a *bet.*"

Puck laughed. "Seriously?"

Dave nodded, smirking. "Yeah. I moved out here to try and become a sports agent. This was back when Santana was playing her own evil twin on 'Days of Our Lives' . Ran into her at a bar. We got talking about the new Batman movie. She knew the casting agent and was joking that my fat ass would make a perfect Penguin. Bitch started calling me 'The Penguin.' Drove me damn crazy. In my drunken stupidity I bet that Robert Downey Jr. Would stay off drugs for more than a month and, if I lost, I had to try out as the Penguin. Of course I lost—Downey loves heroin like most people love indoor plumbing—and so I tried out. Then I got the fucking part. Can you believe it?"

"I sure can't," Kurt said coldly. "You aren't even a real actor."

Puck bit his lip as he watched Dave physically flinch.

"Yeah, well," the man muttered back, fists clenching a little, "I may not be a real actor, but at least I don't use my skills to play the part of Hand-job Heidi."

Kurt's lips pursed, his eyes narrowing. "If you'll excuse us, Mr. Karofsky, I need to show Puck to the kennels so that he can get started."

"Dude, how did you end up washing dogs for cash?" Dave asked, ignoring Kurt's comment.

Puck shrugged. "My pool service bombed. Getting too old for the cougars, ya know?" He sighed. "I had to stick my shit in storage 'cause I didn't pay my rent. So I figure why not a temp service? You get paid cash up front, so I can afford a motel room 'til I get my shit together."

"Aw, screw that," Dave said, waving a hand in the air. "You can bunk up here, tonight. Kurtsy will put you a room together, won't you, babe?" He chuckled. "You know, before he helps me make my bed."

Kurt's shoulders tensed and he shot a rather annoyed look at Dave, but when he spoke all he said was, "Of course, Mr. Karofsky. Now, if you could come with *me*, Puck…"

Puck glanced over at Dave, who shrugged. "Geez, calm down fancy pants. Go forth, be fruitful, wash puppies. We'll hang out when bitch boy over there clears the schedule."

"Sounds good to me," Puck said, tossing Santana one last smile. "How about you, Santana?"

"Well, I do live here," she said dryly. "And even if fat ass decides to call it a boy's night, you both know I have more balls than Kurt over there."

"Hear, hear," Kurt muttered, making Puck chuckle. "Now, if you'll come with *me…*" This time the words were emphasized with a sharp tug on his arm.

"Okay, okay," Puck said. Apparently Kurt was still as pushy as hell. Some things never change—but just about everything else had.

o o o

Kurt's heart was pounding fast as he walked toward the kennels, practically dragging Puck behind him. His face was red, and it was all he could do not to turn and smack the idiot in the face.

"God, Kurt, slow down, would you?"

Kurt stopped abruptly and turned on his heel, glaring up at Noah Puckerman, a furious look on his face. The man almost slammed into him, coming to a halt at the last second.

"Shit, man, what's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with *me*? Kurt asked furiously. "More like what's wrong with *you*! Are you out of your mind, pissing off Karofsky like that? It was my decision to let you in this house! Don't you think your behavior reflects back badly on me?"

"Reflects back—? Kurt, what are you talking about?" Puck looked genuinely confused.

Kurt let out a loud sigh. "Look, you need to figure out how things work around here. Karofsky and Santana—they are the bosses. *Especially* Karofsky, since this is actually his house and Santana's just a two-bit actress with small time ethnic roles while Karofsky has Oscars. Notice the 's' on the end of Oscar. As in, multiple Oscars."

"Yeah, I got that," Puck said dryly. "I scan magazines at the supermarket, too. I know he has Oscars with an 's'. And this had *what* to do with you snapping at me like a rabid dog?"

"Karofsky only lets me work here because he loves to humiliate me," Kurt said, resting his hands angrily on his hips. "If I stop taking his crap, he'll fire me. Karofsky knows *everybody* in Hollywood. He saves abused pit bulls, does charity for fun, and keeps out of the media. AKA, everyone loves him! Nobody knows what a sadistic ass he really is! If he fires me as his personal assistant, then I'll never work in the industry again! It is my job to keep him happy, which means it's my job to keep you from acting like a total ass to him. So how about you do your job and keep your big mouth shut!"

Puck blinked, and Kurt sighed at the somewhat blank look on the other man's face.

"Really, Puck, is it so very hard to understand?"

"Uh, dude, what the tabloids say aside, he doesn't seem so bad to me. Hell, he doesn't seem much different from high school at all. Well, except minus the whole bully thing."

"Minus the whole bully thing?" Kurt let out a loud laugh. "Please. He's still a bully. Didn't you hear him? I can set you up a room, then come help him make his bed? Hand-job Heidi? Tell me how that's not bullying!"

Puck shifted from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. "Um, I'm pretty sure he was just teasing you about the bedroom thing. And the hand job thing… You did kind of start it when you basically said he's a shitty actor."

Kurt let out a dramatic sigh. "God, you are *so* blind, Puckerman. I don't know how you even walk a straight line. Look, I don't care if you see it or not. Just don't piss him off, okay? At least not when I'm around. I don't want any of it rubbing off on me." He pointed out the back doors, across the lawn. "There's the kennel. The cages are labelled. Wash Princess, Joe Joe, Miss Cuddles, Marmaduke, and Loafer. You'll get your cash when you're done."

o o o

Puck let out a tired sigh, stretching his arms back until he heard his back 'pop.' Washing dogs hadn't seemed like such a chore until he'd actually seen the kennel. Not only were the dogs enormous, Princess was covered head to toe in mud, Joe Joe was fuzzy as hell, Miss Cuddles smelled like poop, Marmaduke was twice the size of the others, and Loafer had somehow managed to dump his water dish onto his food then roll in it.

"Hey, man, you need a hand?"

Puck looked up, smiling at Dave, who was hovering in the door. "Hell, yes, I need a hand. God, these dogs are slobbery as hell."

Dave laughed. "Yeah, they are, aren't they?" He walked up, rubbing his hands up and down Joe Joe's body. The dog wiggled in delight. "But they're such sweeties. They're all rescue dogs, you know. That's how they got the scars. It took me eight months to get this big bucket of love to trust me." He buried his face in the dogs neck then made a loud farting sound. Puck laughed.

"Yeah, they're nice dogs, man."

Dave smiled. "Yeah, I love 'em. Hey, I'm sorry about Princess Prissy dragging you off like that. I swear, he runs this place with a freaking iron fist. You can't do anything without running it by him or he gets this constipated look… It's kind of cute, actually."

Puck raised an eyebrow at that, wondering what Kurt would think if he knew Dave thought he looked 'kind of cute.' From what the man had spewed out earlier, it was obvious that he was still operating under the same blindfold he'd been during his years at McKinley, taking every word that came out of Dave's mouth literally. You'd have thought the brat would have figured out jock speak by now.

"You know," Puck said, well aware that he was treading on dangerous territory, "I'm not sure he feels that 'in control'. It's almost like maybe he's… I dunno… scared of you?" He winced slightly, hoping that Dave wasn't going to erupt at the words. Thankfully the man just chuckled.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's fucking weird, too. I mean, why is he afraid of me? If I wanted to hurt him, I could have just called the cops when he broke into my damn house and he'd be sitting in a jail cell right now with a restraining order on his head. And it's crazy. One second he's acting all prissy and upset, and the next we're rolling around in bed. I never know what he *wants.* He shows up at my bedroom door at midnight acting like the maid in a porno flick, all 'oh, Mr. Karofsky, what can I do to *pleeease* you?'" Puck chuckled at Dave's high-pitched imitation. "Then later he's all pouty, as if he wasn't the one to start it. I dunno what to think."

"Yeah, well, don't come to me for relationship advice," Puck said tiredly as he ran the hose over Joe Joe. "My life's been one never ending cascade of desperate, size zero blonde chicks with body image issues. They're so fucking *needy*. You know what I love about cougars? How in control they are. Those ladies, they know what they want and they *take* it. There was no whining about their weight or their hair or their teeth. They just saw my hot body and went after it. How could I possibly say no? They might as well have had me chained down."

Dave's hands, which had been massaging shampoo into Joe Joe's fur, paused, and he looked at Puck with a strange look on his face. "That's the kind of women you like, huh? The ones in control?"

Puck shrugged. "I guess so. I don't know. I'm just tired of Life Sized Barbie. I wish I could get back to real women."

"Hm," Dave said, beginning to rub Joe Joe's coat again. "Hey, Puckerman… Did anybody ever tell you how Santana got her start?"

Puck raised an eyebrow. "No, but it was soap operas, right?"

Dave chuckled. "Well, that was her first gig as Santana Lopez. But have you ever heard of the amazing Mistress Satana?"

o o o

Kurt fluffed the pillow rather brutally, slamming it back down on the bed after a moment. It didn't make him feel much better. Apparently violence against soft, feather filled objects wasn't quite the release that punching a wall or kicking the stairs gave you. Not that Kurt was willing to risk his knuckles on the dry wall, much less his Gucci boots on the marble stairs, but it was the idea that counted.

Damn Noah Puckerman for showing up and screwing around with Kurt's already tenuous position. Kurt wasn't sure what the dumb lug had done, but he'd seen Karofsky coming out of the kennel with a weird look on his face and, ten minutes later, he'd been knocking on Kurt's office door to let him know that he would be making his own bed tonight and wouldn't be needing Kurt's help.

Surely Puck hadn't told Karofsky what Kurt had said? Okay, Kurt hadn't made him swear silence or anything, but he'd figured it was implied. After all, you didn't just turn around and repeat things like that. But why else would Karofsky be blowing him off?

If Kurt lost this job, he didn't know what he'd do. Yeah, he still had a room at his place with Rachel, but since he spent so much time in the mansion, most of his stuff was in one of the many bedrooms upstairs. Not that he spent many nights in his own bed. And where else could he make seventy-five thousand dollars a year doing nothing but taking shirts to the dry cleaners and taking phone calls from agents? Waiting tables wouldn't even cover his moisturizer budget, much less designer clothing and diamond jewelry. It was easy for Rachel—her horrendous wardrobe came straight from the aisles of Target—but Kurt had higher standards.

Of course, dry cleaning and phone answering wasn't *all* Kurt did, but even if he did those things for other people, there was no way he'd make what he was making here, even if he was the top call girl in LA. Not that he'd *ever* even *contemplate* doing something like that. Kurt Hummel was many things, but he wasn't a whore. Okay, yeah, maybe he kind of sort of screwed Karofsky for money, but it was mostly for a chance at the big time. The money was just a bonus.

Kurt dropped the other pillow onto the bed, glancing around the room with a sigh. Everything was ready for Puckerman, the backstabbing bastard, and he was finished for the night. Karofsky had made it very clear that he would be turning down his own bed tonight, so Kurt should just go to his room like a good boy, maybe spend some time angsting over his lost chances. Give himself a good cry to sleep. Contemplate the star he could have been.

Oh screw that. No way in hell was Karofsky making his own bed tonight.

o o o

"Get on your knees."

Puck stopped abruptly in the doorway, startled by the words. Santana was standing across the large bedroom, leaning on a dresser with an amused look on her face. She was still dressed in her sweatpants, though she'd added a baggy sweatshirt on top. He hair was up in a messy ponytail and she wasn't even wearing any makeup. She certainly didn't look like something out of a porno.

"You heard her, Puckerman," Dave said idly, stretching out on the California king sized bed pressed against the wall to Puck's right. He was dressed as frumpily as Santana, with baggy grey sweatpants and a loose fitting t-shirt.

"Wow, you guys are really dressed to the hilt," Puck joked in an effort to calm his nervousness.

Santana let out a derisive laugh. "It's not your business what the fuck we wear. You're ours. We're not yours. We're not here to please you. You're here to please us. Get it? Got it? Good. Now get on your fucking knees before I get Davey over there to bend you over his knee and smack your ass with his abnormally big hands."

Puck opened his mouth to reply then snapped it shut at the look on Santana's face. After another moment's hesitation he finished shutting the door then slowly climbed down on his knees.

Dave let out an annoyed sigh. "How long does it take you to get on your fucking knees, Puckerman? You're making all the twinks at the gay bar cry. It's not rocket science, so hurry it up. I wanna fuck and get to bed. Some of us have nothing to do tomorrow, and we need to be well rested for that."

Santana laughed. "You hear that? Davey wants to fuck, and I want to watch. So get your ass on the bed."

Puck started to stand, flinching a little as Santana strode across the room, grabbing him by the hair on his 'hawk and dragging him back down. "Stay on the fucking floor! God, you're a moron."

"Come here, pretty," Dave crooned from the bed, slipping a hand into his sweatpants to massage at his prominent erection. "Come to daddy."

Puck's face flushed at the words. What the hell was he doing? This was insane. Yeah, okay, he was tired of needy bitches, but talk about taking it to the opposite extreme. He had definitely gone nuts. There was no way—

"Hey there," Santana whispered as she crouched down behind him, her lips playing softly at the back of his neck. "You're okay. You just be a good boy, and it will all be okay." A delicate hand slipped around Puck's throat and a shiver ran down his back. "Mommy wants to see you be a good boy for Daddy." Her hands dropped downward, slipping under his t-shirt and running across his chest. Puck's cock twitched and she ran her fingernails across his pec. "Okay?"

Puck swallowed hard as her hand slip further, dipping into his pants. "O-okay," he said in a choked voice, then winced as her hand tightened almost painfully around his dick.

"Say, 'yes, Mommy,'" she said in a dangerous voice. "Say, 'Yes, Mommy, I'll go to Daddy."

Puck hadn't thought his cheeks could get any hotter. Oh the naivete. This was so, so crazy. Totally utterly—

Santana's hand massaged his cock.

"Y-yes, Mommy," he choked out. "I'll go to…" He cleared his throat, glancing up uncomfortably at Dave, who smirked down at him. "To Daddy."

"That's a good boy," Santana murmured, then she was gone, hand slipping away from his dick as she stook, moving toward the bed. "Come on, puppy, go to Daddy." She climbed onto the bed, settling down on Dave's far side, wrapping an arm around his head and pulling it downward until it rested on her breasts, his big body bent at an awkward angle. "Daddy wants to play with his puppy, don't you, Daddy?"

Dave made a sound that was more like a growl than an answer and Santana laughed.

"Oh, yes, Daddy definitely wants to play. Now come on!"

Puck flinched as the words turned into a shout and began to move toward the bed, his movements feeling jerky and strange. He started to stand when he reached the edge of the bed, but Santana made a hissing noise.

"Uh-uh. Don't you dare get off your fucking knees, puppy. Pull yourself up."

Puck stared at the side of the bed in disbelief. Pull himself up? How was he supposed to pull himself up? The bed was at least three and a half feet off the ground with nothing to grasp on to except the comforter. Seeing no other option, Puck took a handful of cover and tried to lift himself up, only to have the blanket pull toward him.

Dave gave a derisive laugh, like he thought Puck was the biggest idiot in the world. "Aw, isn't that cute? He can't even get off the fucking ground."

She shrugged, a smirk playing on her lips. "Well, I guess we know where he belongs." She turned her gaze on Puck. "Sorry, puppy. I guess you won't be having any fun tonight. Have a nice sleep down there. I guess I'll have to help Daddy play." Her lips turned up in amusement as she pulled his head tighter against her chest and slipped her hand under the elastic waistband of his sweatpants.

Puck's cock jumped as he watched Dave gasp in pleasure and he reached up, grabbing the covers close to the middle and hauling as hard as he could, pulling his body up off the floor and dragging it onto the bed.

Santana laughed out loud, sneering a little at him. "Oh, I guess we know what puppy wants now, don't we, Daddy?" she said, slipping her hand out of Dave's pants. "Come on then, Pucky puppy." She leaned forward and pulled off her sweatshirt in one smooth motion, tossing it in his direction. Puck ducked just in time and it sailed by him.

"That's a good boy. How about you get some of those clothes off?"

Puck licked his lips as Santana began to caress her breasts, sliding the left one out of the cup of her pink bra, massaging at her nipple.

Screw sanity. He was hard as a rock.

o o o

Kurt stared furiously at the closed door, following it with his eyes as he paced back and forth. It led to the left wing of the house, where Karofsky's bedroom was, and it was locked. That damn door was *never* locked. Kurt should know. He'd spent plenty of hours behind it, playing Jane to the bastard's Tarzan as he fucked him senseless.

What did it mean, the door being locked? Was it a sign? Did it mean Kurt was fired? Kurt couldn't be fired. Could he? Surely Karofsky wouldn't be that cruel, just locking him out. He'd come and tell him, wouldn't he? Right?

Kurt took a deep breath, coming to a halt in front of the evil door. Screw it. Juan the Gardener had a juvenile record. Kurt bet he knew how to pick locks.

o o o

Puck shivered a little, the room cool against his now bare flesh. He was kneeling at the end of the bed, his clothes tossed to the floor and his erection rising between his thighs. Santana and Dave were still leaning against the headboard, but Santana's bra was now hanging off the bedside lamp and Dave had an arm wrapped around her. His hands were big enough to wrap entirely around her *very* ample breast and he was kneading at it patiently as she gave another small moan.

Puck had been watching this for at least ten minutes now, and his dick was throbbing so hard it hurt, pre-cum trickling down the shaft. But he couldn't come, because Santana had made it *very* clear that if he came without permission, *he* would never get to feel those beautiful breasts.

"Oh, he is such a good boy," Santana whispered hoarsely, her eyes locked on Puck. "Isn't he, Daddy?"

"Mmm," Dave said agreeably, his had pausing on her breast. "He is a good boy… But I still want to fuck him."

Puck shivered again, but this time it wasn't from the cool air but from he look in the man's eyes. Men had never been his thing, though he didn't have any problem with queers. He was a sexy dude in LA. If he'd had a problem being hit on by guys then he'd have to have left the city years ago. But the way Dave was looking at him, like he was something delicious to eat, was simultaneously frightening and arousing.

"Hm, I'm not sure our puppy is ready for that, Daddy," Santana crooned. "See that look in his eyes? I think puppy is afraid?"

"Is that true, puppy?" Dave said, grin turning into something wicked. "Is Mommy right? Are you *scared*? Is big, tough, macho man Puckerman *scared* of Daddy?"

Puck swallowed hard, pulse speeding up as Dave leaned forward, reaching out with that big hand.

"He asked you a question, puppy," Santana said, cupping both her breasts as she did so. "Are you *scared*?"

"N-no," Puck managed to say, wincing a little as he stuttered.

"Then come here, boy," Dave said, spreading his knees apart and patting the bed between them. "Come to Daddy."

Puck didn't move, his entire body tensing up as he watched Dave's hand move from the bed up to his groin, rubbing lightly at his erection. Puck's cock didn't seem to have a problem with it, however, because it just got harder.

"That's a good boy," Dave said, which was when Puck realized that he was moving, seemingly of his own will. When had that happened? God, he must be out of his mind.

Who knew being out of your mind could feel so good?

"There you go," Dave said in a raspy voice as Puck settled himself between his knees. "Now…" He lifted his hips slightly, yanking his sweatpants down to about mid-thigh before he let them drop again. "How about puppy helps Daddy out with this?"

Puck stared down at Dave's cock, trying his best not to hyperventilate. It didn't look much different than Puck's own, and he was pretty sure it functioned the same way, but he was still drawing a complete blank. What should he do? Did he want to do this at all?

"Come on now," Santana whispered as she began to crawl to him, her breasts sagging as she crouched like a tiger next to him. "Just give Daddy a little kiss, and then Mommy will give *you* a little kiss."

Dave wrapped his hand around his cock, making it *very* apparent where said kiss was supposed to go.

Puck hesitated, his eyes locked on the other man's swollen penis. "Come on, puppy," Santana said as she moved behind him, rising up on her knees and using a hand to press Puck's head downward. "Give Daddy a big, sloppy kiss." Puck shivered as he felt her other hand slip between his knees. "Kissy kissy."

"O-okay." Puck winced as he felt a sharp slap to the back of the head.

"Yes, *Mommy.*"

"Yes, Mommy," Puck whispered, his face now practically pressed against Dave's cock. The head nuzzled his face and Puck took a shaky breath, heart pounding hard. He could do this. He could.

Puck squeezed his eyes tight and moved his face, planting a kiss on Dave's cock. It was surprisingly soft, velvety against his lips, and a little wet.

"Oh come on, now," Dave said, feigning hurt. "That didn't seem like much of a kiss. I'm not sure he's a very good boy, Mommy."

"Well, then I guess he doesn't get a reward," Santana replied, her hand starting to retreat.

Oh, hell no.

Without even thinking about it, Puck leaned forward and sort of wrapped his lips around Dave's dick, lapping at the skin with his tongue. Dave moaned, letting his head fall back.

"Ah, now there's my good boy," Santana whispered against Puck's neck. She ran her tongue along it as her hand wrapped around his cock, giving one good, solid pump before releasing it. "Now, you make Daddy happy, then Mommy will make you happy, okay, puppy?"

Puck tensed, stomach turning a little. It wasn't as if he could pretend he didn't know what she wanted him to do. It was pretty obvious from the way she was still holding his head down next to Dave's groin. But did he really want to do this?

"Do it, Puck," she said in a cold, firm voice. "Don't make me angry. You don't want to see me when I'm angry. Be a good boy for Daddy, or your ass is going to know what angry feels like."

Puck squeezed his eyes shut again and opened his mouth, taking in Dave's dick before he had time to talk himself out of it.

"Oh, that's a good boy," Santana said in a strangely proud voice. Her fingers squeezed around his dick.

"Yes," Dave moaned, his big hands finding Puck's face as he began to lightly thrust.

Puck choked a little at the motion and Santana let out a giggle. "Relax, puppy," she said, caressing his scalp with one hand. Just keep swallowing, over and over, and it won't choke so bad."

Dave's cock thrust in his mouth a little deeper and Puck started to pull back, only to find his head held firmly in place by the other man's hands.

"Mmmhheemm," was all he could say around the dick in his mouth as the first tinges of panic began to rise up.

"Hey, it's okay, puppy," Santana whispered, bending over and wrapping her arms around him. It just solidified Dave's hold, but at the same time it made him feel good. Santana would take care of him, as long as he was good.

Puck forced himself to relax, letting Dave's cock slide easily in and out of his mouth. The thrusts were light, and not too deep, and Puck found that if he concentrated then it didn't really choke him.

"Oh yeah," Dave said, "Daddy likes that." He moaned loudly. "Yeah, baby, yeah…"

"That's a good puppy," Santana whispered in Puck's ear, arms still tight around him. "Almost done. Just be a good boy, a little while longer—"

"Oh God!" Dave cried out and Puck began to choke as his mouth was filled with hot, salty liquid. He began to try and jerk back, wanting desperately to spit the stuff out, but Santana held him firm from behind and, after realizing it was swallow or choke, Puck was forced to drink it down.

"Good boy," Santana said, lifting up and pulling Puck with her. He moaned as he felt her breasts rubbing against his back. She reached out with both hands and began to work Puck's dick, almost agonizingly slowly. "Now tell Daddy 'thank you,'" she said in his ear, running a thumb along the head of his cock. "Tell him 'thank you,' then you can come."

Puck moaned. "I wanna… Wanna…"

"Say 'thank you, Daddy,'" Santana said, hands clamping down hard. "Say 'thank you, Daddy,' then you can come."

Puck lifted his eyes, cheeks redding at the wide, satisfied smirk on Dave's face. "Th-thank you," he choked slightly, "Daddy."

Dave's smirk morphed into a smile. "You're welcome, puppy."

With those words Santana gave a final pump and Puck doubled over as the endorphins in his brain decided to throw a party. Cum spurted from his cock and he sort of collapsed in Santana's arm, breath coming hard. He just lay there for a moment, slumped in her grip, then Dave let out a soft laugh.

"So, Puck… What do you think of the amazing Mistress Satana?"

Puck gave a shaky laugh, forcing himself to sit up straight. "I think she definitely earned the title of 'amazing.' Thanks, Mistress Satana."

"Do *not* call me that," she said sourly, turning her glare on Dave. "I *cannot* believe you told him they called me that."

"I think it's a great name. Don't you, man?" Dave asked with a smirk, gesturing for Puck to come lean against the headboard.

Puck did, giving a satisfied sigh as Dave gave him a light punch in the arm then leaned into him, squeezing his hand lightly. "I think it's perfect. Wish we'd known it in high school. Mistress Satana, daughter of Satan himself."

"Fuck you both," Santana said, shaking out her hair. "You two are so damn *male* that it's not even—"

"Oh my God, what the hell is going on?!"

Puck jerked at the sudden shout, eyes widening as a very red-faced Kurt stomped into the room. You could practically see the steam coming from his ears. Dave literally flinched, and even Santana looked a little uneasy. Forget Mommy and Daddy, it was obvious who was the real princess in this house.

o o o

This had to be a dream. It *had* to be. That was the only answer. Where else but in his nightmares would you find a naked pile of self-righteous bullies?

Kurt gave his arm a little pinch. Nope, it looked like this was actually real life.

Fuck. He was totally out of the job.

"You!" Kurt said, moving toward the bed, pointing angrily at Puck. "You went and told him, didn't you?"

Puck's forehead wrinkled up. "Told who what? What's your problem, Kurt?"

"What's my *problem*? What's my *problem*? You think you can just swoop in here and replace me?"

"Okay, he's officially flown over the cuckoo's nest," Santana muttered, grabbing her bra off the lamp.

"What are you talking about, Kurt?" Dave questioned, looking confused. "How did you even get in here? I locked the wing!"

Kurt turned his attention on him, anger that had been simmering up for months, no, *years*, suddenly spilling out. "*This* is how you fire me? I know you have no respect for me, but don't you think I at least deserve a face to face termination?"

"Fire you… Kurt, I'm not firing you. Have you lost your fucking mind?"

Puck let out a moan. "Oh, shit, I know what's going on. Man, he's doing his delusion thing again. Taking things literally? You know, like when you got pissed and said 'I'll kill you if you tell anyone' and he got all paranoid, as if there's a person on this planet who's never said 'I'll kill you if.'"

Kurt's eyes flashed. "He *did* say he'd kill me, Puckerman! He said it!"

"For the last fucking time, I didn't *really* mean I'd kill you, Hummel!" Karofsky snapped, looking annoyed. "It's a saying, a turn of phrase, a fucking metaphor if you like! I meant 'don't tell anyone or I'll be pissed,' not 'don't tell anyone or I'll slit your throat in the dark.'"

"Are you threatening me?"

"Oh God." Dave let his head fall back, banging against the headboard. "Someone save me."

"Look," Kurt snapped, "I know why you keep me around. I decided a long time ago that I'd take whatever you want to dish out if that's what I had to do to keep this job. But I'm not going to compete with him!" He pointed toward Puck again, raising up on his tip-toes to try and make himself look a little more threatening. From the bored look on Santana's face, he was pretty sure it wasn't working.

"Compete with…? Take whatever I…? Kurt, what the fuck are you talking about? You think I want Puckerman as my personal assistant? The fucker couldn't spell his own damn name until the sixth grade. The only reason he didn't ride the short bus is because half our school district is retarded! Remember that Brittany girl?"

"Hey, Brittany wasn't retarded," Santana protested. "She was mentally challenged. But damn good in bed. Tell him, Puck. I know she gave you at least twenty blow jobs."

"She did," Puck agreed helpfully. "And they were good."

"Whatever," Dave said, rolling his eyes. "My *point* is that Puckerman was here to wash my dogs, not to take your job, though I don't know how the fuck those things have enough to do with one another that you're feeling threatened."

"You're *fucking* him!" Kurt snapped, clenching his fists in anger.

Dave blinked. "So?"

"*So*, you fuck *me*!"

There was a moment of silence before Dave responded, a weird look on his face. "Yeah… but it's not in your *job* description, Hummel. You're the one who always seduces me in the damn kennel, wanting to play fetch."

"*Excuse* me?" Kurt said in disbelief. "Please. We both know that I have one job here, and that's letting you use my body in an ungentlemanly way for whatever dastardly and humiliating purposes you please."

Santana apparently couldn't hold it back any longer, because she let out a whoop of laughter. "Oh my God, this is better than daytime television! Jerry Springer, move aside! It's the Karofsky-Hummel Show!"

Puck snickered as Kurt turned his glare on her.

"Oh please. You *know* it's true."

"That is such bullshit," Santana said, shaking her head. "Dude, you've been coming on to him since the day you hopped over out gate and crawled in our window. Literally. The second you crawled in our window, the first thing out of your mouth was, 'Mr. Karofsky, I would make a fabulous assistant. Watch me assist.' Then you stuck your hands down his pants."

Kurt gaped for a moment, not quite sure how to respond. It wasn't exactly *untrue*… "That's not the point," he finally snapped, putting his hands on his hips. "From then, it was all him!"

"Oh, of course it was," Dave said, rolling his eyes. He held up his hands when Kurt went back to glaring at him. "You know what, fine. We'll pretend it was all me and my ungentlemanly dastardly manliness or whatever the fuck you said earlier. I officially strike all that from this job description I've never read and sure as hell didn't write. You no longer have to sacrifice your glorious body, high and mighty damsel. Just push papers and take out my dry cleaning and we're all good, okay?"

Kurt blinked. "Wait, what?"

"I'm pretty sure he's releasing you from your previously nonexistent sexual duties," Santana said dryly. "So how about you get the fuck out so we can cool down?"

"But… I… Wait… That's…"

"What?" Dave said, sounding annoyed. "Is there *another* problem? Some other ungentlemanly clause I was unaware of that needs to be stricken from the imaginary record?"

"No… I mean… You're not going to fuck me anymore?" The words came out a little whinier than Kurt had intended.

"That's right," Dave said, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. "Somebody call the tabloids. Now, seriously, can you go away? I am really fucking tired."

"But… I don't want you not to fuck me anymore."

"Then what *do* you want?" Dave asked, sounding exasperated.

A fair question. Kurt shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, face reddening a little. "I, uh, I…"

"Oh my God, he's a closet submissive," Santana murmured, looking amused. "He wants big, bad Dave to fuck him when he's bad and still be able to take the high ground. It's fucking adorable."

"Oh, shut up," Kurt snapped. "That's not true!" And it wasn't. Right? Totally. Absolutely. One hundred percent.

"Then what do you want?" Santana challenged, still looking like she was about to explode in giggles.

"I… uh… um…"

"Oh dear Lord," Dave murmured, climbing off the bed and wrapping an arm around Kurt's shoulder, leading him out of the room. "Come on, princess. We can talk about this in the other room. *Away* from our audience."

o o o

"Hey man," Puck said, putting the gas on his new Corvette. The engine gave a satisfying growl. "How's life?"

"Pretty good," Dave replied, his voice a little tinny over the cellphone. "I'm up for an Academy Award again. Best Lead Actor for Urban Gunslinger: Double Barreled."

"You've totally got it in the bag. It was an awesome movie, especially for a sequel. Heard Santana got her very own invite. No more 'plus one' for her."

"That's right. And if you thought she was Satan's mistress before, you should hear her egotistical butt now. How's the modeling career? I saw you on the cover of Men's Health last week."

"It's going awesome. Thanks for hooking me up, man."

"Hey, you're the one with the killer looks. I have to tell people that I broke into the biz by looking like a giant penguin."

Puck laughed, zooming through a red light. Fuck the tickets. He was a *star.* "How's the thing with Kurt?"

"Well, the therapy flopped, so we just started going to local BDSM club. Should have just done that from the start. I rule in the bedroom, he rules the rest of my life."

"So, basically, same as always, but with fewer tantrums."

"Exactly. How about you? Santana told me she hooked you up."

"Oh, it's awesome. Who would have though, Rachel Berry, a dominatrix? It certainly explains how she can afford such a nice apartment. *And* she's Jewish. My mom is thrilled. About the Jewish thing, not the dominatrix thing."

"Okay, well, tell her I got you both seats at the Awards. And if she's ever ready to give in and sell her soul, I'm still one hundred percent willing to set her up with a good agent."

Puck snorted. "Yeah… That would involve admitting she's not perfect. It's not going to happen."

Dave chuckled. "Well, the offer's always open. See you at the Awards?"

"You betcha. Later, man."

"Later."

Puck dropped his iPhone into the passenger seat, letting out a contented sigh as he zoomed down the beach in his eighty thousand dollar car toward his Playgirl photo shoot. To think, he'd thought his problem was being too old, but the truth had been revealed: In LA, it's all about who you know.

The End!