AN: So this chapter is a bit sluttier than my other chapters. Be nice!
Puck ignores Rachel's text, deleting it from his history. He believes her, yes, but there's no point in encouraging the conversation further. He doesn't want to begin an explanation, he doesn't want to waste time with words. He thinks back to what he said to her before he left, it doesn't matter.
(He wonders if it matters too much instead)
It is when he comes home, after he deletes her text, he realizes he never bought the gift he went for.
Fuck, he thinks. Fuck. He doesn't want to be a disappointment to his sister, not to her most of all. He resolves to stop by the mall the following day, try again with the purchase of her gift. He's grateful her birthday isn't for another week, he still has time.
He brings his fingers to his closed eyes, rubbing them incessantly. He tries to steady the thoughts inside his head, and he centers his thoughts back to the routine.
He goes to cover his wounds the way he's learned best, the way to heal is found through alcohol and sex.
He calls Santana, and curtly informs her he's on his way to her house with wine coolers and condoms.
It's not as much about the alcohol as it is about the sex. It's just sex, there's nothing to romanticize.
When he arrives, he rings her doorbell, and he doesn't wait for her to say a word before he drops his the wine coolers he brought, and nudges his body to hers, his mouth enclosing hers.
He kisses her like he had once before, so many times ago; it wasn't a routine he could have forgotten. His lips curve against her jaw, a sense of familiarity he hasn't had with anyone else.
(He briefly wonders if it's wrong to feel this familiar)
He remembers so easily what excites her body, he remembers how easily his fingers strum against her skin. He continues to kiss her, her palms traveling underneath his shirt, tugging him closer to her.
He moves his hands across the tank top she's wearing, how easily the fabric folds underneath his skin. He grips the bottom edges into his hands, moving it upwards off her body, throwing it somewhere behind her.
He buries his head into the crook of her neck, his tongue flicking across her collar bone, and he can't help himself from biting the skin.
When he fingers her waistline, he tries not to notice the way bone protrudes from the skin.
He helps remove her bra, the red blazing across her skin. His hands shake as he moves to cup her breast, but she doesn't say anything; he convinces himself the shakes are a figment of his imagination.
(Red is the color of adultery, and cheating but he's not cheating; but it still feels like he is)
Her bra falls off, lost in the wreckage of her floor, and her legs are wrapped around his waist. He kisses the column of her throat, his mouth marring the skin, and he loses focus long enough to wonder why her skin isn't paler. She tips her head back to give him more room, and he sticks his hand against the wall to steady himself.
She clutches his back with her palms firmly entrenched around his spine, circular patterns across the back of the shirt he's still wearing.
Her fingers curl into fists, clutching his hair.
It feels like old times.
(But not old enough)
Her tongue tangles with his as her hands struggle with his pants, and he finds himself dropping one of his to help her. His hands search through her folds, and when he feels she's ready, he thrusts into her.
(Like he's done so many times before)
When she leans forward into him as he presses her against the wall, he feels himself suffocating in the midst of her perfume. His breathing is labored, and he's trying to understand why it feels so heavy.
He feels her hips moving against his, and he's lost in the movements, it's their systematic breathing, the rhythm they fall into. They've been together countless times, he has the routine perfected to how quickly he can bring her to the brink.
But he's not lost enough, he's concentrating hard enough to not moan another girl's name. Through it all, his head is somewhere else, with thoughts of someone else. He wonders when the hell he become such a pussy, to be having sex with Santana and to be thinking of someone else.
She doesn't have that problem, it's his name she says over and over, and by the last one, he wishes he was someone else. When it's over, when it is over, she falls down next to him, and he barely catches his breath before he pulls her in for a second, third, and the fourth time.
He leaves when it's over, wiping his mouth with his hand, and slipping out the door without saying another word.
(She's just a girl)
He comes home, three in the morning, stumbling out of his clothes and onto the bed. His legs tangle in the sheets as he searches for his phone in the dark.
(917) I had sex with Santana.
(Three in the morning, and she's still awake)
(646) And what? You think we're even now? We're never going to be even.
He doesn't know what to say to that, and he wonders what this has become to be about, if it's not about getting even.
AN: Anyway, this was such a short chapter to write, it made no sense to hold onto it. I have the next chapter written, and after that, well, we'll see. I'm not going to stop updating completely, there's just going to be more time in between my updates.
