Fifty-Three
Hey, sexy.
It was how all the best messages Puck had ever gotten started off. He'd just give them some line about needing them and be nailing the chick in the back of his truck an hour later. He'd been ignoring most of his regulars though—fuck, he hadn't had sex in months, Puck didn't count getting his tip wet in that Lauren chick—but this message, it wasn't like that.
It wasn't some desperate Cheerio or Finn's mom—yeah, Puck hit that, oh yeah he did—it was Andrea. She never texted him before, not that he was blowing up her phone or anything either. It was just… well Puck was kind of hoping she forgot about him.
Because, he was still so hot for her.
Like a lot.
It was hard—like a fucking steel bar—to remember he couldn't have her. Her ass jiggling, mouth opened wide, hands moving down…
"Fuck," Puck groaned, as he stared at the sparkly ceiling of his new big gay room. He wasn't being mean or anything; you could probably see his new goldish digs from Mars.
It didn't matter though because he could feel that tingly feeling in his hand right before he rubbed one out. It was there and she was calling him sexy and…cookies. He needed lots and lots of cookies: chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, those white chocolate ones with the weird sounding nuts in them.
Any cookies.
Sighing, Puck rolled over so his feet were touching the floor, running his hands over his 'hawk before standing. Because he'd brought Quinn's bag upstairs earlier and jacking off after what he heard her tell his Jewbro—she didn't do anything. She just refilled her wine glass when I begged her to… all I wanted was for them to understand. "They don't love me, Rachel,t hey just love what my accomplishments could do for them—was kind of a shitty thing to do.
Like really fucking shitty, so...
There was this weird ass cookie jar shaped like an evil rooster in the Berry kitchen. The thing was fuckin' creepy—with its lazy eye and giant beak—but Rachel put all the good cookies in there, so Puck would have to risk it…with his eyes closed.
What?
He was still a fuckin' badass. He could smash that thing anytime, though the Berry dads probably wouldn't be too down with it. They made it on their first date or something gross like that. Because—Puck glanced at the thing and it was totally glaring at him with its lesser lazy eye—who keeps a deformed chicken to remember their first date by?
Definitely not this guy.
That was for damn sure.
Shaking his head, Puck turned back around and focused on the cookies. Chocolate chip…yes please; Rachel baked these herself and his Jewbro was a killer baker.
He continued on towards the kitchen table, shoving as much cookie in his mouth as possible and leaving a trail of crumbs behind him. Maybe a glass of milk would find its way to him by following them—if he was lucky.
Puck was on his fifth cookie when he decided he really wasn't (that lucky) not when Quinn appeared in the kitchen too. He almost would've been happier if that damn demon chicken came alive to kill them all when she looked at him with laser beams for eyes.
"Quinn," he mumbled because his mouth was still jammed full.
Lasers turned into beams of disgust so that was something. Dude, she was even a man-eater with a beach ball under her t-shirt. He tilted his head and it was kind of hot, that little extra…
Shit.
Back to laser beams. Abort, abort, agent compromised, agent… was fucking choking. Luckily (only a little) a glass of milk was just suddenly there in front of him—thank you, God—and he guzzled about half of it down with a happy sigh. It found him just in time; it was—
"You're completely disgusting," Quinn scoffed, grossed out beams back on.
She was standing like five feet away with a milk carton and…oh. The Puckster doesn't get embarrassed though ladies. He smirked instead, wiggling his eyebrows for his awesome badass look.
"Hey, babe," Laser beams, laser beams, "uh...Quinn…you don't have to pretend. You know the Puckasaurus turns you on."
Her eyes rolled before they were back to feeling like tiny little fireballs of death. "You do remember our conversation? The one where I told you, you didn't do anything for me at all?"
Puck clenched his fists—I said no but it was only because after a while even you couldn't stop me from imaging you were her—and he didn't care (much) it wasn't like he wasn't used to it. Everybody thought he was good for nothing, Quinn just liked to tear into him with it all the damn time. It was cool, he liked a babe that was straight up, and the Puckster wasn't into disappointing the ladies.
"Sure, babe," he shrugged and he made sure to smirk because he knew it pissed her off. "You know, I've been thinking. Our kid needs a name for after you push it out. Jackie Daniels, would be awesome, right?"
Puck looked at her and, yeah, she was age against the machine mad. It was what she expected from him but sometimes it really sucked because, man, he was an asshole. Just like his old man, using his kid to win a fight was his favourite go to move.
"You're an idiot," Quinn growled and it was now—maybe he should think about leaving to keep breathing—mad. Making her mad… yeah kind of a bad idea.
Then she started walking away and he jumped up. There was something in him calling out for her and it was warm and bubbly and made him feel a little seasick. It didn't have a name or anything like that. He didn't really care because he knew what it wasn't, had known since the night his dad left.
And it was totally not badass but…
"Wait," he called, she (shocker) stopped but didn't turn around. "Listen, everything… it's kind of on me and it's not your fault and—"
"Stop," she held up her hand and turned around. There was fire in her eyes but it wasn't burning him, so maybe there was finally a Puck-friendly kind. "I told you not to apologize. I don't want to hear it because this is my fault too."
"But—"
"I brought you over, I told you I wanted it too," she gritted her teeth like it pained her to say it, "but this," she gestured down to her stomach, "her. You told me to trust you and I did…clearly I shouldn't have."
Puck was sure that meant he should be sorry. She trusted him and…well he didn't give a fuck at the time. He was drunk and just wanted to get it in…he'd forgot all about the rubber. Now, he kind of wished he could do it all over again…
He frowned. "So then I should be sorry…"
"No, you shouldn't because I can't forgive you," Quinn looked down and it almost looked like she had to force her eyes back up. "Not for that."
She was walking away and Puck didn't stop her this time. He kind of did this to himself, right? It wouldn't be cool to bother her anymore. He looked down at his fist and there was cookie and chocolate all over his hand.
Great, just fucking great. Things needed to change, right damn now. Puck knew they did, he just...he grabbed his phone from his pocket—with the hand that wasn't yummy—and maybe decided that he had something to do.
