The first time Quinn kisses Puck, it is at a party celebrating the beginning of winter break freshman year. She's buzzed on wine coolers, thinking she should have eaten something before she'd arrived, but at the time she'd wanted to see Finn and bask in his adoration more than she'd wanted to eat. Now that she's here, however, she is regretting that decision. Sure Finn had hovered around her like a dutiful, if dimwitted, boyfriend, but then he'd been dragged away by that annoying friend of his for a snowball fight in the backyard leaving her alone and annoyed. She wants to complain about it to Santana or Brittany, but alas they are in the backyard too, cheering on some jock or other whom they probably plan on stretching the rules of the Celibacy Club with later tonight.

And while the thought has crossed her mind that she could go outside and join everyone, she isn't about to give that insignificant little worm Puck the satisfaction of whitewashing her, because she knows he will. He's probably already convinced the other guys to help him do it just so he can make sure her clothes get soaked so she'll nip out the rest of the evening. Puck is a pig like that.

So instead of freezing in the chill December air, she waits by herself in the cozy warmth of the den, swaying gently in time to the music and silently counting the minutes so she'll know how long to make Finn pay for abandoning her like this. She's so absorbed in imaging the perfect punishment that she is surprised when a hand brushes her arm, causing her to shiver both from the sudden chill on her skin and the familiar touch.

Finn! About time he returned.

But when she twirls to look at him, she starts when she sees it is Puck, his cheeks reddened from the cold and bits of snow melting in his mohawk and the jerk is grinning in a way that makes her uncomfortable for reasons she couldn't articulate even if she wanted to.

"Dancing with yourself?" he says. "How about I cut in?" Then, before she can even respond, he wraps his hands around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and his fingers drift much lower on her backside than the President of the Celibacy Club would ever allow.

"Dream on!" she sneers, pushing him a step backwards.

"So that's a no on the dance?" he teases, unfazed by her glaring expression. "Fine. But while we're hereā€¦" He glances upwards meaningfully. She follows his gaze to the mistletoe suspended above them.


"Puck - " she begins, but he interrupts, pressing his mouth to hers and taking advantage of her parted lips by sliding his tongue against hers. And if she's entirely honest, she might have enjoyed it just the tiniest bit. But she's not entirely honest. So she shoves him away with disgust twisting her features.

And he smirks, the asshole. "Happy holidays."