A/N: Been a long time since I've been inspired to write smut. Actually, it's been a while since I've been inspired to write much of anything. Sorry guys. But, with Glee's finale tomorrow and a promise of Puck/Quinn to come, I simply had to. Yes, this is the second time I've written that night between PQ. I simply love them. You can't blame me.


It's the way it's supposed to be.

The bed is lined in rose petals and there's soft Beethoven playing on the tiny radio on the end-table. The lights are dim and lilac-scented candles waft sickly sweet into her nose. Finn awaits; his eyes are revering her, but he is respectful and stays still as she takes slow steps toward the bed. She falls onto the soft covers, lays her head on the goose-feather pillows, and just like that, she steps past the threshold of child to woman.

But she opens her eyes and that hasn't happened (not yet, not ever) and she's a knocked-up ex-Cheerio who cheated on her boyfriend with the local man-whore.

If she's going to lie to herself, she might as well make it a true fantasy.


Here's how it actually happened.

Finn's not at this party; it angers her to no end, since she truly was only going for him. He's home and probably watching football or something and she's stuck at a party with people she doesn't know.

She finds Puck somewhere in the crowd and decides to stick with him because she knows him. Santana and Brittany apparently are here too but she's not bold enough to search for them.

And so this is how it happens.

It's simply because he's the only one she could find and she figures that, worst comes to worse, she'd be safe with him.

"I don't think you're drunk enough yet," Puck says. He holds his wine-cooler out in front of her; she'd only taken a tiny sip of it at his urging. He rolls his eyes. "Come on. It's not even the good stuff. You can have another sip."

She shakes her head. "I found God, remember?" She's not much fun at parties - she never had been, really - but her parents have been treating her like the sun shines from her ass since then.

Puck frowns, still. "That's what Santana said yesterday." Even though he appears disappointed at her refusal to take a chance, he shrugs offhandedly and places his glass on the table. He presses his back against the wall and wolf-smiles. "It's funny she's still in Celibacy Club after..."

She shifts uncomfortably. "Do I really need to hear this?"

Puck hums with satisfaction. "Any chance you'll follow her example?" He sounds almost hopeful, watching her to gauge her reaction. He smirks. "If you want, I can get you drunk on wine-coolers to give you an excuse."

"Shut up." I found God. The Bible says something about remaining true to yourself when everyone else wasn't. Right? Or it's something her parents said. Regardless, it's good advice. Santana could push past the walls of abstinence all she wanted. But Quinn wouldn't.

The party continues around them, the music loud and aching in her ears. It only takes her about five minutes of silence to snap.

"Puck, take me home." She doesn't belong here.


She remembers very clearly what she thought in the moments leading up to the event.

When Puck pulls into the driveway, she feels relief that she is home, and a certain thrill of freedom, knowing that her parents are out of town. In a sense, she feels a deep loneliness, and knows that she doesn't want to be alone. And so she makes sure she isn't.

She pauses before she removes her seat-belt and enters her house. She can sense the uneasiness flowing off Puck in waves, and she wants to laugh.

"Come inside with me," she invites him.

(It's those words that end everything.)

They're in her room, sprawled out across the bed in a way that isn't in the least sexual (it most definitely isn't cheating).

"Where was Finn tonight?" she ends up asking him. If anyone would know, it's Puck. They're best friends, and have been ever since they were kids. It's part of the reason she felt so safe with Puck, despite his reputation. "I thought he was supposed to be there."

Puck shrugs. "I dunno. Maybe his parents made him stay in."

The words, for whatever reason, anger Quinn. If Puck doesn't know where Finn is, he could be keeping a secret. And it bothers her. It always did, when she didn't know anything. She always has to know every secret.

"Damn him," she mumbles aloud.

Instead of laughing or even addressing she'd spoken, Puck instead asks, "What's with the scale in your room?"

Quinn glances in that direction. "It's for weighing, genius."

"But why?" Puck twists onto his stomach to look at her. He looks genuinely confused.

"Because I've gained weight." The answer is obvious enough. She wonders if he's really drunk, or if he's just that stupid. "Can't you tell?"

Puck's eyes travel slowly down her body, from her chest all the way to her legs. The way his gaze drags ungraciously makes her want to hit him, but at the same time, a flush grows steadily in her cheeks and she can't say a word.

"No." The answer is said through a bewildered frown.

And she can't really articulate exactly what happens then.


His hands are everywhere and he must have at least a million hands, just constantly groping and touching and skidding softly across her skin. Every touch is so precise that she wonders if he's ever fantasized about it before, because he seems to know just exactly what to do and where to put his hand and his mouth.

He's not Finn and has never been Finn. The two are best friends but they are total opposites. Puck enjoys torture and pain and punishment while Finn halfheartedly joins in the fun, his good heart and sense of morality too overwhelming. Finn is a guy like any other, and his hands would sometimes breach slightly too far for the Celibacy Club president to allow. But this is different.

It's different because she doesn't care. She should care; she knows she should. She should push his hands away and remind him that Finn is his best friend and that Jesus would be watching.

But instead, she pulls him back onto the bed and she kisses him back and for a sliver of a moment, she wants to believe she truly is drunk, but she's never been a fan of alcohol and has only been drunk once in her life.

Puck's hands drag ungraciously up her Cheerios uniform, and when she doesn't stop him, his fingers brush boldly against the lining of her cotton underwear. It's a thrilling sensation. Puck could have anyone; he could have Santana, who is thinner and more daring, and he could have Brittany, who lacks a gag reflex, and any other Cheerio in the school, including all the available women in Lima if he so chose.

But instead of with all the rest, he's here and kissing her and it's never made her feel more beautiful and wanted.

Her mind tells her that this is a sin and God is watching her now, but she shuts up all thoughts because it's much easier to focus on Puck than her tangled brain. And he's still kissing her, and she fancies he must have gills, because he never seems to take a breath, but she supposes it takes practice.

When he finally does stop for a breather, she reaches underneath his shirt, pressing her fingertips lightly to his chest. She has to make sure he's not going to have a heart attack or something, and after she thinks it, the very thought seems so silly she wants to laugh. But nothing is making sense right now and she's going to have to find out if Puck's breath is enough to make her drunk.

His heart is beating fast and faster still, the quick beat-beating of it hammering against her palm. He's warm and firm and real right before her and she wants him. She always got exactly what she wanted and so she wants him, and she'll have him.

"What're we doing?" he asks her, his words coming out in a single breath of air, his chest still heaving against her hand.

He wants an answer she can't give him.

"Something bad." Quinn knows it's not what he wants to hear, but it's all she can give him, and all she can think of.

He blinks slowly, then releases a short bark of laughter. For some reason, her answer amuses him, and she feels dismissed almost at once, like a small child being patronized.

Before she can say a word, his mouth his sliding over hers again, and she can feel his hands tugging at the hem of her skirt. She doesn't stop him, couldn't stop him if she wanted to, because both hands were underneath his shirt now, traversing the toned plains of his chest once more.

His hips dig into hers and she can feel his obvious arousal pressing against her stomach, her skirt already at her ankles and his hands pressing underneath the top of her uniform. She had never actually thought about having sex with Puck; for some reason, the idea of it had just entered her mind.

She should know the obvious reaction. She should be revolted, totally opposed to the idea of it. She should want to push him away from her and keep her chastity until she's married to Finn Hudson after college.

But her mind is gloriously blank. Why not?

She wants him and he wants her and he's here, and there's no reason why she shouldn't sleep with him.

And so she pulls off his shirt and presses her hand against his muscles, curious and new to the whole experience, and he removes her top and she's left (almost) naked in front of him and his jeans are tented and she just wants no more than to pull them off and get closer.

His lips press against her neck and his arms wrap across her body, fingers skillfully unclasping her bra.

She closes her eyes and doesn't pretend it's Finn, doesn't pretend she's married. She only pretends she feels regret when she feels nothing at all.


"Puck."

She stops him before he enters. He releases a frustrated hiss through his teeth, pulling himself back and glancing at her.

"Protection," she whispers, fervently glad she remembered.

He frowns, looking down at her with a battling gaze of frustration and want, his eyebrows knitted close together. "I don't have any."

Just like that, she closes her legs tight to bar him away, and she closes her eyes angrily.

She feels his hands gently sliding in between the crook of her legs, slowly pushing them out farther despite her insistence. Pressing a kiss to her stomach, he mumbles, "Trust me. I'll pull out or something."

"No." She doesn't want to take the risk.

"Trust me," he repeats pleadingly, as if it would mean the world to him if she let him fuck her. It makes her angry and it makes her sad and at the same time it makes her feel so deliciously contented.

She closes her eyes and nods consent and Jesus watches her with an expression of pure pain and disappointment as he enters her with a grunt. She sighs and Jesus weeps and Finn is none the wiser.


(As it would have it, he never did pull out, because her legs were wrapped far too tightly around his waist and he never got the chance to tell her to let go.)