Quinn pretends she doesn't get it.
He's on top of her, inside her and some fuzzy part of her brain is aware this is meant to feel good. Really, now it just feels a little painful and uncomfortable – but she's heard first times are like that. Everything seems to be swaying a little, but that might be the impact of the alcohol (which she's pretending is more than it really is).
Puck grunts and grinds and keeps his eyes shut tight; at least he's enjoying himself. All the joy she feels comes from that little yapping voice at the back of her head: free.
So here she is, getting fucked by her boyfriend's best friend, and she doesn't really know why she's doing it. She feels glad to be with him – the way he kisses, and tells her she's not fat like it's the most obvious thing in the world – but this is wrong, and Quinn Fabray doesn't do wrong. She is the head Cheerio and the Quarterback's girlfriend and the role model and the president of the Celibacy Club, all the freaking time. She never gets a break, not ever.
She doesn't know why Puck's doing this either; sure, she's heard his reputation – more scandal than substance, she reckons – but she always thought he'd stop short of actually going after her, given how he and Finn are such fabulous Best-Friends-since-kindergarten, bros-before-hoes, to-the-end, make-her-want-to-barf buddies. Oh well. Guess nothing's to low for Noah Puckerman.
Or Quinn Fabray.
He automatically guides his fingers down to her clit; that ugly knob she barely dares to touch when she's alone in her bed in the dark, eyes shut tight so she doesn't have a hope of seeing that painting of the Madonna on her wall. She closes her eyes too; that does feel good.
His lips are on her neck and his hips start speeding up, thrusting into her faster, driving her onward. She whimpers a little, and he mumbles something against her soft skin. "In."
Well, yes, you are, she thinks, but something slimy and uncomfortable settles in her stomach. She gives a little gasp and wraps her legs around him, driving him further – if he wants more "in", by god, she'll give it to him. What's the point of all this if she's not even a good lay?
"In. Inn," he keeps mumbling, pulling away from her neck and lurching upright, eyes still shut tight. It finally registers that he is murmuring her name – Quinn, Quinn, Quinn Fabray the perfect lay – and is half-thrills, half-sickens her to realize that's the exact same sort of thing Puck would make fun of Finn for; call him a girl. But everyone thinks Finn's gay now for joining Glee Club (sinner, sick, fag, her daddy would say. Sinner, sick, slut, her daddy would say).
She's about to throw it in Puck's face anyway, before his words become clearer than he ever meant. "Inn. Finn. Finn."
She can't lie and pretend that was her name, or that it was some kind of regret or jealousy. She doesn't even want to. His calling sends a shiver down her spine, one that makes it difficult not to giggle, and she thrusts her body upward to bury her teeth in her neck, muffling the amusement, and she feels the vibration under his skin.
(Sinner, sick, fag, her daddy would say. Sinner, sick, slut, her daddy would say).
He quietens down after that, gripping her hips tighter, as if he's scared she may slip away somehow. Yet his lips remain shaped in and 'N'. She dares to open her eyes – Puck doesn't do likewise – and she finds the eyes of that painting over his shoulder, Mother Mary looking so disappointed in her.
Ha, there, bitch! Quinn has the urge to scream. Look at me! I'm a whore! How do you like me now?"
Puck starts groaning louder again, and his silence breaks, that name falling off his lips: "Finn, Finn, Finn."
It's such a cliche – Puck doesn't want her, he wants Finn, but he can't, so he'll take everything Finn has instead. And Finn will just let it happen, because he's an idiot, and too nice to stop it – a sweetheart and a gentleman, and how is that meant to help her?
Puck said they wouldn't care about Finn in three years. It was a lie, but it was an ugly-pretty lie and she loved it.
Puck just wanted to believe it was true.
She tightens her legs, digs her long manicured nails into his skin, and presses those homoerotic whispers against her ear. And that's the name her gives her when he comes; begging and screaming and moaning for more of Finn. He collapses and rolls off her, and she's not really satisfied, but in a way she is.
Ha, bitch, she internally says to the painting. Ha freaking ha, bitch.
"Quinn," Puck murmurs from beside her, as if he only just remembered the name. She stares at him for a few long seconds – tired and fresh-fucked, blissfully unaware of what he just said to her – and she can't help but laugh. She throws her head back in a full-blown cackle.
So. She's going to hell. As is he.
Well, she's always been a summer girl.