Title: Bandaids for Bullet Holes
Pairing: Santana/Puck, hints of Puck/Quinn
Spoilers: Through Sectionals and speculation for upcoming episodes
Summary: In which Santana and Puck attempt to have an actual conversation
She’s sprawled out facedown in his bed, a thin sheet pulled over her ass to keep him semi-focused. She wiggles her toes experimentally beneath the blankets and yawns lazily,
“When are your mom and sister coming home?”
He reaches for a pair of boxers, tugging them on before sinking back into bed with her,
“Mmm.” She hums, closing her eyes briefly.
She keeps her eyes closed as she murmurs, “This probably makes us the shittiest people on the face of the earth, you know that, right?”
“Yeah.” She cracks an eye open to see him run a hand over his Mohawk, the slightest hint of guilt flicking over his features for just under a second.
“She was a bitch to you.” She says lightly, a justification if he so chooses to use it.
“Nah, she’s all hormonal and shit. Still my kid.”
She rolls over to the edge of the bed, plucking her lingerie from the floor and slipping back into the black lace before propping herself up on the bed and clinging to her ankle as she stretches her legs,
“Lucky for you, I know how to use birth control.”
“Lucky me.” He grumbles drily, eyes skimming along the supple skin of her thigh as she juts her leg out and up.
“Perv.” She says with a smirk.
“Old news, Puckerman. I cornered a pregnant girl and nearly made her cry – if anyone had any doubts, they don’t anymore.”
He bristles a little and she rolls her eyes, “Don’t get your balls in a knot, Puckerman, I didn’t actually make her cry. You think I’m the devil?”
He’s grumpy and irritable, delicious. She loves angry sex. She decides to give him a few more minutes to get riled up so she continues to stretch, rolling her upper back off the side of the bed to arch it and crack along her spine,
“So, what’re you going to do about this kid anyways? You going to go all toolbox toting, fishing on weekends, full stocked beer fridge Lima Loser dad on me? I don’t know if I could handle the beer gut.”
“Wow, San,” He says, mock awed, “Are you actually trying to have a normal human conversation? Where’s the alien spaceship? The chip implanted in your head?”
He feels along the ridge behind her ear until she swats his hand away, rolling over on her back so that she’s looking up at him. He gets tired of the wide eyed, creepy stare she’s giving him after a few minutes and simply shrugs,
“It’s Q’s decision. She doesn’t know what she wants yet so I’ll just hang on.”
She studies his face for a moment, surprised to see that he’s actually distressed over the whole thing, before snarking,
“Oh, boo hoo. Grow a pair, Puck! If you want in, get in there – give her money, clothes, whatever she needs. Babies are damn expensive.”
“But she said - ”
“I know what she said,” Santana interjects, “She’s alone, bears an uncanny resemblance to a beached whale, and she’s facing the idea of forcing a watermelon through the tip of a straw in a couple months. She needs somebody.”
“So you go talk to her.” He protests childishly.
“What are you, five? I have my own reasons. You, on the other hand, have a kid on the way and she deserves your support.”
She can’t help but think this is the weirdest pillow talk she’s ever endured, seriously, what the hell? Puck looks thoughtful as she rolls over, straddling his lap and grinding her panties against his cotton boxers, tilting her hips back and forth in an intoxicating rhythm. She grinds forcefully and watches him arch beneath her, groaning, before biting at his neck and murmuring,
“You know if she keeps this kid and you get involved, this is going to have to stop.”
“Shut the hell up, Lopez.” He growls.
They both freeze when a knock comes at the door and Santana hisses,
“Get.” He hisses, shoving her down beneath the covers.
Rebecca pokes her head in and her eyes widen before she clamps a hand over them and starts reciting,
“Noah, mommy and I are home early, you have homework and she wants to see it. Santana, we both like your new boots and mommy wants to know if you’re staying for dinner.”
She meekly pokes a head out far enough for Puck to see and hisses, Hell no.
“She’s staying.” Puck affirms, ignoring the sharp pinch on his thigh and the muttered bastard.
“Santana, can I try on your boots?” She calls back when the door’s almost closed.
“What the hell, why not?”
When she emerges her cheeks are red and Puck’s surprised that she seems embarrassed. He jumps when her hand snakes around his dick, giving a sharp squeeze and a twisting tug that have his eyes rolling back in his head, arching up into her palm,
“Pussy.” She whispers, her hand anything but stilling against him.
She works him harder, sharp strokes that have him bucking up into her palm. A low moan slips past his throat and he grunts,
“San, I’m gonna...”
She pulls away. PULLS AWAY!?
He opens his eyes and demands, “What the hell?”
She slips out from between the sheets, shimmying into her jeans and tugging her t-shirt over her head as she smirks,
“Next time you tell me hours, you make sure it’s hours.”
He lets out a string of profanities that only make her smirk more as she pulls her hair into a tight ponytail and says,
“I’m going to help your mom with dinner, she makes the most amazing Chicken Creole. Meet me down there when you’re finished.”
“You’re a bitch, San.”
“Yeah yeah, what else is new? By the way, you still owe me an orgasm.”