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Puck & Lauren
He’s totally cool with admitting it: Puck’s read Twilight, and a little bit of New Moon, even. He actually has a pretty great reason, and he’ll be glad to tell you once you stop fucking laughing at him already.
See, Noah Puckerman might be a B- student – thanks to Artie’s tutoring – but he’s A+ when it comes to seduction. He’s like the Brett Favre of getting laid in high school. Except Brett Favre is kind of old and broken now and he throws a lot of interceptions and his dick’s sort of small (dude, you know you googled that shit too, don’t even pretend), so maybe Favre isn’t the best simile you could make. Yeah, Puck knows what the fuck a simile is, because he’s a B- student, and you don’t get a 2.7 GPA without passing a few English tests.
But you get his point, right? Puck’s awesome at making girls want him. And there’s a really good reason for that: he does shit like read Twilight, so when Jessica Lowry with the great tits and that ass that twitches in her skirt when she walks like it’s a goddamn bell tolling, when he’s talking to Jessica in the hallway and she says, “God, I wish there was just one guy like Edward Cullen anywhere in real life,” he can lean in and whisper, “Before you my life was like a moonless night. Very dark, but there were stars, points of light and reason. And then you shot across my sky like a meteor.”
Puck spent like a whole fucking week memorizing that line, but oh, man, he can’t even tell you how much ass it’s gotten him. Not just Jessica Lowry, but like three other girls too.
He knows Lauren’s way into Twilight, so he lays that quote on her after math class, whispering in her ear, and she doesn’t miss a beat, tells him, “We’re gonna do some roleplay, Puckerman. Tonight. My place.”
Lauren’s kinda freaky. Puck likes that about her, likes that she knows what she wants and doesn’t give a shit what anyone else thinks. And he’s cool with some roleplaying. Puck’s got the whole Robert Pattinson sour-faced duck lips move down, and even though he doesn’t sparkle or whatever, his little sister has some body glitter he can borrow, as long as she promises not to tell anyone.
Except Lauren’s got something else in mind. Puck was pretty sure he’d just do his duck lips glitter thing and Lauren would stare at him vacantly like Bella always does in the movies and then they’d do it, but now they’re in Lauren’s bedroom and she’s pulling out this set of fangs, and that’s a little more than freaky, it’s just weird.
“The only problem,” Lauren informs him, “with Twilight, is that Stephenie Meyer doesn't use the neck-biting trope to its full potential.”
Puck doesn’t know trope, but it seems to come up way less in general conversation than simile, so that’s cool, he probably doesn’t need to learn it. “Neck-biting? With those?”
“Yeah.” Lauren grins at him, wickedly.
“Uh, okay.” This isn’t his thing, but if it’ll get him laid – “Hand ‘em here.”
“Oh, no,” she clarifies, wagging her finger. “You’re not gonna wear these. I am.”
It just gets worse from there. Lauren pins him down on the bed and cups his dick through his jeans, which usually totally gets Puck going, but the fangs are kind of distorting her mouth and she should really take those glasses off, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a vampire with glasses. And then she’s biting his neck, really biting down, not like pretend but full fucking chomping which hurts like a motherfucker and holy shit holy shit there’s blood all over his neck and shoulder and she’s lapping at it like she’s a cat.
“What is wrong with you?” Puck shrieks, his voice at least an octave higher than normal, and manages to roll out from under her, getting blood on her comforter in the process (at least it’s navy and dark brown). He jams both hands over the wound in his neck and stares at Lauren. “Dude. Seriously. This is majorly fucked up.”
Lauren shrugs. “I read Dracula over Christmas break. It opened my mind to a whole new world of possibilities. If you’re not up for it, your loss. There’s lots of guys in this school who wouldn’t mind being my Jonathan Harker.”
“I don’t know who that is,” he tells her, “and don’t bother telling me. This shit is crazy, Lauren. Like, you need to get some therapy or a safeword or something.” He grabs his shoes and sprints out of her bedroom.
“There’s some Neosporin in the bathroom cabinet!” she calls after him.
The next day at school, Santana asks him what happened to his neck, but she says it all suggestively, like she’s already guessed exactly what went down. Puck glares at her, and touches the wound gingerly.
He stops quoting Twilight.
Brittany & Santana
When she can’t get it in person, Santana usually prefers sexting. There’s something so hot about dragging it out like you’re forced to do when you text. The waiting in between messages. Using one thumb on your clit while the other thumb’s on the keypad. It gets Santana going just thinking about it.
Tonight, though, she wants to hear Britt’s voice. She misses Brittany, more than she’d care to admit, now that Brittany’s spending most of her free time with Artie. Santana’s mostly cool with that, the whole Brittany and Artie thing, but sometimes her pinkie finger feels a little empty without Brittany’s wrapped around it.
They haven’t done this before, not really. Yeah, Santana’s touched herself talking on the phone to Brittany, but that doesn’t really count, because Britt didn’t know she was doing it, and Santana doesn’t think it’s phone sex unless the other person’s thinking about fucking you, too.
“Hey, Britt,” she whispers, her voice low, “tell me what you’re wearing.” Her bedroom door’s locked (it’s not like her parents’ll be home anytime soon, but Santana’s always careful), and she’s lying on her bed, right hand brushing against her stomach.
“Hold on,” Brittany tells her, “let me check.” There’s a pause, and then, “Flannel pajamas, fuzzy slippers and a robe with some stains on it, I think maybe Cheetos? I don’t know any other orange foods.”
Santana sighs. “You’re not supposed to tell me that, B. Like, okay, so what I’m wearing is that black lace bra you like with the pink bows on the straps and my Cheerios skirt and no underwear.” It’s not true, of course, but she hopes Brittany takes the hint.
She doesn’t. “Aren’t you cold, San? It’s so cold out right now. You should get under the blankets where it’s warmer. That’s what I’m doing.”
This isn’t going well. Santana’s drier than the Sahara, which is seriously unacceptable. “Britt, listen, okay? You ever have phone sex before?”
She can almost hear Brittany thinking on the other end of the line. “That can’t be right,” she says, finally, sounding confused. “I’m totally sure phones can’t do it.”
If this were anyone but Brittany, with her sweet smile and the way she bites her lip when she’s lost in thought, Santana would’ve hung up several minutes ago. “Phone sex,” she tells Brittany, trying to keep the edge out of her voice, “is like sexting, but you say it out loud to each other, on the phone.”
“Ooh.” Brittany’s interested, now. “Let’s do that, San. It sounds way fun.”
Santana grins, slipping her hand between her legs. “Okay,” she says, stroking a finger around the edge of her underwear. “I’ve got my fingers teasing just outside my pussy. I’m waiting for you to tell me what to do.”
“You should definitely put your fingers in there,” Brittany says, happily. “It feels awesome.”
“God, not yet, B. You have to make me want it.”
“Okay.” She’s clearly puzzled. “Don’t put your fingers in there? Is that right?”
“We’re gonna try something different,” Santana interjects, pissed off. “You just listen to me and do what I tell you.” She remembers, suddenly, a trick she’d learned from another Cheerio, a cool and perfect senior Santana’d nearly idolized as a freshman. “Britt, I want you to put the phone down, go into the kitchen, grab a spoon and a piece of ice, come back to your bedroom, and pick up the phone again. Okay? Don’t let your parents see you. Got it? Repeat all that stuff I just said.”
“No phone, kitchen, spoon, ice, bedroom, phone, no parents,” Brittany repeats, with surprising accuracy, and then she’s gone. Santana waits, slapping her hand idly against her stomach in a syncopated rhythm.
When her voice comes back on the line, Brittany’s breathless. “I did it, San. The ice is so, so cold, like the soul of a sea serpent.”
Santana chooses to ignore this, and tells Brittany to press the ice against the flat of the spoon for as long as she can. “Now,” she instructs, after Brittany informs her the ice is melting all over her hand, “I want you to take the spoon and press it against your button.” (Brittany prefers “button” to “clit,” because “button” makes her think of sweaters, and Brittany loves sweaters. Even though the word’s cutesiness made Santana want to puke, she’s kind of gotten used to it.)
“But I’m all wet,” Brittany protests. “And not the fun sex kind, the unfun kind with water.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Santana says, impatiently. “Just put the spoon on your button. I promise it’ll feel really good.”
There’s a pause, and then Brittany gasps. Santana brushes a hand over her right breast, smiles. “Talk to me, B.”
“It, um, it’s really really cold,” Brittany tells her, her voice a little thick. “But I like it.”
Santana’s pushing her hand under her skirt. “I want you to put the spoon inside you, Britt. Fuck yourself with it for me, okay, baby?”
“Okay,” Brittany promises. Another pause, this one longer, and finally another gasp, only this one’s got an edge to it that makes Santana’s clit pulse. “Oh, wow.”
Santana makes encouraging noises, slips a few fingers inside her pussy, purrs her pet names for Brittany into the phone. Everything’s going totally great, until –
“San? San?” Brittany sounds panicked. “I can’t get it out.”
“What?” She’s confused. “What do you mean, you can’t get it out? It’s a spoon, B, you just need to pull it out the same way it came in.”
“I think it’s too big,” Brittany wails. “Oh, my God, San, I can’t get it out.”
Grab a spoon, she’d said, but she hadn’t specified what kind of spoon. Oh, shit. “Britt, you need to dial it down a few notches,” she says, shrilly. “What kind of spoon did you take? You were supposed to get a tablespoon.”
“The kind my mom uses to serve her casserole. San, I feel like a casserole now. It’s horrible. I’m never going to eat casserole again now that I know how awful it is to be a casserole.”
Santana spends the next twenty minutes calming Brittany down so that she relaxes her pelvic muscles enough to slide out the serving spoon, and when she hangs up she’s so pissed off that she can’t even focus enough to rub one out on her own.
She’s sticking to sexting from now on.
Finn & Kurt
Kurt knows he’s prone to hyperbole, but he’s still positive that this is, without exception, the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him. Even more embarrassing then that time Rachel wore plaid and stripes at the same time, and then actually sat next to him in rehearsal like it was no big deal. Far more embarrassing than that.
The urologist – her nametag reads Dr. Diaz – glances down at her notes. “Henry Higgins? Your name’s Henry Higgins?”
Kurt nods. His hands are folded carefully above his lap, hiding the tell-tale swelling; his legs dangle off the side of the exam table. He’s resisting the nervous urge to swing them.
“Isn’t that from My Fair Lady?”
“Dude,” says Finn, in the corner of the room with his arms crossed and a faint look of confusion etched on his face. “I told you to pick another name. Now she knows.”
“Henry Higgins is a perfectly acceptable pseudonym, Finn,” Kurt snaps, exasperated. “And the purpose isn’t to fool her, it’s anonymity.” He turns back to the doctor. “This is incredibly embarrassing. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t get a synonym?” Finn asks. “I mean, I guess it’s a little late for that, but it would’ve been cool of you to offer to make one up for me, or something.”
Dr. Diaz smiles a little at Kurt, reassuringly. “How long has the erection persisted – Henry?”
“Six hours,” Kurt admits. “It hurts, kind of.”
“And have you attempted masturbation, or any other sexual stimulation for the purpose of ejaculation?” Her question’s pronoun-neutral: careful, clinical, professional. He almost misses it when her eyes glance over to Finn, assessing him, and then shift back to Kurt.
Kurt’s really blushing now, and he can’t look directly at her. “Yes. Multiple times.”
“And no result?”
Well, he thinks, not from me.
“Kurt,” Finn hisses, from across the room, and, well, so much for the precious half-hour Kurt had spent combing his collection of DVDs for pseudonym inspiration. “You need to tell her everything. I read online that if you don’t get this fixed your dick falls off and you die.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Dr. Diaz interrupts, clearly trying to ward off the flood of drama threatening to spill from Finn, “but there’s cause for concern, especially if you’re experiencing ischemic priapism – which, unless you sustained an injury to your penis or perineum, is probably what’s going on here.”
Finn’s eyes are wide. Kurt’s are wider. Ischemic priapism? Oh, my God. He doesn’t know what that is, but if it’s two words he’s never heard before, it can’t be good. “No injury,” he says, slowly. “I just – was a little bored, and I thought it’d be fun to take a couple Viagra and see what happened. Stupid idea, I know. I probably should’ve watched more Very Special Episodes as a kid.” He attempts a self-deprecated laugh.
“It was my fault,” Finn cuts in. “Puck – this guy I know – he gave me the pills. I pushed him into it, you know, like a dare. And then it just got really out of hand, and we ended up – ” He rubs his palms over his eyes. “I didn’t realize there was anything wrong. At first.”
“You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do,” Kurt snaps, shrilly. He isn’t in the mood for dealing with Finn’s moping self-flagellation. “And now isn’t the time for indulging in gay panic, okay? We need to get this taken care of before Dad and Carole start looking for us.”
“Quit it with the gay panic thing, Kurt! I’m not gay panicking. I’m so far past gay panic I’m at, like, heterosexual calm, okay? You’re the one who’s freaking out.”
“I’m not freaking out!” Kurt shrieks. “Just because I care if our parents find out what we were doing – ” He cuts off, seized with the image of his father and Carole sitting the two of them down in the living room. Son? his dad asks, his tone sharp with concern. Is there anything you want to tell me? About you and Finn? He imagines the look of disappointment on his dad’s face, the wrinkle between his eyes deepening with confusion and disgust. He’s your brother, Kurt. What’s wrong with you?
“What I’m going to need to do,” Dr. Diaz interjects, gently, “assuming my examination confirms the diagnosis, is something called ‘therapeutic aspiration,’ where I’ll insert a needle into the penis, drawing the blood out from the cavernosa.”
Finn makes an involuntary honking sound like a sick goose.
“Do you have to?” Kurt’s feeling faint.
“If I don’t, you risk damaging the erectile tissue permanently. Kurt – Henry –”
“You’re about to get incredibly intimate with my damaged genitals,” he says, wearily. “You might as well call me by my real name, too.”
“Kurt.” She’s got a kind face. He’s grateful for that, at least. “Don’t mess with this stuff again, okay? I understand kids your age like to experiment, but keep it to downing a couple of Bacardi Breezers in your parents’ basement.”
He promises, and looks over at Finn. “Breezers,” he repeats, and attempts a half-smile, because he knows in a few minutes, there’ll be precious little to smile about.
Sam & Quinn
He can’t believe how lucky he is. The most gorgeous girl in school, the one any guy in his right mind would give up a phaser for, maybe even a holodeck, and she’s all Sam’s. It’s pretty much the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him in his entire life, except maybe for that time he won the sixth grade science fair, and Mrs. Leong bent over to hug him and he actually saw her bra through the gaping top of her dress. It was green and lacy and he popped a stiff one, right there. Luckily, she didn’t seem to notice.
No, Quinn’s better than Mrs. Leong, because he didn’t get to touch Mrs. Leong’s boobs, and just last week Quinn gave him permission to cup hers, through her uniform and definitely not under it, just for a few seconds. It was amazing, the firm solid press of her against his warm hand. He wondered then if her bra was green and lacy, too.
She won’t let him touch her, not really, but she’s starting to touch him more, her hands getting bolder. Tonight, they’re making out on the sofa in the den, and he’s got his fingers in her hair, because that’s pretty much the only place she lets his hands go for more than half a minute. He loves her hair, though. He’s thought about sneaking into her bathroom upstairs to see what kind of conditioner she uses, because he’s in the market for something that moisturizes better than Pantene Pro-V.
“Sam,” Quinn says, pulling away. Her lips are blotched red from strawberry lip gloss and the insistent push of his mouth. “You’ve been really supportive of me and my boundaries, and I want you to know I appreciate it.”
Sam knows he’s been supportive. He’s been the best freaking boyfriend ever, actually: not once has he asked Quinn if she’ll reconsider, or “accidentally” let his hand slip up her thigh. “You’re welcome,” he says, hoping she’ll stop talking and get back to macking.
“And – ” She looks pointedly down at his lap, where the edge of Sam’s hard-on is visible just to the left of his zipper. “I’d like to reward you for your patience. A one-time thing.”
Please let it be a handjob, please let it be a handjob. “I don’t need a reward. Just being your boyfriend is all the reward I need.” (God, he’s so good at this. He could teach a class.)
“That’s so sweet,” Quinn coos, “but I really want to do this for you.” She licks her red lips, and Sam watches her little tongue move from one side to the other, fascinated. “It’ll be good practice for me, anyway. Coach says I need to work on my breath control.”
He’s staring at her, astonished, not sure he’s hearing correctly. “Breath control?”
And then Quinn Fabray looks right into his face and tells him she wants to suck him off, and Sam almost comes right then and there, even if the way she says it is kind of rehearsed and awkward. Basically, this is the new greatest thing that’s ever happened to him in his entire life, and it’s so much better then that glimpse of Mrs. Leong’s boobs. It’s like when you watchAttack of the Clones and think it’s amazing, but then you see The Empire Strikes Back and you realize how much betterEmpire is in every way, especially because Empire has Han Solo, whose hair Sam really, really admires.
He pulls his jeans and boxers off in a hurry, gesturing towards his dick, and makes the fanfare sound: ta-da. Quinn rolls her eyes, which shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is, and she leans head first into his lap, hands folded behind her back like she’s going bobbing for apples. Her tongue slides out of her mouth, and she touches it to the side of Sam’s dick, lightly.
“That’s awesome,” he tells her, “but it’s not a frozen flagpole, you know. Your tongue won’t get stuck.”
Quinn pulls back. “You know,” she snaps, “you might want to be a little more polite, especially when I’ve got your penis near my pearly whites.”
If he weren’t sixteen and horny as hell, that might’ve cost Sam his hard-on, but he shrugs, shuts his mouth, and lets her go back to her administrations.
After a minute of lollipop licks, Quinn gets a little bolder. Her lips slide over the tip of his dick, and Sam gasps, has to stop himself from thrusting up into her mouth. “Good,” he manages. “That’s so good.”
She smiles around him, opens her mouth a little further, takes him in, halfway, and Sam screeches; Quinn, startled, snaps back, staring at him in horror.
“Was that your teeth?” Sam shouts, cupping between his legs. He’s struggling to sit up. “Are you trying to get back at me or something? Because that’s seriously low, Quinn. Jesus, that hurts.”
“I didn’t –” She looks genuinely horrified. “I thought that’s how you did it. I mean, where else are your teeth supposed to go? It’s not like I bit down on you or anything, I just scraped a little.”
“A little? Your mouth’s like the damn Sarlacc Pit.”
Sam was wrong, about this being the new greatest thing. It’s the new biggest disappointment, even more disappointing then the time he’d failed to split the seams of an old t-shirt while flexing. He’s soft now, and it’s like his whole body’s deflated, not just his dick, because he’s so bummed.
Quinn's majorly pissed off - embarrassed, too, probably - and she kicks him out after he’s gotten dressed. He storms off in a huff, but by the time he’s halfway home, Sam’s thinking he made a big, big mistake reacting so strongly. Yeah, it totally hurt, but it’s not like she neutered him for life or anything. He'll be fine after an hour with an ice pack and The Abyss, which Sam believes is maybe James Cameron's most underrated movie, and the perfect thing to take his mind off a sore dick.
He definitely doesn’t want to lose Quinn. She’s the best he’ll ever get, probably ever. If he’s going to keep being the perfect boyfriend after this catastrophe, Sam needs a plan. Preferably something with lots of romance and smoldering tension and intense stares. Something that doesn’t require him to talk a lot.
Sam picks up a copy of Twilight from the library that weekend, for inspiration.
(He skips over the parts that mention teeth.)