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After the whole ‘God’s telling me to get in your pants’ thing Rachel had given him a long lecture about dreams and subconscious and told him about some famous Jewish guy who knew a lot about them.
Puck remembers that now and looks him up online but from what he can make out this, whatshisname, ‘Fraud’ guy thinks that Puck wants to fuck his Ma which – no. Just no.
Puck’s not saying he doesn’t appreciate a nice pool-mamma MILF but this is his Ma dude! He loves her and all, but not like that! Also, Fraud seemed to think that smoking a big fatty made you gay except when he was doing it which Puck thinks is a bit – what’s the word? Hippocratic.
There’s some other Jewish dude who’s meant to be all into symbols and what dreams mean as well, but that seems to boil down to ‘What do you think they mean?’ which is just a cop out in Puck’s mind; making you do all the work instead of giving a straight answer. He doesn’t want to have to think about this shit any harder than he has to.
He just wants someone to explain to him why he keeps having all these fucking gay dreams about Kurt fucking Hummel.
* * *
And ‘fucking’ is the word for a lot of them. Puck’s even managed to shock himself with some of them.
He knows he’s got an active imagination where sex is concerned and he watches a whole shit-load of porn so to be honest, despite ruthlessly avoiding any behaviour at school that could possibly be labelled as ‘gay’, Puck isn’t too surprised that he dreams about hard muscles and thick cocks occasionally instead of tits and pussy. He tries not to be bothered. Getting off is getting off when you’re 16 and permanently horny and it’s any hole in a storm, right?
But he is surprised that he’s apparently picked up a lot more about the gay shit during his web trawls for spank bank material than he thought. He didn’t mind it being there – the Internet Is For Porn, after all – but he always skipped over it pretty damn quick and he hadn’t thought he’d paid that much attention to it as he browsed through.
So having his brain throw all that shit back at him in its full sucking-fucking-fingering-rimming Technicolor glory during the night shook him a little. To say the least.
* * *
Because do they have to star fucking Hummel?
If Puck was just dreaming about some anonymous, blank faced guy sucking him off then – well, then he’d probably still be waking up disgusted at himself and a bit weirded out, but he’d be able to cope.
It’s when he has dreams about Hummel’s mouth on him; pink lips wet and stretched around Puck’s cock, those apple-cheeks growing red, those blue eyes darkening as they look up at him and he groans and thrusts forward…
And then the same fucking day he’s got to watch as those same lips move and mouth the words of some song in glee. Purse around a straw during lunch.
He’s got to wake up with sticky come in his boxers and the image of Hummel’s smooth, round ass there in his mind, so vivid he could almost reach out and touch it – touch it like in his dream, run his palm over it and smack it and gasp as that tight little hole tightens in reaction around him…
And then he’s got to make sure he doesn’t keep watching as Hummel walks past him away down the corridor. That he doesn’t think even for a second about pulling the smaller boy down into his lap during rehearsal so Puck can feel him wriggle and writhe against his dick.
He shouldn’t have this queer-ass crap in his head anyway, and he definitely shouldn’t be having it about the most faggoty little queen to ever tinkerbell down McKinley’s halls.
* * *
And it doesn’t matter if he avoids Hummel or not. Doesn’t make any difference if he acts like the boy’s invisible or if he slams him into the lockers and calls him ‘fag’ as he passes.
Puck’s still dreaming about him.
And now the dreams – the nightmares – are getting even worse. Because he can tell himself that the sex dreams are just his head getting messed up – that he just needs to watch some more girl-on-girl porn or jerk off to the image of Santana and Brittany going at it before he goes to sleep. That’ll stop him thinking about all this homosexual shit.
But he can’t tell himself that when he starts dreaming about doing things like just eating breakfast with Hummel; laughing at him as he spills cornflakes, still half asleep and looking adorable as he sits there wearing just one of Puck’s shirts.
Or when he dreams about holding Hummel’s hand in the halls at school; hanging round his locker and pushing his hair back slowly as Hummel smiles up at him.
Can’t tell himself that half an hour of dyke porn is going to sort him out when he falls asleep and he fucking dreams about being in bed with Hummel and watching him sleep. Just watching him sleep and running a hand over his bare arm, lightly so he won’t wake him. Just wanting to feel his skin. Know that he’s real.
Puck wakes up from those dreams feeling like he’s been punched in the chest – like he’s been tackled in a game by some 250lb bruiser of a fullback who’s stepped on Puck’s gut as he rolled over him.
He wakes up from those dreams still hard and aching, but with his hands flung out like he’s reaching out for something that’s not there.
Like he’s lost something.
* * *
Puck watches Hummel flounce his way around McKinley and he hates him.
He watches him sing and dance and wear his stupid, fantastically fagotty clothes and he hates him.
Watches him get beaten down and called names and bounce back for more with that haughty, stuck-up, ‘I’m better than you, than this and one day you’ll be dust under my heels’ look on his pretty, pale face and he hates him.
Hates him, hates him, hates him.
And wants him.
Watches him, and wants him, and dreams about him, and wakes up gasping with the pain of not being able to have him.
He hates him. And he wants him.
So fucking much.