the reading games
title; the reading games
rating; sporadic stuff thanks to lucy b/c apparently me + writing = otp
ship; puck/quinn || quick
he only had two words for her: challenge accepted
Puck was worried that after this accident (and subsequent wheelchair) his old Quinn would have disappeared. He thought it would change her horribly, and it did. Not for the worse, but for the better.
This Quinn definitely didn’t waste any time; this Quinn told him life was too short for the two of them to be skirting around each other when they were so clearly in love. This Quinn loved him and sure as Hell wasn’t afraid to remind him of it every now and then.
“Hey,” she greets him, seeing him step inside her room. “What took you so long?”
Surprisingly enough, when faced with the possibility of losing your daughter, the fact that she was in love with the Jewish boy that knocked her up seemed like Candy Land to Judy Fabray.
“Practice ran late,” he replies, kicking off his shoes before plopping onto the bed next to her. “I showered, too, just for you.”
“You must really love me,” she teases, leaning down to connect her lips with his. “Like a lot.”
“Like a whole lot,” he adds on, pressing his lips to hers once more before he turned onto his back. “What are you doing anyway?”
“Reading,” she says, attention back on the book at hand. She flashes him the cover quickly before flipping the page, engrossed in the book and so close to the end of the first part.
“The Hunger Games?” he asks, folding his hands behind his head. “What are they? Fighting to get to the fridge first or is it like Iron Chef and they have to feed Africa?”
“What?” She’s shocked, honestly. First of all, she’s shocked that he seemed to have assumed that from merely the title or that he somehow tied the bird on the front to something from Africa. “I…you know what Iron Chef is?”
“Your mom watches it a lot downstairs,” he explains. “It’s always on when I’m walking through the door.”
“Wh—no,” she’s quick to say. “No, it’s not like that at all.”
Quinn goes on to explain the premise of the book. Twenty four kids thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Twenty four go in, one comes out. That alone intrigues Puck (because let’s face it, it wouldn’t take much to intrigue him if you managed to slip in some kind of action from the get-go) to the point where he’s telling her to catch him up to where she’s at so that they can read together.
“So he’s in love with her?” Puck asks, trying to follow the information she’s given him. “And he…bakes?”
“He’s not gay, if that’s what you’re thinking!” she snaps, lightly hitting him with the book. “And she’s not his beard, either!”
Puck shrugs it off, wrapping his arm around her as he rests his cheek on her head. Every so often, he has to tell her to slow down on flipping the pages; he had forgotten how fast of a reader she was. He’s so engrossed in the book, that by the time they get towards the end of the second section and they’re starting the third, he grabs the book out of her hand and takes to controlling it at her own pace. Not once was he distracted when Quinn took to kissing his neck when she was done with a page and he wasn’t (he’d pat himself on the back and kick himself for that later).
“Shit!” he mutters, shutting the book closed when they reach the end. “What the fuck is all of this?!”
“So you liked it?” she asks, reaching for the book and placing it on her nightstand.
“She’s toying with my man Peeta’s emotions!” he snaps, shaking his head. “Katniss and you would both get along great.”
“Why the Hell do you say that?” she laughs, unable to see his train of thought.
“You’re women, for one,” he begins to say. “Let me not get started on the fact that you’re both huge teases.”
“I don’t know whether to be proud that you’re reading an actual book or whether to kick you out of my house now for that implied remark,” she says to him.
Hopping up off the bed, Puck goes to grab his shoes, slipping them on quickly. He gets up from the bed with a stretch, grabbing his keys and phone off her nightstand.
“I have to go anyway, babe,” he tells her. He leans over and drops a kiss onto her lips before rushing towards the door. “Love you!”
“I love…you?” she says to the already closing door. That boy was definitely something.
After a whole week of blowing her off, Quinn’s surprised to find Puck strutting into her house one evening (she’s surprised that her mother let him in, too). He’s got a bag in hand, she notes, watching him as he shuts the door behind him.
“Hi,” he says, kicking off his shoes and hopping onto her bed.
“Oh, I exist to you now?” she replies with the shake of her head. “Good to know.”
“I was busy beating you at something for once,” he informs her.
Quinn cocks an eyebrow up at him, watching him as he empties out the contents of his bag onto the bed. There, he reveals three novels: The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay. So he read the trilogy.
“You were reading?” she says with a slight tone of disbelief. “You blew me off for reading?”
“No, I blew you off to beat you at something,” he corrects her. “I read all of the books before you!”
Quinn shakes her head, grabbing her book from the nightstand and hitting him with it before she rests it on her lap. He shoots her a smug look before she points to her own stack of the remaining books on her small bookshelf.
“I finished two days after you last saw me,” she tells him, causing him to furrow his brows at that. She can see the smug look practically retreating back inside of him. “All of them.”
“You have not!” he snaps at her.
“I have!” she retorts with an incredulous laugh.
“I can prove you haven’t!” he tells her, grasping at straws.
“How?” she inquires. Now this she has to witness for herself.
Puck ponders for a moment, trying to find the best thing with which to best her. He could ask her about certain characters, but that wouldn’t necessarily mean that she got to the end. Then a thought hits him. For his boy Peeta. He pulls her down so that she’s on her back, turning to hover above her.
“You love me. Real or not real?” he asks, tip of his nose touching her own as he stares down into her green eyes.
“Real,” she whispers, reaching up and cupping his cheek. “Always real, Noah Puckerman.”
He’s got a huge grin on his face, one of those shit-eating grins, as he closes the distance between the two of them and presses his lips to hers.
“Wait,” he mumbles against her lips, slowly pulling away. “Think you can still make your toes curl?”
“Only you can make them do that,” she says, pulling him closer to continue what they started.
The challenge was accepted. Safe to say, it was a mission accomplished.
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