[Drab] (Eras) Heart Throb
(Eras) Heart Throb
Glee. Puck/Kurt. R. 241 words.
You have to make them bleed.
There's a yellow post it that says “victory” in heavy black handwriting, a half hearted attempt at a smiley face beside the letters. Blood that looks black pooling in rivers on the hardwood floor. You have to make them cry, he thinks, because isn't that, like, the whole point?
They're fucking on the floor, crazy, sweating, thrusting and panting into each other like filthy animals; but it isn't enough, it never is. Kurt bites hard into Puck's throat, stabs sharp fingers into his back so deep that he draws blood. You have to make them bleed.
Black black black eyes whisper in the darkness. The old clock on the wall counts down to oblivion relentlessly. They lay there for the longest time; neither moving, talking; frozen in time, in space, in this terrible thing they have between them, like insects on a string.
“Don't make me beg,” Kurt mutters later, hands shaking, blood flowing (thump thump thump, loud) “please.” Ironic, or something. It doesn't matter. Puck is toying with him.
Kurt watches in sick, transfixed fascination as the teeth erect, gums bleeding, and the eyes glaze over; black and heavy. “Stop looking at me like that,” Puck sighs, “it's starting to creep me out,” and hot, sticky blood is filling his mouth and oh God, he thinks, maybe this time he won't stop. Maybe he'll bleed the little faggot. Bend his bones into something offensive.
Glee. Puck/Kurt. R. 241 words.
You have to make them bleed.
There's a yellow post it that says “victory” in heavy black handwriting, a half hearted attempt at a smiley face beside the letters. Blood that looks black pooling in rivers on the hardwood floor. You have to make them cry, he thinks, because isn't that, like, the whole point?
They're fucking on the floor, crazy, sweating, thrusting and panting into each other like filthy animals; but it isn't enough, it never is. Kurt bites hard into Puck's throat, stabs sharp fingers into his back so deep that he draws blood. You have to make them bleed.
Black black black eyes whisper in the darkness. The old clock on the wall counts down to oblivion relentlessly. They lay there for the longest time; neither moving, talking; frozen in time, in space, in this terrible thing they have between them, like insects on a string.
“Don't make me beg,” Kurt mutters later, hands shaking, blood flowing (thump thump thump, loud) “please.” Ironic, or something. It doesn't matter. Puck is toying with him.
Kurt watches in sick, transfixed fascination as the teeth erect, gums bleeding, and the eyes glaze over; black and heavy. “Stop looking at me like that,” Puck sighs, “it's starting to creep me out,” and hot, sticky blood is filling his mouth and oh God, he thinks, maybe this time he won't stop. Maybe he'll bleed the little faggot. Bend his bones into something offensive.