30 Days of Puckurt Drabbles Day Twenty-Two
Welcome to Day Twenty-Two of 30 Days of Puckurt Drabbles in June: 2012 Edition!
Here be the rules; don't forget to include a rating if the piece is rated higher than PG.
Here be the rules; don't forget to include a rating if the piece is rated higher than PG.
Puck presses his forehead against his arm, biting down on his skin as he thrusts his hips harder, fighting speeding up and slowing down and wishing Kurt's whimpers and encouragements in his ear were less fucking arousing, that he sounded a tiny bit less like he was dying from pure gorgeous joy, because Puck wants to keep this part of his day going for as long as possible and when Kurt sounds like that, Puck knows he isn't gonna last much longer.
"Oh baby... Noah oh ohhh Noah harder harder baby just... harder... please please..."
Puck adjusts his grip around Kurt's thigh, jerking that leg higher around his waist and leaving Kurt's other toes pawing at the ground. It is awkward like this, fucking awkward; but sooo fucking worth it.
The cant of Kurt's hips is perfect and Puck slams in that last half inch and Kurt makes a sound like Puck might've actually have killed him, head thudding back against the cubicle wall as his breathing hitches and whimpers, too close to climax to be elegant about it anymore.
Puck tangles his free hand in Kurt's sweat-damp hair, pressing sloppy, fevered kisses against the flushed curve of his neck as he finally gives in, pounding fast and hard and giving over to the shudders thrumming through his legs; his hips judder and he finally finally comes, almost in tandem with his boyfriend, groaning like a kicked dog, digging his fingers into Kurt's thighs hard enough to bruise.
The two boys collapse against the cubicle wall, trembling, Puck's forehead pressed into the enclave of Kurt's shoulder, not even caring as the other boy's warm come drips down his stomach.
It's long minutes before either of them tries to move again. Kurt shifts his hips slightly and whimpers.
"Puck..."
"Hey baby." Puck doesn't open his eyes, just shifting his head slightly to nuzzle weakly at Kurt's ear. Kurt breathes a laugh, his clean hand coming up to run across Puck's sensitive scalp.
Eventually their lips find each other, exchanging tiny kisses in the deafening silence of blood not pounding through their bodies.
Kurt opens dazed, dark eyes, shining even brighter than usual above the pink stain of his cheeks. Puck's breath catches one more time at how beautiful he is.
"..Let me down?" Kurt suggests in a whisper.
Oh. Right.
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"God, I don't wanna work tonight." Puck complains, tugging Kurt back close by his belt-loops and doing up his shirt-buttons for him. Kurt raises an eyebrow, but doesn't complain. "I don't like thinking of you coming home and spending saturday night by yourself."
Kurt smiles, fastening the top button that Puck had deliberately left undone and wrapping his arms around Puck's waist:
"You'll be thinking of me?" He teases.
"You can just come work the bar with me, huh?" Puck suggests "Mark wouldn't mind. Give it a couple of hours, and you'd just be another wasted freshman making out with the barman. No-one would even blink."
"Oh." Kurt pulls back: "Make out with alot of freshman on shift, do you?"
Puck just presses in and kisses him agaiin.
They finish re-dressing in electric silence, stealing kisses and touches as they tidy each other up. Kurt snaps his watch back onto his wrist and pouts.
"I need to go."
"Don't."
"I neeeed to go." Kurt repeats, curling his hands around Puck's face and leaning up on his toes to press their mouths close.
Grudgingly, Puck reaches past Kurt to flick the lock on the cubicle door.
"Fine. I'll text you later?"
Kurt grins like a cheshire cat: "If you like. I might not answer. I might need to find some other way of... keeping myself occuppied in your absence."
Puck feels his cock twitch feebly in his pants.
"Oh God baby..."
He leans in for one last kiss, just as he feels the cubicle door wrenched away from his hand and suddenly they're not alone anymore.
A dude Puck doesn't know is staring at them, holding out something dangling from a wire that Puck recognises as one of the first things he ripped off his boyfriend before they decided to spend Kurt's lunchtime screwing like bunnies in the dressing-rooms.
Kurt's fingernails dig cresents into Puck's arms:
"J-Jeremiah?" He stammers, his voice re-discovering an octave from sometime before puberty.
Jeremiah just stares flatly at them: "Next time maybe make sure your radio's turned off?"
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