31 Days of Puckurt (Jan 2012): drabbles 1-5
So yeah, all you lovely wonderful people who follow me from puckurt will have seen these drabbles already; but I really just wanted to put them somewhere so I can find them. Plus, I've edited a few of them 'cos I wasn't quite happy, so if really bored feel free to peruse. Oh, and if anyone fancies a sequel to any of these, let me know, 'cos I totally have some ideas in my head if there's a demand :)
Here's the first five:
DAY 1:
(305) Is "incoherent" a legit goal to strive for tonight? Or should I stay sober enough to fuck who I can?
Kurt doesn't open his eyes. The whole world is still doing pirouettes. Around and around and around and fucking pirouettes, and Kurt was always a shitty dancer.
He squirms just slightly, and groans weakly at the seismic lurch his stomach gives.
"Mmmmm...noooo..." he clutches tighter to whatever warm thing he's currently curled around and very, very distantly realises it's someone else's leg.
Oh, hell. It's probably that curly haired, Definitely-not-Blaine guy. Inwardly, Kurt facepalms himself-- but even the imaginary movement makes him want to hurl.
He shifts again though, trying to detangle his legs, and is happily surprised to find he still has all his clothes on. Or at least, he assumes they're all his clothes; nothing feels like it cost less than a hundred dollars.
It's about then his fashion student spidey-sense kicks back in (blame it on the alcohol, 'kay?) and he notices that the lap his head's currently nestled in is very much denim-clad-- and not expensive denim either: soft, well-worn denim, and baggy in a way Kurt usually despises, except on really melancholy Thursday nights with ice-cream and fighting Rachel for the girl harmonies in Disney songs.
Definitely-Not-Blaine guy wasn't wearing denim, Kurt's brain reminds him cleverly; neither was actual Blaine (maybe there is a god), or many of Blaine's fellow Warblers (a couple of them had actually shown up in uniform, but Kurt's given up being offended by now; he's just resignedly disappointed).
Buoyed by this revelation, Kurt moves his head-- the beginnings of an attempt to get up and move that is almost instantly aborted.
He exhales unhappily through his teeth, hating the churning empty feeling in his stomach that comes from too much alcohol, not enough finger-food, and acting like a miserable single person who can't go to his ex-boyfriend's birthday party without getting all weepy.
Kurt nestles closer against the denim under his cheek, curling his drink-numb fingers tighter around whoever-it-is' knee. He breathes in the scent of the body he's snuggling against, and it's familiar and vaguely comforting, but he can't place it. Oh well. At least it's not Finn.
Before being asleep, the last thing Kurt remembers is lying on his back in the hallway outside Blaine's bedroom, staring at the ceiling. The world was starting to spin then, but it was ok: he was still in the giggly-drunk stage and Puck was feeding him Jell-O shots.
Puck. Stupid Puck and his stupid arms; dragging him away from making out with hot, horny boys to sample lime-grape flavoured alcohol.
Stupid Puck.
Kurt buries his forehead against warm thigh, once again fighting the urge to throw-up. He clings to the other person's knee, hanging on like the alternative is getting tossed overboard.
Ugh. Moving is totally not worth the effort.
Unconsciousness is starting to seep in again, and Kurt almost sobs with relief. He inhales the calming scent of whoever he's cuddling and only vaguely tries to stop his brain from pretending whoever it is is his boyfriend.
Pathetic, Hummel; just pathetic.
That voice sounds like Puck's too. Except, weirdly, Kurt kind of imagines his warm, calloused fingers stroking at the side of his neck as he says it: fond; amused.
He falls asleep to that (probably imagined) touch, and when he wakes up in the morning to those same fingers holding out a steaming hot cup of coffee, Kurt’s brain's too pickled to put two and two together. Puck tries not to care: he just grins crookedly and slumps down next to Hummel on the sofa like he hadn't been there most of the night and switches on morning TV, before that Definitely-Not-Blaine guy wakes up and tries to claims that spot for his own
DAY 2:
(541) Someone get that fucking seahorse.
Hunting down enough bootlace to fashion a functional lasso was an Amazing Race-worthy task in itself; so hunting down the bootlace, remembering how to tie a kickass Honda knot, sniffing out his prey and snagging it on the first try?-- Puck's pretty sure there should be shiny honours involved, or at least some free shit from Timelife.
But Kurt just stares at him balefully, keeping his stick-up-the-ass poise despite the loop of multi-coloured twine hanging limply around his shoulders.
"Puck." He questions shortly: "What the hell?"
Seeing the other boy's tight-lipped expression, Puck grins hugely, fanning himself with the make-believe cowboy hat he should totally be wearing right now.
"How else was I gonna capture a seahorse??" He explains gleefully, getting into his best cattle-wrangling stance and tugging his end of the string before the lasso loosens any further and his quarry can make a bolt for it.
Kurt blinks disbelievingly: "A what-now?"
"A seahorse!" Puck repeats-- geez, he thought Hummel was smart-- and yanks once, hard, so Kurt stumbles into Puck's personal space, captured arms flailing as much as they can so he doesn't land against Puck's chest.
"What the-- are you high?" Kurt demands, and Puck can almost see the seahorsey spikes bristling all up and down Hummel's spine. Puck laughs cos, duh-- isn't it obvious?
"Totally." He verifies, jerking his head towards Brittany's kitchen where he and Santana and Mike were had been breaking into Puck's supply of slightly-tampered baked goods. "But, see, like, Britt said you were a dolphin and I was like no, 'cos dolphins are all cute and playful and Brittany's probably a dolphin, whatever; but I'm a shark and you; you're totally a seahorse--"
"-- And is there any reason why everyone needs to be a sea creature?--"
"--'cos you're all small and delicate and, like, spiny, and shit--"
"-- Spiny?!--"
"-- and like, no offense, but I'm pretty sure your skin glows in the dark--"
Kurt exhales loudly, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, and starts trying to disentangle himself: "Ugh, Puck, you should donate your brain to medical science." He complains, and Puck marvels at the huffy whinnying noises coming from his lips. Do seahorses whinny?
"Oh, and y'know like when seahorses have kids?" Puck grabs for Kurt's elbow, remembering one of the best reasons he had for Kurt being a seahorse: "The dudes are the mommies! It's totally badass!"
For a minute Puck thinks he's done it, he's convinced him; 'cos for just a second Kurt stops struggling and simply stares at Puck, pouty seahorse lips half-parted, eyes big and round and disbelieving. Then, in one deft movement, he pulls the string over his head and flings it back at Puck's face, so it plops to the floor like a wet piece of spaghetti.
"Puckerman, I detest you." he says cooly, and spins on his heel.
"Oh no, wait, wait! Woah horsey!"
Puck grabs wildly for the other boy's retreating form, but Kurt's seahorsey fins make him way faster than Puck's stupid human legs, and Puck just succeeds in stubbing his toes hard against the sofa. Little neon sea-anemones burst in front of his eyes. "Duuude..." Puck groans, sliding down headfirst onto the soft expanse of sofa cushions.
He doesn't know what he said wrong. All he wants to do is ride that damn seahorse.
DAY 3:
(724) I'm crawling naked around my room looking for my hairbrush. Just thought I'd put that image in your head.
The knocking is more instant and more insistent than he'd expected, but Kurt waits until that voice is hissing his name through the keyhole before he pads languorously over the door and, with a hasty precautionary check through the peephole, pulls it open:
"Thought you were going?"
Puck's eyes widen to almost comic proportions.
"Why the hell do you need a hairbrush?" He questions brusquely after a moment's stuttering, fingernails digging hard into the wooden frame of Kurt's hotel room door.
Kurt smirks, tilting his head just a little and for a split second reclaiming Puck's gaze from the firm pale line of his own naked thighs:
"Why do you think?"
There's just the tiniest nervous glance down the hallway; then Puck surges forward, kissing Kurt bruisingly hard, hands curling tight in his hair, tangling and messing and making it spike up in all directions with such intent Kurt has to fight not to giggle.
"How 'bouts I come in there and help you look?" Puck offers, barely dislodging his teeth from Kurt's lower lip when they break for air.
"Mmmm..." Kurt raises a considering eyebrow, digging his thumbs under the waistband of Puck's jeans and tugging the other boy even closer against him. "I'd have to take your pants off." he informs him gravely. "Those are the rules."
Puck's grin is terrifyingly shark-like, before he pushes the two of them back over the threshold, kicking the door closed behind them:
"You're a fast learner Hummel..."
DAY 4:
(443) Please tell me I didn't pass out while we were having sex last night... and if so I am soooo sorry.
"Yo. Sleeping Beauty."
Puck would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the beet-red colour Kurt's face goes; or at least the part of it he can see between Hummel's locker door and the giant fuck-off pair of shades he's currently sporting. It doesn't make him feel a whole lot less pissed off though.
Kurt's long, pale fingers clench tighter around the edge of his locker.
"I thought we agreed you would stop naming me for Disney princesses?"
"What?"
"Please stop shouting." Kurt whimpers, resting his forehead against the cool steel in front of him.
Puck crosses his arms. Kurt may look super-adorable when he's hungover, but Puck's totally not in the mood to be sympathetic.
"So, I'm just wonderin':" he starts "was there something I did you found particularly boring, or--"
"-- Puck, I told you I was sorry--"
"-- yeah, via text message!" Puck slams Kurt's locker door for him and watches the other boy almost cry. "Total post-bang etiquette fail, dude."
"Oh I can hardly believe Noah Puckerman is lecturing me on coital niceties." Kurt snaps back. Puck throws up his hands:
"You fell asleep on me!"
"Technically--" Kurt jabs a finger in his face; then seems to stumble when he realises his next point has nothing in his favour at all "--I fell asleep under you..."
Puck continues glowering, and Kurt's screwed-up angry kitten face dissipates a bit. Slowly, with a sigh, he lowers his sunglasses down his nose and Puck can see he actually does look apologetic. Which is kind of a first for him, to be honest.
"Puck." He says, more quietly "I was drunk. I'm pretty sure--" he glances wryly down at himself "-- I still am drunk. And I'm both ashamed and regretful about that development and the resulting… unconscious… consequences…"
Despite himself, Puck allows himself a tiny snort of laughter at that. Dude just needs to learn to use less words. Kurt seems encouraged though, 'cos he smiles a bit in return.
"And honestly?" He adds, leaning in a bit: "You kinda wore me out the first three times. We don't all have your sex-shark stamina you know."
He does that laugh; the one that used to make Puck throw him in dumpsters, and Puck wonders briefly how and when his life become so fucked up and ridiculous.
"You're such a freak Hummel." Puck replies roughly; but he's kind of more hurt and embarrassed than mad now. Kurt, despite being drunk as a skunk, seems to notice, and he just nods resignedly because, yeah: they've had that conversation.
Then, shucking his bag further up his shoulder, Kurt reaches across and brushes his fingers briefly against the back of Puck's hand.
"How about..." He suggests carefully. “We just agree that I owe you?"
He lets that hang in the air for a moment; and Puck is almost nodding before he catches on and narrows his eyes at Kurt's innocent, hungover little face.
The sneaky bitch. The sneaky little sex-pixie. Puck has no idea how Hummel managed to manoeuvre this conversation into Puck agreeing to see him again, but he's pretty one hundred percent positive that that's where it's heading.
He glares, and Kurt's cheeks burn scarlet-- either at the proposition or at being found out, Puck isn't sure-- but the other boy just lifts his chin and holds Puck's gaze despite the fact he's still using the bank of lockers to keep him upright, and Puck remembers that underneath the prissy fairy-boy coating Kurt is actually pure evil.
The hallway around them is mostly emptied; but Puck is still way more nervous than he should be when he makes his mind up and reaches across to take Kurt's sunglasses away from him and neatly, quickly, fit their lips together. He can tell by how Kurt's body goes entirely rigid against his that he really didn't expect it.
"Deal." Puck says gruffly when he pulls back, leaving Kurt staring wide-eyed at him:
"But this time, we're going for coffee first."
DAY 5:
(781) You can't wash away shame.
(1-781) I can try.
Puck closes the door and kicks it the way he knows so the lock actually snaps into the frame and keeps his baby sister from walking in on him and freaking out. His mom will keep giving him disappointed looks when he gets out-- the only time he ever locks the bathroom door is when he's jacking off-- but hey, what the fuck's new there? Like she cares anyway.
He turns the shower on as high as it will go, and the water stutters then pounds down onto the enamel, leaping back off the floor like hailstones. He leaves the shower door open as it pours, and the steam shies away from the cold of the bathroom window and the cabinet and the toilet seat, and starts curling up in whispery fronds around Puck's face instead, clouding up his eyes as he strips down, dragging off his clothes and leaving them where they land on the floor.
He steps in just as the bathroom seems to fade into total heavenly whiteness around him, and swears loudly at the heat suddenly thundering against his skin. Fuck; fuck, fuck, fuck. Trying to keep breathing, Puck grits his teeth, leaning forward until his forehead connects dully with the damp, slippery tiled wall. Then he just stands there, and lets the water pummel him.
After what feels like hours (days) he squeezes out some salty-smelling shower-gel onto his hand and starts to scrub it into his skin, working it into a lather like he never normally bothers to, rubbing in hard circles till white bubbles froth and drip all down his torso. He skims soaped-up hands over his ass, his dick, his thighs, feeling relief as streams of blue-tinged water course down the inside of his legs to pool in foamy bubbles at his feet, building up around his ankles until he shifts his toes away from the plughole. He digs his fingernails into his scalp as he scrubs shampoo into every inch of his stubbly mohawk, not stopping even when it starts dripping over his eyebrows into his eyes, making them sting and burn and well with hot tears.
When there's nothing else to lather, he just stands, staring at the floor as water courses over his body, gasping everytime it seeps up his nose, watching the hot pink welts on his skin grow darker and darker as he waits for himself to be clean.
~
He flops back on his bed, ignoring the light-switch; ancient, hardly-worn bathrobe tied loosely around him. The house feels fucking freezing now, and Puck's kinda worried he might've peeled off a coupla layers of skin. He imagines himself wriggling out of them like a snake, leaving them on the bathroom floor for his mom to find and shake her head over later.
In the dark he can see his phone flashing and, feeling weirdly mechanical-- like his brain's still sitting in the pink, pristine bedroom of some blonde, untouchable cheerleader-- he reaches across to turn it over.
It's Finn:
Hey, quinn bailed wanna come over play halo??
Puck thinks for ten seconds. Then he shucks on another pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and goes.
He's a shameless bastard after all.
Here's the first five:
DAY 1:
(305) Is "incoherent" a legit goal to strive for tonight? Or should I stay sober enough to fuck who I can?
Kurt doesn't open his eyes. The whole world is still doing pirouettes. Around and around and around and fucking pirouettes, and Kurt was always a shitty dancer.
He squirms just slightly, and groans weakly at the seismic lurch his stomach gives.
"Mmmmm...noooo..." he clutches tighter to whatever warm thing he's currently curled around and very, very distantly realises it's someone else's leg.
Oh, hell. It's probably that curly haired, Definitely-not-Blaine guy. Inwardly, Kurt facepalms himself-- but even the imaginary movement makes him want to hurl.
He shifts again though, trying to detangle his legs, and is happily surprised to find he still has all his clothes on. Or at least, he assumes they're all his clothes; nothing feels like it cost less than a hundred dollars.
It's about then his fashion student spidey-sense kicks back in (blame it on the alcohol, 'kay?) and he notices that the lap his head's currently nestled in is very much denim-clad-- and not expensive denim either: soft, well-worn denim, and baggy in a way Kurt usually despises, except on really melancholy Thursday nights with ice-cream and fighting Rachel for the girl harmonies in Disney songs.
Definitely-Not-Blaine guy wasn't wearing denim, Kurt's brain reminds him cleverly; neither was actual Blaine (maybe there is a god), or many of Blaine's fellow Warblers (a couple of them had actually shown up in uniform, but Kurt's given up being offended by now; he's just resignedly disappointed).
Buoyed by this revelation, Kurt moves his head-- the beginnings of an attempt to get up and move that is almost instantly aborted.
He exhales unhappily through his teeth, hating the churning empty feeling in his stomach that comes from too much alcohol, not enough finger-food, and acting like a miserable single person who can't go to his ex-boyfriend's birthday party without getting all weepy.
Kurt nestles closer against the denim under his cheek, curling his drink-numb fingers tighter around whoever-it-is' knee. He breathes in the scent of the body he's snuggling against, and it's familiar and vaguely comforting, but he can't place it. Oh well. At least it's not Finn.
Before being asleep, the last thing Kurt remembers is lying on his back in the hallway outside Blaine's bedroom, staring at the ceiling. The world was starting to spin then, but it was ok: he was still in the giggly-drunk stage and Puck was feeding him Jell-O shots.
Puck. Stupid Puck and his stupid arms; dragging him away from making out with hot, horny boys to sample lime-grape flavoured alcohol.
Stupid Puck.
Kurt buries his forehead against warm thigh, once again fighting the urge to throw-up. He clings to the other person's knee, hanging on like the alternative is getting tossed overboard.
Ugh. Moving is totally not worth the effort.
Unconsciousness is starting to seep in again, and Kurt almost sobs with relief. He inhales the calming scent of whoever he's cuddling and only vaguely tries to stop his brain from pretending whoever it is is his boyfriend.
Pathetic, Hummel; just pathetic.
That voice sounds like Puck's too. Except, weirdly, Kurt kind of imagines his warm, calloused fingers stroking at the side of his neck as he says it: fond; amused.
He falls asleep to that (probably imagined) touch, and when he wakes up in the morning to those same fingers holding out a steaming hot cup of coffee, Kurt’s brain's too pickled to put two and two together. Puck tries not to care: he just grins crookedly and slumps down next to Hummel on the sofa like he hadn't been there most of the night and switches on morning TV, before that Definitely-Not-Blaine guy wakes up and tries to claims that spot for his own
DAY 2:
(541) Someone get that fucking seahorse.
Hunting down enough bootlace to fashion a functional lasso was an Amazing Race-worthy task in itself; so hunting down the bootlace, remembering how to tie a kickass Honda knot, sniffing out his prey and snagging it on the first try?-- Puck's pretty sure there should be shiny honours involved, or at least some free shit from Timelife.
But Kurt just stares at him balefully, keeping his stick-up-the-ass poise despite the loop of multi-coloured twine hanging limply around his shoulders.
"Puck." He questions shortly: "What the hell?"
Seeing the other boy's tight-lipped expression, Puck grins hugely, fanning himself with the make-believe cowboy hat he should totally be wearing right now.
"How else was I gonna capture a seahorse??" He explains gleefully, getting into his best cattle-wrangling stance and tugging his end of the string before the lasso loosens any further and his quarry can make a bolt for it.
Kurt blinks disbelievingly: "A what-now?"
"A seahorse!" Puck repeats-- geez, he thought Hummel was smart-- and yanks once, hard, so Kurt stumbles into Puck's personal space, captured arms flailing as much as they can so he doesn't land against Puck's chest.
"What the-- are you high?" Kurt demands, and Puck can almost see the seahorsey spikes bristling all up and down Hummel's spine. Puck laughs cos, duh-- isn't it obvious?
"Totally." He verifies, jerking his head towards Brittany's kitchen where he and Santana and Mike were had been breaking into Puck's supply of slightly-tampered baked goods. "But, see, like, Britt said you were a dolphin and I was like no, 'cos dolphins are all cute and playful and Brittany's probably a dolphin, whatever; but I'm a shark and you; you're totally a seahorse--"
"-- And is there any reason why everyone needs to be a sea creature?--"
"--'cos you're all small and delicate and, like, spiny, and shit--"
"-- Spiny?!--"
"-- and like, no offense, but I'm pretty sure your skin glows in the dark--"
Kurt exhales loudly, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, and starts trying to disentangle himself: "Ugh, Puck, you should donate your brain to medical science." He complains, and Puck marvels at the huffy whinnying noises coming from his lips. Do seahorses whinny?
"Oh, and y'know like when seahorses have kids?" Puck grabs for Kurt's elbow, remembering one of the best reasons he had for Kurt being a seahorse: "The dudes are the mommies! It's totally badass!"
For a minute Puck thinks he's done it, he's convinced him; 'cos for just a second Kurt stops struggling and simply stares at Puck, pouty seahorse lips half-parted, eyes big and round and disbelieving. Then, in one deft movement, he pulls the string over his head and flings it back at Puck's face, so it plops to the floor like a wet piece of spaghetti.
"Puckerman, I detest you." he says cooly, and spins on his heel.
"Oh no, wait, wait! Woah horsey!"
Puck grabs wildly for the other boy's retreating form, but Kurt's seahorsey fins make him way faster than Puck's stupid human legs, and Puck just succeeds in stubbing his toes hard against the sofa. Little neon sea-anemones burst in front of his eyes. "Duuude..." Puck groans, sliding down headfirst onto the soft expanse of sofa cushions.
He doesn't know what he said wrong. All he wants to do is ride that damn seahorse.
DAY 3:
(724) I'm crawling naked around my room looking for my hairbrush. Just thought I'd put that image in your head.
The knocking is more instant and more insistent than he'd expected, but Kurt waits until that voice is hissing his name through the keyhole before he pads languorously over the door and, with a hasty precautionary check through the peephole, pulls it open:
"Thought you were going?"
Puck's eyes widen to almost comic proportions.
"Why the hell do you need a hairbrush?" He questions brusquely after a moment's stuttering, fingernails digging hard into the wooden frame of Kurt's hotel room door.
Kurt smirks, tilting his head just a little and for a split second reclaiming Puck's gaze from the firm pale line of his own naked thighs:
"Why do you think?"
There's just the tiniest nervous glance down the hallway; then Puck surges forward, kissing Kurt bruisingly hard, hands curling tight in his hair, tangling and messing and making it spike up in all directions with such intent Kurt has to fight not to giggle.
"How 'bouts I come in there and help you look?" Puck offers, barely dislodging his teeth from Kurt's lower lip when they break for air.
"Mmmm..." Kurt raises a considering eyebrow, digging his thumbs under the waistband of Puck's jeans and tugging the other boy even closer against him. "I'd have to take your pants off." he informs him gravely. "Those are the rules."
Puck's grin is terrifyingly shark-like, before he pushes the two of them back over the threshold, kicking the door closed behind them:
"You're a fast learner Hummel..."
DAY 4:
(443) Please tell me I didn't pass out while we were having sex last night... and if so I am soooo sorry.
"Yo. Sleeping Beauty."
Puck would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the beet-red colour Kurt's face goes; or at least the part of it he can see between Hummel's locker door and the giant fuck-off pair of shades he's currently sporting. It doesn't make him feel a whole lot less pissed off though.
Kurt's long, pale fingers clench tighter around the edge of his locker.
"I thought we agreed you would stop naming me for Disney princesses?"
"What?"
"Please stop shouting." Kurt whimpers, resting his forehead against the cool steel in front of him.
Puck crosses his arms. Kurt may look super-adorable when he's hungover, but Puck's totally not in the mood to be sympathetic.
"So, I'm just wonderin':" he starts "was there something I did you found particularly boring, or--"
"-- Puck, I told you I was sorry--"
"-- yeah, via text message!" Puck slams Kurt's locker door for him and watches the other boy almost cry. "Total post-bang etiquette fail, dude."
"Oh I can hardly believe Noah Puckerman is lecturing me on coital niceties." Kurt snaps back. Puck throws up his hands:
"You fell asleep on me!"
"Technically--" Kurt jabs a finger in his face; then seems to stumble when he realises his next point has nothing in his favour at all "--I fell asleep under you..."
Puck continues glowering, and Kurt's screwed-up angry kitten face dissipates a bit. Slowly, with a sigh, he lowers his sunglasses down his nose and Puck can see he actually does look apologetic. Which is kind of a first for him, to be honest.
"Puck." He says, more quietly "I was drunk. I'm pretty sure--" he glances wryly down at himself "-- I still am drunk. And I'm both ashamed and regretful about that development and the resulting… unconscious… consequences…"
Despite himself, Puck allows himself a tiny snort of laughter at that. Dude just needs to learn to use less words. Kurt seems encouraged though, 'cos he smiles a bit in return.
"And honestly?" He adds, leaning in a bit: "You kinda wore me out the first three times. We don't all have your sex-shark stamina you know."
He does that laugh; the one that used to make Puck throw him in dumpsters, and Puck wonders briefly how and when his life become so fucked up and ridiculous.
"You're such a freak Hummel." Puck replies roughly; but he's kind of more hurt and embarrassed than mad now. Kurt, despite being drunk as a skunk, seems to notice, and he just nods resignedly because, yeah: they've had that conversation.
Then, shucking his bag further up his shoulder, Kurt reaches across and brushes his fingers briefly against the back of Puck's hand.
"How about..." He suggests carefully. “We just agree that I owe you?"
He lets that hang in the air for a moment; and Puck is almost nodding before he catches on and narrows his eyes at Kurt's innocent, hungover little face.
The sneaky bitch. The sneaky little sex-pixie. Puck has no idea how Hummel managed to manoeuvre this conversation into Puck agreeing to see him again, but he's pretty one hundred percent positive that that's where it's heading.
He glares, and Kurt's cheeks burn scarlet-- either at the proposition or at being found out, Puck isn't sure-- but the other boy just lifts his chin and holds Puck's gaze despite the fact he's still using the bank of lockers to keep him upright, and Puck remembers that underneath the prissy fairy-boy coating Kurt is actually pure evil.
The hallway around them is mostly emptied; but Puck is still way more nervous than he should be when he makes his mind up and reaches across to take Kurt's sunglasses away from him and neatly, quickly, fit their lips together. He can tell by how Kurt's body goes entirely rigid against his that he really didn't expect it.
"Deal." Puck says gruffly when he pulls back, leaving Kurt staring wide-eyed at him:
"But this time, we're going for coffee first."
DAY 5:
(781) You can't wash away shame.
(1-781) I can try.
Puck closes the door and kicks it the way he knows so the lock actually snaps into the frame and keeps his baby sister from walking in on him and freaking out. His mom will keep giving him disappointed looks when he gets out-- the only time he ever locks the bathroom door is when he's jacking off-- but hey, what the fuck's new there? Like she cares anyway.
He turns the shower on as high as it will go, and the water stutters then pounds down onto the enamel, leaping back off the floor like hailstones. He leaves the shower door open as it pours, and the steam shies away from the cold of the bathroom window and the cabinet and the toilet seat, and starts curling up in whispery fronds around Puck's face instead, clouding up his eyes as he strips down, dragging off his clothes and leaving them where they land on the floor.
He steps in just as the bathroom seems to fade into total heavenly whiteness around him, and swears loudly at the heat suddenly thundering against his skin. Fuck; fuck, fuck, fuck. Trying to keep breathing, Puck grits his teeth, leaning forward until his forehead connects dully with the damp, slippery tiled wall. Then he just stands there, and lets the water pummel him.
After what feels like hours (days) he squeezes out some salty-smelling shower-gel onto his hand and starts to scrub it into his skin, working it into a lather like he never normally bothers to, rubbing in hard circles till white bubbles froth and drip all down his torso. He skims soaped-up hands over his ass, his dick, his thighs, feeling relief as streams of blue-tinged water course down the inside of his legs to pool in foamy bubbles at his feet, building up around his ankles until he shifts his toes away from the plughole. He digs his fingernails into his scalp as he scrubs shampoo into every inch of his stubbly mohawk, not stopping even when it starts dripping over his eyebrows into his eyes, making them sting and burn and well with hot tears.
When there's nothing else to lather, he just stands, staring at the floor as water courses over his body, gasping everytime it seeps up his nose, watching the hot pink welts on his skin grow darker and darker as he waits for himself to be clean.
~
He flops back on his bed, ignoring the light-switch; ancient, hardly-worn bathrobe tied loosely around him. The house feels fucking freezing now, and Puck's kinda worried he might've peeled off a coupla layers of skin. He imagines himself wriggling out of them like a snake, leaving them on the bathroom floor for his mom to find and shake her head over later.
In the dark he can see his phone flashing and, feeling weirdly mechanical-- like his brain's still sitting in the pink, pristine bedroom of some blonde, untouchable cheerleader-- he reaches across to turn it over.
It's Finn:
Hey, quinn bailed wanna come over play halo??
Puck thinks for ten seconds. Then he shucks on another pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and goes.
He's a shameless bastard after all.