Skank!Kurt/Puck Drabble #2/9 (PG-13)
Puck stands under the bleachers in all his sexy (still clothed, in case someone comes by) glory. A minute later Kurt still hasn’t jumped his bones. He just stands there, grinding his boot into the dirt. “Well? Are we gonna do this or what? Look, you’ve done it before, so just fucking get over here and let’s–”
“I haven’t,” Kurt cuts him off with a scowl. “I was hoping I’d work up the nerve over lunch. Sorry.” His apology is barely a breath, but Puck figures since he heard it, it counts.
“Do your friends know that?” he asks, flopping to the ground and making himself comfortable under the bleachers.
Kurt sits next to Puck in the dirt and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, tipping it so Puck can take one, which he does. “No. They think I used to sleep with this older guy who buys me beer.”
Puck grimaces a little and then lights up with one of the matches from the book he found in his locker. Leaning toward Kurt as he blows out the smoke, he says, “I haven’t slept with half the cougars people think I have.”
“No?” Kurt asks, his scowl softening a little. He cracks his neck, looks away as he lights up, and says, “At least you have some idea of what you’re doing. I mean, other than in theory.”
Puck shrugs, grins, and says, “I know how you can make it up to me. I mean, I totally held up my end of the bargain and you gotta start somewhere. We’ll call it educational. I mean, school ain’t over for another hour.”
Kurt lifts his eye brow and returns the smirk. “Lemme finish this first,” he says, flicking the ashes from the tip of his cig. “And I’m calling my half of the deal in later. When I fucking get over myself.”
“I could do you right now and get it over with.” He looks over and sees that Kurt’s tilting his head like he’s considering all the reasons not to go through with Puck’s offer and fiddling with his jacket cuff. Puck sees something dark against the pale white of Kurt’s skin, so he asks, “Is that a tat?”
Kurt gives him this withering glare, like, “What do you think?”
“Can I see it?”
Kurt shrugs, takes one more drag of his cigarette and then pushes his sleeve up, giving Puck his wrist. The tattoo is a dead bird, belly up, with musical notes rising from its beak. “It’s no flaming skull,” Puck teases, rubbing his thumb over the decoration and feeling Kurt shudder, “but it’s pretty bad ass.” He pulls Kurt’s wrist closer to him and kisses it. Kurt moans.
Blinking a few times, Kurt asks, “D’you have any?”
Grinning, Puck tells him, “You’re gonna flip.” He undoes his belt and pulls the edge of his waistband on his left side far enough down his hip.
Kurt sets his cigarette aside and leans forward, brushing his fingers over the ink. “Is that a red-winged blackbird?”
Puck notices that Kurt’s close enough to kiss, so he does it, tasting smoke and firm lips covered in soft-as-fuck skin. “Yeah, it is.” What’re the odds they’d both have bird tattoos? “My dad sang a song about them all the time. It was his favorite.”
“And this date here? Did he die?”
Puck scoffs. “I wish. That’s the day he walked out on my ma.”
“So I never forget to keep hating the son of a bitch.”