Kurt Hummel approaches him one day, a strange red tinge all over hic cheeks and lips swollen in that particular way that screams of abuse by excesive nervous gnawing. He looks like a man on a mission as he walks towards him with certainty and security; once he is right in front of him (by the lockers, while Puck closes his), saya the following:
"Have sex with me."
"What the hell, Hummel?" He looks away from Kurt's piercing blue eyes and trails everyone else's movements, just to be assured that no one has actually heard the guy's words.
"Look," the countertenor sound as thrilled by the idea as he is, and Puck has to look at him, "I know it sounds deranged, Noah. Believe me, I do know."
"So why the fuck are you even bothering with this?"
There's a sigh and a defeated air that makes him a bit angry, but underneath that, Kurt just looks nervous and a bit scared; and even though the words that follow have little to no substance ("you're the only one I can ask this to, Noah. You're not likely to kill me and you're sufficiently driven by your sexual needs that you won't freak out by any unnecessary implications"), he feels like denying him is not really a choice he can make.
"Ok, why not. Santana hasn't been giving it up, anyway." He shrugs, and Kurt looks bewildered for a few seconds, before nodding curtly and going away, as upright and august as ever.
Puck stares at the round and perky mound of expensively clad flesh of the dude's ass for a while and gets kind of turned on at the thought of getting to tap that.
...Never let it be said that Noah Puckerman isn't a resilient person.
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