Letting Go/Reassurance

The two (final) installments to my weird scrawl_calibur series I've had gong on for a while now. (Set VI; Challenges #6-7: Hurt, Gasp.) I was supposed to write everything in one week, but then RL (as well as my usual habit of procrastinating) got in the way. But I'd like to think the fact that I finished it is excuse enough to conveniently forget the fact that this is horrifically overdue.

That said... I hope you enjoy them!

Puck had never been into drama, being the center of attention for something stupid like knocking his bro's girl up, or anything that didn't add to his badass awesomeness. It was pointless, and it just wasn't his thing.

Sure, willingly holding Kurt's hand in public-which was as good as intercepting the morning announcements to declare his bisexual-ness-probably screamed gossip-mill scandal, but that was as dramatic as Puck was willing to go.

He never bothered telling Kurt that apologizing for being such a fuckin' douche was nice, but an "I'm sorry"-slash-"It's cool" wasn't enough to make Puck forget. He was like an elephant (like Dumbo on Muscle Milk) and elephants never forgot. Never.

(He didn't count last week's history exam he totally bombed, because it wasn't like he was there for the Cold War or anything. How was he supposed to remember it hadn't actually been a war at all-hell, why call it a fuckin' war if there wasn't any awesome Call of Duty shit going down?)

He wasn't pansy enough to pull Kurt aside for a disgusting schmoop-fest worthy of Lifetime or some girly shit like that, just to say "Yeah, I'm still kinda hurtin' over your whole momentary lapse into douchedom."

Besides, he'd feel bad for making Kurt feel bad (even if he kinda maybe deserved it, on some weird level). So he saved his totally awesome badass version of angsting for the weightlifting room, where he could snarl and frown at his reflection while he pumped iron, or when he played some really fucking depressing Cash in his mancave.

Kurt had enough drama for the two of them, and so long as he kept doing all that nice chivalrous shit for Puck that made him feel really gay but really worshiped (and come on, Puck wasmade for worshiping), Puck wouldn't go rain on his parade.

One of the best things about letting things go, Puck decided, was getting to make out.

When he'd been dating Rachel ('dating' used very, very loosely… like, Santana-loose) they always lost so much crucial sex shark fuel-up time talking. Well, it was mostly him listening while Rachel ranted (about glee, about Finn, about Finn and glee and "Us actors are just so underappreciated for what we do, Noah") but still. Puck had lost a critical amount of mack-time. If his life was a video game-god, that would be fuckin' awesome-it would be some totally sexy, busty, badass version of Mortal Kombat and his short fling with Rach had definitely almost finished him.

Thankfully, Puck didn't have to catch Kurt up to his speed. Kurt had done a helluva lotta initiating, and if Puck weren't so busy a) getting the life sucked out of him by Kurt's freakishly soft lips or b) trying to recover from post-make-out dizziness (and, by association, lack of blood flow in his head-the other one), he'd feel sort of offended that he wasn't doing most of the commandeering. He didn't usually call the shots, because his hook-ups were usually anal-retentive about being fierce women on power trips, but being with a dude confused him. Who was the girl in this thing?

Puck didn't really understand the change of dynamics, but if it felt good it had to be fine, he figured.

Besides, he couldn't remember the last time someone had him so breathless and flustered and blushing. Puck never blushed, and that was definitely saying something because Santana could be pretty freaky when she really tried.

Puck turned from his locker, his mini-convenience store of Hostess and Rally Cola, only to be shoved into its metal door. Jeez, wasn't that new too? He usually did all the pushing and shoving and commandeering 'round these necks of the woods, and he was about to tell Kurt to fuckin' watch it because he was still sore and achy from fight club and fooling around in the Nav after Kurt picked him up.

But then Kurt's lips-his soft, soft lips-were doing their thing and practically sucking Puck's life outta him within seconds, and all Puck could do was make an embarrassingly squeaky noise and scramble to grab Kurt's ass. Kurt had been fucking strutting down the halls in his dark skinny jeans, the ones that made his legs look miles long and his ass infinitely more grope-able (how was that possible?), and Puck had a pretty good hunch that Kurt knew what those jeans did to Puck.

He gasped in a lungful of air as soon as Kurt's mouth left his, but it was kind of hard to inhale anything but Kurt's huffs of breath with their lips millimeters apart. Still, Puck had to admit, sharing each other's air was kind of sexy in a really squishy, Hallmark-romance way.

What? He never said he'd admit it out loud. So long as he didn't say it, Puck's badassness was still intact. "Yes," a voice in Puck's head that sounded suspiciously like Kurt drawled, "And it's not gay unless someone's dick is up someone else's ass."

Great, now Puck was thinking about Kurt fucking him. Great.

"What was that for?" Puck asked when he could finally speak without sounding like a winded whale. (Could whales be winded?)

"Happy fourth period, I guess," Kurt smirked, stepping back from Puck. His leer only grew when he noticed Puck's hand reaching for Kurt's lapel before Puck got a hold of himself. "How youdoin'?"

Puck rolled his eyes. "There's nothing happy about geometry, but thanks for giving me a hard-on before I go to class."

Kurt waved him off. "You'll be fine. Mr. Bomer is a total buzz-kill… unless you're suddenly into receding hairlines and tacky neckties." Kurt gave him an assessing look like he wasn't too sure if that was Puck's thing or not. Puck grimaced, because ew-no. Kurt just laughed.

"Walk me to class?" Puck asked. He knew he sounded a bit weird, like he wasn't sure if Kurt would suddenly put an end to all the kinda cool gentlemanly acts since their drama had pretty much ended months ago, and Kurt might've picked up on that because he was so annoyingly perceptive like that.

His eyes did that weird softening thing that reminded Puck of clean, comfy-smelling laundry, and he swiped up one of Puck's hands. "But of course."

With how tightly Kurt squeezed his fingers, Puck had to wonder if Kurt also sort of knew, on some level, how he hadn't been one hundred percent forgiven. Puck glanced over at Kurt and squeezed back just as tightly, because even if it wasn't one hundred percent just yet, they were far from being K.O.'ed.