It's All About the Teasing: He Hates Me
Too tired to formulate complete thoughts, but I apologize for any grammar mistakes in this chapter. I'm anxious to see this fic to its end, and I felt obligated to update by tonight. (Or this morning, whatevs.) Anyway, there's still no smut, but don't you worry-it's coming, I pinkie-promise.
While I go pass out, please enjoy!
Kurt popped out of the shower twenty minutes later, feeling like the king of the world on all accounts as he basked in his citrus-fresh, D&G Light Blue-scented glory. He whistled the chorus of Satisfaction as he walked out of the bathroom, hair coiffed to perfection and dressed head to toe in the latest stroke of fashion brilliance. The only thing he was missing was a pair of socks, but he had to make a stop at the bedroom anyway.
He grinned like a scheming child as he slid a wrapped box out from beneath the bed, slipping into his socks before padding out in the silent apartment. Kurt could taste the aggravation in the air; he rolled it around on his tongue and savored it like a fine, dry wine.
Puck was still where Kurt had left him, a scowl heavy on his face. He shot Kurt a fierce, wordless glare as Kurt, smiling from ear to ear, approached him like one would a wild animal.
"Hey baby," Kurt purred. "You miss me?" Noah lunged at him, snarling and furious. Kurt merely sidestepped his grabbing hand, clucking his tongue in playful disapproval. "Now, that's no way to behave, Noah. Especially since I was planning on giving you your birthday present early."
Puck remained stubbornly silent as Kurt dramatically whipped the wrapped package out from behind his back. He waggled it enticingly in front of the man's face, letting the item rattle around inside its box. "So would you like to reconsider your attitude, or would you rather wait until tonight to open your present? I personally don't care what you choose, but I need to leave for work in-" he glanced down at his wrist watch. "Five minutes, if I want to beat traffic. So what do you say, baby? You want to be a good boy?"
When Noah refused to take the bait, Kurt heaved a heavy, put-upon sigh. "Alright then. I'm going to head into work. But just in case you get curious…" He placed the present within reaching distance, not even chancing a goodbye kiss; he wouldn't put it past Puck to bite his lips off in vengeance.
"I'll see you at three, babe!" Kurt called, once he had his car keys and everything he needed for another day at the office. "I love you!"
He didn't bother waiting for the reply that would never come-Noah was always pouty whenever Kurt pulled shit like this, so he didn't hold anything against the other man. Besides, he would more than likely come home to a porno-worthy fully naked Puck, hard and whining as he fucked himself on his present.
Kurt knew how to take care of his man, knew when to give Noah a trick and when to relent and hand him a treat, and Puck (for all his angry snarling and swearing on all he held near and dear to him that he'd get his revenge) loved the tough love treatment. Who was he to deny Noah what he wanted, even if he got some grief in the process?
Kurt already had tough skin from his time in high school and becoming a CEO of a relatively well-known European fashion company's US headquarters, dealing with harsh criticism, conniving bitches and tycoons hell-bent on money, gave him a pretty good set of armor. He was easily as much of a badass as Officer Noah Puckerman was: a tall, tan and toned member of NYPD's finest, with a glare that was almost incinerating in its prime. Puck dealt with crack heads and convicts on a regular basis, but he was a mere thorn in Kurt's side whenever he was on one of his domineering kicks.
"They're out to get you, better leave while you can-" Kurt slipped on a pair of designer sunglasses, a smile tugging at his face as he stepped out onto the stoop. His shoes clicked against pavement as he strode down the stairs, a bounce in his step and a song on his lips. "Don't wanna be a boy, you wanna be a man…"
Noah, on the other hand…
Noah was beside himself, a human furnace of anger. Here he was, on his first day off in months-on his birthday, for fuck's sake, cuffed to the kitchen sink! He gave his wrist a few furious tugs, but he already knew it was in vain. Unless he felt like explaining to their landlord why the sink pipes had been forcefully yanked out of the wall, he was going to be stuck for a while.
He growled and shouted in wordless rage, stomping and glaring at the appliances like it was their fault he was in this mess. During one fit, he picked up the still-full cup of coffee and chucked it at the fridge. The loud clink of porcelain pieces exploding in all directions, the fireworks of lukewarm coffee did nothing to quell his ire. In fact, it only ticked him off even more, because he knew he'd be the one who would get to clean that mess up whenever Kurt got home and (hopefully) freed him.
Twenty minutes passed before his legs began to ache from standing idle for so long. He grumbled as he sank to the floor, his cuffs jangling as they followed his movements. He had to hold his wrist at an awkward angle as he sat cross-legged on the tiles, and his free hand propped his chin up while he pouted at nothing in particular.
After a while, he wasn't as angry as he was bored. He had planned to sleep in today, to indulge in his video gaming addiction that hadn't faded in the years since he played Mario Kart with Finn in high school. (He even had a secret Yoshi shrine from his twenties that he could only hope Kurt didn't know about, buried in the back of the closet-but knowing how nosy the other man was, the dick had probably found it.)
But no, here he was, a victim of his evil boyfriend's latest sadistic streak. If he were the weepy type, he'd cry at the injustice of it all. He'd even sang a ridiculously impassioned rendition of Puddle of Mudd during the first hour, desperately angry and listless enough to take a page out of glee's book and sing about his feelings. By the middle of the second verse, he felt more humiliated than empowered, especially when one of the neighbors-the old hag next door with the yappy terrier-began hitting at the floor to give him a kind "Shut the fuck up, you miserable prick!" He shut up in the middle of soulfully howling the namesake verse to save himself further embarrassment.
He was stuck humming random ditties and mocking stupid fucking Kurt (and maybe getting half-hard at sporadic intervals whenever the handcuffs rattled), and he was just so goddamn bored. His eyes kept shooting to the cheerfully colored present perched on the counter, eyeing the sparkly purple bow only to look away again in sheepish disgust.
But his pride was no match for his curiosity, and having nothing else to do didn't help matters. He caved in under five minutes, snatching the present from the counter and giving the kitchenette a paranoid sweep for the hidden video cameras Kurt had to have rigged their pad with. When he didn't catch the gleam of a lens, he reluctantly looked down at the present. The bow glittered mockingly at him, and Kurt knew he hated glittery things, so he tore it off with a rumbling growl. The cheerfully pinstriped wrapping paper found its quickly shredded, papery death at Puck's one vindictive hand.
He ignored the paper cut along the side of his thumb in favor of trying to single-handedly open the cardboard box. Of course, it was securely taped shut, in layers-he could practically see Kurt laughing in diabolical glee as he slapped each and every merciless tab of Scotch tape onto the fucking thing. He held the box with his legs and reached up with his free hand to rummage in the utensil drawer above his left shoulder. He was waiting for the ideal moment of success, to utter a triumphant cry when his hand found the wooden handle of one of the steak knives.
He frowned after a long moment, sighing and getting up to actually look. He saw red when all to be found was a Post-It in the steak knives' place.
Come on. Don't pout-you can try harder than that. You know, monkeys have to earn their bananas, too.
He crumpled the note in his fist and chucked it in the sink, flipping on the garbage disposal and watching with wicked satisfaction as the note was shredded and consumed with the soothing noise of a cat being mangled by a lawnmower.
That delicious feeling (sadly) faded and he sighed to himself, resorting to a fucking butter knife as his weapon of choice. It was like using banana peels in Mario Kart when the jerk behind you had red turtle shell sat back down, wrapping his legs around the square box. He held the knife as if he were cutting into the damn birthday pancakes he was looking forward to for breakfast, sawing away at those stubborn bits of tape. At this rate, he would be too busy cursing Kurt in-between blowing cardboard sawdust all over Kurt's pristine, Mr. Clean-degree shiny linoleum floor to actually have the time to be bored.
At least for the next hour or so.
It took Noah almost as long as he'd imagined to cut away all of the overlapped Scotch tape; some cardboard filings remained clinging to the fine sheen of sweat dotting his forehead. He leaned back against the blissfully cool cabinets with a proud sigh. Who knew opening presents could be so taxing?
He was really hoping that this wouldn't be another little mind-fucking game of Kurt's, that the box wasn't filled with something like rocks-or worse, another box-because he'd had all the dirty tricks he could handle before noon. Anymore, and his head would no doubt explode into a slushie of gooey brain matter. Hell, he wouldn't be above crying.
Puck sighed, dizzy with relief when he saw piles of dove-white, faintly shimmering tissue paper concealing his bana-his prize. A blank envelope was perched on top of the mountain of paper, but Puck just tossed it to the side in favor of getting to his present.
Balancing it on his knees, Puck shoved his hand into the box, rummaging around and grabbing onto the first thing he found. He let his fingers trace over something smooth and sort of plastic, a bit rounded and…
He frowned in slight disappointment when he realized (before even taking it out of the box) that Kurt had gotten him a dildo. Another dildo. Puck wasn't averse to them or anything, but… well, they already had enough to open up their own sex shop. That, and Kurt usually liked to use his own dick to fuck Puck with whenever possible. Their dildos were mostly used for what Kurt fondly called the "Double-Stuffed Puck."
He set the toy-eight inches of deep violet (what Kurt deemed "his color") with a suction-cup base-aside and picked up the envelope with considerably less enthusiasm than before. He felt betrayed, and more than a little let down by Kurt.
Happy Birthday, babe! I can almost see that delicious pout on your face-don't you know you're supposed to open the card before the present?
Anyway. Before you throw a(nother) serious bitch fit over what you got, that isn't your real present… not exactly. The real thing will come soon enough, but not before you earn it.
Puck groaned in frustration, and his handcuffs jangled their laughter, mocking him in their own way. Like he needed more torment. Wasn't this enough for Kurt? His boyfriend had been known to be exceedingly cruel, but this had to top the leather whip episode. (A memory Puck wasn't sure if he was fond or frightened of.)
He was tempted to shred the paper up with his teeth, but Puck figured it'd be smarter to read the entire thing before getting violent.
Stop your stupid emoting. Believe me, this'll be a piece of cake. All you have to do is get yourself nice and open for me like a good boy, so I can shove my dick into your ass right after I come home. Once I've fucked you nice and hard (I promise this year's birthday sex will have you seeing stars), you can take me for a ride with your real birthday present. Decipher that as you will.
See you when I get home. Make sure you're… prepared.
Love, Kurt
Puck still wasn't sure how he felt about the newest development in his suck-fest of a thirtieth birthday, but while Kurt could be a total bitch sometimes, a liar he was never. Noah looked down at the packets of lube that had fallen out of the envelope before glancing up at the stovetop clock, huffing to himself when he saw it was only going on ten thirty. Well, he still had a good few hours to decide his plan of action.
And maybe he could figure out how to get to the fucking snack cabinet because he was so goddamn starving it wasn't even funny. The only ones laughing were God and Kurt-honestly, sometimes Puck couldn't be sure that they were two different beings, or just one fiercely-dressed, sadistically inclined entity set on making his life a living hell.
Twenty minutes-and a few nicks and bruises-later, Puck sat with his legs sprawled out on the floor, munching on one of a fucking bunch of bananas (the only things he could reach without dislocating his cuffed arm) with a scowl on his face. Puck supposed he should be glad that Kurt's obsessive love for themes didn't extend to his not-present. If he'd gotten a banana-shaped dildo, he wasn't sure if he'd eat these Chiquita's, even if his stomach had begun to devour itself in its hunger.
He glared at the fridge, scowl deepening when he noticed a painstakingly neat caricature of a mohawked monkey pinned to the door. A hilariously large banana hovered where its dick might have been.
Puck put his routine target practice to good use and hurled pieces of his banana peels at the stupidly grinning ape, imagining with wicked joy that he was pelting Kurt's beloved Marc Jacobs fall line with pee balloons instead.