Title: Suburban Trash
Rating: R
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Puck/Kurt, OCs
Genre: Drama.
Word Count: 3116
Warning: Sex, swearing, sometimes-graphic violence. Possible OOCness.
Disclaimer: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.
Author Notes: You're going to get slices of two very different pies. And, as it turns out, this story is less sexually explicit than the first. Go figure.
Summary: Kurt has this plan for how his life is meant to turn out. This plan includes very specific ideas of what he should be doing, and where he should be living, and who should conveniently die.
.
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Saturday afternoon was bright and cheerful, the few fluffy white clouds hanging in the sky looked as if they had been placed there on purpose just for the pleasure of looking for shapes. The back yard belonging to 54 was abuzz in conversation and the sizzle of meat atop a very expensive barbecue. The neighbourhood children, all between the ages of six and eleven, ran amuck and underfoot – the sole exception the eight month old Lucy, who remained in her walker by her mother's side.
Kurt breezed in at a fashionably late two o'clock in the afternoon, a bottle of wine in one hand and a wineglass in the other, dressed in 'picnic clothes' that had no business being anywhere near children or grass. Puck followed behind him with a six pack of strongbow, a rather large cake, and an air of 'reluctant husband being dragged to a garden party'. The cluster of females currently taking up the patio furniture recognised the look immediately and hid smiles. Some with more success than others.
"Hi!" Marcia greeted them, standing to take the cake from Puck so she could place it at the table with the rest of the food. "So glad you made it. We were beginning to think you weren't coming! Pull up a chair, hun. Make yourselves at home."
Kurt smiled and somehow found a spare lawn chair to drag across to the circle of ladies. He sat down, balanced his empty wineglass on one knee, and uncorked the bottle. "I'm afraid I got caught up icing the cake," Kurt said, pouring himself a glass of sparkling white. "Perfectionism is as perfectionism does."
Puck rolled his eyes. "He's a liar," he told the women, "don't believe a word he says." He patted Kurt's shoulder with a hand, then nodded to the table. "Ladies," he said, and left for the group of men standing around the barbecue. If he didn't at least make an attempt at socialising then no doubt Kurt would get pissy at him and go off on another fantastically long-winded rant about social culture and not looking like the neighbourhood psychopath. The fact that Puck actually was the neighbourhood psychopath would not win him that argument.
Kurt shook his head and waited until Puck was out of earshot before he stated; "Men."
A soft ripple of laughter swished its way through the group of women and Kurt was in. He was the fascinating, glamorous newcomer and the fact that he happened to be a gay man was inconsequential.
Puck, meanwhile, situated himself near the barbecue where the smell of sizzling meat was the strongest. He cracked open a bottle of the cider he'd brought along and took a long, casual swig. He was good at this, if sometimes reluctant. Normal, average men were easy to get along with. Especially when they were discussing the extension that the grey-haired man from 52 was planning on adding to his house.
Puck waited for an opening in the conversation and stepped naturally into it with a casual; "You don't want to pay full price for that. I know a guy who can get it for forty bucks, no in-store markup."
"That's right," the grey-haired man said, "I heard you were in construction. The wife," he added, when Puck raised an eyebrow. "You know how women talk."
"Or maybe you don't," a pudgy, balding guy in a Hawaiian shirt added.
"I know how women talk," Puck replied. "They don't talk half as much as my partner."
"Ok guys," Doug started, holding up his tongs and pointing to each man in turn. "This is Harry, Jonah, Roger, and Grady. Guys, this is Puck."
The names were so stupidly normal that Puck felt like raising his eyebrows and asking whether this wasn't the set for some light-hearted neighbourhood sitcom. He looked at each man in turn – the two that had spoken before were Harry with the grey hair and Grady with the Hawaiian shirt. Jonah was an old man who looked like he hardly talked at all and Roger was another average-looking man about Doug's age. Puck didn't fail to notice that he was clearly the youngest man there.
"Puck?" Grady repeated incredulously. "Your parents named you that? I don't believe it."
"Smart man," Puck replied, and raised his cider in a mock salute, "it's been Puck since junior high, but my driver's licence says different. Noah Puckerman," he stated, and smiled, "but if you call me that I'm going to have to kill you."
There was a nervous sort of titter and the very brief moment of tension passed.
"If you don't mind me saying," Roger piped up, a curious note to his voice that made Puck think he was actually serious and not trying to be insulting, "you don't strike me as being, you know, queer."
"Yeah," Grady agreed, and even Harry nodded. "You're such a normal kind of guy, Puck."
"And...?" Puck asked, though he was sure he already knew where this was going. And from the too polite 'my friends are embarrassing me' face that Doug was pulling, the other man knew it too.
"And it makes you wonder," Grady continued. "How come you're –"
"With a guy," Puck finished, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder in the direction of the gossiping circle of ladies and Kurt. "And not with some leggy twenty-something blonde with a killer rack, talking about kids and a mortgage?"
"Not necessarily a blonde," Grady chuckled. "But you get the idea."
Puck smiled and shrugged. "Maybe I would be if things had gone differently."
"What things?" Harry asked. "Come on," he pressed. "You moved in three weeks ago and we haven't heard nothing about you."
"How's this," Grady offered, "you tell us how you wound up with Dorothy over there and we'll tell you about the time Doug and Brian – that's the guy who lived in 56 before it sold – decided to see how many roofing tiles they could break using nothing but body parts."
Doug groaned. "Jesus. That was five years ago. Maybe six."
"Four. Definitely four," Roger said, "Marcie had to ask Karen and me to look after your kids while she drove you to the emergency room."
"So what do you say?" Harry grinned. "Tell us how you met and we'll tell you about the roofing tiles."
Puck took a swig of his cider as he pretended to consider. He had them hooked, he figured. After this it would be beers with the boys on Saturdays and Kurt couldn't complain that he was the antisocial spanner in the cogs of his brilliant career-changing plan. "I guess," Puck began, "it all started with that stupid Glee club, and the Lima killer..."
"The Lima killer?" Doug asked, clearly surprised. Enough so that the sausages on the barbecue were starting to burn as he frowned at the younger man.
Puck nodded. "Yup. Back in 2010 there was this rash of murders in the town of Lima, Ohio. That's where we grew up, me and Kurt. And up until those murders we pretty much hated each other. Actually," Puck chuckled to himself, "me and a bunch of other kids used to toss him into a dumpster at least twice a week."
"And the murders changed that?" Grady asked, sceptical.
"No. The Glee club changed that," Puck said, aware of how ridiculous the story was already. He grinned. "My friend Finn joined first. I thought it was stupid at first, then I wound up joining a few weeks later. I got to know Kurt through the club, as well as all these other kids I used to think were a bunch of weirdos and geeks. So we were sort-of friends, and then the murders happened. The Lima killer went after a specific kind of guy, the tough, sporty type. Guys pretty much just like me. You can look it up – six kids went missing, four in my year. It took them months to find all the bodies and for a while everyone was shit-scared wondering who was going to be next."
"I remember the news," Jonah said, speaking for the first time since Puck had joined them. He nodded. "Six boys all missing from a small town in Ohio. They never did find that killer."
"Exactly," Puck agreed, raising his cider in thanks. "So there was this killer on the loose and everyone freaking out, and I fit the exact profile of the guys this killer liked to hit. Everyone was worried and fussing and generally being a pain in the ass. Except for Kurt. We hit it off, turned out we had a few things in common, and before I knew it I suddenly had a boyfriend."
"And you've been together ever since?" The query came from Harry, who glanced over at the cluster of women with a dubious look.
Puck shrugged. "On and off. Broke up for a while in college, again for a few months after. But from the way things keep going... it looks like we're stuck together."
You could tell from his tone that Puck didn't think that was a bad thing.
The conversation moved on. As promised, Grady, Harry and Roger told the (infamous) story of the roofing tile competition while Doug remained staunchly silent. It might not have been embarrassment keeping him quiet though. Something about Puck's story had made Doug very uncomfortable, to the point where he wasn't sure he wanted to spend an afternoon chatting with the younger man. Maybe, he mused, it was the way Puck had talked about the Lima killings as if they were some kind of in-joke instead of a real crime. Like a minor inconvenience, and not news that had once been broadcast across the nation.
Doug looked back over his shoulder to where his wife was laughing with Kurt like they were old friends. He wasn't sure he liked the implication that the couple had actually gotten together based on a lack of worry.
.
.
When Kurt came home to find that the widescreen TV had been moved to the bedroom and was currently connected up to a handheld video camera he was expecting a rather different surprise than the one he actually got. The bedroom curtains were closed, blocking out most of the light from the slowly sinking sun. He could hear the shower going through the door that joined bedroom to bathroom, and peeked in through the open door for a glance at the vague shape of his boyfriend's body through the frosted glass of the shower stall. Silent as a mouse, Kurt stepped back from the door and checked the bed, lifting the pillows to see the travel-sized bottle of lube that had been placed there for convenience.
Kurt pursed his lips, crossed his arms, and then raised a hand to press a finger to his lips. He eyed the TV thoughtfully. A few seconds later he started undressing, having decided that whatever Puck planned to do with that video camera was fine by him. They'd done kinkier things in the past, and doubtless they'd do kinkier things in the future. If Puck wanted to make a film then Kurt wasn't going to say no.
He stripped off slowly, taking the time to put everything where it belonged – dirty clothes in the laundry basket, belt hung up alongside the others in the closet, shoes placed neatly beside his other work-related footwear. When he was finally completely naked he crawled onto the bed and lay down on his back, arranged into a casual pose, ankles crossed, back propped by two fluffy pillows.
He was rewarded for his patience two minutes later when Puck stepped out of the bathroom dressed in nothing but a towel, which was quickly dropped to the floor when he saw Kurt. Puck leaned over the bed, weight braced on a knee against the mattress, to kiss the other man. His mouth tasted like toothpaste, Kurt noted, and he smelled like the lemongrass-scented shower gel he used to insist wasn't masculine enough. Kurt smiled against Puck's lips and raised his hands to slide his palms over the other man's biceps.
"Were you planning something dirty, Noah?" Kurt teased when they parted. "Something disgusting and kinky?"
"It's a surprise," Puck replied, smirking. "I think you'll like it." He drew away from the bed and crossed the room to turn the TV on. "You might wanna be on your hands and knees for this one, baby."
Curious, Kurt rolled onto his hands and knees facing the screen even as he arched an eyebrow. "Taking charge tonight, darling? You know I love it when you give it to me rough."
"I think you'll be too busy watching," Puck grinned, and flicked to the right channel to hook up the camera properly, "to do more than take it. And love it." He pressed the play button on the camera. "Surprise, baby."
For the first second there was nothing but static, then the screen lit up with a night-vision grey image of the outside of a building. Kurt frowned, perplexed rather than turned on, and was about to ask where Puck had gotten the mistaken impression that he found bad architecture arousing when the picture wobbled, then panned around to focus on what was obviously the back of Puck's ute.
Kurt's breath caught as it suddenly became obvious what exactly the surprise was. There was a lump crumpled in the truck bed and hidden by the ever-trusty tarp. He was almost certain that the hint of something poking out from underneath was a shoe.
"Noah..." Kurt started, looking at his boyfriend.
"Watch the screen," Puck told him and crossed the room to crawl up onto the bed behind Kurt. His hands caressed Kurt's back, down to his ass, to his thighs, and back up again. "I have to smash the disc after this," he added, and bent to kiss the small of Kurt's back, "so enjoy it while you can."
Kurt spread his legs apart further, widening his stance on the bed. He watched the screen avidly as the picture advanced shakily and one of Puck's hands came into view. The hand was covered in a dark, matte glove but Kurt still recognised the way it moved. He knew that hand as well as he knew his own. The hand was followed by a flash of a forearm covered by soft, plain coloured material. Glove touched plastic and the tarp was thrown back to reveal the dishevelled, gagged and groggy form of a man. Number two on the List, bound with black zip ties, the duct tape over his mouth wrapped at least twice around his head.
"Oh God," Kurt breathed as his lover's fingers started exploring his body, slipping between his legs to tease his cock. "Noah... Is he still...? Are you going to...?"
"Yeah," Puck replied, voice low and husky. "I got everything. Every single second for you to watch."
The picture shook, then settled as the camera was set down somewhere still and sturdy. The semi-unconscious Harold Dwyer was dragged up and out of the truck bed; the camera was picked up again half a second later. His mind automatically filling in the blanks, Kurt figured that Puck must have been carrying the man over one shoulder, the camera in his other hand. The landscape remained grey, with a soundtrack of heavy footsteps crunching against gravel and dry leaves. A glimpse of a steel cap boot as Puck kicked in an unlocked door, the unlocked chain attached to the handle clinked and rattled. A thud as the door closed again.
Mr. Dwyer was dumped unceremoniously to the ground, where he gave a whimpering moan of pain. The camera was set down on something about two feet off the ground and left, focussed on the man twitching on the floor.
Kurt twitched on the bed as his lover's hands caressed him again, this time covered in something slick and warm that tingled against his skin. Callused fingers rubbed the lubricant over his skin, fingertips pressed teasingly close to his entrance.
The muffled sounds from the television speakers were metallic, then the sound of footsteps. The picture suddenly flicked to colour, and Kurt got to see the smudges of red already dotting Dwyer's rumpled suit. Puck came back into the frame, dressed in worn jeans, a grey hoodie, and the black gloves that Kurt had come to associate with both sex and crime. The hood on the shirt kept most of Puck's face hidden even when his back wasn't turned away from the camera. He held a black-handled knife in his right hand. He used the butt of it to smash against Dwyer's mouth, breaking teeth.
Kurt groaned as a finger pushed into his body. He canted his hips back, hot all over and breathing hard already. He could feel Puck looming up behind him, a shadow of heat and weight that touched the passion in Kurt's chest and coiled around his heart – gripping his heart the way Puck's hand gripped his cock. They were a perfect fit, he thought and squirmed when that one finger became two. They were made for each other.
He had no idea how Puck had managed to draw everything out for a half hour of film, but somehow he managed it. The timing was perfect, every move perfectly choreographed so that even if the tape somehow made its way into the wrong hands there was no solid evidence that he was the killer. A flash of tan skin could be anyone. The truck, licence plates carefully kept out of the frame, could belong to anyone.
Kurt writhed on the bed under his boyfriend's careful attention and was shaking, nearly in tears, by the time the footage ended. The way his body moved, the look on his face, made it very clear that he loved every second.
The only thing that could have made it better was if Puck had brought out the knife, and if it was still bloody.
Afterwards he lay exhausted and panting, not even caring that he had collapsed into the wet patch or that the bedspread would need to be washed. He didn't lift his head when he felt Puck leave him and get up from the bed. "You'll be the death of me," Kurt muttered, sleepy and content.
The TV flicked off. Puck unhooked the camera and took out the disc, which he promptly snapped in half and again into quarters before he dropped it on top of the dresser. He returned to the bed and lay down beside his lover. "So," he said casually. "Order in...?"
"Mm," Kurt hummed. "Chinese."
Everything else could wait.