Ah, sorry it took me forever, but I'm a slow writer naturally. I mean, it took me weeks just to write the first chapter, and this one is, like, TWICE that! Thank you: [maeby. sparrow], [Luffly Emi], [Twisted Ingenue], and everyone who favorited/alerted this story. Here's bringing you semi-plotless smut!

Having arrived at the house, Puck is surprised when he's lead down a flight of stairs.

"You're bedroom is the basement?" The jock's mind is racing with all the possibilities such an isolated room would bring.

Kurt, who has gotten quite good at reading that perverted mind over the passed few weeks, answers, "Don't get too excited; it doesn't solve the overhearing problem."

The stud smirks as he catches sight of the pristine room. "Then it's a good thing your dad's not home."

The diva chooses not to answer and, instead, sits down on the edge of his bed, slightly nervous. He had his entire course of action planned out. Everything he needed to do to get to his objective had been meticulously memorized, and he runs through the list again as Puck sits down next to him.

They sit in silence and Puck is beginning to think that nothing's going to happen when Kurt suddenly laces his fingers through his mohawk and brings him in for a kiss.

But their lips don't meet; the smaller teen stills, and the jock recalls that this is probably the fairy's first kiss and that the kid is nervous. So he gently places one hand on Kurt's shoulder and the other on the base of his neck and closes the last few centimeters between them.

Kurt falls into the kiss eagerly, glad that his supposed hesitation had given him his desired result—he may be giving up romance, but he still wants someone to kiss him, dammit, not the other way around. He then moans quietly and turns his body completely towards the jock, genuinely wanting more. Things rapidly get steamy, but then the diva, breathless, pulls away. Puck is about to growl in frustration when a quiet voice asks, "Do you fantasize about me?"

The mohawk-ed teen internally gripes about being the victim of yet another episode of insecurity but stops when he looks at the boy in front of him. Kurt's eyes are smoldering, their usual icy blue has darkened. His lips, puffy and red from the frenzied kissing, are parted, and the breath that leaves them comes out in small pants.

The jock then realizes that the princess of gays is actually talking dirty with him. He smirks before replying, "Yeah," and then pulls the soprano into his lap.

They are kissing again, now grinding together, when there is a break in passion; "How did you picture it?" Kurt is murmuring low, following his plan, enticing Lima's number one man-whore. "How do you want it?"

Puck's mouth attacks the pale neck as he reels his mind in and thinks things over. He had expected some "wilting flower" or a little nervousness, but this—the diva moans wantonly at a rougher nibble at soft flesh—this only happened in his more uninhibited dreams.

"I want it like this," he admits, "With you riding me, full cowgirl."

Kurt smiles and gives a particularly hard grind. "Me too," he pants out.

Their eyes lock for a few seconds, breaking only when the cheerleader reaches down and nimbly pulls Puck's shirt over his head. The diva tugs lightly at his nipple ring while the jock's hands fly to Kurt's shirt, ready to return the favor.

But the blue-eyed boy smirks and leans back, slapping Puck's hands away. "Ah-ah," he tuts and continues his explanation with, "Armani."

And Puck really growls when the smaller boy gets off of him, off of the bed, to remove his shirt and delicately fold it over a chair.

But the jock's frustration turns into a different kind of heat when Kurt's hands continue to his skin-tight pants, and, after neatly putting those away as well, he stands before Puck: naked, unabashed, cock hard.

Only one thought runs through the mohawk-ed head: Fucking Hot.

Kurt crawls on top of Puck, who leans back, making quick work of his own pants, which the diva unceremoniously pushes to the floor. They look each other over, appreciating what the other is offering, before Kurt bends forward to give Puck a quick kiss, straddling his waist.

The jock wants to get the show on the road, though, so he grabs the soprano's cock and gives a few hard strokes, relaying his impatience.

"I need to prep myself," the younger teen gasps out. "Lube. Nightstand. Third drawer."

It's a bit of an issue to stretch over so far—Kurt almost falls off of the mohawk-ed teen when Puck has to turn his body—but the blind reach is successful, and the jock hurries to open the tube.

"Make sure it's not superglue," the diva chimes absently. Lost to sexual need and desire, he is obviously not thinking clearly.

"You keep superglue in your nightstand?" But the implication of what that sort of mix-up would mean causes Puck to check the label regardless.

"No. I didn't actually mean to say that out loud. House," he answers, unfocused, but it's not really an explanation.

The jock's mind is now back on track and, well acquainted with what to do with lube and tight holes, Puck deftly slicks up his fingers and slides them into Kurt. He feels the smaller teen tense but continues to loosen him up. The diva rocks back onto the fingers and, mewling, gladly accepts the new sensation. It felt so much better when it was someone else's fingers.

The mohawk-ed teen adds a third finger but gets impatient after another minute. "C'mon, babe. Don't hog all the fun." He emphasizes his point with a shallow upward thrust.

The soprano sighs when the fingers leave him and bites his bottom lip cutely as he positions himself over Puck's cock. He whimpers as he takes it in, not used to being stretched so wide. The jock feels Kurt attempt to relax around him as he slowly slides down his entire length. The smaller teen bites his lip harder, his brow furrowed in pain. Puck, tapping into some unknown reserve of endurance, remains completely still and murmurs encouragements to the diva.

When Kurt finally engulfs that last inch, the feeling of being completely filled by a real, hot, throbbing penis wins out over the pain and pushes him over the edge. And he comes. It actually takes some restraint on Puck's part to not orgasm as well as the younger teen clamps around him and lets out a strangled cry, but the jock painstakingly waits through Kurt's post-coital high, knowing that as soon as they start up again, his patience would have been worth it.

The diva turns red as he regains his senses, mortified that he had come before he was actually fucked. Puck just smirks and pulls the soprano down for a kiss. "I'm gonna make you come plenty of times tonight," he murmurs, smoothly covering what could have been an awkward moment.

Kurt shoots the jock a grateful look and braces his hands on the muscular chest as he meets Puck's thrusts, essentially lifting himself with his knees and dropping down in a counter rhythm.

"Fuck, Hummel," the jock groans out, just as their speed picks up.

The diva freezes and lifts himself completely off of Puck, holding his cock as he hovers over it. The mohawk-ed teen thrusts uselessly, thinking only about getting back inside that tight hole.

Kurt pins the stud with a stare darkened with lust and intent. "The person inside me will not call me by my last name." He pulls even farther away as he waits for a response.

"Ok, yeah, alright. Kurt!" the larger teen grinds out helplessly, forgetting for the moment that he was stronger—and more badass—than the male diva and that he should be the one giving orders.

The soprano smiles wickedly before swiftly dropping onto Puck and losing himself to their primitive pleasure.

They are moving in earnest, rapid and hard. Senseless noise and profanities leave their lips, but when they moan each other's names it's "Kurt. Damn, Kurt" and "Puck, Puck, Puck, Puck, Puck!"

They orgasm together, barely minutes in, Kurt calling out, "Puck!" and the jock opting for a more crude, "Holy, shit!"

Almost immediately afterward, Puck flips them over and fucks the diva in missionary position. The night continues on in a similar fashion, changing positions after each round; they have wanted each other for so long, and their imagination has stored quite a few ideas.

Finally, they are spent and catching their breath. Kurt is resting his head on a deliciously glistening chest, absently pulling on the nipple ring and musing over the fact that he had just experienced the best night of his life. Well, maybe not better than going backstage for Wicked for Christmas, but this night was extremely pivotal in his teenage existence.


Puck is listening to the percussion of his slowing heartbeat when he feels the bed shift slightly; Kurt has begun to pet his mohawk. The action is actually quite soothing, and he allows himself to drift off to sleep, happy and surprisingly content.


When the jock wakes up the next morning, the fist thing he sees is Kurt standing over him, hair wet and in a plush, white robe. "Puck. Wake up. Go take a bath."

Not a morning person, the mohawk-ed teen unthinkingly gets out of bed and walks through the first door he sees which, thankfully, is the bathroom. He only actually wakes up when a spray of hot water hits him, taking him from drowsy sleepyhead to "Ouch! What the fuck!" After remedying the situation, he takes a quick shower, spending more time trying to figure out what's shampoo and what's soap then actually putting the stuff on.

When he walks back into the room, the diva is nowhere to be seen, but there's another white robe laid out for him on the bed. Puck sneers briefly before allowing himself to put it on. It was too small, but, holy crap, was it soft. If he was a lesser man, he would have hugged himself and ran his hands over the fluffy fabric. But of course he didn't. And of course he didn't think that he was cuddly. Damn, that robe was soft.

The studly teen then ascends the stairs and follows the music into the kitchen, where Kurt is currently stirring something at the stove. After briefly thinking that whatever the soprano is cooking smells amazing, he plops onto a chair at the table and sourly announces, "I smell like a girl."

The diva is still working when he replies, "Oh, stop complaining, Puck," and the jock thinks that Kurt is back to his bitchy self when the smaller teen turns around with a playful smirk on his lips. "I bet you smell delicious."

They stay a moment, eyes locked. Puck raises his eyebrows in contained surprise as the soprano continues with his sultry look.

Then the Cheerio abruptly turns back.

There is an awkward silence until the jock says, "So why am I wearing this gay bathrobe?"

Even without seeing Kurt's face, the mohawk-ed teen knows his comment produces an eye-roll.

"There's no point in putting on clothes that you're just going to take off," the soprano answers matter-of-factly.

"Then why don't I just go naked?"

The diva scoffs. "Please. I will have some sort of decency in this house."

And then silence reigns again as the two boys become lost in thought. Kurt is hoping that the other teen hasn't noticed his shaking hands; the soprano is now extremely nervous. The boldness he had last night had been spurred by his intricate and premeditated plan. But he hadn't thought about the morning after. He had no clue what to do and was barely able to keep up the confidence he had felt before.

Puck, on the other hand, is thinking about the blue-eyed boy's words, mildly surprised—again—about the understated promise of more sex. He hadn't really expected anything beyond a one-night stand, thinking that the other boy wouldn't want him for more than that. He then figures that he should just get used to the fact that Kurt was going to fuck up any, and possibly all, preconceptions he had had about the fairy.

The jock then looks back to the still-cooking teen, and his heart thumps loudly. It kinda scares him: Kurt acting all domestic and wife-y.

"We're not dating, you know," he says, feeling the need to state it out loud.

The diva doesn't stop his task as he answers, "I know. I have a penchant for being womanly, remember? This includes cooking. Besides, I don't trust my dad with more than a microwave."

A few moments pass before the sitting teen speaks again. "This is so weird. I've never spent this much time with someone after fucking them."

"What?" the soprano begins teasingly, now setting the table and doling out scrambled eggs, "Noah Puckerman's never had breakfast with his sex partners?"

"I'm not usually there when they wake up in the morning" is answered with a shrug.

And Kurt pauses from the first bite he was about to take when something in him—the part that's all white, warm, and glow-y—is struck by the other's words, and he feels like the jock needs some comfort. Of course, some wires get crossed, or something snaps, because the soprano suddenly changes from sympathetic to re-sex-charged. Maybe it has to do with the fact that some of Puck's robe fell open.

"I wanna suck your cock," he informs the mohawk-ed teen calmly.

The older boy chokes on the spoonful of eggs in his mouth as the other laughs melodiously and sinks under the table.

Puck has downed half his glass of orange juice when he hears the diva ask, "You good up there?"

The jock takes a final gulp and answers with a rough voice, "Yeah."

"Good." And then it's the soprano who has his mouth full.

It's a bit awkward at first, tentative and clumsy, but then it gets really, really, good; the younger teen deep throats and even swallows when he's finished.

Puck is left catching his breath. "Damn, Kurt…"

The blue-eyed boy just pops back into his seat. "Come on, breakfast is getting cold."


They spend the rest of the weekend watching TV and movies in Kurt's room. The Cheerio allows himself to indulge in popcorn as Puck tries to explain baseball to him and even miraculously finds a way to ignore the fashion travesty that is stirrup pants long enough to think that sports are stupid but not entirely unentertaining.

Oh, and they have lots and lots of sex. Like bunny rabbits.

The two teens find themselves becoming increasingly comfortable with each other and realize that whatever they have together is too good to give up after just one weekend. They are both silently hating Monday.

It is five in the afternoon on Sunday when Kurt's iPhone rings. They pause their activity—the diva is riding Puck again—when the caller ID reads "Dad".

"Hello?... Okay… Pizza would be fine… Oh, I…I was in the middle of an aerobic workout… Mm-hmm, love you, too. Bye."

The jock leers as Kurt places his phone back on the nightstand. "Some workout, huh?"

The soprano rolls his eyes. "You're just lying there."

Puck smirks and thrusts a few times as an answer.

"My dad says he's on his way home." The smaller teen then gets off and stands by the bed. The other's muttered string of curses stops when Kurt continues, "Fuck me up against the wall."

The jock takes in the diva's playful smile and complies enthusiastically.


Puck gets up from where they had sunk to the floor and slowly gathers his clothes. He pauses when buttoning his pants as he catches sight of his sitting bed buddy: naked, messy, and casually looking up at him. And he likes it. He likes the fact that Kurt doesn't hide himself, that the diva is unashamed of their actions and decisions. They've grown to respect each other over the past few weeks, and especially these last two days, and the mohawk-ed teen has come to see Kurt as an equal. And he finds it amazingly refreshing. The jock was used to being bossed around or taking control in a relationship, so this feeling of partnership is new.

Which is why he leans down and kisses Kurt softly, the soprano making a contented noise as he laces his fingers into Puck's mohawk.

"See you tomorrow, Puck," the smaller teen states as their lips part.

The older boy is putting on his shirt as he walks up the stairs. "You can call me by my name, too, Kurt."

And they both smile to themselves as they think that there was no way things would ever go back to the way they were before.

So I hope you liked it! A sequel should be up, eventually, too. Please ignore any weird tense things I may have done; writing in present participle messes me up, and it doesn't help that they think in PAST tense. So, yeah, I did what I could to keep it understandable. And also, if some things don't add up, just fill in the holes with your imagination. I can't do all the work, lol. So yeah, reviews are welcomed, though not necessary. Most people don't read this anyway. Thanks for adding my fic into your memories! Much luv!