Title: Don't Leave, This is What You're Missing!
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Puck x Kurt
Warning: Language, mentions of sexual activities, underage drinking.
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee.
Author Notes: Inspired by TFLN: (570): as they left, you opened the door, dropped your pants then yelled "don't leave, this is what you're missing"
I tried to keep this mostly dialogue, 'cause those are just fun to read. The style of this is inspired by mellow_bellow_91's Texting on LJ.
Summary: Kurt recaps to Puck what happened the previous night. Text!fic, established relationship.
Word Count: 806
Noah moaned, rolling over on his bed so he could feel around his end table for the source of the constant buzzing…which turned out to be his phone. He let it buzz in his hand for a moment, putting off opening his eyes as long as he could. Finally, after feeling like he wasn't going to hurl everywhere, he cracked a hazel eye open and unlocked his phone.
Three texts and two calls from Kurt.
Shit. What happened last night?
Nothing good if Kurt was trying to reach him, that's a given. Willing himself to sit up against the headboard, he brought his knees up and opened up the texts in order.
Noah, baby, wake up.
No, seriously. You can sleep off your hangover later; wake up.
GET UP, DICKHEAD.
Noah snickered quietly, as to not contribute to his own headache, at his boyfriend's aggressiveness. He was still wary on what he did exactly, but tried not to freak himself out. It was probably nothing. Deciding texting with his phone on silent would be much easier on his migraine than having to listen to Kurt (not that he didn't like listening to Kurt), he tapped out a response.
I'm up, princess, calm your panties. What's up?
Kurt's reply was almost immediate.
Your constant need to show off your dick, that's what.
Well that was an interesting response. Noah had to reread it three more times to make sure he comprehended the words correctly.
You're gonna hafta be a little more specific.
You don't remember? Well I shouldn't be surprised, I'm sure you were the definition of alcoholism last night. I was actually sort of worried.
Oh, like you didn't drink last night.
I had two shots and a Cosmo. You drank an entire six pack by yourself before moving in on the Jack Daniels. Honestly, babe, we gotta work on that, it never turns out well. Last night's an example.
Stop bringing it up if you're just going to skirt around it. What did I do?
After throwing up in Santana's bathtub-twice-which she didn't find until this morning, you got into a fight with Karofsky, barely won, and went down on me…poorly, but I don't think you could see straight, so I forgive you.
That's not too bad…wait I didn't go down on you RIGHT after kicking Karofsky's ass-like in front of everyone-right? You did mention something about me whippin' it out.
Oh, no. We retreated to some secluded area, I don't remember where. But those were just the beginning. You gave me a piggyback ride, which amazing coordination considering your condition, to the living room before passing out in a carpet that was either soaked in alcohol or piss…I wasn't going to find out. You smelled like both.
You're still leaving something out.
I'm worried that you're not appalled by this story so far. YOU did these things.
Worse has happened.
We'll see. I couldn't wake you up right away, so I just dragged you over towards the den and laid us down on the couch to sleep it off. You woke up before me and tried to stick your dick in my mouth-WHILE I was still sleeping-and Finn walked in on us. Well, you.
Did you suck me off?
How is it that during the telling of this story, I'm the one becoming offended? You're impossible.
You're cute when you're bitchy. And I went down on you, it's only common courtesy that you return the favor. Continue, though. I'm assuming there's more.
He kind of freaked out, and right before he shut the door, you stood up, dropped your pants to your ankles, and yelled "Don't leave, this is what you're missing!" I managed to talk him into helping me get you back home, but he's still mad at you, no matter how drunk you were.
Holy shit, I can't stop laughing. I mean I feel bad for the dude, but not really. Not many dudes get the pleasure of seeing Puckzilla.
I'm glad you're amused, my brother won't speak to me. He claims to be tainted after seeing his 'baby brother' be 'mouth-raped' by you. Oh, you also signed my underwear. Your style of romanticism is exhausting.
That way you know you're mine.
At least you didn't sign my ass; I could have really outed you for practically branding me. I'll let you putting sharpie on my Calvin Kleins slide only because I don't remember it happening either.
Appreciated. So…Finn's mad at me. Santana's probably mad at me, that's nothing new. Karofsky's mad at me, that's not new either. So does that mean me coming over today is a dead end?
Pick me up a Starbucks on your way over, and I'll promise to do as much damage control as I can. And maybe a blowjob if you can remember my usual.
I'm on my way.
I've noticed I end a lot of drabble-y oneshots with them agreeing on sex. I'm worried about what that says about me as a person.
Anyway, I'm on the last chapter of that chapter-y goodness I mentioned before, I just needed to do something else. And I just so happened to stumble upon a few Text From Last night; yes, a few, so expect one or two more in the near future. Not here, though; as new oneshots. I'll go ahead and repeat that. This is complete-no sequels.