Behind the Bleachers
Behind the Bleachers
He's the type of guy that you'd expect to see in the latest fashion, but wears black shirts with buckles and shredded jeans because he knows he can. So he walks down the corridor with his chin held high, his small shoulders squeezed and his pixie black hair is ruffled and unkempt, spiked sharply at the back, just like his mind and tongue.
He's the kind of boy Puck hates.
The type that sits at the back of the class, smirking as he texts his friends because he already knows the subject off by hand. He's a whiz at everything – he's stuck up without even trying.
Then, as he walks past Puck's table, his locker, his car, his smirk haunts Puck.
He drives Puck insane.
* * *
Puck doesn't know his name.
Doesn't really care about learning it ether. Everybody says it but he never pays enough attention to care – doesn't even grasp the side conversations he doesn't even mean to hear.
He just calls him the Bitch because it's what he is.
* * *
Puck still doesn't know the guys name.
He doesn't think he knows Pucks either.
But they're both still hidden behind the bleachers, pressed together and sharing ravenous kisses and bruising touches. He smells like nicotine and damp grass. His hair is softer than it looks. He hikes himself up with the metal fence, his slender legs wrapped around Pucks waist. He shoves his leather jacket off Puck shoulders and throws it aside.
Puck is intoxicated by his kisses and he doesn't really remember how they landed in this position, in this place.
He is absolutely positive he hates him and he is constantly mocking Puck with his smirks and the hot flashes of his glaze eyes. But Puck's palming his hip bones and he's carving tracks of his nails down his back and this is hate sex at its finest, behind the bleachers because no one comes back here, anyway.
* * *
It changes nothing.
Puck still studies him with clinical eyes and disdain; he rustles his hair and doesn't mind if it sticks up in odd angles and he smiles with his white teeth when he's with his friends.
Puck twirls his pen in between his fingers, half-paying attention to what the teacher is saying and writing up on the board. His attention is out the window, watching as unexpected rain tap against the bay windows. Rain annoys him, especially unexpected rain. It ruins plans, not that he had any—but rain is an easy thing to dislike and Puck loves to dislike things.
He passes by Puck table and he only knows this because of the familiar smell—nicotine and wet grass. His hips are swaying, his clothes painted on and complimentary and everything goes down to Puck's pants.
He grits his teeth and looks away.
* * *
The guy looks wonderful under the rain.
There, he will admit that to himself.
He looks fucking amazing with his pixie hair plastered against his forehead, blue eyes wide and lips pale as they're bruised and parted. His chest heaves and Puck can see his muscles that look more defined against the wet material of his t-shirt, soaked and stuck like a second skin. He looks like any other guy, lowered down from his high horse to meddle with the peasants.
Puck kisses him senseless, until he cannot breathe and until he wants to kiss no one but him.
The guy groans when his rough fingers graze his skin under his tight shirt and he mutters his name; Puck doesn't remember telling him it but he doesn't care enough to stop and think about it.
The rain curtains them and Puck sucks the raindrops off his collarbones.
* * *
His name is Kurt, but he still calls him Bitch in his mind.
Because he's vulgar and unabashed and Puck dislikes him.
* * *
Watching him smoke turns Puck on.
He doesn't realize it until a dark morning as he walks down the student parking lot. Kurt is sitting on the hood of Puck's rusty, old pickup truck, a cig in between his teeth and smoke exhaling out of his nose. He's watching everything from under his dark lashes, lips pursed to the side and nimble fingers cracking his knuckles.
Puck turns around, throat constricting as he swallows.
He says nothing to Kurt because he does not exist, but Puck hates how his chest pounds with the echo of his heartbeat because he's supposed to hate him.
* * *
Kurt is not the one to fall first.
And it eats at Puck's pride until he is nothing but a hollow vessel, walking down the hallways and sitting in classrooms. It's an epiphany he does not want to accept, one he repels because he dislikes Kurt and his pixie hair and bluey, green eyes and pink lips. He's spent so much time disliking Kurt; the mere fact of kissing him, touching him, fucking him has robbed Puck of the feeling.
The bleachers become ghosts because he doesn't meet Kurt there anymore.
Kurt passes by and his eyes are always on Puck, like blazing fire sent from the deepest pits of hell. But he doesn't look at Kurt and he feels like a cowards and he hates it—this feeling, because it is the truth.
He is a coward and he hates it.
* * *
Weeks before summer, that's when Kurt cracks and he approaches him, eyes flashing with something like anger.
"You don't just leave something open ended like that," he sneers and he can only stare at him with minor interest. "I don't care how much of a dick you are."
Puck raises an eyebrow and his lips slowly tilt to the side into a smirk. "Ha, you're funny."
Kurt curls his hands at his side and sneers at him.
* * *
He drives Kurt home because he can and because he wants to.
His pride has never been more wounded than at that very moment, but the way Kurt smirks the entire way, the way he smokes his cigarette and taps the ash out through the window is worth it.
Puck likes to dislike him but he also likes to look at Kurt because he's the only person that can keep up.
He's the kind of boy Puck hates.
The type that sits at the back of the class, smirking as he texts his friends because he already knows the subject off by hand. He's a whiz at everything – he's stuck up without even trying.
Then, as he walks past Puck's table, his locker, his car, his smirk haunts Puck.
He drives Puck insane.
* * *
Puck doesn't know his name.
Doesn't really care about learning it ether. Everybody says it but he never pays enough attention to care – doesn't even grasp the side conversations he doesn't even mean to hear.
He just calls him the Bitch because it's what he is.
* * *
Puck still doesn't know the guys name.
He doesn't think he knows Pucks either.
But they're both still hidden behind the bleachers, pressed together and sharing ravenous kisses and bruising touches. He smells like nicotine and damp grass. His hair is softer than it looks. He hikes himself up with the metal fence, his slender legs wrapped around Pucks waist. He shoves his leather jacket off Puck shoulders and throws it aside.
Puck is intoxicated by his kisses and he doesn't really remember how they landed in this position, in this place.
He is absolutely positive he hates him and he is constantly mocking Puck with his smirks and the hot flashes of his glaze eyes. But Puck's palming his hip bones and he's carving tracks of his nails down his back and this is hate sex at its finest, behind the bleachers because no one comes back here, anyway.
* * *
It changes nothing.
Puck still studies him with clinical eyes and disdain; he rustles his hair and doesn't mind if it sticks up in odd angles and he smiles with his white teeth when he's with his friends.
Puck twirls his pen in between his fingers, half-paying attention to what the teacher is saying and writing up on the board. His attention is out the window, watching as unexpected rain tap against the bay windows. Rain annoys him, especially unexpected rain. It ruins plans, not that he had any—but rain is an easy thing to dislike and Puck loves to dislike things.
He passes by Puck table and he only knows this because of the familiar smell—nicotine and wet grass. His hips are swaying, his clothes painted on and complimentary and everything goes down to Puck's pants.
He grits his teeth and looks away.
* * *
The guy looks wonderful under the rain.
There, he will admit that to himself.
He looks fucking amazing with his pixie hair plastered against his forehead, blue eyes wide and lips pale as they're bruised and parted. His chest heaves and Puck can see his muscles that look more defined against the wet material of his t-shirt, soaked and stuck like a second skin. He looks like any other guy, lowered down from his high horse to meddle with the peasants.
Puck kisses him senseless, until he cannot breathe and until he wants to kiss no one but him.
The guy groans when his rough fingers graze his skin under his tight shirt and he mutters his name; Puck doesn't remember telling him it but he doesn't care enough to stop and think about it.
The rain curtains them and Puck sucks the raindrops off his collarbones.
* * *
His name is Kurt, but he still calls him Bitch in his mind.
Because he's vulgar and unabashed and Puck dislikes him.
* * *
Watching him smoke turns Puck on.
He doesn't realize it until a dark morning as he walks down the student parking lot. Kurt is sitting on the hood of Puck's rusty, old pickup truck, a cig in between his teeth and smoke exhaling out of his nose. He's watching everything from under his dark lashes, lips pursed to the side and nimble fingers cracking his knuckles.
Puck turns around, throat constricting as he swallows.
He says nothing to Kurt because he does not exist, but Puck hates how his chest pounds with the echo of his heartbeat because he's supposed to hate him.
* * *
Kurt is not the one to fall first.
And it eats at Puck's pride until he is nothing but a hollow vessel, walking down the hallways and sitting in classrooms. It's an epiphany he does not want to accept, one he repels because he dislikes Kurt and his pixie hair and bluey, green eyes and pink lips. He's spent so much time disliking Kurt; the mere fact of kissing him, touching him, fucking him has robbed Puck of the feeling.
The bleachers become ghosts because he doesn't meet Kurt there anymore.
Kurt passes by and his eyes are always on Puck, like blazing fire sent from the deepest pits of hell. But he doesn't look at Kurt and he feels like a cowards and he hates it—this feeling, because it is the truth.
He is a coward and he hates it.
* * *
Weeks before summer, that's when Kurt cracks and he approaches him, eyes flashing with something like anger.
"You don't just leave something open ended like that," he sneers and he can only stare at him with minor interest. "I don't care how much of a dick you are."
Puck raises an eyebrow and his lips slowly tilt to the side into a smirk. "Ha, you're funny."
Kurt curls his hands at his side and sneers at him.
* * *
He drives Kurt home because he can and because he wants to.
His pride has never been more wounded than at that very moment, but the way Kurt smirks the entire way, the way he smokes his cigarette and taps the ash out through the window is worth it.
Puck likes to dislike him but he also likes to look at Kurt because he's the only person that can keep up.