Sit Down and Take in The Clichés (2/3)
I know I said Sunday Monday, but rl got in the way. Also this thing is atrocious, and growing out of proportion. idk. I'm still way out of my comfort zone.
I don't know when I'll have the last part ready... It's halfway done.
“Oh, shit.”
“Okay, Noah Puckerman, you’re officially weirding me out, so I’ll just head off and tell Schue that you have some sort of -surprisingly non-venereal- disease and let you have as many uncomprehensible freak outs as you want, on your own.”
If Puck weren’t strangely atuned to absolutely everything about the other boy right now, he would’ve believed in the set of his face that had gone from -half-annoyed-half-concerned to bored and coldly uninterested as he voiced those words and started walking away.
Puck, however, can listen to Hummel’s heart beating faster and faster -trying painfully to hit the ribcage, or claw through skin and jump away from his body-, can feel the way his blood is flowing hot and rushing all over his body, can smell the way Hummel feels (and the way he lives, and the way he wants, and loves, and a lot of other unexpected things), can see the stiffness in the shoulders, the resolute fierceness of his legs moving in tandem with the hips that are swaying a little less than normal.
As he walks away, Puck knows that Kurt Hummel is actually scared.
When Hummel reaches the door. the same part of himself that had wanted to bite Kurt growls at him desperately and fills him with words that at one point or another spell out bring him back, don’t let him go away; touch him, bite him, keep him.
“So, what? You are Edward fucking Cullen, now? Because that’s totally not sexy, Puckerman”
Santana leers at him from where she is lying on the bed , gorgeous, bewitching, and vicious like a fucking poisonous snake. Her hair is floating all over one of his pillows, and her fingers are clutching one of his blankets, and her smirk could freeze him and melt him and puncture him like a knife.
He smiles at her from his cheap swivel chair, and is about to answer with a leer of his own and an I’ll show you sexy, Lopez, but he’s way too tired to even try to fuck her the way she’ll demand him to ( hard and bruising and fast and long), and also he’s reveling in the lax calm that’s flooding through him since he left the nurse’s office after the Hummel thing (he tries not to think about what it is, or could’ve been, that brought him down from the frenzy, because all of the possible answers make him anxious) .
“Shut up, bitch.” He answers, instead, and she rolls her eyes at him. After a few seconds however, she gets up from the bed and walks over to him and tells him: “You’re a manwhore, dude, and you are annoying most of the time, but I like you. So I’m glad that that crazy chick didn’t kill you.”
She kisses him on the cheek, in one of her few and far in-between tender moments, and goes back to McKinley for Cheerio practice.
When she’s left him, he can't help but think that he’s glad she’s his girl. She’s a pretty good listener, once you get past her venomous outbursts and sharp barbs here and there; also, he knows for a fact that she can keep a secret, she’s got enough dirt on him by now that he she could’ve used to make his life suck and hasn’t, that he knows that she’s trustworthy.
His period of gratefulness lasts for about five minutes, which is how long it takes for him to receive a text from her that says
u should stop playin dumb and totes think bout what happnd 2day w/ kur, puck . i think sumthin’s goin on. maybe u r also queer now bb
... Which is when he starts taking back anything even remotely nice that he’s ever thought about her, and when he starts regretting telling her all the details from today’s incidents, because frankly? His girl or not, Santana’s a bitch.
Regardless of all of Puck’s protests, his ma sends him to school on Tuesday.
(“No, seriously, ma. I can hear people’s thoughts.”
“Noah, bubbala, you need to deal with this.”
“ ... Ma, I wanna have sex with practically everyone.”
“ ...And how’s that any different from any other teenager to ever exist?”)
He expects to be hit by the dizzling sensations of hundredths of things drowning him and crazing him and making him hard and prickly and stupid and desperate and aching, but as he walks towards the school gates, he feels oddly okay. Normal, almost.
Almost because he still hears people louder, and sees everything starker and bolder, and the smells are pungent (and holy Christ, doesn’t Jacob know what the fuck a deodorant is?).
But everything is mostly okay. There’s no insane need to get off, and he doesn’t break into a cold sweat. He’s not comfortable, he thinks while making his way to hiis locker, but he’s probably going to adapt.
And it’s at that fine point -three feet away from his destination and halfway down the way to convince himself that this vampire thing is gonna work out okay for him- that the universe decides that it just wants to keep fucking him over because it is one hell of a way to spend its free time.
Because right then, right there, Kurt Hummel decides to make an appearance. And that thing about feeling almost normal? Yeah, not really. Not even beginning to comprehend what the word means.
The guy is dressed in his cheerleading outfit (and he can hear Coach Sylvester’s voice trailing Hummel, barking at him that his lungs need to be trained thoroughly in order for his singing not to entirely embarrass the world of music), his hair is marginally dishevelled, his cheeks are flushed in about three different shades of pink -as is his neck, in irregular places-, and there are barely visible traces of moisture ( he can picture the boy mouthing the word perspiration, seductively) here and there.
The sight makes him instantaneously antsy, makes him want to flex his fingers in a hectic fashion for as long as it takes for his brain to stop sending him inappropriate signals about what it wants him to do, until he stops feeling warm and quivery.
But that’s not the most unnerving part The part that really disturbs him is that he can tell that Kurt’s been working out not just by his slightly disarrayed appearance (the which he’s pretty sure nobody else can really notice), but by the way he reeks of it.
Kurt reeks of sweat and exertion, of having done laps and push ups, and having done those crazy high kicks, and done that hardass tumbling Santana and Brittany’ve extensively moaned and whined about at some time or the other. He smells like hard work, and something else.
He smells like a man. He smells rough, wet, dirty. He smells musky and spicy, and Jesus fucking Christ he can smell the way his groin is slightly sweaty, too. The way it’s scented as skin and pubic hair and that one unsmistakable smell that only a dick has, that somewhat acrid and salty tinge that’s pure dick.
And Puck’s never been gay (he’s never even gotten off on how women smell down there), fuck, but his mouth is watering and he’s so hard it’s ludicrous and he can picture a million different things he’d like to do to and with Hummel’s dick. When a much too real fantasy of feeling the guy’s dick engorging in his mouth assaults him, he groans. Half pained, half turned on.
“Oh, Puckerman, you loser.” That’s Santana’s voice, and Santana’s strong grip on his arm as she drags him away, but he can’t really see her, “you’re salivating in public and he’s been gone for like a minute, you perv.”
In the still darkness of one of the unused classrooms Puck’s head clears a bit, and as Santana unbuckles his jeans’ belt, he’s set to awareness of what is about to happen. And though he feels horny in the same desperate edging terrifying way that he’d felt the day before, something is off.
Santana is groping him and they’re grinding against one another like two uncoordinate ragdolls, and it’s the very definition of hot. It’s always been the very definition of hot between them, that’s why they keep falling into bed together.
But right now, it’s... It’s... It’s not even ‘not enough’.
She latches her mouth onto his neck and starts sucking a mark that will be violent and enraged and red for everyone to see (not a claim, but merely the only way she knows to make people feel how much they mean to her in life, always sexual and hard and possessive, barely functional as a human being), and her hand finds her way to his cock and...
“Oh, Puckerman, you loser.” She mutters, chuckling evilly, as she touches his limp member.
“Oh, shut up and go finger your gilfriend or something.”
With a teasing smik and a last jeering tug at his junk, she answers hell yes, I will and is gone.
And he’s not hard anymore, but ants are crawling under his skin and his heart is beating a mile a minute, his fangs are starting to show on their own accord and his blood is boiling, and... and he envisions himself biting Kurt’s milky white tighs and sucking his blood in a leisurely pace, just to lick the marks when he’s done, and trail his tongue all the way up to...
Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.
(When he sees Santana again in second period, she makes a vulgar motion with her hand and mouth that is clearly miming a blowjob; he flips her off; she laughs, and laughs, and laughs.)
When he gets home he punches a hole through his bedroom door ... Well, in fact, at first there’s a hole, then the thing ends up splitting in half, and his mother grounds him for about a month.
On Wednesday the hunger -that lust that doesn’t fade away, no matter who he fucks and how he fucks them-, the sickening sensations of being filled by everyone else’s lives, the increased and throbbing sensibility to the world’s everything, strike again.
All this is accompanied by the grotesque (all that reading he did with his ma about the whole vampire thing had broadened his vocabulary, if nothing else) urge to slam someone (someone, someone, someone, not Hummel, not necessarily Hummel) against a wall and drink their blood. Which shouldn’t come as much of a shocking concept, because well, yeah, vampire. But, still.
He’s... he’s seen pictures in his mind, he’s had fantasies (non-stop, countless of them since Monday, all of them feature white white white skin and tearing tissue and perfect pressure and the slow maddening flow of a red thick liquid covering his tongue, passing through his throat), but this is not an abstract sort of thing. This is very much here, very much present, it’s a yearning.
When his mind is being filled with random strings of consciousness that go from I’m so gonna flunk math, shit to I just can’t stand this pathetic mediocrity parade anymore. People are so disgusting, I wish someone would stand up and say something, anything, and make all these things stop (words overlapping, meanings dropping), and the physical impact of everything else is making him sick, he ends up doing something incredibly stupid.
He skips third period (and when his math teacher tries to make him get into the classroom he just scowls at the poor guy and spits out at him a fuck this noise so quietly violent that the fourty-something man goes pale and leaves him alone in less that a second), goes around the corridors of McKinley High following a breathy chant of incomprehensible french-sounding words and the steady beating of a medium sized heart until he’s barging inside of Kurt’s french class, then he just walks up to him -the kid’s eyes are wide and disbelieving, and his mouth is parted in astonishment, and he looks edible-, grabs him by the front of his fancy clother, lifts him up from his chair, and procceeds to kiss him. Harshly, with clashing teeth and frantic tongue-prodding to make the other guy open his mouth.
When their appendages collide, Kurt makes a squeaky noise that shouldn’t be sexy at all, but is. Puck moans against his best judgement, trailing his hands down Kurt’s sides and planting the heels of his hands on his hips, splaying his finger in a possessive clutch.
Right then, it seems, Kurt’s brain catches up with all what’s happening and he extricates himself from Puck’s hands and mouth, looking flabbergasted, flushed, and pretty much the most pissed off he’s ever seen him
“What are you doing?” He hisses, embarrassment claiming him when he notices that everybody else’s eyes are glued to them.
And, yes, everyone else in the room may be staring at them in varying states of shock but nobody makes a sound or moves a single muscle, which suits Puck just fine because this is none of their fucking business, anyway.
Still, when he locks eyes with a flustered Kurt, he can’t come up with an explanation that will sound at least mildly sane (and he’s not ready to explain this weird vampire thing to Kurt in front of thirty other people), so he mumbles a few jumbled obscenities and leaves in as much of a hurry as he arrived in, Kurt’s voice following him in an indignant yell of come back here, you brute!
He ends up turning off his cellphone (because this is seriously going to be all over the school in less than an hour and the last thing he wants to do is talk to any of the Glee kids), ditching the rest of the day and getting a shady looking guy outside a liquor store to buy him a bottle of Jack, because it’s been that sort of day.
He tries to ignore the fact that even though his body has relaxed magically and he’s very much in control of most of his abilities right now, there’s a gnawing sensation at the pit of his stomach that keeps whispering go back to him in a voice that has lost its sultry quality to gain an iron edge of commandment.
(Also, Jack Daniels’ never tasted so shitty before.)
His mother wakes him up on Thursday morning by throwing a glass of freezing water (with ice cubes) at him. She doesn’t look mad at him, but there’s a vibe of annoyance rolling off of her, when she puts the glass on his computer desk.
“I don’t care how hangover you are, bubbala, you are getting your ass off to school right now.”
The implicit threat makes him obey without any kind of second thoughts.
He’s on his way to school when he turns his cellphone on again, just to see what kind of disaster is gonna be waiting for him; there are fifteen new messages, seventeen lost calls, and six voice mails.
He opens a few of the messages. The first one is from Santana.
...Okay. Well A picture of a dude giving another dude a blowjob, hilarious.
(He’d honestly thought that she’d send something worse, though, so it’s pretty much a win. Or as much of a win as anyone -except for Brittany- ever gets with Santana.)
The next one he opens is from Finn: dude u made out w my lil bro??? wtf man???
The one that he reads after Finn’s is Aretha’s. It’s a thorough description of all the things she’s planning to cut off of him, and what she’s planning to do with said parts after they’ve been severed from the rest of his body if he doesn’t apologize to her boy.
He doesn’t look at any of the other messages.
I don't know when I'll have the last part ready... It's halfway done.
“Oh, shit.”
“Okay, Noah Puckerman, you’re officially weirding me out, so I’ll just head off and tell Schue that you have some sort of -surprisingly non-venereal- disease and let you have as many uncomprehensible freak outs as you want, on your own.”
If Puck weren’t strangely atuned to absolutely everything about the other boy right now, he would’ve believed in the set of his face that had gone from -half-annoyed-half-concerned to bored and coldly uninterested as he voiced those words and started walking away.
Puck, however, can listen to Hummel’s heart beating faster and faster -trying painfully to hit the ribcage, or claw through skin and jump away from his body-, can feel the way his blood is flowing hot and rushing all over his body, can smell the way Hummel feels (and the way he lives, and the way he wants, and loves, and a lot of other unexpected things), can see the stiffness in the shoulders, the resolute fierceness of his legs moving in tandem with the hips that are swaying a little less than normal.
As he walks away, Puck knows that Kurt Hummel is actually scared.
When Hummel reaches the door. the same part of himself that had wanted to bite Kurt growls at him desperately and fills him with words that at one point or another spell out bring him back, don’t let him go away; touch him, bite him, keep him.
“So, what? You are Edward fucking Cullen, now? Because that’s totally not sexy, Puckerman”
Santana leers at him from where she is lying on the bed , gorgeous, bewitching, and vicious like a fucking poisonous snake. Her hair is floating all over one of his pillows, and her fingers are clutching one of his blankets, and her smirk could freeze him and melt him and puncture him like a knife.
He smiles at her from his cheap swivel chair, and is about to answer with a leer of his own and an I’ll show you sexy, Lopez, but he’s way too tired to even try to fuck her the way she’ll demand him to ( hard and bruising and fast and long), and also he’s reveling in the lax calm that’s flooding through him since he left the nurse’s office after the Hummel thing (he tries not to think about what it is, or could’ve been, that brought him down from the frenzy, because all of the possible answers make him anxious) .
“Shut up, bitch.” He answers, instead, and she rolls her eyes at him. After a few seconds however, she gets up from the bed and walks over to him and tells him: “You’re a manwhore, dude, and you are annoying most of the time, but I like you. So I’m glad that that crazy chick didn’t kill you.”
She kisses him on the cheek, in one of her few and far in-between tender moments, and goes back to McKinley for Cheerio practice.
When she’s left him, he can't help but think that he’s glad she’s his girl. She’s a pretty good listener, once you get past her venomous outbursts and sharp barbs here and there; also, he knows for a fact that she can keep a secret, she’s got enough dirt on him by now that he she could’ve used to make his life suck and hasn’t, that he knows that she’s trustworthy.
His period of gratefulness lasts for about five minutes, which is how long it takes for him to receive a text from her that says
u should stop playin dumb and totes think bout what happnd 2day w/ kur, puck . i think sumthin’s goin on. maybe u r also queer now bb
... Which is when he starts taking back anything even remotely nice that he’s ever thought about her, and when he starts regretting telling her all the details from today’s incidents, because frankly? His girl or not, Santana’s a bitch.
Regardless of all of Puck’s protests, his ma sends him to school on Tuesday.
(“No, seriously, ma. I can hear people’s thoughts.”
“Noah, bubbala, you need to deal with this.”
“ ... Ma, I wanna have sex with practically everyone.”
“ ...And how’s that any different from any other teenager to ever exist?”)
He expects to be hit by the dizzling sensations of hundredths of things drowning him and crazing him and making him hard and prickly and stupid and desperate and aching, but as he walks towards the school gates, he feels oddly okay. Normal, almost.
Almost because he still hears people louder, and sees everything starker and bolder, and the smells are pungent (and holy Christ, doesn’t Jacob know what the fuck a deodorant is?).
But everything is mostly okay. There’s no insane need to get off, and he doesn’t break into a cold sweat. He’s not comfortable, he thinks while making his way to hiis locker, but he’s probably going to adapt.
And it’s at that fine point -three feet away from his destination and halfway down the way to convince himself that this vampire thing is gonna work out okay for him- that the universe decides that it just wants to keep fucking him over because it is one hell of a way to spend its free time.
Because right then, right there, Kurt Hummel decides to make an appearance. And that thing about feeling almost normal? Yeah, not really. Not even beginning to comprehend what the word means.
The guy is dressed in his cheerleading outfit (and he can hear Coach Sylvester’s voice trailing Hummel, barking at him that his lungs need to be trained thoroughly in order for his singing not to entirely embarrass the world of music), his hair is marginally dishevelled, his cheeks are flushed in about three different shades of pink -as is his neck, in irregular places-, and there are barely visible traces of moisture ( he can picture the boy mouthing the word perspiration, seductively) here and there.
The sight makes him instantaneously antsy, makes him want to flex his fingers in a hectic fashion for as long as it takes for his brain to stop sending him inappropriate signals about what it wants him to do, until he stops feeling warm and quivery.
But that’s not the most unnerving part The part that really disturbs him is that he can tell that Kurt’s been working out not just by his slightly disarrayed appearance (the which he’s pretty sure nobody else can really notice), but by the way he reeks of it.
Kurt reeks of sweat and exertion, of having done laps and push ups, and having done those crazy high kicks, and done that hardass tumbling Santana and Brittany’ve extensively moaned and whined about at some time or the other. He smells like hard work, and something else.
He smells like a man. He smells rough, wet, dirty. He smells musky and spicy, and Jesus fucking Christ he can smell the way his groin is slightly sweaty, too. The way it’s scented as skin and pubic hair and that one unsmistakable smell that only a dick has, that somewhat acrid and salty tinge that’s pure dick.
And Puck’s never been gay (he’s never even gotten off on how women smell down there), fuck, but his mouth is watering and he’s so hard it’s ludicrous and he can picture a million different things he’d like to do to and with Hummel’s dick. When a much too real fantasy of feeling the guy’s dick engorging in his mouth assaults him, he groans. Half pained, half turned on.
“Oh, Puckerman, you loser.” That’s Santana’s voice, and Santana’s strong grip on his arm as she drags him away, but he can’t really see her, “you’re salivating in public and he’s been gone for like a minute, you perv.”
In the still darkness of one of the unused classrooms Puck’s head clears a bit, and as Santana unbuckles his jeans’ belt, he’s set to awareness of what is about to happen. And though he feels horny in the same desperate edging terrifying way that he’d felt the day before, something is off.
Santana is groping him and they’re grinding against one another like two uncoordinate ragdolls, and it’s the very definition of hot. It’s always been the very definition of hot between them, that’s why they keep falling into bed together.
But right now, it’s... It’s... It’s not even ‘not enough’.
She latches her mouth onto his neck and starts sucking a mark that will be violent and enraged and red for everyone to see (not a claim, but merely the only way she knows to make people feel how much they mean to her in life, always sexual and hard and possessive, barely functional as a human being), and her hand finds her way to his cock and...
“Oh, Puckerman, you loser.” She mutters, chuckling evilly, as she touches his limp member.
“Oh, shut up and go finger your gilfriend or something.”
With a teasing smik and a last jeering tug at his junk, she answers hell yes, I will and is gone.
And he’s not hard anymore, but ants are crawling under his skin and his heart is beating a mile a minute, his fangs are starting to show on their own accord and his blood is boiling, and... and he envisions himself biting Kurt’s milky white tighs and sucking his blood in a leisurely pace, just to lick the marks when he’s done, and trail his tongue all the way up to...
Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.
(When he sees Santana again in second period, she makes a vulgar motion with her hand and mouth that is clearly miming a blowjob; he flips her off; she laughs, and laughs, and laughs.)
When he gets home he punches a hole through his bedroom door ... Well, in fact, at first there’s a hole, then the thing ends up splitting in half, and his mother grounds him for about a month.
On Wednesday the hunger -that lust that doesn’t fade away, no matter who he fucks and how he fucks them-, the sickening sensations of being filled by everyone else’s lives, the increased and throbbing sensibility to the world’s everything, strike again.
All this is accompanied by the grotesque (all that reading he did with his ma about the whole vampire thing had broadened his vocabulary, if nothing else) urge to slam someone (someone, someone, someone, not Hummel, not necessarily Hummel) against a wall and drink their blood. Which shouldn’t come as much of a shocking concept, because well, yeah, vampire. But, still.
He’s... he’s seen pictures in his mind, he’s had fantasies (non-stop, countless of them since Monday, all of them feature white white white skin and tearing tissue and perfect pressure and the slow maddening flow of a red thick liquid covering his tongue, passing through his throat), but this is not an abstract sort of thing. This is very much here, very much present, it’s a yearning.
When his mind is being filled with random strings of consciousness that go from I’m so gonna flunk math, shit to I just can’t stand this pathetic mediocrity parade anymore. People are so disgusting, I wish someone would stand up and say something, anything, and make all these things stop (words overlapping, meanings dropping), and the physical impact of everything else is making him sick, he ends up doing something incredibly stupid.
He skips third period (and when his math teacher tries to make him get into the classroom he just scowls at the poor guy and spits out at him a fuck this noise so quietly violent that the fourty-something man goes pale and leaves him alone in less that a second), goes around the corridors of McKinley High following a breathy chant of incomprehensible french-sounding words and the steady beating of a medium sized heart until he’s barging inside of Kurt’s french class, then he just walks up to him -the kid’s eyes are wide and disbelieving, and his mouth is parted in astonishment, and he looks edible-, grabs him by the front of his fancy clother, lifts him up from his chair, and procceeds to kiss him. Harshly, with clashing teeth and frantic tongue-prodding to make the other guy open his mouth.
When their appendages collide, Kurt makes a squeaky noise that shouldn’t be sexy at all, but is. Puck moans against his best judgement, trailing his hands down Kurt’s sides and planting the heels of his hands on his hips, splaying his finger in a possessive clutch.
Right then, it seems, Kurt’s brain catches up with all what’s happening and he extricates himself from Puck’s hands and mouth, looking flabbergasted, flushed, and pretty much the most pissed off he’s ever seen him
“What are you doing?” He hisses, embarrassment claiming him when he notices that everybody else’s eyes are glued to them.
And, yes, everyone else in the room may be staring at them in varying states of shock but nobody makes a sound or moves a single muscle, which suits Puck just fine because this is none of their fucking business, anyway.
Still, when he locks eyes with a flustered Kurt, he can’t come up with an explanation that will sound at least mildly sane (and he’s not ready to explain this weird vampire thing to Kurt in front of thirty other people), so he mumbles a few jumbled obscenities and leaves in as much of a hurry as he arrived in, Kurt’s voice following him in an indignant yell of come back here, you brute!
He ends up turning off his cellphone (because this is seriously going to be all over the school in less than an hour and the last thing he wants to do is talk to any of the Glee kids), ditching the rest of the day and getting a shady looking guy outside a liquor store to buy him a bottle of Jack, because it’s been that sort of day.
He tries to ignore the fact that even though his body has relaxed magically and he’s very much in control of most of his abilities right now, there’s a gnawing sensation at the pit of his stomach that keeps whispering go back to him in a voice that has lost its sultry quality to gain an iron edge of commandment.
(Also, Jack Daniels’ never tasted so shitty before.)
His mother wakes him up on Thursday morning by throwing a glass of freezing water (with ice cubes) at him. She doesn’t look mad at him, but there’s a vibe of annoyance rolling off of her, when she puts the glass on his computer desk.
“I don’t care how hangover you are, bubbala, you are getting your ass off to school right now.”
The implicit threat makes him obey without any kind of second thoughts.
He’s on his way to school when he turns his cellphone on again, just to see what kind of disaster is gonna be waiting for him; there are fifteen new messages, seventeen lost calls, and six voice mails.
He opens a few of the messages. The first one is from Santana.
...Okay. Well A picture of a dude giving another dude a blowjob, hilarious.
(He’d honestly thought that she’d send something worse, though, so it’s pretty much a win. Or as much of a win as anyone -except for Brittany- ever gets with Santana.)
The next one he opens is from Finn: dude u made out w my lil bro??? wtf man???
The one that he reads after Finn’s is Aretha’s. It’s a thorough description of all the things she’s planning to cut off of him, and what she’s planning to do with said parts after they’ve been severed from the rest of his body if he doesn’t apologize to her boy.
He doesn’t look at any of the other messages.