(no subject)
Title: Taste
Author: xfindyourlight
Pairings: Puck/Kurt with mentions of Puck/Santana and Puck/Quinn
Rating: PG-13 because there's one curse and implied content
Word Count: 410
Spoilers/Warnings: No spoilers, mentions of violence
Summary: The way to Puck’s heart is through his stomach, it’s true.
The way to Puck’s heart is through his stomach, it’s true. Of all his senses, his sense of taste is the strongest. He notices the tiniest differences in foodstuffs, whether it be the extra sugar in Rachel’s “Sorry!” cookies or the bland monotony of TV dinners (“No, Mom, seriously, I don’t mind.”). And if that makes him a little gay, okay, whatever. Maybe he's a little gay, but that doesn’t mean he goes around flaunting it. It’s only a little bit anyway. Mostly straight, just a pinch of gay. (Okay, cooking analogies definitely don’t help the straight cause.)
Santana always tastes like strawberries no matter what she’s eaten that day, which is bizarre, but comforting in its consistency. Cougars taste like their too strong perfume, which always leaves a nasty taste in his mouth. Quinn tasted like peaches and wine. Something so soft and delicate marred with the bite of alcohol. He knew it was a mistake the moment he kissed her, but there was something intoxicating (no pun intended) about the blend that he could stop. Kurt tastes like… well, Kurt is a different.
Kurt doesn’t really taste like anything he’s ever had before and that’s frustrating for Puck. He’s used to being able to type everything (and everyone) he’s ever tasted. It probably seems to Kurt that he’s trying to get some play. Don’t get him wrong, Puck is trying to get some play, but first he’s gotta figure out that damn taste. It’s on the tip of his tongue (pun intended this time), but he just can’t place it.
It takes two months for him to start putting together pieces. There’re scraps of cinnamon, splashes of lemon, dashes of chocolate cookie. It doesn’t fit or make any sense, but it’s so Kurt and so good that Puck can’t question it.
Puck’s tasted some pretty amazing things in his day: five star courses, freshly picked ripe fruit, devil’s food cake made by the best chef in Ohio. Every one of them pales in comparison to Kurt’s cinnamony lemon chocolate chip cookie, but he would never admit that, even in his sappiest moments.
Puck’s tasted some pretty terrible things in his day: bacon and eggs burned to a crisp because he and Kurt were… distracted, his mother’s attempt at macaroni and cheese, store bought brownies. But nothing, nothing, nothing is as awful as the taste of blood and hopeless tears as he kisses them off Kurt’s swollen lips.
Author: xfindyourlight
Pairings: Puck/Kurt with mentions of Puck/Santana and Puck/Quinn
Rating: PG-13 because there's one curse and implied content
Word Count: 410
Spoilers/Warnings: No spoilers, mentions of violence
Summary: The way to Puck’s heart is through his stomach, it’s true.
The way to Puck’s heart is through his stomach, it’s true. Of all his senses, his sense of taste is the strongest. He notices the tiniest differences in foodstuffs, whether it be the extra sugar in Rachel’s “Sorry!” cookies or the bland monotony of TV dinners (“No, Mom, seriously, I don’t mind.”). And if that makes him a little gay, okay, whatever. Maybe he's a little gay, but that doesn’t mean he goes around flaunting it. It’s only a little bit anyway. Mostly straight, just a pinch of gay. (Okay, cooking analogies definitely don’t help the straight cause.)
Santana always tastes like strawberries no matter what she’s eaten that day, which is bizarre, but comforting in its consistency. Cougars taste like their too strong perfume, which always leaves a nasty taste in his mouth. Quinn tasted like peaches and wine. Something so soft and delicate marred with the bite of alcohol. He knew it was a mistake the moment he kissed her, but there was something intoxicating (no pun intended) about the blend that he could stop. Kurt tastes like… well, Kurt is a different.
Kurt doesn’t really taste like anything he’s ever had before and that’s frustrating for Puck. He’s used to being able to type everything (and everyone) he’s ever tasted. It probably seems to Kurt that he’s trying to get some play. Don’t get him wrong, Puck is trying to get some play, but first he’s gotta figure out that damn taste. It’s on the tip of his tongue (pun intended this time), but he just can’t place it.
It takes two months for him to start putting together pieces. There’re scraps of cinnamon, splashes of lemon, dashes of chocolate cookie. It doesn’t fit or make any sense, but it’s so Kurt and so good that Puck can’t question it.
Puck’s tasted some pretty amazing things in his day: five star courses, freshly picked ripe fruit, devil’s food cake made by the best chef in Ohio. Every one of them pales in comparison to Kurt’s cinnamony lemon chocolate chip cookie, but he would never admit that, even in his sappiest moments.
Puck’s tasted some pretty terrible things in his day: bacon and eggs burned to a crisp because he and Kurt were… distracted, his mother’s attempt at macaroni and cheese, store bought brownies. But nothing, nothing, nothing is as awful as the taste of blood and hopeless tears as he kisses them off Kurt’s swollen lips.