Word Count: 491
Summary: It doesn't matter how they wound up like this.
Author's Note: Okay, I'm a bit nervous about posting this, because I don't think I've ever really attempted to write any kind of, uh... well, I've never written anything like this. Soooo I hope it's okay. :C Enjoy.
It doesn’t matter how they wound up like this, really. They are a tangled mess of limbs, sticky with sweat in the backseat of Kurt’s car, wrapped around each other and panting into each other’s mouths, and it just doesn’t matter right now. It’s hot outside, at least in the 80s, probably higher, and they’re sticking to the leather seats.
“Puck,” Kurt groans, his hands clasping at the back of Puck’s neck. At this precise moment, looking down at the apple-red face of the boy below him, Puck can’t help but remember that his name rhymes with “fuck.”
He bends down, presses a kiss to Kurt’s collarbone, thrusts forward with his hips. Kurt makes a strangled sighing noise, arches upwards. He begs for Puck to go faster, but Puck likes to tease. He keeps the rhythm slow, painfully slow. And when he can’t hold on anymore, when he feels himself aching everywhere, he speeds it up. He doesn’t go rough, but he goes faster, and Kurt squirms beneath him, tightens the grip his legs have around Puck’s waist.
When Kurt comes, it’s with a cry, short and sweet, his mouth left hanging open as he tries to catch his breath. Puck follows quickly, choosing to stifle his own groan by pressing his face to the crook between Kurt’s neck and shoulder. And just like that, it’s over. It doesn’t matter how this happened. Puck can barely remember. It is only after he has pieced together his composure again that he remembers that this was not supposed to happen… that this thing does not happen.
He doesn’t move until Kurt does, slowly peeling himself away. “So hot,” Kurt says hoarsely. Puck can’t figure out if he’s talking about the weather or not, so he makes a non-committal grunt and fumbles with his clothes. “Wonder when Triple A will get here.”
Okay, now Puck remembers. He looks out the window, out into the dry summer landscape. He remembers how they got here. The car overheated. He reaches forward, over the driver’s seat, and tries to turn the ignition. The car grumbles but the engine doesn’t turn over.
“So hot,” he agrees, turning back to Kurt. They stare at each other, skins still shiny with sweat, clothed only from the hips down. Puck watches a bead of sweat travel down Kurt’s neck, dip over his collarbone, slide down, down, down… it slides into the other boy’s navel.
“I like you,” Kurt blurts out suddenly. Puck looks up, into the other boy’s face. Kurt looks back, stares straight into Puck’s eyes and neither of them says anything. And then Puck’s hands seem to move by themselves, his lips find Kurt’s. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Beneath him, Kurt’s body relaxes.
It doesn’t matter how they end up here, or where it’s going to go. They find themselves wrapped up in each other again and it just doesn’t matter anymore.