Spin

aka the 'spin the bottle' fic

The bottle spins and spins and spins, and when it finally stops, it’s pointing right at Kurt.

But of course it is. Kurt has no idea why he’s even surprised. Tonight was bound to be humiliating for him; there was no way around it. Kiss a girl, be humiliated, kiss a guy, be humiliated. He never should’ve said yes to Finn. It just caught him off guard, because—well. It was Finn.

Quinn gives him an evil grin; she does those evil grins so well, Kurt has to take a moment to admire it. He can glare with the best of them, but when it comes to grins, all he can come up with is goofy.

“I’m not kissing him,” Kurt intones, sparing Puck only a passing glance.

“Rules are the rules,” Quinn singsongs, annoyingly fake-cheerful.

Everyone stares at Kurt and no one comes to his rescue. He has been sold for the price of a couple minutes of amusement. Again. He crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head no. There is no way he’s touching that imbecile. Certainly not in front of Finn!

“Come on, Hummel,” Puck’s drawling voice comes from somewhere to his right. Kurt turns his head around to find him on his hands and knees, just a couple of inches away.

“What are you doing?” he snaps. “Keep your slobbering lips away from me!”

“Dude, I do not slobber,” Puck says, moving closer. Kurt jumps up before Puck can touch him.

“You know what? This is bullshit,” he says, grabbing his bag. He is blushing; he can feel his cheeks burning. There is no way he’s going to stay and let them mock him. “You guys have fun. I’m going home.”

He doesn’t wait to listen to their protests. If only Mercedes was here. How the hell did he manage to step into the lion’s den so defenseless? Alone and vulnerable and helpless—he’s practically Bambi.

He hears Puck say something like, “Did he just call me a bad kisser?” but he doesn’t wait to hear the rest before he waves goodbye dismissively in the group’s general direction, and throws himself out the door—with as much grace as he can muster at that moment, which is, admittedly, not much.

The cold air hits his face, stinging his cheeks and making him shiver, and he thanks God that his father let him drive today. His steps quicken instinctively when he catches sight of the jeep. Just a couple more minutes and this whole thing will be behind him. It’ll be just another mortifying incident he will add to his mental collection of millions, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Kurt has learned to count it a win when his clothes get out of these situations unscathed, and his jacket is good as new this time. This is nothing.

He’s about to open the car door when someone grabs his arm and whirls him around. He gasps in surprise and his heart jumps up to his throat when he realizes who it is. Puck is looming over him, pushing him against the jeep with his own body, standing firm in Kurt’s personal space.

Kurt does his best to school his features and get his breathing under control.

“What?” he asks, calling up all the bravado he’s capable of at the moment. Do not show fear, Bambi, he tells himself. These monsters can smell fear.

Puck leans closer to him; his breath stinks of beer and chips. “I’m a good kisser,” he says, and before Kurt can even roll his eyes, he smushes their lips together.

Now, Kurt is not an expert on the subject, but he thinks Puck must be doing something wrong. Their mouths are pressed so tightly together that Kurt can’t even make the eww sound that really wants to be let out of his lips, and—shouldn’t there be some movement, maybe?

Kurt sighs inwardly. Of course, Noah Puckerman would find a way to ruin Kurt’s first kiss for him. Of course.

Kurt shakes his arm, trying to free it of Puck’s hand, but that only earns him an even tighter grip. Just as he’s contemplating the mechanics of kicking Puck in the balls—and thinking eww, Puck’s balls—Puck makes an impatient sound, tilts his head to the left, and kisses him.

Like, really kisses him.

And it’s good.

There are lips, and tongues, and yes, okay, a little bit of slobber involved, and it makes Kurt’s fingertips tingle. It makes him forget that he was protesting—why was that again?—and it draws a breathless moan that he will probably deny to his dying day actually belonged to him.

Then Puck moves back, letting go of his arm, and Kurt blinks a couple of times to get his brain back on track.

Puck. Car. Home. Bambi.

Puck doesn’t look like he’s doing any better, but then again, he probably only has half the brain cells Kurt has anyway. It doesn’t take a lot to confuse the guy. And he seems very confused right now, because his face gets closer to Kurt’s again, as if—he’s leaning in for another kiss?

Kurt jerks back like he’s been burned and hits the back of his head against the car. “Ow.”

Puck steps away and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Kurt rubs the back of his head for lack of a better thing to do.

“I do not slobber,” Puck grumbles after a brief and uncomfortable silence.

Kurt smirks, and it’s not even all bravado this time. “Yeah. Whatever,” he says, opening the car door with only-slightly-shaky hands. He manages to start the car and is about to release the parking break when he sees Puck move closer and actually knock on the window.

Kurt glares at him.

Puck smiles, making an annoyingly languid roll down the window motion with his hand.

Kurt should not. He most definitely should not. But he does.

“What!”

Puck’s lips stretch into a fond—what the fuck?—shit eating grin. Kurt has just enough time to think oh, that cannot be good, before Puck reaches inside to pull Kurt into another slightly-slobbering-but-damn-good kiss. This time, Kurt can’t even deny the moan is his.

“Okay,” Puck says in a hoarse voice, hands braced on the sides of the open window, “Now you can go.” He pushes away and slouches his way back to the house.

Kurt makes himself close his mouth—it is most unbecoming—and tries very hard to keep his eyes away from Puck’s ass. It doesn’t really work.

The End

November 19th, 2009