New Threats - Glee - Kurt/Puck
Title: New Threats
Pairing: Kurt/Puck
Word Count: 1533
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for a request at glee_kink.
Summary: Puck offers to call off the teasing in return for a favour. Kurt is happy to oblige.
"I could break you in two if I wanted to," Puck says. He looms with all of his muscular, jock-ish arrogance, and Kurt reminds himself that he's supposed to be scared right now. Puck's threatening him, supposedly, without having quite the foresight to realise that the effect really is diminished after a couple of years of empty threats.
Kurt's arms are crossed over his chest and he leans back against the locker doors; he wishes he was taller so that he could properly look down his nose at Puck. As it is, he has to make do with his most unimpressed expression - which is very unimpressed, like a food critic wandering into McDonalds - and a weary sigh. "This is getting repetitive," he says. "You really should look into getting some new material."
If Puck's mindless threats and taunts were less predictable, then Kurt would have a much better time paying attention. Unfortunately, while the standard litany of cruel promises makes its parade, there is little to do other than watch: Puck is wearing only a white towel wrapped around his waist. He's close enough that Kurt can see the droplets of water from his shower still beading on his skin, and he can see the brown circles of his nipples looking pinched and erect in the cold air. One is pierced, and Kurt really is trying very hard not to focus on that too much.
It isn't his fault that it draws the eye, okay?
"You want something new?" Puck says - and there's an open challenge in his voice that makes Kurt think that maybe, just maybe, he should have known better than to taunt a jock.
He's going to blame the nipple ring. It distracted him.
"I can give you something new," Puck grits out. His hand grips onto Kurt's arm in a grip that genuinely hurt: Kurt has visions of being found stuffed into a locker tomorrow morning, or being thrown into another bin, or something equally distasteful.
Puck yanks him towards the showers.
"You are not taking me in there," he insists, pulling back with all his weight. It has to be said that it doesn't make a lot of difference. He doesn't have the bulk it would take to stop Puck in his tracks. "These shoes are new. They're Prada. Do you have any idea how many pools you would have to clean to pay for these?"
He's not going to be able to afford new ones either if they get ruined in the shower - and that is completely disregarding everything else that he's wearing. A little tumble into a dumpster would be far preferable to being shoved fully-dressed under the stream of a shower.
It's possible, Kurt concedes, that his priorities are somewhat askew.
"Let me go," he whines.
"Relax," Puck says, pulling them into one of the stalls. "I'm not gonna ruin your stupid clothes."
And that, really, is unfair.
There is nothing stupid about fashion.
Puck glances behind him, still holding onto Kurt's arm with a grip that seems destined to leave bruises behind. Kurt will be wearing long-sleeved sweaters until that fades, he guesses, mentally cataloguing a potential wardrobe for the up-coming week.
"Get down," Puck hisses. There's a tremble in his voice which Kurt is sure must be his imagination. "On your knees, Hummel."
Kurt looks down at the ground. The tiles are wet and there are still a few soapsuds making their slow way towards the drain. "Are you serious?" he asks.
He really wants the answer to be a cruel laugh followed by a swift exit. That sounds really good right about now.
"I'm having a bad day. A really bad day," Puck says, and he decides to emphasise the point by shaking Kurt. His grip tightens, and Kurt can't stop himself from whining in pain; it's enough to make Puck slacken off. "If you make it a little better for me, I can maybe promise to get the guys to back off. You won't end up in a dumpster tomorrow."
He isn't meeting Kurt's eyes, looking just about anywhere else instead. The shower room is fairly standard, but from the way Puck's eyes are darting about you might think he had wandered into a mystery wonderland.
Kurt raises an eyebrow. He thinks that he might have just tripped into the same sort of bizarro-world, because at the very least he knows that this isn't really happening. He wishes that he was even more of a geek so that he had the requisite sci-fi knowledge in order to be able to analyse exactly what is happening here, because it isn't normal.
This is Puck.
He clears his throat with a fist curled in front of his mouth, and then says, "Isn't this a little desperate? Even for you? Have the retirees stopped putting out?"
In the open, it manages to sound even more cutting than it had in his head. His smirk is genuine - but it falters and falls when Puck abruptly lets go of his arm.
"No, wait," Kurt says, reaching out to grab for him this time. Isn't this what he's been waiting for? An opportunity to stop dreaming and start doing? He shrugs with one shoulder. "I'm only doing this to get you to back off."
And that is one hell of a lie, but he doesn't have a clue whether or not Puck can tell. He's not sure whether or not it matters.
He sinks down to his knees in front of Puck; the tiles are hard and he can instantly feel the lukewarm water beginning to soak through the material. It's pretty uncomfortable, if he's honest, but he's got other things on his mind - 'other things' meaning reaching out to peel away the towel that is wrapped around Puck's waist. It drops to the ground after the smallest tug, and Kurt is left looking at an erection that he would swear is bigger than he would have imagined.
It's possible that he gapes, just a little.
It really isn't flattering.
When he's considering how on earth that is supposed to fit inside his mouth, he has to admit that his appearance is not at the forefront of his mind. He looks up, startled, when he feels Puck's large hand cupping the back of his head. "Jesus, how much product are you wearing?" Puck mutters.
Kurt would rush to defend himself - because he is wearing just enough, thank you very much - but there is the faintest pressure from the back of his head, guiding him forward, and he gives a muffled squeak when he feels the tip press against his closed lips. His heart is hammering. After a cautious pause, his mouth opens; Puck's hips push forward and the weight of his dick slides into Kurt's mouth, shallow for now. Kurt's mouth feels strained far too wide to be comfortable; this feels nothing like it had when he'd tried to practice on a banana.
It's infinitely more satisfying, however. Far above his head, moans begin to sound from the second he starts to experiment with his tongue. Puck's hand on his head relaxes enough to give Kurt some more room to move, and more importantly to breathe. Kurt has never done anything without an excess of style, and he is going to make sure that this is no exception. He tries anything he wants to, flattening his tongue and flicking with it, because this is Puck. He might as well try out whatever he feels like.
The sounds that he can create are certainly encouragement, with Puck groaning and grunting in response to every little thing that he does. It causes a sense of accomplishment to buzz in his stomach, butterflies dancing in a way that they usually only do when he is onstage.
There's also one hell of a hard-on growing between his legs, and - if he's honest - that happens onstage a lot too.
"Jesus," Puck splutters, along with a collection of profanities. His hips jerk haphazardly and his fingers tighten their grip on Kurt's head until it actually really hurts. Bitter liquid floods Kurt's mouth and, while he'd always envisioned himself being able to do the perfect porn star swallow, it doesn't quite work out that way: he yanks out of Puck's grasp and spits it out onto the shower tiles.
When he looks back up, Puck is looking down at him with something that it is either fear, horror or confusion. It's hard to tell on him: Kurt always blames that on his hair, as it is so baffling that it is impossible to pay attention to his face.
It might also have something to do with that damn nipple ring, which is still distracting.
Puck leans down to pick up his towel again. It's damp from the ground but he doesn't seem to notice, and Kurt doesn't stand up or try to say anything. He stays crouched on the floor and watches Puck leaving; he likes to think of it as 'fleeing'.
For the first time in his life, it feels as if he might really have won this round with Puck. He brushes his fingers over his lips, where they are slick, tender and red. A smile grows. Already, he can't wait to do that again.
Pairing: Kurt/Puck
Word Count: 1533
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for a request at glee_kink.
Summary: Puck offers to call off the teasing in return for a favour. Kurt is happy to oblige.
"I could break you in two if I wanted to," Puck says. He looms with all of his muscular, jock-ish arrogance, and Kurt reminds himself that he's supposed to be scared right now. Puck's threatening him, supposedly, without having quite the foresight to realise that the effect really is diminished after a couple of years of empty threats.
Kurt's arms are crossed over his chest and he leans back against the locker doors; he wishes he was taller so that he could properly look down his nose at Puck. As it is, he has to make do with his most unimpressed expression - which is very unimpressed, like a food critic wandering into McDonalds - and a weary sigh. "This is getting repetitive," he says. "You really should look into getting some new material."
If Puck's mindless threats and taunts were less predictable, then Kurt would have a much better time paying attention. Unfortunately, while the standard litany of cruel promises makes its parade, there is little to do other than watch: Puck is wearing only a white towel wrapped around his waist. He's close enough that Kurt can see the droplets of water from his shower still beading on his skin, and he can see the brown circles of his nipples looking pinched and erect in the cold air. One is pierced, and Kurt really is trying very hard not to focus on that too much.
It isn't his fault that it draws the eye, okay?
"You want something new?" Puck says - and there's an open challenge in his voice that makes Kurt think that maybe, just maybe, he should have known better than to taunt a jock.
He's going to blame the nipple ring. It distracted him.
"I can give you something new," Puck grits out. His hand grips onto Kurt's arm in a grip that genuinely hurt: Kurt has visions of being found stuffed into a locker tomorrow morning, or being thrown into another bin, or something equally distasteful.
Puck yanks him towards the showers.
"You are not taking me in there," he insists, pulling back with all his weight. It has to be said that it doesn't make a lot of difference. He doesn't have the bulk it would take to stop Puck in his tracks. "These shoes are new. They're Prada. Do you have any idea how many pools you would have to clean to pay for these?"
He's not going to be able to afford new ones either if they get ruined in the shower - and that is completely disregarding everything else that he's wearing. A little tumble into a dumpster would be far preferable to being shoved fully-dressed under the stream of a shower.
It's possible, Kurt concedes, that his priorities are somewhat askew.
"Let me go," he whines.
"Relax," Puck says, pulling them into one of the stalls. "I'm not gonna ruin your stupid clothes."
And that, really, is unfair.
There is nothing stupid about fashion.
Puck glances behind him, still holding onto Kurt's arm with a grip that seems destined to leave bruises behind. Kurt will be wearing long-sleeved sweaters until that fades, he guesses, mentally cataloguing a potential wardrobe for the up-coming week.
"Get down," Puck hisses. There's a tremble in his voice which Kurt is sure must be his imagination. "On your knees, Hummel."
Kurt looks down at the ground. The tiles are wet and there are still a few soapsuds making their slow way towards the drain. "Are you serious?" he asks.
He really wants the answer to be a cruel laugh followed by a swift exit. That sounds really good right about now.
"I'm having a bad day. A really bad day," Puck says, and he decides to emphasise the point by shaking Kurt. His grip tightens, and Kurt can't stop himself from whining in pain; it's enough to make Puck slacken off. "If you make it a little better for me, I can maybe promise to get the guys to back off. You won't end up in a dumpster tomorrow."
He isn't meeting Kurt's eyes, looking just about anywhere else instead. The shower room is fairly standard, but from the way Puck's eyes are darting about you might think he had wandered into a mystery wonderland.
Kurt raises an eyebrow. He thinks that he might have just tripped into the same sort of bizarro-world, because at the very least he knows that this isn't really happening. He wishes that he was even more of a geek so that he had the requisite sci-fi knowledge in order to be able to analyse exactly what is happening here, because it isn't normal.
This is Puck.
He clears his throat with a fist curled in front of his mouth, and then says, "Isn't this a little desperate? Even for you? Have the retirees stopped putting out?"
In the open, it manages to sound even more cutting than it had in his head. His smirk is genuine - but it falters and falls when Puck abruptly lets go of his arm.
"No, wait," Kurt says, reaching out to grab for him this time. Isn't this what he's been waiting for? An opportunity to stop dreaming and start doing? He shrugs with one shoulder. "I'm only doing this to get you to back off."
And that is one hell of a lie, but he doesn't have a clue whether or not Puck can tell. He's not sure whether or not it matters.
He sinks down to his knees in front of Puck; the tiles are hard and he can instantly feel the lukewarm water beginning to soak through the material. It's pretty uncomfortable, if he's honest, but he's got other things on his mind - 'other things' meaning reaching out to peel away the towel that is wrapped around Puck's waist. It drops to the ground after the smallest tug, and Kurt is left looking at an erection that he would swear is bigger than he would have imagined.
It's possible that he gapes, just a little.
It really isn't flattering.
When he's considering how on earth that is supposed to fit inside his mouth, he has to admit that his appearance is not at the forefront of his mind. He looks up, startled, when he feels Puck's large hand cupping the back of his head. "Jesus, how much product are you wearing?" Puck mutters.
Kurt would rush to defend himself - because he is wearing just enough, thank you very much - but there is the faintest pressure from the back of his head, guiding him forward, and he gives a muffled squeak when he feels the tip press against his closed lips. His heart is hammering. After a cautious pause, his mouth opens; Puck's hips push forward and the weight of his dick slides into Kurt's mouth, shallow for now. Kurt's mouth feels strained far too wide to be comfortable; this feels nothing like it had when he'd tried to practice on a banana.
It's infinitely more satisfying, however. Far above his head, moans begin to sound from the second he starts to experiment with his tongue. Puck's hand on his head relaxes enough to give Kurt some more room to move, and more importantly to breathe. Kurt has never done anything without an excess of style, and he is going to make sure that this is no exception. He tries anything he wants to, flattening his tongue and flicking with it, because this is Puck. He might as well try out whatever he feels like.
The sounds that he can create are certainly encouragement, with Puck groaning and grunting in response to every little thing that he does. It causes a sense of accomplishment to buzz in his stomach, butterflies dancing in a way that they usually only do when he is onstage.
There's also one hell of a hard-on growing between his legs, and - if he's honest - that happens onstage a lot too.
"Jesus," Puck splutters, along with a collection of profanities. His hips jerk haphazardly and his fingers tighten their grip on Kurt's head until it actually really hurts. Bitter liquid floods Kurt's mouth and, while he'd always envisioned himself being able to do the perfect porn star swallow, it doesn't quite work out that way: he yanks out of Puck's grasp and spits it out onto the shower tiles.
When he looks back up, Puck is looking down at him with something that it is either fear, horror or confusion. It's hard to tell on him: Kurt always blames that on his hair, as it is so baffling that it is impossible to pay attention to his face.
It might also have something to do with that damn nipple ring, which is still distracting.
Puck leans down to pick up his towel again. It's damp from the ground but he doesn't seem to notice, and Kurt doesn't stand up or try to say anything. He stays crouched on the floor and watches Puck leaving; he likes to think of it as 'fleeing'.
For the first time in his life, it feels as if he might really have won this round with Puck. He brushes his fingers over his lips, where they are slick, tender and red. A smile grows. Already, he can't wait to do that again.