V-DAY EXCHANGE FIC! Achieving the Perfect Score, for kle_hungry
Title: Achieving the Perfect Score
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Puck/Kurt
Word Count: 4700
Recipient: kle_hungry
Disclaimer: Do I look like Ryan Murphy? Seriously..do I?
Summary: Kurt was the fiercest. That was how this idea started and he never dreamed it would really end with Puck.
A/N: This is not my Glee pairing at all, but I soldiered through it. Because love is a battlefield.
Most ideas don't begin in earnest with a genius seed of wisdom. The greatest ideas for characters in fiction usually come out of desperation. The greatest ideas for new inventions occur out of plum laziness: Snuggies anyone? And Kurt Hummel would like to think that the greatest idea of his entire school tenure was the one that came up on the first lazy Sunday in late spring.
Kurt Hummel was never the smartest in any of his classes. He was the fiercest, without a doubt, but his control over others was tenuous. His heart was never in being the kind of fantastic bitch Mean Girl leading archetype that Quinn had played. Tina was the waif, the great quiet and blossoming flower that everyone fell in love with because she was adaptable, like a pair of classic straight-leg, dark was Levis 501s. And Kurt was talented, but not like Rachel. Rachel was too into her own martyrdom, and it spoiled a lot of what he considered her talent.
No, Kurt Hummel had to be in a class by himself. There was no one else like him. He didn't have to be the smartest, or the bravest, or the first, or the best. He was the most fabulous. He didn't need a spread in the yearbook devoted to him because he could just walk through the halls, now nearly slushie-free, and point out the flaws of the kids who were trying way too hard to look like they just stepped out of an American Eagle catalog or a Gap commercial, without the airbrushing.
The only person that could enrage him on even the most zen-like days was Santana. She was the ultimate sex kitten. Eartha Kitt wrapped into a Jayne Mansfield plaything that stole the glances of men that she really didn't know what to do with. Teenage girls would be the death of him yet!
Shake it off, Kurt thought, as he lay there and swayed in his hammock in the backyard. The noise-canceling ear phones were playing a Beach Boys album so that he could be taken away from the pothole construction noise and the bees that were intermingled with the early fire flies and the fact that his Diet Coke was not a cold mai tai being served by a busboy with washboard abs. A busboy with washboard abs wearing a red jacket and board shorts. Board shorts that barely covered the sex arrows at the end of his stomach.
The sun would be going down on that beach. (Kurt always liked having the sun go down on his tropical island.) The waves would still be warm if he needed them to be, and the warm tones in the sky would accentuate the hint of honey highlight in his hair. Just a hint of pink and orange as the half-sun dipped down to where he'd have to strain out of his custom made sunglasses in smoky black (the newest custom catalog feature from this year's Versaces accessory show) to watch it finish setting in the reflection of that choppy water.
Finn would have to be the busboy, the servant. He wasn't the smartest either, but he was the most attractive in a “Teen Beat” or “Eighteen” sort of way. He was limber and wiry to a point where Kurt vaguely wondered if he even had to stretch to reach down and stroke himself hard or if he could just palm his own cock without raising suspicions that he was even doing so.
“Excuse me, you are blocking my sun.”
Finn would stutter, of course. Kurt was the paying customer, after all. “My apologies, sir. It’s just that we know how much you hate having too much condensation on your glass.”
Kurt's eyes would flip over the edge of his state-of-the-art shades, and he would bat his eyes, causing the Adam’s apple in Finn's throat to bob. “Well, aren't you the sweetest thing? You earning some extra money this summer break?”
Finn would nod slowly. “Yeah. I'm saving up for my own car. My old man's best friend wants to sell me his cherry convertible. It’s a ‘62, hard-to-find muscle car.”
Licking his lips, Kurt would take a slow sip of the offered drink. “Sounds very manly. Don't suppose you'd ever break down with a passenger on a long stretch of deserted road, would you?”
Finn might shrug, trying to maintain his wholesomeness without fooling anybody. “Stranger things have happened. How is your mai tai, Mr. Hummel?
“Well,” Kurt would purse his lips together as he thought for a moment, “Its pretty good, but I can think of something that would really make me need to cool down.”
Finn would probably have to take a step back. “I...I have other people to serve. I'll return shortly for the glass.”
Kurt would raise hand as he sits up in the hammock, but wouldn't get his sentence through as Finn walks away fast. There is a clear and obvious attraction to the young waiter in the well-tailored red jacket that still reveals his pecs, since he’s not wearing a shirt underneath it. His body is smooth with just a hint of fuzz at the line of his board shorts. It tells you a story that you know you want to hear more of.
“Hey! Think you can flag that waiter down for me next time he comes by? I could use a Corona.”
Puck is breathing hard. Running on the beach after being out in the crashing waves is tiring on even the most muscled specimen. Even stripped down to the waist, you can tell Puck takes care of himself in a way that screams vanity. Kurt can see him in the off-season on the beach gym equipment, watching his muscles pump and groan in any shiny surface he can find. Maybe sneaking glances at other guys and their packages, even though he's never thought of being with another dude.
“He'll be back shortly. Take a load off.”
Kurt might arch his back, stretching from the luxurious hammock as he exits in his modest and yet European-cut gym short style black Speedo, since his own modesty is not dead and this is emphatically not a French beach.
Puck nods in thanks as he lays his surf board against one of the tree trunks. He's bigger than the hammock, one of his legs casually dangling over the edge. Spread out, Kurt can see the dark lines of his muscles with their deep tan.
Puck arches his eyebrow as his forearm becomes his pillow. “Thanks for the hammock. What are you staring at?”
Kurt's hands go to his hips. “Stupid question, muscle boy. I'm staring at you.”
Puck looks around, then shrugs at Kurt. “I'm not gonna stop you. If you just wanna stare, I mean.”
Finn is heading back up the beach slowly with another drink for Kurt, but he overhears Kurt replying to Puck. “What kind of boy do you think I am?”
Puck snorts, leading into a chuckle. “I know what kind of boy you are. Get over here.”
Kurt's soft, slender fingers run the course of the veined muscles in Puck's body. The temperature of the water has cooled him down immensely. He sighs at the light touch, but grows weary of the game after awhile. Guiding Kurt's hand with his own, Puck slides both hands beneath his wet suit.
Kurt watches his own hand slide against the growing tent of Noah's bulge. Noah smirks at Kurt, winking and biting down on his bottom lip.
Finn coughs as he comes back with the drink. Kurt's hand is trapped in Puck's pants, stroking his throbbing cock until it’s slick with pre-cum. He looks over his shoulder.
Puck beckons Finn over. “Thanks for the drink. You gonna say anything?”
Finn shakes his head. “No sir.”
“Good boy.” Puck takes the drink as Kurt finally works Puck's cock from beneath the wet suit. Puck slides the drink off the tray and down Finn's arm. The tray falls from Finn's hand as Puck sucks down the drink, displaying a devilish use of tongue, and then brings his free hand to the bulge in Finn's board shorts. The glass gets tossed to the ground.
Finn stands stock still as Puck buries his nose in Finn's bulge, groaning now that Kurt is concentrating his fingers on the curve of Puck's dick as it slaps against his stomach. Finn begins to relax as his board shorts slip down past his knees and towards the sand. Kurt's own dick pops out from his cut swim suit. The sounds of Puck slurping Finn's cock and the feeling of Finn's hand sliding over his ass, just itching to finger his hole, are too much for even him.
And of course, Kurt is only human. He wakes up from the fantasy hard, and to the startling sounds of his dad calling him from the kitchen and asking if he wants barbecue or burgers for dinner.. He has to rearrange himself slightly before calling back to his dad and confirming that barbecued chicken would be all right with him.
Kurt resists the urge to jack-off after most of these fantasies. He wants to save the energy for the real thing. Of course, sometimes the real thing is awkward and messy and painful - but he really prefers that. Like blowing Puck just behind the bleachers after he finishes showering because he has found Puck still in uniform the night after he's won the big game with his ”Single Ladies” kick. All that sweat and grass were so intoxicating, and Puck was so weak and needing to be in control, which was why Kurt was so eager to oblige.
That's where it came from ultimately: a mixture of the daydream and taking back the control that he gave to others. But just the boys, because obviously they needed control so much more. He heard it in the locker room banter. He saw it in the tartar sauce-chugging contests. And in the way that Puck was nearly drunk, but not really. Eyes pleaded with him to understand, to need to be needed. But, that was the end of the story, Kurt thought later as he was making spaghetti in the kitchen. The haze of the steam as the pasta water boils seeped into his skin. It was not as intoxicating as locker room steam with all those pairs of eyes, dreading and secretly wanting a young body to unburden themselves.
That’s how the report card had started, with that Russian fullback who had been roped into playing American football. It had been a first for Kurt in the sauna, teasing that extra bit of skin until it was overcome by length and head. Not quite gagging on the cock, hearing the groans as Kurt achieved vocal appreciation for a job well done. That last-second pull away before Nanon came across his shoulder, like a white merit badge.
It had been Nanon who had set the bar for the report card. There were multiple sections designated for technique, how the guy edged himself, whether or not he was still thick and hard a minute afterwards, and whether he could look Kurt in the eye again in the locker room or the hallway. Points were won or lost on how sneaky the person was. Please, Kurt rolled his eyes one day as he was filling the chart out, keeping it close to chest in the hallway, even the dimmest cheerleaders knew what Bruno was doing with the kicker behind the bleachers in the fake port-o-potty: and it wasn't discussing plays.
A star next to the names was in honor of Rachel. It meant they had gotten him to hit a couple of high notes, which was worth five points more in overall score. A shoe next to the name was in honor of Finn, which means he got to stretch his lower half a bit, but never all the way. None of the boys at the school were even brave enough to suggest it. And a little barbell, which had twenty points extra in the final tally, meant they needed to have their egos stroked during and their muscles worshiped.
A couple were excellent at dirty talk, which explained why Santana's phone went off so often during the day, and Kurt chalked that up to his growing experience and his growing strut. Every man in the hall he could categorize on site, like a Sims score that would rise above their head. And nobody yet had gotten more than seventy out of the perfect score of one hundred. It was providence on the day when he had just finished corrupting Rutherford and was putting final tallies down for use of foreskin that he ran into Jacob Ben Israel.
“Hey Hummel. Rumor has it that you're getting pretty popular on the football team.”
Kurt shifted his weight to one of his hips, holding his books close to keep the list next to his chest. It was a shield against the permanent dirty smirk that he wanted to slap off of Jacob's face. “What do you want, Simon and Garfunky?”
Jacob's voice was thick was smug indignation. “Only to let you know that if you don't cooperate, an unidentified source will spill on my blog that you've been getting down with the entire football squad.”
Kurt tried to keep up a poker face, but he could feel the inside of his lips trembling. “Excuse me? Are you threatening me?”
“You'd better believe it.”
Kurt blinked, biting down on his lip. The list was his source of power. “I assume that you have something you wish to use me for in your little perverted world. Otherwise your blog would have already been posted - not that anyone reads it.”
Jacob took a step backwards as if hit in his own heart. “Don't underestimate the power of mass electronic media, Mr. Hummel. I could destroy your college applications with this if I so chose.”
Kurt pushed Jacob to the side of the lockers when he saw Puck coming down the hall with Quinn and Santana in tow, talking over notes. “All right, what’s the deal?”
Jacob nodded, sure that he had the upper hand. “I post the list without names, because my anonymous source is not going to back down. You get me exclusive photos of Berry from the next Glee girls’ sleepover, and I'll make sure your name isn't attached.
“What makes you think I'll be invited over to their next little soirée? The Glee girls can't handle my fabulous.”
Jacob shook his head. “My source has guaranteed it. We have a deal, slut kitten?”
Kurt rolled his eyes as he prepared to walk off. “Honey, I am a tiger; not a kitten. Get it right.”
Sure enough, Jacob's source had been right. Brittany had given him a hand-written invitation for the next weekend. He observed stiffly all the way through the glee club meeting until he knew exactly who he was going to confront. And the opportunity arose at four in the morning, mid-way through his pomegranate and avocado face regimen reset at the sleepover.
Santana narrowed her eyes as Kurt innocently went for a glass of water in Brittany's kitchen. “What are you still doing up?”
“If I don't move around and blink, the mix doesn't settle in my premature crows’ feet and then my foundation doesn't apply right for the day. How about you?”
Santana rolled her eyes. “What can't you just be a normal guy and say that you can't sleep?”
“For the same reason you can't stop being a whore.”
Santana gasped, fake astonishment in her throat. “Excuse me?”
Kurt slammed his glass down on the counter without breaking it. “Oh please, miss thing. I know it was you. You're the only one who stands to benefit if I win in any way, shape or form. What? Was it having somebody else be sexier than you for once? Be more wanted and popular without letting everyone in the school know they were a hoebag?”
Santana raised her hands. “You got the wrong girl, bitch.”
Kurt flared his nostrils, coming up close to Santana until she was nearly pinned to the counter. “You call off your vendetta without me doing what Jacob blackmailed me into. You don't and I'll make sure Brittany knows more about you than anyone else. I will rip your little world apart, Spanish harlot.”
“You don't have the guts.” Santana crossed her arms with a wry smile.
Kurt growled under his breath. “It kills you that he might want me more, doesn't it?”
Santana swiveled her neck. “Please - you only gave him a fifty-five on your precious scoreboard. I know he's worth way more than that. And it’s all natural baby.”
Kurt chuckled. “He's kids’ stuff, Latin Barbie. Don't try and play in the big leagues. You will get wrecked. I know your plastic surgeon, hun. Think Jacob does?”
Santana's shoulders sagged. “Fine. You win. But you don't play fair.”
Kurt chuckled as he started to swagger out of the kitchen. “To quote Sophia Petrillo: That's why I always win.”
It was exactly one week later, when Kurt had finished reapplying his pomegranate and avocado face mask, that something unusual - even in his world - happened. His dad was still at the shop, and so the house was silent as he brought the warm towel to his face and swiped the gooey mixture into the bathroom sink while watching his skin being revealed in all its soft, velvety glory.
Heading downstairs in his slim cut bottoms and junior large white sleep tee, he grabbed his iPod from the shelf dock and then jumped as there was a pounding on the basement door.
Turning, he flipped on a lamp. “Hello? My father's...”
Puck cut him off before he could continue his “my father is a strong mechanic and you wouldn't want to wake him up and rob us” speech.
“Open up, Hummel.”
Puck barreled his way in, causing Kurt to step back . “You smell like a distillery.”
“Yeah, well, you're a fucking fruit.” Puck dropped in Burt's nearby empty recliner.
“Please tell me that you didn't drive over here snackered just to insult me.”
Puck's head fell back against the headrest, but he still managed to glare at Kurt. “Fuck no. I drove over here drunk and half-cocked, ready to give you a damn dirty job to finish.”
Kurt sat across the room, unsure of Puck's volatile state. Keeping his cool, he sat slowly on the stool and lit a candle to try and combat the undying alcoholic stench rolling off of Noah Puckerman. “Ah. So there was a marathon on the Discovery Channel and you thought you'd come over and make me watch it until I swooned?”
Puck's words were full of venom when he spoke, his hands clutched to the arms of the chair. “Well, that’s your type of guy, isn't it? Dirty, industrious, real men?”
“Puck, as much as I love your lack of coherency, I really need to know what’s going on before I call Finn and have him cart your drunk butt home.”
Puck shook his head. “I wouldn't recommend calling Finn. He's the only thing protecting you right now. Man, you didn't think I wasn't gonna recognize those symbols?”
Kurt winced. “So, everybody's upset then?”
Puck's hands flew up in anger. “No! Everybody's high-fiving and shitting themselves that they got such good scores on your list! Goddamn it, Nanon-fucking-Russia is football king right now.”
“Well,” Kurt chuckled, “that certainly backfired in my blackmailer's face.”
Puck scoffed in the back of his throat. “We'll see. How could give me a fifty-fucking-five?! I'm a stud, bro!”
Kurt shook his head in response. “You really don't wanna know about the scoring system. I'm gonna go start some coffee so you can clear your head.”
Puck shot up from the chair. “You're not fucking leaving this room until we get something straight. I'm better than Mr. Russia and I'll prove it to you if I have to. How much do money you want, huh? You want protection? I can offer that.”
Kurt shook his head slowly as he gripped the banister with his light touch. “That’s not how it works. I'm not a boy whose head is turned by shiny things. I don't need a sugar daddy.”
Puck tripped over his words just slightly. “Get the fuck back over here then, Hummel.”
Kurt was intrigued by the change in his voice and stance. He was wavering, but trying to be more impressive than he was. Like a giant bear. “What are you gonna do if I don't?”
“Either way, you're gonna raise my score until I get it fucking perfect.”
Kurt licked his lips as he walked slowly back towards the center of the room. “You realize what you're saying, don't you?”
“I'm saying that I'm not a fucking slacker, and being the king of dudes is all I have in our school. So you better be ready to fucking take it like the bitch you're gonna be.”
Kurt raised his finger up in the air as Puck stood still, and Kurt was close enough to touch him. “You are so not ready for this. You're drunk, you're too young, and you've got way too much to prove. I'm tired. and have a lot to do tomorrow.”
Puck's hands gripped Kurt's shoulder. “Well, we'd better get started then if I'm gonna hit all those points on your list. I don't know what they all mean, but I'll improvise if I can't figure it out.”
Kurt gulped, already feeling a tingle in parts of skin that he knew Puck was going to try and claim. “And what? Who are you gonna be thinking about while your teeth are gritted and your eyes are closed, working your way up the list?”
“Fuck if I know. Someone with boobs. Now down on your knees.”
Puck didn't need to use his heavy grip once Kurt was down there. Kurt began to work on the building bulge in Puck's liquor-soaked jeans. Puck purred darkly as Kurt's nose dug around in the thick denim that encased his manhood.
“I get extra points for having skin, right?”
Kurt had to take a breath. “Depends on how you use it.”
Gripping his zipper, Puck's resolve fueled the quick downward jerking motion. The blood pumping to his cock was filling it to half-mast, but he wasn't hard enough yet. A small swath of skin that wasn't quite a foreskin, just a lazy circumcising job, hung down a bit off the tip.
“You're gonna use your tongue, then. Swirl that head, taste my manly rainbow, single boy.”
Puck was so thirsty to be the top dog that he was willing to sacrifice his own heterosexuality for it, and Kurt was lapping it up. Each swallow of the thickening inches of man meat, each grunt and buck made Kurt go for a broke a little more, hoping that Puck would cave and he would lose more points than he would gain.
But Kurt didn't realize that he was the one losing. The dark veins along Puck's biceps, he wanted to kiss them tenderly until Puck was begging for him to worship the gun show. The way his six-pack heaved and accentuated so that Kurt's fingers could trace the line of where goosebumps would show up if he caressed them tenderly. He could take Puck to the next level if Puck was willing to lose himself. Slowly, a plan began to form. It would take time. It would be more than...
“I'm gonna ride you hard, boy.”
Kurt's entire body stopped, his heart ceasing pumping for a second. “You can't be serious. You think that’s gonna get you extra points?”
Puck chuckled darkly to himself. “We're way beyond points now, Hummel. You're gonna know what I can fucking do, and I'm gonna make you beg for more. And then I'm gonna finish this dirty job, stroke my cock on your face until you’re blind with my cum, and then I'm gonna bolt. We both get what we deserve.”
Kurt was useless when Puck reached down and grabbed for his own fully erect cock and began to work the meat through his own hands. “You sure you can handle that?”
“You asking me or yourself? Get the fuck over there.”
Kurt didn't hear Burt's truck coming up the drive. He was too immersed in Puck being behind him. Trembling fingers and an inability to back out were the reasons he was slowly causing Kurt to squirm and gasp, with one leg riding the old recliner that didn't fit with his white scheme in any way. Kurt was terrified and intrigued as to where this was leading, not able to see Puck's face and only the blank canvas of the cement wall to keep him guessing.
“Ready for the ride, boy?”
Puck didn't give Kurt a chance to respond before the heat of his thick cock was pressed against the sweet rosebud of ivory that was Kurt's hole. Puck's cock was lubed up with his own spit, and the first thrust was agony. Ridiculous, sweet, and tight agony. Puck's hand held Kurt down firmly.
“Shh! It’s all right. Just get used to it. Just let it ride around a bit, Hummel. It'll feel...”
And of course, he was the expert. Ten points were given for something Puck knew he could do better than any other Lima Loser on the football team. He was perfect against Kurt's prostate, his own cock insufferably hard and ignored while Puck was deep inside him and experiencing the pleasure of extra- sensitive Trojan condoms.
“Hey son, there's a car in the driveway. Are you...” Burt nearly tripped backwards down the stairs at the scene he saw.
Kurt's face became panic-stricken. Puck couldn't pull out right away. He struggled, but he was still hard and he managed to fall to the side of the chair when he realized that it was Burt Hummel at the stairs and his face was turning an angry and embarrassed shade of red.
“Dad, it’s not what it looks like.”
Burt's voice rose into a dangerous boom that caused even Puck to quiver. “It better not be what it looks like!”
Kurt shook his head with wide eyes while he pulled up his pajama bottoms. “I wanted him to. This is my....”
“...boyfriend...” Puck coughed in desperation. It was a decision that changed both their lives, in retrospect.
Burt's voice lowered in a bewildered state. “Boyfriend?! I....I just....I can't do this...” Shaking his head, he turned around and stumbled on the first step, closing the door securely behind him.
“Fuck!” Puck cursed under his breath, laying back on the cold basement floor as cum started to shoot into the condom. The exhilaration of being caught and not skinned alive by Kurt's dad had been too much adrenaline for even him.
The best part was the lack of ramifications that led to Burt accepting Puck as “the first boyfriend.” Only Burt struggled with what he would tell his son and they suffered each other in silence for nearly a week. It was easier having a football stud for a son because he knew those days from his own experiences, and knew what Planned Parenthood had to offer. But, with Kurt, it was this long drawn out and awkward analogy featuring tool belts and socket wrenches that neither of them were following by the end.
The only promise that Burt got from Kurt was that he would always be safe and would get tested on a regular basis. Also, that Kurt would leave one of his better scarves tied around the doorknob to avoid that same calamity in future. Nobody in the Hummel household relished the idea of a heart attack.
Puck and Kurt were never caught again. At least, not until after that first apartment christening when Puck and Kurt banged everywhere: among red cups with pizza boxes tossed carelessly on the floor from the Glee kids’ party and Finn snoring away in the guest bedroom from getting way too plastered.
-Fin-
-What Inspired This-
About the fic you request:
Rating(s) requested (G-NC-17): R or NC-17
Character(s) or pairing(s): Kurt, Puck/Kurt, Finn/Kurt, Will/Emma, Burt Hummel
Prompts (minimum of 3, no maximum!):
1. Puck & Kurt are christening their new apartment by having sex on every surface
2. Kurt having a wet dream about Finn or Puck or both. Go nuts. Either extreme, uber romantic or uber sexy is fine.
3. Burt having 'the talk' with Kurt after he walked in on Puck & Kurt having sex. The more awkward the better.
4. Kurt's report card on all the guys on the football team. In the showers, alone in the locker room, can be sex, can be just him checking them out. Slut!Kurt is soooo okay here.
5. Puck/Kurt, butt plug. Go.
6. Puck/Kurt, somnophilia. Because there can never be enough of this.
Any of them: I love wild, dominant bottom!Kurt. Please please please. ♥
Things you DON’T want in your story (squicks, triggers, genres you dislike, characters you hate, etc.): Mpreg, non-con/dub-con, extreme kinks (watersports, scat, etc), extreme BDSM
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Puck/Kurt
Word Count: 4700
Recipient: kle_hungry
Disclaimer: Do I look like Ryan Murphy? Seriously..do I?
Summary: Kurt was the fiercest. That was how this idea started and he never dreamed it would really end with Puck.
A/N: This is not my Glee pairing at all, but I soldiered through it. Because love is a battlefield.
Most ideas don't begin in earnest with a genius seed of wisdom. The greatest ideas for characters in fiction usually come out of desperation. The greatest ideas for new inventions occur out of plum laziness: Snuggies anyone? And Kurt Hummel would like to think that the greatest idea of his entire school tenure was the one that came up on the first lazy Sunday in late spring.
Kurt Hummel was never the smartest in any of his classes. He was the fiercest, without a doubt, but his control over others was tenuous. His heart was never in being the kind of fantastic bitch Mean Girl leading archetype that Quinn had played. Tina was the waif, the great quiet and blossoming flower that everyone fell in love with because she was adaptable, like a pair of classic straight-leg, dark was Levis 501s. And Kurt was talented, but not like Rachel. Rachel was too into her own martyrdom, and it spoiled a lot of what he considered her talent.
No, Kurt Hummel had to be in a class by himself. There was no one else like him. He didn't have to be the smartest, or the bravest, or the first, or the best. He was the most fabulous. He didn't need a spread in the yearbook devoted to him because he could just walk through the halls, now nearly slushie-free, and point out the flaws of the kids who were trying way too hard to look like they just stepped out of an American Eagle catalog or a Gap commercial, without the airbrushing.
The only person that could enrage him on even the most zen-like days was Santana. She was the ultimate sex kitten. Eartha Kitt wrapped into a Jayne Mansfield plaything that stole the glances of men that she really didn't know what to do with. Teenage girls would be the death of him yet!
Shake it off, Kurt thought, as he lay there and swayed in his hammock in the backyard. The noise-canceling ear phones were playing a Beach Boys album so that he could be taken away from the pothole construction noise and the bees that were intermingled with the early fire flies and the fact that his Diet Coke was not a cold mai tai being served by a busboy with washboard abs. A busboy with washboard abs wearing a red jacket and board shorts. Board shorts that barely covered the sex arrows at the end of his stomach.
The sun would be going down on that beach. (Kurt always liked having the sun go down on his tropical island.) The waves would still be warm if he needed them to be, and the warm tones in the sky would accentuate the hint of honey highlight in his hair. Just a hint of pink and orange as the half-sun dipped down to where he'd have to strain out of his custom made sunglasses in smoky black (the newest custom catalog feature from this year's Versaces accessory show) to watch it finish setting in the reflection of that choppy water.
Finn would have to be the busboy, the servant. He wasn't the smartest either, but he was the most attractive in a “Teen Beat” or “Eighteen” sort of way. He was limber and wiry to a point where Kurt vaguely wondered if he even had to stretch to reach down and stroke himself hard or if he could just palm his own cock without raising suspicions that he was even doing so.
“Excuse me, you are blocking my sun.”
Finn would stutter, of course. Kurt was the paying customer, after all. “My apologies, sir. It’s just that we know how much you hate having too much condensation on your glass.”
Kurt's eyes would flip over the edge of his state-of-the-art shades, and he would bat his eyes, causing the Adam’s apple in Finn's throat to bob. “Well, aren't you the sweetest thing? You earning some extra money this summer break?”
Finn would nod slowly. “Yeah. I'm saving up for my own car. My old man's best friend wants to sell me his cherry convertible. It’s a ‘62, hard-to-find muscle car.”
Licking his lips, Kurt would take a slow sip of the offered drink. “Sounds very manly. Don't suppose you'd ever break down with a passenger on a long stretch of deserted road, would you?”
Finn might shrug, trying to maintain his wholesomeness without fooling anybody. “Stranger things have happened. How is your mai tai, Mr. Hummel?
“Well,” Kurt would purse his lips together as he thought for a moment, “Its pretty good, but I can think of something that would really make me need to cool down.”
Finn would probably have to take a step back. “I...I have other people to serve. I'll return shortly for the glass.”
Kurt would raise hand as he sits up in the hammock, but wouldn't get his sentence through as Finn walks away fast. There is a clear and obvious attraction to the young waiter in the well-tailored red jacket that still reveals his pecs, since he’s not wearing a shirt underneath it. His body is smooth with just a hint of fuzz at the line of his board shorts. It tells you a story that you know you want to hear more of.
“Hey! Think you can flag that waiter down for me next time he comes by? I could use a Corona.”
Puck is breathing hard. Running on the beach after being out in the crashing waves is tiring on even the most muscled specimen. Even stripped down to the waist, you can tell Puck takes care of himself in a way that screams vanity. Kurt can see him in the off-season on the beach gym equipment, watching his muscles pump and groan in any shiny surface he can find. Maybe sneaking glances at other guys and their packages, even though he's never thought of being with another dude.
“He'll be back shortly. Take a load off.”
Kurt might arch his back, stretching from the luxurious hammock as he exits in his modest and yet European-cut gym short style black Speedo, since his own modesty is not dead and this is emphatically not a French beach.
Puck nods in thanks as he lays his surf board against one of the tree trunks. He's bigger than the hammock, one of his legs casually dangling over the edge. Spread out, Kurt can see the dark lines of his muscles with their deep tan.
Puck arches his eyebrow as his forearm becomes his pillow. “Thanks for the hammock. What are you staring at?”
Kurt's hands go to his hips. “Stupid question, muscle boy. I'm staring at you.”
Puck looks around, then shrugs at Kurt. “I'm not gonna stop you. If you just wanna stare, I mean.”
Finn is heading back up the beach slowly with another drink for Kurt, but he overhears Kurt replying to Puck. “What kind of boy do you think I am?”
Puck snorts, leading into a chuckle. “I know what kind of boy you are. Get over here.”
Kurt's soft, slender fingers run the course of the veined muscles in Puck's body. The temperature of the water has cooled him down immensely. He sighs at the light touch, but grows weary of the game after awhile. Guiding Kurt's hand with his own, Puck slides both hands beneath his wet suit.
Kurt watches his own hand slide against the growing tent of Noah's bulge. Noah smirks at Kurt, winking and biting down on his bottom lip.
Finn coughs as he comes back with the drink. Kurt's hand is trapped in Puck's pants, stroking his throbbing cock until it’s slick with pre-cum. He looks over his shoulder.
Puck beckons Finn over. “Thanks for the drink. You gonna say anything?”
Finn shakes his head. “No sir.”
“Good boy.” Puck takes the drink as Kurt finally works Puck's cock from beneath the wet suit. Puck slides the drink off the tray and down Finn's arm. The tray falls from Finn's hand as Puck sucks down the drink, displaying a devilish use of tongue, and then brings his free hand to the bulge in Finn's board shorts. The glass gets tossed to the ground.
Finn stands stock still as Puck buries his nose in Finn's bulge, groaning now that Kurt is concentrating his fingers on the curve of Puck's dick as it slaps against his stomach. Finn begins to relax as his board shorts slip down past his knees and towards the sand. Kurt's own dick pops out from his cut swim suit. The sounds of Puck slurping Finn's cock and the feeling of Finn's hand sliding over his ass, just itching to finger his hole, are too much for even him.
And of course, Kurt is only human. He wakes up from the fantasy hard, and to the startling sounds of his dad calling him from the kitchen and asking if he wants barbecue or burgers for dinner.. He has to rearrange himself slightly before calling back to his dad and confirming that barbecued chicken would be all right with him.
Kurt resists the urge to jack-off after most of these fantasies. He wants to save the energy for the real thing. Of course, sometimes the real thing is awkward and messy and painful - but he really prefers that. Like blowing Puck just behind the bleachers after he finishes showering because he has found Puck still in uniform the night after he's won the big game with his ”Single Ladies” kick. All that sweat and grass were so intoxicating, and Puck was so weak and needing to be in control, which was why Kurt was so eager to oblige.
That's where it came from ultimately: a mixture of the daydream and taking back the control that he gave to others. But just the boys, because obviously they needed control so much more. He heard it in the locker room banter. He saw it in the tartar sauce-chugging contests. And in the way that Puck was nearly drunk, but not really. Eyes pleaded with him to understand, to need to be needed. But, that was the end of the story, Kurt thought later as he was making spaghetti in the kitchen. The haze of the steam as the pasta water boils seeped into his skin. It was not as intoxicating as locker room steam with all those pairs of eyes, dreading and secretly wanting a young body to unburden themselves.
That’s how the report card had started, with that Russian fullback who had been roped into playing American football. It had been a first for Kurt in the sauna, teasing that extra bit of skin until it was overcome by length and head. Not quite gagging on the cock, hearing the groans as Kurt achieved vocal appreciation for a job well done. That last-second pull away before Nanon came across his shoulder, like a white merit badge.
It had been Nanon who had set the bar for the report card. There were multiple sections designated for technique, how the guy edged himself, whether or not he was still thick and hard a minute afterwards, and whether he could look Kurt in the eye again in the locker room or the hallway. Points were won or lost on how sneaky the person was. Please, Kurt rolled his eyes one day as he was filling the chart out, keeping it close to chest in the hallway, even the dimmest cheerleaders knew what Bruno was doing with the kicker behind the bleachers in the fake port-o-potty: and it wasn't discussing plays.
A star next to the names was in honor of Rachel. It meant they had gotten him to hit a couple of high notes, which was worth five points more in overall score. A shoe next to the name was in honor of Finn, which means he got to stretch his lower half a bit, but never all the way. None of the boys at the school were even brave enough to suggest it. And a little barbell, which had twenty points extra in the final tally, meant they needed to have their egos stroked during and their muscles worshiped.
A couple were excellent at dirty talk, which explained why Santana's phone went off so often during the day, and Kurt chalked that up to his growing experience and his growing strut. Every man in the hall he could categorize on site, like a Sims score that would rise above their head. And nobody yet had gotten more than seventy out of the perfect score of one hundred. It was providence on the day when he had just finished corrupting Rutherford and was putting final tallies down for use of foreskin that he ran into Jacob Ben Israel.
“Hey Hummel. Rumor has it that you're getting pretty popular on the football team.”
Kurt shifted his weight to one of his hips, holding his books close to keep the list next to his chest. It was a shield against the permanent dirty smirk that he wanted to slap off of Jacob's face. “What do you want, Simon and Garfunky?”
Jacob's voice was thick was smug indignation. “Only to let you know that if you don't cooperate, an unidentified source will spill on my blog that you've been getting down with the entire football squad.”
Kurt tried to keep up a poker face, but he could feel the inside of his lips trembling. “Excuse me? Are you threatening me?”
“You'd better believe it.”
Kurt blinked, biting down on his lip. The list was his source of power. “I assume that you have something you wish to use me for in your little perverted world. Otherwise your blog would have already been posted - not that anyone reads it.”
Jacob took a step backwards as if hit in his own heart. “Don't underestimate the power of mass electronic media, Mr. Hummel. I could destroy your college applications with this if I so chose.”
Kurt pushed Jacob to the side of the lockers when he saw Puck coming down the hall with Quinn and Santana in tow, talking over notes. “All right, what’s the deal?”
Jacob nodded, sure that he had the upper hand. “I post the list without names, because my anonymous source is not going to back down. You get me exclusive photos of Berry from the next Glee girls’ sleepover, and I'll make sure your name isn't attached.
“What makes you think I'll be invited over to their next little soirée? The Glee girls can't handle my fabulous.”
Jacob shook his head. “My source has guaranteed it. We have a deal, slut kitten?”
Kurt rolled his eyes as he prepared to walk off. “Honey, I am a tiger; not a kitten. Get it right.”
Sure enough, Jacob's source had been right. Brittany had given him a hand-written invitation for the next weekend. He observed stiffly all the way through the glee club meeting until he knew exactly who he was going to confront. And the opportunity arose at four in the morning, mid-way through his pomegranate and avocado face regimen reset at the sleepover.
Santana narrowed her eyes as Kurt innocently went for a glass of water in Brittany's kitchen. “What are you still doing up?”
“If I don't move around and blink, the mix doesn't settle in my premature crows’ feet and then my foundation doesn't apply right for the day. How about you?”
Santana rolled her eyes. “What can't you just be a normal guy and say that you can't sleep?”
“For the same reason you can't stop being a whore.”
Santana gasped, fake astonishment in her throat. “Excuse me?”
Kurt slammed his glass down on the counter without breaking it. “Oh please, miss thing. I know it was you. You're the only one who stands to benefit if I win in any way, shape or form. What? Was it having somebody else be sexier than you for once? Be more wanted and popular without letting everyone in the school know they were a hoebag?”
Santana raised her hands. “You got the wrong girl, bitch.”
Kurt flared his nostrils, coming up close to Santana until she was nearly pinned to the counter. “You call off your vendetta without me doing what Jacob blackmailed me into. You don't and I'll make sure Brittany knows more about you than anyone else. I will rip your little world apart, Spanish harlot.”
“You don't have the guts.” Santana crossed her arms with a wry smile.
Kurt growled under his breath. “It kills you that he might want me more, doesn't it?”
Santana swiveled her neck. “Please - you only gave him a fifty-five on your precious scoreboard. I know he's worth way more than that. And it’s all natural baby.”
Kurt chuckled. “He's kids’ stuff, Latin Barbie. Don't try and play in the big leagues. You will get wrecked. I know your plastic surgeon, hun. Think Jacob does?”
Santana's shoulders sagged. “Fine. You win. But you don't play fair.”
Kurt chuckled as he started to swagger out of the kitchen. “To quote Sophia Petrillo: That's why I always win.”
It was exactly one week later, when Kurt had finished reapplying his pomegranate and avocado face mask, that something unusual - even in his world - happened. His dad was still at the shop, and so the house was silent as he brought the warm towel to his face and swiped the gooey mixture into the bathroom sink while watching his skin being revealed in all its soft, velvety glory.
Heading downstairs in his slim cut bottoms and junior large white sleep tee, he grabbed his iPod from the shelf dock and then jumped as there was a pounding on the basement door.
Turning, he flipped on a lamp. “Hello? My father's...”
Puck cut him off before he could continue his “my father is a strong mechanic and you wouldn't want to wake him up and rob us” speech.
“Open up, Hummel.”
Puck barreled his way in, causing Kurt to step back . “You smell like a distillery.”
“Yeah, well, you're a fucking fruit.” Puck dropped in Burt's nearby empty recliner.
“Please tell me that you didn't drive over here snackered just to insult me.”
Puck's head fell back against the headrest, but he still managed to glare at Kurt. “Fuck no. I drove over here drunk and half-cocked, ready to give you a damn dirty job to finish.”
Kurt sat across the room, unsure of Puck's volatile state. Keeping his cool, he sat slowly on the stool and lit a candle to try and combat the undying alcoholic stench rolling off of Noah Puckerman. “Ah. So there was a marathon on the Discovery Channel and you thought you'd come over and make me watch it until I swooned?”
Puck's words were full of venom when he spoke, his hands clutched to the arms of the chair. “Well, that’s your type of guy, isn't it? Dirty, industrious, real men?”
“Puck, as much as I love your lack of coherency, I really need to know what’s going on before I call Finn and have him cart your drunk butt home.”
Puck shook his head. “I wouldn't recommend calling Finn. He's the only thing protecting you right now. Man, you didn't think I wasn't gonna recognize those symbols?”
Kurt winced. “So, everybody's upset then?”
Puck's hands flew up in anger. “No! Everybody's high-fiving and shitting themselves that they got such good scores on your list! Goddamn it, Nanon-fucking-Russia is football king right now.”
“Well,” Kurt chuckled, “that certainly backfired in my blackmailer's face.”
Puck scoffed in the back of his throat. “We'll see. How could give me a fifty-fucking-five?! I'm a stud, bro!”
Kurt shook his head in response. “You really don't wanna know about the scoring system. I'm gonna go start some coffee so you can clear your head.”
Puck shot up from the chair. “You're not fucking leaving this room until we get something straight. I'm better than Mr. Russia and I'll prove it to you if I have to. How much do money you want, huh? You want protection? I can offer that.”
Kurt shook his head slowly as he gripped the banister with his light touch. “That’s not how it works. I'm not a boy whose head is turned by shiny things. I don't need a sugar daddy.”
Puck tripped over his words just slightly. “Get the fuck back over here then, Hummel.”
Kurt was intrigued by the change in his voice and stance. He was wavering, but trying to be more impressive than he was. Like a giant bear. “What are you gonna do if I don't?”
“Either way, you're gonna raise my score until I get it fucking perfect.”
Kurt licked his lips as he walked slowly back towards the center of the room. “You realize what you're saying, don't you?”
“I'm saying that I'm not a fucking slacker, and being the king of dudes is all I have in our school. So you better be ready to fucking take it like the bitch you're gonna be.”
Kurt raised his finger up in the air as Puck stood still, and Kurt was close enough to touch him. “You are so not ready for this. You're drunk, you're too young, and you've got way too much to prove. I'm tired. and have a lot to do tomorrow.”
Puck's hands gripped Kurt's shoulder. “Well, we'd better get started then if I'm gonna hit all those points on your list. I don't know what they all mean, but I'll improvise if I can't figure it out.”
Kurt gulped, already feeling a tingle in parts of skin that he knew Puck was going to try and claim. “And what? Who are you gonna be thinking about while your teeth are gritted and your eyes are closed, working your way up the list?”
“Fuck if I know. Someone with boobs. Now down on your knees.”
Puck didn't need to use his heavy grip once Kurt was down there. Kurt began to work on the building bulge in Puck's liquor-soaked jeans. Puck purred darkly as Kurt's nose dug around in the thick denim that encased his manhood.
“I get extra points for having skin, right?”
Kurt had to take a breath. “Depends on how you use it.”
Gripping his zipper, Puck's resolve fueled the quick downward jerking motion. The blood pumping to his cock was filling it to half-mast, but he wasn't hard enough yet. A small swath of skin that wasn't quite a foreskin, just a lazy circumcising job, hung down a bit off the tip.
“You're gonna use your tongue, then. Swirl that head, taste my manly rainbow, single boy.”
Puck was so thirsty to be the top dog that he was willing to sacrifice his own heterosexuality for it, and Kurt was lapping it up. Each swallow of the thickening inches of man meat, each grunt and buck made Kurt go for a broke a little more, hoping that Puck would cave and he would lose more points than he would gain.
But Kurt didn't realize that he was the one losing. The dark veins along Puck's biceps, he wanted to kiss them tenderly until Puck was begging for him to worship the gun show. The way his six-pack heaved and accentuated so that Kurt's fingers could trace the line of where goosebumps would show up if he caressed them tenderly. He could take Puck to the next level if Puck was willing to lose himself. Slowly, a plan began to form. It would take time. It would be more than...
“I'm gonna ride you hard, boy.”
Kurt's entire body stopped, his heart ceasing pumping for a second. “You can't be serious. You think that’s gonna get you extra points?”
Puck chuckled darkly to himself. “We're way beyond points now, Hummel. You're gonna know what I can fucking do, and I'm gonna make you beg for more. And then I'm gonna finish this dirty job, stroke my cock on your face until you’re blind with my cum, and then I'm gonna bolt. We both get what we deserve.”
Kurt was useless when Puck reached down and grabbed for his own fully erect cock and began to work the meat through his own hands. “You sure you can handle that?”
“You asking me or yourself? Get the fuck over there.”
Kurt didn't hear Burt's truck coming up the drive. He was too immersed in Puck being behind him. Trembling fingers and an inability to back out were the reasons he was slowly causing Kurt to squirm and gasp, with one leg riding the old recliner that didn't fit with his white scheme in any way. Kurt was terrified and intrigued as to where this was leading, not able to see Puck's face and only the blank canvas of the cement wall to keep him guessing.
“Ready for the ride, boy?”
Puck didn't give Kurt a chance to respond before the heat of his thick cock was pressed against the sweet rosebud of ivory that was Kurt's hole. Puck's cock was lubed up with his own spit, and the first thrust was agony. Ridiculous, sweet, and tight agony. Puck's hand held Kurt down firmly.
“Shh! It’s all right. Just get used to it. Just let it ride around a bit, Hummel. It'll feel...”
And of course, he was the expert. Ten points were given for something Puck knew he could do better than any other Lima Loser on the football team. He was perfect against Kurt's prostate, his own cock insufferably hard and ignored while Puck was deep inside him and experiencing the pleasure of extra- sensitive Trojan condoms.
“Hey son, there's a car in the driveway. Are you...” Burt nearly tripped backwards down the stairs at the scene he saw.
Kurt's face became panic-stricken. Puck couldn't pull out right away. He struggled, but he was still hard and he managed to fall to the side of the chair when he realized that it was Burt Hummel at the stairs and his face was turning an angry and embarrassed shade of red.
“Dad, it’s not what it looks like.”
Burt's voice rose into a dangerous boom that caused even Puck to quiver. “It better not be what it looks like!”
Kurt shook his head with wide eyes while he pulled up his pajama bottoms. “I wanted him to. This is my....”
“...boyfriend...” Puck coughed in desperation. It was a decision that changed both their lives, in retrospect.
Burt's voice lowered in a bewildered state. “Boyfriend?! I....I just....I can't do this...” Shaking his head, he turned around and stumbled on the first step, closing the door securely behind him.
“Fuck!” Puck cursed under his breath, laying back on the cold basement floor as cum started to shoot into the condom. The exhilaration of being caught and not skinned alive by Kurt's dad had been too much adrenaline for even him.
The best part was the lack of ramifications that led to Burt accepting Puck as “the first boyfriend.” Only Burt struggled with what he would tell his son and they suffered each other in silence for nearly a week. It was easier having a football stud for a son because he knew those days from his own experiences, and knew what Planned Parenthood had to offer. But, with Kurt, it was this long drawn out and awkward analogy featuring tool belts and socket wrenches that neither of them were following by the end.
The only promise that Burt got from Kurt was that he would always be safe and would get tested on a regular basis. Also, that Kurt would leave one of his better scarves tied around the doorknob to avoid that same calamity in future. Nobody in the Hummel household relished the idea of a heart attack.
Puck and Kurt were never caught again. At least, not until after that first apartment christening when Puck and Kurt banged everywhere: among red cups with pizza boxes tossed carelessly on the floor from the Glee kids’ party and Finn snoring away in the guest bedroom from getting way too plastered.
-Fin-
-What Inspired This-
About the fic you request:
Rating(s) requested (G-NC-17): R or NC-17
Character(s) or pairing(s): Kurt, Puck/Kurt, Finn/Kurt, Will/Emma, Burt Hummel
Prompts (minimum of 3, no maximum!):
1. Puck & Kurt are christening their new apartment by having sex on every surface
2. Kurt having a wet dream about Finn or Puck or both. Go nuts. Either extreme, uber romantic or uber sexy is fine.
3. Burt having 'the talk' with Kurt after he walked in on Puck & Kurt having sex. The more awkward the better.
4. Kurt's report card on all the guys on the football team. In the showers, alone in the locker room, can be sex, can be just him checking them out. Slut!Kurt is soooo okay here.
5. Puck/Kurt, butt plug. Go.
6. Puck/Kurt, somnophilia. Because there can never be enough of this.
Any of them: I love wild, dominant bottom!Kurt. Please please please. ♥
Things you DON’T want in your story (squicks, triggers, genres you dislike, characters you hate, etc.): Mpreg, non-con/dub-con, extreme kinks (watersports, scat, etc), extreme BDSM