Spilt Milk, Will/Kurt, R
Title: Spilt Milk
Author: Merle
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Will/Kurt, sort of
Word Count: 935
Spoilers: For the first 11 episodes, just to be sure.
Disclaimer: Glee belongs to FOX. If Kurt belonged to me, I would carry him around in my pocket and feed him tiny pieces of chocolate all day.
Warnings: Mention of non-consensual sexual actions between teacher and underage student.
Summary: He really looks like an eleven-year-old milk maid. He sounds like one, too.
A/N: This fic was written for glee_kink. The prompt was Will/Kurt, eleven-year-old milk maid. I should add that I was the one who requested it, but then I just couldn't get it out of my head .... It's probably one milestone on my personal highway to hell, but who cares, right? Please comment! Feedback is appreciated!
Spilt Milk
This is insane. He shouldn't be here. He should be at home, with his wife - his pregnant wife! -, not sitting here on the piano stool in the deserted music room, helping Kurt Hummel with his solo.
Not that helping Kurt isn’t a perfectly valid and completely honorable reason for being here, but that is not the problem - the problem is that at some point during the last hour, he stopped listening for dissonances and started watching Kurt, getting lost in the sight of pale skin and pink cheeks, and damnit, Emma was right: Kurt really looks like an eleven-year-old milk maid. He sounds like one, too.
Which only makes the whole thing worse, because - of course he knows that Kurt is sixteen, going on seventeen, and only a few months younger than Puck and Finn; but the tall football players look like, well, men, and Kurt .... Kurt looks like a preadolescent German farm girl coming back from milking cows.
"Mr. Shuester?" Kurt asks, and Will blinks, slowly coming back to himself, realizing that Kurt has stopped singing. When did he stop singing? He is also suddenly standing very close, and his little face is scrunched up in confusion.
"Are you alright? You haven't heard a word of what I said."
"Yes, I'm fine," Will replies with an effort. Kurt's mouth is half open, and his lips look pliant and very soft and slightly smudged around the edges, as if he had been kissed very roughly, for a very long time.
"You look strange," Kurt says now, sounding worried, "are you sure you don't have a fever?" He reaches out, pressing one small white palm against Will's forehead, as if that wasn’t completely inappropriate. His hand feels cool against Will's skin, cool and smooth and gentle, and it's just too much. Will snaps, reaching up to grip the boy's hand without thinking.
Kurt's mouth opens wider as he stares at Will in shock, his arm poised mid-air where Will has got an iron grip around his wrist.
"Mr. Shue?" he says again, still sounding concerned, but there is something else in his voice now, something timid and unsure. And oh, Will knows that he should let go, that he needs to let go, but the boy's wrist bone feels so delicate and fragile under his fingers, and when he presses his fingers into the skin on the inside of his wrist, he can feel his pulse, beating rapidly and frantically, like the heart of a small, frightened animal.
Abruptly, he stands up, and instead of loosening his grip, he tightens it to pull Kurt closer, and the kid stumbles against him, almost falling into him.
And when the boy look up at him, eyes wide, mouth still curled around a surprised little "Oh", he lifts his free hand to Kurt's mouth, running one finger over his lower lip. It's soft, like he knew it would be, but also dry, his finger dragging over the skin; so he dips it into Kurt's mouth, wetting it, and then does it all over again, smearing saliva over the delicious swell of his lips.
"Have you ever been kissed?" he asks, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s a rhetorical question, really, and Kurt knows it, too, because he doesn’t even try to answer.
"I could kiss you," Will murmurs, and he pulls the boy closer, just a bit, until his hips are almost, almost rubbing against his crotch, not even an inch between them. He can smell hairspray and expensive deodorant and underneath it all, the sweet milk-and-honey scent of little babies.
"I could kiss you," he says, and his finger is still moving, tracing the shape of Kurt’s lips.
"Pry your mouth open, fuck it with my tongue." His finger wanders downward, over the rolling hills of his chin, and further down, until it is resting against the hollow of his throat.
"I could make you go down on your knees. Right here, right now, make you open my pants -"
And then Kurt makes this strangled, high-pitched noise, swaying as if his knees are about to give out; and Will realizes with a jolt that he would actually do it - that he would fall down on his knees if his teacher told him to, and swallow him down, obediently, like the good little student he is, and he would do it with tears in his eyes and shaking hands.
It’s like a rush of heat and a cold shower at the same time. Will breathes once, closes his eyes for a moment, and then he pushes the boy away, as hard as he can.
Kurt stumbles, again, but he manages to catch himself, and he stares at him, eyes wild, cheeks flushed. He’s shivering, too, trembling all over, but not moving otherwise, as if he’s still waiting for him to …
"You should go now," Will chokes out, and he can actually see the tension leave Kurt’s body. He exhales sharply, a loud panting noise, and then he almost falls down in his haste to pick up his bag and run. He doesn’t look back when he flees the room, door banging shut behind him.
And Will - Will drops back down on the piano stool when the realization starts to sink in, trying to regain control over his racing heart, his shaking hands.
And what terrifies him the most is that Kurt doesn’t have to tell anybody for him to be damned.
Because he knows that the next time he’ll jerk off, he’s not going to think about his wife.
Author: Merle
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Will/Kurt, sort of
Word Count: 935
Spoilers: For the first 11 episodes, just to be sure.
Disclaimer: Glee belongs to FOX. If Kurt belonged to me, I would carry him around in my pocket and feed him tiny pieces of chocolate all day.
Warnings: Mention of non-consensual sexual actions between teacher and underage student.
Summary: He really looks like an eleven-year-old milk maid. He sounds like one, too.
A/N: This fic was written for glee_kink. The prompt was Will/Kurt, eleven-year-old milk maid. I should add that I was the one who requested it, but then I just couldn't get it out of my head .... It's probably one milestone on my personal highway to hell, but who cares, right? Please comment! Feedback is appreciated!
Spilt Milk
This is insane. He shouldn't be here. He should be at home, with his wife - his pregnant wife! -, not sitting here on the piano stool in the deserted music room, helping Kurt Hummel with his solo.
Not that helping Kurt isn’t a perfectly valid and completely honorable reason for being here, but that is not the problem - the problem is that at some point during the last hour, he stopped listening for dissonances and started watching Kurt, getting lost in the sight of pale skin and pink cheeks, and damnit, Emma was right: Kurt really looks like an eleven-year-old milk maid. He sounds like one, too.
Which only makes the whole thing worse, because - of course he knows that Kurt is sixteen, going on seventeen, and only a few months younger than Puck and Finn; but the tall football players look like, well, men, and Kurt .... Kurt looks like a preadolescent German farm girl coming back from milking cows.
"Mr. Shuester?" Kurt asks, and Will blinks, slowly coming back to himself, realizing that Kurt has stopped singing. When did he stop singing? He is also suddenly standing very close, and his little face is scrunched up in confusion.
"Are you alright? You haven't heard a word of what I said."
"Yes, I'm fine," Will replies with an effort. Kurt's mouth is half open, and his lips look pliant and very soft and slightly smudged around the edges, as if he had been kissed very roughly, for a very long time.
"You look strange," Kurt says now, sounding worried, "are you sure you don't have a fever?" He reaches out, pressing one small white palm against Will's forehead, as if that wasn’t completely inappropriate. His hand feels cool against Will's skin, cool and smooth and gentle, and it's just too much. Will snaps, reaching up to grip the boy's hand without thinking.
Kurt's mouth opens wider as he stares at Will in shock, his arm poised mid-air where Will has got an iron grip around his wrist.
"Mr. Shue?" he says again, still sounding concerned, but there is something else in his voice now, something timid and unsure. And oh, Will knows that he should let go, that he needs to let go, but the boy's wrist bone feels so delicate and fragile under his fingers, and when he presses his fingers into the skin on the inside of his wrist, he can feel his pulse, beating rapidly and frantically, like the heart of a small, frightened animal.
Abruptly, he stands up, and instead of loosening his grip, he tightens it to pull Kurt closer, and the kid stumbles against him, almost falling into him.
And when the boy look up at him, eyes wide, mouth still curled around a surprised little "Oh", he lifts his free hand to Kurt's mouth, running one finger over his lower lip. It's soft, like he knew it would be, but also dry, his finger dragging over the skin; so he dips it into Kurt's mouth, wetting it, and then does it all over again, smearing saliva over the delicious swell of his lips.
"Have you ever been kissed?" he asks, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s a rhetorical question, really, and Kurt knows it, too, because he doesn’t even try to answer.
"I could kiss you," Will murmurs, and he pulls the boy closer, just a bit, until his hips are almost, almost rubbing against his crotch, not even an inch between them. He can smell hairspray and expensive deodorant and underneath it all, the sweet milk-and-honey scent of little babies.
"I could kiss you," he says, and his finger is still moving, tracing the shape of Kurt’s lips.
"Pry your mouth open, fuck it with my tongue." His finger wanders downward, over the rolling hills of his chin, and further down, until it is resting against the hollow of his throat.
"I could make you go down on your knees. Right here, right now, make you open my pants -"
And then Kurt makes this strangled, high-pitched noise, swaying as if his knees are about to give out; and Will realizes with a jolt that he would actually do it - that he would fall down on his knees if his teacher told him to, and swallow him down, obediently, like the good little student he is, and he would do it with tears in his eyes and shaking hands.
It’s like a rush of heat and a cold shower at the same time. Will breathes once, closes his eyes for a moment, and then he pushes the boy away, as hard as he can.
Kurt stumbles, again, but he manages to catch himself, and he stares at him, eyes wild, cheeks flushed. He’s shivering, too, trembling all over, but not moving otherwise, as if he’s still waiting for him to …
"You should go now," Will chokes out, and he can actually see the tension leave Kurt’s body. He exhales sharply, a loud panting noise, and then he almost falls down in his haste to pick up his bag and run. He doesn’t look back when he flees the room, door banging shut behind him.
And Will - Will drops back down on the piano stool when the realization starts to sink in, trying to regain control over his racing heart, his shaking hands.
And what terrifies him the most is that Kurt doesn’t have to tell anybody for him to be damned.
Because he knows that the next time he’ll jerk off, he’s not going to think about his wife.