(no subject)
Title: Room of Horrors, or, How Kurt Finally Liked Noah More Than Interior Design, part 1
Author: skybluetopaz
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kurt/Puck
Summary: Response to lovelycudy 's prompt at glee_kink: "Pairing: Puck/Kurt
During a party at Rachel's house, Puck takes Kurt to her bedroom to have sex. Unfortunately, and thanks to Rachel's horrid décor, Kurt can't get it up. It's Puck mission to help him. Crack is welcome. Smut is a must.
Kink: Dirty talking, Fingering, soft cock blowjob, heavy petting and penetrative sex as a reward. "
Warning: The summary should suffice, no?
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Word Count: 1, 438
Notes: Second fic, first time responding to a prompt! I hope I got at least some of what you were hoping for. :) Would love feedback for what you'd like to see happen in part 2.
Puck was horny. Not like that was anything new, but the situation he found himself in definitely was, and he wasn’t a fan. Three hours they’d been at this goddamned party at Berry’s, and Kurt had barely glanced in his direction. Sure, all the way over he’d bitched at Puck about somethingorother - Puck had kept turning up the radio until Kurt’s rosy lips clamped shut and he’d stared out the window - but he hadn’t figured he’d hold a grudge like this. Damn, that boy knew how to stay mad.
But Puck’s cock felt like it was going to burst through his jeans if he didn’t get it in something - between football practice and Glee he’d barely seen Kurt this week, let alone fucked him - and he was half-tempted to give it to the Cheerio (name? fuck, studs didn’t have to remember names) who was rubbing up against him, but he knew he wouldn’t see Kurt naked for months if he did that. And - oh Jesus how he hated to admit this - it wouldn’t be good anyway.
See, usually this wouldn’t be an issue. Whether or not Kurt was acting like he wanted it, the little slut always did, and if they were alone he’d just grab Kurt’s ass and stick his tongue down his throat and have him panting on his fingers in no time, zero to sixty. But Kurt was currently holding court in a circle of teens encompassing glee kids, jocks, debaters, newspaper nerds, chess losers (where the fuck did Berry find these people?) and Cheerios, and while some of those people had a vague idea that Hummel and Puckerman sometimes did stuff, most of them emphatically did not, and Puck would just as soon keep it that way.
Jesusfuck, this was painful. He’d forgotten what jeans felt like rubbing on a diamond-hard cock, and wished for once in his goddamn life he’d thrown on some boxers underneath.
He could totally pull this off. The kids surrounding Kurt were mostly drunk and/or idiots, anyway. Brushing off the Cheerio, he made his move.
“Hey, Hummel! Somebody I want to introduce you to; need to talk to you about practice Wednesday; Berry needs help icing some fucking cupcakes.” Puck just kept talking as smooth as he knew how (and fuck, Noah Puckerman was smoother than anyone at that school) and used his body to shove Kurt out of the circle and into the hallway (he loved how much bigger than Kurt he was; made it so easy to just move him wherever he wanted). Still, he probably wouldn’t have gotten away with it if Kurt weren’t already on his fourth cocktail of the night - some pink fairy drink. He was like a fucking public service announcement for not drinking and driving, his reflexes beginning to kick in only as Puck steered him towards the stairs.
“Let go of me, Noah.” His tone was mild; his diction perfect, catching Puck off guard. Maybe Kurt wasn’t so drunk.
“I was in the middle of my story about the time my father tried to make conversation with a trans beauty queen whose minivan had busted a fan belt, and you know that’s one of my best anecdotes.”
Puck’s eyes flashed as he bent his head down and bit at Kurt’s neck with a possessive growl. “Listen, princess, I couldn’t give two shits about your anecdote. I need you sitting on my cock.” He punctuated his statement by grabbing Kurt’s crotch. Kurt’s cock twitched underneath his hand. Puck was disappointed that Kurt wasn’t as achingly hard as he was, but knew that as soon as he could get his hand down his pants (fucking skintight pants) Kurt’d be begging for it. He shoved Kurt against the wall of the hallway and thrust his groin demandingly into the smaller boy’s. “I know you want this.” He silently congratulated himself as Kurt melted into his kiss, rubbing his hips sensually against Puck’s and trying to work Puck’s hand down under his waistband.
“Oh, boys, not here!” Rachel, of course, standing two fucking inches away from them. At least she wasn’t one of the ones they were trying to keep in the dark. Rachel smiled at them in a fond way that made Puck want to pin a yarmulke to her face. “If my dads were here, they’d want you to enjoy the party. You can use my bedroom. First door to the right at the top of the stairs.”
Puck almost gagged at the thought of Rachel’s dads having any thoughts whatsoever on his and Kurt’s sex life, but managed to maintain his composure. For one, he had his tongue in Kurt’s mouth and gagging would be gross. That was Kurt’s thing, anyway.
“Rachel’s being creepy,” muttered Kurt into his mouth.
“I know, but I fucking need you,” Puck muttered back.
“I’m not doing it on her bed,” Kurt insisted.
“You’ll do it wherever I fucking tell you to, let’s go.”
“Oh. My. Hell.” Kurt almost fell as he entered Rachel’s room, but it wasn’t because Puck had shoved him (which he had). His eyes were darting crazily from the wallpaper to the bedspread to the lamps (so many fucking lamps) to the stuffed animals and back to the wallpaper. “Paisley. Purple and pink paisley. No one’s pulled off paisley since Karl Lagerfeld’s debacle in ’82. No one’s wanted to try.”
Puck was about to cry in frustration. He reached for the light switch. “Don’t look. Look at me instead. Or close your damn eyes, I don’t care.”
Kurt’s quick hand knocked his away from the switch. “That lamp is a Tiffany. That one is from Ikea. That one is the spawn of" - he shuddered violently - " WalMart. Poor Tiffany baby wants to cry, trapped in this room. Poor delicate sweetheart.” Kurt’s voice had gone soft and sweet, and Puck was two inches away from throwing him across the room. His boyfriend was practically making love to an appliance; meanwhile, Puck was beginning to lose sensation in his chafing cock. He wasted no time getting his shoes off, then threw Kurt on the bed so he could start peeling his trousers down his legs (fucking. skintight. pants.). Kurt barely seemed to notice. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling. “I think that’s a Benjamin Moore shade. But the molding is Martha Stewart. The undertones clash - blue against yellow. Heinous.”
Puck finally freed Kurt’s legs from their prison and gazed hungrily at the slim boxer-briefs, all that lay between him and heaven. “Oh, fuck yeah.” But…something was wrong. Kurt’s cock wasn’t straining against the thin material like it usually did, begging for Puck’s hand to free it. Maybe he was imagining it. The lighting in this room was really bizarre. He quickly yanked the briefs down over Kurt’s thighs - and froze at the sight of Kurt’s soft dick.
“Baby.” His voice came out pleading (fuck, Puckerman, studs don’t plead, what the fuck).“What’s going on?”
Kurt blinked down at him as though he were seeing him for the first time that evening. “Oh, honestly, Noah, you didn’t really think I’d be up for this, did you?”
Puck had never been asked that in his life.
Kurt crossed one slender ankle over the other, settling himself more comfortably against the turquoise pillow sham. “You pick me up late, won’t talk to me in the car, drop my hand before we’re even inside the house and head for the beer, and only when you get horny do you kidnap me away from my friends and force me into this room of horrors. And you expect me to want you?”
“You wanted me just fine downstairs,” Puck smirked.
“That was before the paisley. And the lamps. And the warring undertones.” Kurt’s eyes were getting that panicked look again; he slammed them shut and dramatically shielded them with his hand.
Shit. He was going to have to pull out some his finest work to salvage this, and with his cock throbbing like that, he didn’t know if he had the patience. He didn’t think he could last through the apology and the sweet talk and the soft teasing, which was what Kurt usually demanded when he got pissy like this. Fuck that. Fuck Kurt’s demands.
“Listen, princess, your ass better be ready for my finger by the time I count ten, or I’m shoving three in at once.”
Kurt’s eyes flew open.
“I’d start sucking on them if you want any lube.”
Puck started counting, sounding more confident than he felt. “One. Two.” By three, Kurt was mouthing his fingers, swirling his tongue around them in that way only Kurt could.
Author: skybluetopaz
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kurt/Puck
Summary: Response to lovelycudy 's prompt at glee_kink: "Pairing: Puck/Kurt
During a party at Rachel's house, Puck takes Kurt to her bedroom to have sex. Unfortunately, and thanks to Rachel's horrid décor, Kurt can't get it up. It's Puck mission to help him. Crack is welcome. Smut is a must.
Kink: Dirty talking, Fingering, soft cock blowjob, heavy petting and penetrative sex as a reward. "
Warning: The summary should suffice, no?
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Word Count: 1, 438
Notes: Second fic, first time responding to a prompt! I hope I got at least some of what you were hoping for. :) Would love feedback for what you'd like to see happen in part 2.
Puck was horny. Not like that was anything new, but the situation he found himself in definitely was, and he wasn’t a fan. Three hours they’d been at this goddamned party at Berry’s, and Kurt had barely glanced in his direction. Sure, all the way over he’d bitched at Puck about somethingorother - Puck had kept turning up the radio until Kurt’s rosy lips clamped shut and he’d stared out the window - but he hadn’t figured he’d hold a grudge like this. Damn, that boy knew how to stay mad.
But Puck’s cock felt like it was going to burst through his jeans if he didn’t get it in something - between football practice and Glee he’d barely seen Kurt this week, let alone fucked him - and he was half-tempted to give it to the Cheerio (name? fuck, studs didn’t have to remember names) who was rubbing up against him, but he knew he wouldn’t see Kurt naked for months if he did that. And - oh Jesus how he hated to admit this - it wouldn’t be good anyway.
See, usually this wouldn’t be an issue. Whether or not Kurt was acting like he wanted it, the little slut always did, and if they were alone he’d just grab Kurt’s ass and stick his tongue down his throat and have him panting on his fingers in no time, zero to sixty. But Kurt was currently holding court in a circle of teens encompassing glee kids, jocks, debaters, newspaper nerds, chess losers (where the fuck did Berry find these people?) and Cheerios, and while some of those people had a vague idea that Hummel and Puckerman sometimes did stuff, most of them emphatically did not, and Puck would just as soon keep it that way.
Jesusfuck, this was painful. He’d forgotten what jeans felt like rubbing on a diamond-hard cock, and wished for once in his goddamn life he’d thrown on some boxers underneath.
He could totally pull this off. The kids surrounding Kurt were mostly drunk and/or idiots, anyway. Brushing off the Cheerio, he made his move.
“Hey, Hummel! Somebody I want to introduce you to; need to talk to you about practice Wednesday; Berry needs help icing some fucking cupcakes.” Puck just kept talking as smooth as he knew how (and fuck, Noah Puckerman was smoother than anyone at that school) and used his body to shove Kurt out of the circle and into the hallway (he loved how much bigger than Kurt he was; made it so easy to just move him wherever he wanted). Still, he probably wouldn’t have gotten away with it if Kurt weren’t already on his fourth cocktail of the night - some pink fairy drink. He was like a fucking public service announcement for not drinking and driving, his reflexes beginning to kick in only as Puck steered him towards the stairs.
“Let go of me, Noah.” His tone was mild; his diction perfect, catching Puck off guard. Maybe Kurt wasn’t so drunk.
“I was in the middle of my story about the time my father tried to make conversation with a trans beauty queen whose minivan had busted a fan belt, and you know that’s one of my best anecdotes.”
Puck’s eyes flashed as he bent his head down and bit at Kurt’s neck with a possessive growl. “Listen, princess, I couldn’t give two shits about your anecdote. I need you sitting on my cock.” He punctuated his statement by grabbing Kurt’s crotch. Kurt’s cock twitched underneath his hand. Puck was disappointed that Kurt wasn’t as achingly hard as he was, but knew that as soon as he could get his hand down his pants (fucking skintight pants) Kurt’d be begging for it. He shoved Kurt against the wall of the hallway and thrust his groin demandingly into the smaller boy’s. “I know you want this.” He silently congratulated himself as Kurt melted into his kiss, rubbing his hips sensually against Puck’s and trying to work Puck’s hand down under his waistband.
“Oh, boys, not here!” Rachel, of course, standing two fucking inches away from them. At least she wasn’t one of the ones they were trying to keep in the dark. Rachel smiled at them in a fond way that made Puck want to pin a yarmulke to her face. “If my dads were here, they’d want you to enjoy the party. You can use my bedroom. First door to the right at the top of the stairs.”
Puck almost gagged at the thought of Rachel’s dads having any thoughts whatsoever on his and Kurt’s sex life, but managed to maintain his composure. For one, he had his tongue in Kurt’s mouth and gagging would be gross. That was Kurt’s thing, anyway.
“Rachel’s being creepy,” muttered Kurt into his mouth.
“I know, but I fucking need you,” Puck muttered back.
“I’m not doing it on her bed,” Kurt insisted.
“You’ll do it wherever I fucking tell you to, let’s go.”
“Oh. My. Hell.” Kurt almost fell as he entered Rachel’s room, but it wasn’t because Puck had shoved him (which he had). His eyes were darting crazily from the wallpaper to the bedspread to the lamps (so many fucking lamps) to the stuffed animals and back to the wallpaper. “Paisley. Purple and pink paisley. No one’s pulled off paisley since Karl Lagerfeld’s debacle in ’82. No one’s wanted to try.”
Puck was about to cry in frustration. He reached for the light switch. “Don’t look. Look at me instead. Or close your damn eyes, I don’t care.”
Kurt’s quick hand knocked his away from the switch. “That lamp is a Tiffany. That one is from Ikea. That one is the spawn of" - he shuddered violently - " WalMart. Poor Tiffany baby wants to cry, trapped in this room. Poor delicate sweetheart.” Kurt’s voice had gone soft and sweet, and Puck was two inches away from throwing him across the room. His boyfriend was practically making love to an appliance; meanwhile, Puck was beginning to lose sensation in his chafing cock. He wasted no time getting his shoes off, then threw Kurt on the bed so he could start peeling his trousers down his legs (fucking. skintight. pants.). Kurt barely seemed to notice. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling. “I think that’s a Benjamin Moore shade. But the molding is Martha Stewart. The undertones clash - blue against yellow. Heinous.”
Puck finally freed Kurt’s legs from their prison and gazed hungrily at the slim boxer-briefs, all that lay between him and heaven. “Oh, fuck yeah.” But…something was wrong. Kurt’s cock wasn’t straining against the thin material like it usually did, begging for Puck’s hand to free it. Maybe he was imagining it. The lighting in this room was really bizarre. He quickly yanked the briefs down over Kurt’s thighs - and froze at the sight of Kurt’s soft dick.
“Baby.” His voice came out pleading (fuck, Puckerman, studs don’t plead, what the fuck).“What’s going on?”
Kurt blinked down at him as though he were seeing him for the first time that evening. “Oh, honestly, Noah, you didn’t really think I’d be up for this, did you?”
Puck had never been asked that in his life.
Kurt crossed one slender ankle over the other, settling himself more comfortably against the turquoise pillow sham. “You pick me up late, won’t talk to me in the car, drop my hand before we’re even inside the house and head for the beer, and only when you get horny do you kidnap me away from my friends and force me into this room of horrors. And you expect me to want you?”
“You wanted me just fine downstairs,” Puck smirked.
“That was before the paisley. And the lamps. And the warring undertones.” Kurt’s eyes were getting that panicked look again; he slammed them shut and dramatically shielded them with his hand.
Shit. He was going to have to pull out some his finest work to salvage this, and with his cock throbbing like that, he didn’t know if he had the patience. He didn’t think he could last through the apology and the sweet talk and the soft teasing, which was what Kurt usually demanded when he got pissy like this. Fuck that. Fuck Kurt’s demands.
“Listen, princess, your ass better be ready for my finger by the time I count ten, or I’m shoving three in at once.”
Kurt’s eyes flew open.
“I’d start sucking on them if you want any lube.”
Puck started counting, sounding more confident than he felt. “One. Two.” By three, Kurt was mouthing his fingers, swirling his tongue around them in that way only Kurt could.