Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/522676.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Kurt_Hummel/Noah_Puckerman
  Character:
      Kurt_Hummel, Noah_Puckerman
  Additional Tags:
      Crossdressing
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-27 Words: 2016
****** Silver Lace (i'm not sorry) ******
by coricomile
Summary
     There's always been a wear this, a you'll look beautiful, and a
     handful of fabric thrust into his hands, crumpled dresses and lacy
     skirts and billowy blouses that hide his level chest. And Kurt's some
     sort of stupid, some sort of soft, because he turns up each time with
     everything neatly laid on and takes what Puck's willing to give him.
Puck's hands are warm and large through the thin cotton of the dress, hot
points of contact on Kurt's hips. He rubs his thumbs over the smooth curves and
presses his mouth to the bend of Kurt's bare, pale shoulder.
It makes Kurt shiver, goosebumps pimpling his skin. His dress is breezy and
light, a summer number stolen from Quinn's closet when she hadn't been looking.
The hem falls to his knees in a gentle billow, a soft blue that makes him look
paper white in the thin light of Puck's bedroom. He's not wearing shoes, his
feet bare in the carpet, and the way Puck towers over him makes something tick
in Kurt's chest, makes his stomach fill with flutters.
They've been secret and soft, hiding in dark rooms and muffled words. There's
always been a wear this, a you'll look beautiful, and a handful of fabric
thrust into his hands, crumpled dresses and lacy skirts and billowy blouses
that hide his level chest. And Kurt's some sort of stupid, some sort of soft,
because he turns up each time with everything neatly laid on and takes what
Puck's willing to give him.
Puck's mouth slides over the rise of his shoulder, up past the thin ties around
Kurt's neck, his tongue wet and slick over Kurt's skin, leaving a tingling
trail behind. Kurt curls his fingers in the worn flannel of Puck's shirt and
tips his head to the side. It makes him feel open. Vulnerable.
Winter's creeping through the window, the sick light of the day fading away
barely reaching inside the room. Kurt sees a flurry of snow fall through the
curtains and spares a thought for if he'll be able to go home, or if he'll have
to stay. He doesn't allow himself to think about if Puck will let him.
"You look good like this," Puck says against Kurt's jaw. His voice is low and
rough. He's hard in his jeans, the thick line of him pressed firm against
Kurt's stomach. It makes Kurt's own dick twitch against the silk of his
panties, damp head making the cloth stick to his skin.
Kurt fumbles with the buttons of Puck's shirt, his nails flashing a light
periwinkle. Kurt doesn't do things in halves, and dressing up will never be
something he doesn't go all in for. His mouth feels sticky with gloss, his eyes
thick with eyeliner. It's not picture perfect, but he's learning. He's going to
get better.
Puck shrugs out of his shirt, breaking away for a moment to yank his undershirt
off. His skin is smooth and brown, the firm muscles in his chest and arms
highlighted by the bare overhead light. Kurt traces the bulge of Puck's bicep
with easy fingertips, heat boiling low in his stomach. Puck smirks and flexes.
Kurt rolls his eyes.
"Charming," he says dryly. It turns into something he won't admit is a squeal
when Puck hefts him up in one easy motion, palms rough on the undersides of
Kurt's thighs. Kurt locks his knees around Puck's hips and grips Puck's arms
tightly, feeling their strength under his hands.
Puck's mattress bounces as Kurt falls back onto it, legs falling open, his
dress hiking up. Puck's eyes are dark. He crawls up the bed, an animal wild and
predatory, his mouth trailing up the inside of Kurt's calf, chapped lips
dragging across Kurt's skin. He lifts up when he reaches mid-thigh, lining
himself over Kurt's body, elbows braced on either side of Kurt's head.
When Puck grinds down against him, Kurt groans, his eyes fluttering shut.
Puck's cock is pressed against his, hot even through their clothes. Kurt rocks
up against him, the sharp shocks of pleasure running through his spine making
him brave. He reaches between them and cups Puck's dick, pressing the heel of
his palm against it.
Puck makes a thick, breathy sound that makes Kurt's heart stutter. He tips his
head back, jaw tight, the hollows of his cheeks dark. The room is cold,
bordering on freezing, but he's got a thin sheen of sweat over his shoulders
and forehead, the short hairs at his temples almost black against his skin.
"Fuck yeah," Puck says under his breath. He ruts against Kurt's palm
shamelessly, eyes closed and mouth open. "You gonna let me fuck you?" Kurt's
hips jerk. Puck laughs low and dirty and reaches down with one hand to undo his
fly. "I'll make it good."
Kurt closes his eyes and tries to think past the ache in his dick. This is big,
this is- this is him giving something up, and he can't call a do over. When he
looks up, Puck's watching him, cool and patient, mouth curled into a smug grin.
Slowly, Kurt nods.
Puck sits up long enough to shove his jeans and underwear down, posing proudly
for a moment when he's completely naked. He's hot, all hard lines and smooth
angles, and Kurt has to reach down to touch himself, just to take the edge off.
Somehow, he ends up on his stomach, face against a cool pillow that smells like
Puck. He breathes it in, eyes shut as Puck pulls his hips back and up. The
fluttering in Kurt's stomach doesn't stop.
Puck flips the hem of Kurt's dress up, hand lingering at the tender skin at the
small of Kurt's back. He touches the lace edges of Kurt's panties with a
fingertip, tracing the patterns. Kurt's dick is straining against the front of
them, the head peeking out over the top, pressed right up against his stomach.
His face goes hot at the thought of how he must look.
Puck's fingertips slide under the waistband of the panties. He slides them down
and pulls them back up again, playing, watching the dark fabric against Kurt's
light skin. Kurt shivers and thinks about Puck handing them over to him in
school, hidden away in the choir room, thinks about Puck's voice, low and thick
and sexy as he'd said wear them tonight.
Finally, finally, Puck slides them down to where Kurt's knees are spread, their
sharp little hems digging into his skin. There's a moment of blind panic as
Puck pulls away, a moment of please, no, I'm not ready and please, yes, I want
to just do it, and a fleeting flash of will you look at me in the morning?
It's too late to change his mind, in any case, because Puck's hand is back on
his ass, slippery wet with lotion. It smells like vanilla, some knock of drug
store brand that Kurt can't identify. He takes a deep breath and focuses on the
slide of the dress against his back as Puck pulls his hips higher, focuses on
the space where it's too big around his flat chest.
He bites his lip when Puck's finger slides down to press at him, surprisingly
gentle. It makes Kurt go breathless. Puck presses in slowly, and it burns, but
Kurt closes his eyes and thinks of the darkness of Puck's eyes and the easy,
self amused smirk that he's probably wearing.
One finger goes to two goes to three. There's sweat sticking the pretty blue
cotton to Kurt's shoulder blades and stomach, heat in his belly that's eating
him inside out. He wants to reach down and wrap a hand around himself, wants to
rut against the mattress until he's breathless and exhausted, but Puck's
holding him in place, firm hand and firm thighs against Kurt's, keeping his
legs spread.
The sharp sound of foil tearing makes Kurt go tight around Puck's fingers. He
spares a bitter thought about learned lessons, but it's pushed out of his mind
as Puck's fingers slide free from him, leaving him open and empty.
He thinks about saying wait, or what does this mean?, but he bites his lip and
tries to loosen back up, waiting. Puck's hand runs hot and large over his back,
rusting the dress against Kurt's skin, and then he's pressing forward and in.
It hurts, it does, but Kurt lays his forehead to the pillow, hair damp and
curling against his temples, and tries to even his breathing. This is good;
this will be good.
Puck stalls when he bottoms out, a thick groan echoing in the room. He's tight
against Kurt, the fronts of his thighs flush to the back of Kurt's, fingers too
tight around Kurt's hips. There will be bruises, and Kurt will touch them for
days with a sense of awe.
When Puck gives his first shallow thrust, Kurt's breath catches in his throat,
stutters on the way out. It's not good yet, but there's something- Puck shifts
and thrusts back in a little harder, and Kurt bites down on his lip. There,
there, there; perfect even in his stupid disguise.
He can't move his legs, but he can move his arms, and he does; slides one arm
from under himself and tips off to the side, held up by Puck's grip on him. He
wraps his fingers around his dick and jerks in time to the sharp, quick rolls
of Puck's hips, hands gone shaky.
Something hot touches the back of his neck, and it's only when the slick
wetness of Puck's tongue gathers up the sweat there does Kurt realize it's his
mouth. The world's been narrowed down to nothing but Puck against him, the
sticky tug of their skin sliding and moving together. The hot wet drag of
Puck's cock inside him, hard and thick and hitting the right places.
Kurt hears a rip distantly, and only the sharp pain on the outside of his thigh
lets him know that it's the panties giving way, ripping at the seams and
falling to the mattress. Puck scoops them up and presses them to Kurt's cheek,
satin to his flushed skin. Kurt can smell himself on them, musk and want and
boy written all across the dark fabric.
Puck bites at his shoulder, and the ball of tension in Kurt's stomach explodes.
His balls draw up and his toes curl, and he comes in thick stripes over his
fingers, dick pulsing in his hand as he rides it out. Above him, Puck groans.
The hand with the panties slides up, covers Kurt's mouth, and Kurt can't
breathe, can only see the dark bedsheets. Puck's thrusts speed up, fast and
hard, slam slap sound of skin on skin loud. It's too much, and Kurt can feel
himself shaking, his insides sore and shuttery at the feel of Puck moving in
him, everything over-sensitized.
Puck comes with a muffled moan, his head thrown back, hips tight against Kurt's
ass. He lets his hand drop and Kurt sucks in a breath of stale air, his lungs
burning.
When Puck pulls out and ties off the condom, Kurt rolls to his side, trying to
catch his breath. He watches the planes of Puck's back, heart doing a double
time march in his chest. He feels lightheaded and sore, his dress absolutely
wrecked.
Puck lays back down, barely touching him but still there. Kurt takes it and
holds onto it, keeping the sentiment close to his chest. There's silence for a
long time, the soft fall of snow outside muffling the sounds of cars on their
way to holiday homes. Finally, Puck turns to look at him, eyes lighter and
sharper.
"You can wait out the storm here," he says, light. Kurt feels something in his
chest loosen and he nods.
"Can I wear pants?" He asks, masochistic and worried and sharp. Puck watches
him for a long time.
"You can do whatever you want," he eventually says.
Kurt shucks out of the dress like he's been given a reprieve and reaches for
the boxers on the floor. When they're on, he feels more like himself. He lifts
his chin as he crawls back into the bed, laying himself in the crook of Puck's
arm, daring Puck to say anything. The arm curls around his shoulders, Puck's
broad hand splayed across his chest.
Outside, the snow continues to fall.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!