Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/347001.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Kurt_Hummel/Noah_Puckerman
  Character:
      Kurt_Hummel, Noah_Puckerman
  Additional Tags:
      Public_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-02-26 Words: 1731
****** When They're Against Mine ******
by coricomile
Summary
     "Haven't you had enough barbarianism for one night?" Kurt asks,
     hiking his soft blanket up higher over his chest. Puck looks at him
     with narrowed eyes and very deliberately tosses the ball back to
     Finn. Kurt rolls his eyes and sinks down against the sticky vinyl
     seat.
Kurt's not entirely sure of what to make of the bus. He'd rather drive himself,
thanks. Unfortunately, he's being shoved into the window of seat twenty, Puck
sliding in next to him. An elbow catches his side, sharp and concise, and he
has to bite back anything he might say. He's on the team, but he's not part of
it.
The game against Coldwater was their final game of the season, which is a
relief; Kurt's tired of after school practices and dirt under his nails. He's
also not going to miss the awkward after practice showers or the hours long bus
rides with the charming companionship of-
"Yo, Puck," Finn calls, tossing the game ball back through the aisle. Puck
catches it with one hand- something he apparently can't do when it matters,
Kurt thinks bitterly- jostling against Kurt enough to shove him further into
the cold wall of the bus.
"Haven't you had enough barbarianism for one night?" Kurt asks, hiking his soft
blanket up higher over his chest. Puck looks at him with narrowed eyes and very
deliberately tosses the ball back to Finn. Kurt rolls his eyes and sinks down
against the sticky vinyl seat.
Winter has settled hard over Ohio, a cold front over the state that's been
accompanied by inches and inches of snow. It's snowing now, fat flakes falling
in the night sky outside the window in a soft curtain. A chill leaks in through
the glass and Kurt shivers. He wants his car and his heater and possibly a cup
of hot cocoa.
Unfortunately, all he has is the old, warm blanket his grandmother had given
him and a wool sweater that itches against his neck. The price of fashion is
sometimes steep. He presses his cold nose to the cotton and breathes in the
familiar smell of his father's favorite detergent. Two hours until they're back
in Lima. If he's lucky, he'll be able to sleep.
The bus lurches, the engine roaring to life. The Cheerio's bus beside theirs
speeds up and Kurt stares after it longingly. At least there he'd be with
Brittany and Mercedes. He looks over at Puck and sniffs distainfully. It earns
him a whiff of sweat and solid, icy earth, and he regrets it almost
immediately.
The lights go off as they speed out of Coldwater's parking lot and onto the
road. There's the soft noises of some of the guys discussing the game, more
noises of too loud music leaking from headphones. Mostly, it's the tires
against the pavement and a few light snores already coming from the front few
seats. It's a long ride and they're all exhausted.
Kurt rests his cheek against the window, the cold of it sinking into his bones.
He's tired; stretched thin between school and glee and football and the
Cheerios. Summer seems so far away, like a thing in a dream that's always just
too far to reach. He closes his eyes and breathes. The fog against the window
pane feels damp against his skin. He wants to be home.
They're somewhere on three-oh-nine, driving at just above the speed limit, when
the warm press of Puck's body settles against his side. Kurt blinks the sleep
away and looks over, forehead leaving a slick smear across the glass. He's
getting oily; better up his skin cleaning routines for the season.
Puck's wide awake, leaned back against the seat, staring straight ahead. He's
pressed shoulder to thigh to knee against Kurt, separated by the thin layer of
blanket. He doesn't move, and Kurt wonders if he even knows what he's doing.
His answer comes in the shape of Puck snagging a corner of the quilt, tugging
it until it's settled over his own lap also. Kurt's too tired to roll his eyes.
He closes them instead, rolling his neck to release the tension. There's at
least an hour to go, and if Puck's too much of a wuss to ask to share Kurt's
blanket, well, that's the least of Kurt's issues.
He's almost asleep, loose and lazy, arms and fingers and toes gone heavy, when
a warm, large weight comes to rest on his thigh. He blinks again, eyes
struggling open. The weight of sleep doesn't leave his muscles, and he can only
murmur a soft question when Puck's fingers spread apart over his slacks,
dragging rough against the cotton.
"Shut up," Puck says out of the corner of his mouth. He's still staring
forward, jaw set. Kurt frowns but does as he's told. Puck's warmth is seeping
through his skin, a hot pulse of a burn that spiderwebs out until it's eating
all the way through him.
Puck's little finger is lined up with the seam of Kurt's trousers, and oh. Oh,
Kurt is not strong enough to control the little heatwave that creeps into his
stomach and downwards. If this is some sort of weird hazing ritual, he's
probably failing horribly. Puck's hand slides slowly up, moving to rest over
Kurt's crotch. Kurt closes his eyes and tries to breathe.
Puck presses his palm down, a steady even pressure that makes Kurt's toes curl.
He's hard and getting harder, fighting to keep himself still. Puck knows he's
awake; he can't even pretend that he's not. Still, Puck cups him and presses
the tips of his fingers against the base of Kurt's cock through his pants,
rubbing him. Kurt's only mildly surprised when Puck reaches over with his free
hand and grabs Kurt's wrist, pulling it over and pressing Kurt's hand down
against his own erection. Kurt swallows and let's out a slow, shaky breath,
mimicking the slow rub Puck's using on him.
Puck's thick and hot in his jeans, cock curling up against his thigh. It's
surreal, something Kurt's only had in his dreams- certainly not with Puck, in
any case- and it makes Kurt's dick twitch in his boxers. Puck can probably feel
it, probably knows what he's thinking. It makes Kurt's face go hot, makes his
neck burn.
Puck's thumb comes to rest over the head of Kurt's cock, pressing and letting
up in steady intervals. Kurt's hips lift into it, rocking up. The vinyl creaks,
Kurt's heart skips a beat. Puck moves his hand. Kurt is strangely sad to see it
go- his first experience over before it's actually had a chance to go anywhere.
His worries are premature. Puck's reaching for Kurt's zipper down in a quick,
easy tug. Kurt sucks in a breath and holds it as Puck's fingers wriggle their
way into the slit of his boxers, wrapping around him. He can't think, can't
move, stuck in the endless loop of Puck's hand tight around him.
Puck rocks against Kurt's hand, impatient. Kurt fumbles with the button of
Puck's jeans, shakily undoes the zipper. It seems like the sound of the teeth
pulling down should wake everyone up, like it's a thunderclap instead of a
muffled rip of steel on steel. He meets skin instead of cotton, and it really
shouldn't be a surprise at all.
There's a thick patch of curly hair under his fingers, damp and soft, and the
radiating heat of Puck's cock. Kurt ignores the rush of blood in his ears and
curls his fingers around it, trying not to whine at the first stroke of Puck's
hand.
Puck's fingers are rough, callouses and scars on the knuckles. It's too dry,
too hard, but it's someone else's hand, stroking rough and quick, and Kurt has
to bite his lip, has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep himself from doing or
saying anything stupid. He tries to copy it, but his arm keeps bumping up
against Puck's, the tender inside of his elbow butting up against the outside
of Puck's. He'll have a bruise. A reminder.
He swipes his thumb over the tip of Puck's cock, pleased and a little smug when
he feels dampness there. Puck tips his head back against the seat, his adams
apple bobbing as Kurt twists his wrist. He's hot in a way Kurt can't deny,
moonlight and streetlights catching the strong lines of his jaw and cheeks,
settling into the hollows of his face. Kurt can't stop watching him, even as
the coil of pleasure in his stomach starts squeezing hard enough to hurt.
Puck squeezes harder, scratches his nails across the side of Kurt's cock, and
Kurt whips his free hand to his mouth, biting down on the web of his thumb to
keep quiet. His climax feels like it's being ripped straight from his spine,
thick pulses over Puck's hand. His pants are ruined from the inside out, but
his skin is humming, jagged spikes of pleasure open and raw just under the
surface.
He feels loose, but he keeps his hold on Puck's cock, uses the new freedom of
movement to pick up the pace. Puck's thighs spread open, and Kurt can feel him
brace his feet flat against the floor. His hips thrust up, hard, strong
movements that make Kurt think about sweat and bedsheets, and his spent dick
twitches almost painfully.
Puck's neck goes stiff, his hips thrusting up quicker, and then there's wet hot
on Kurt's hand, sticky and slick, and Puck's shoving him away, already reaching
down to do his zipper up. Something like hurt flares in Kurt's chest as he
wipes his hand off on the leg of his pants. He swallows it down and does his
own fly up.
The bus seems colder when Puck scoots back away. Kurt can see the boarder of
Lima just ahead, can see the familiar buildings and roads, and is thankful for
that at least.
When the lights come on, there's muffled groans and protests. Coach Ken wakes
them up in turns, and the players stagger off the bus onto the pavement of the
parking lot, shuffling towards the hatch for their duffel bags. Kurt lets his
head hang low as he collects his own, dragging his blanket along after him.
"I'll beat your face in if you say anything," Puck says when they're crossing
the parking lot. Kurt's chest goes tight. He lifts his chin and refuses to look
over.
"Like I'd admit to doing anything with someone like you," he says. His voice
doesn't waver and Puck takes it for what it is.
Kurt sits in his car for a long time before going home.
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