
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/89671.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Puck/Kurt
  Character:
      Noah_Puckerman, Kurt_Hummel
  Additional Tags:
      Kink_Meme, Daddy_Kink, Somnophilia
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-05-24 Words: 1995
****** Can't Make Smoke, Only Steam ******
by recrudescence
Summary
     What the hell. Everyone does crazy shit in their sleep sometimes.
     Kurt mumbles things occasionally. Finn twitches like a dog dreaming
     of chasing Frisbees. Puck's own sister used to drive him crazy by
     sleepwalking back and forth on the couch.
     Contains daddykink, somnophilia, and consensual underage depravity
     featuring both.
Notes
     Inspired by a prompt from the Glee Kink Meme: Kurt calls Puck daddy
     for some reason (drunk, half-asleep, babbling while on Vitamin D,
     whatever) and Puck is a little weirded out by how not weirded out he
     is by it.

Sleeping, Kurt can pass for a four-dimensional portrait of near-nauseating
wholesomeness. All stretched out in his matchy-matched pajamas even though it's
summer, smelling clean and looking young, which comes of having a baby face and
a penchant for putting various organic things on it. Puck doesn't see the point
of maintaining that kind of routine at the tender age of sixteen, but Kurt
insists it's best to get into the habit early and not everyone can run around
cleaning pools and picking up a killer tan.
They have the house to themselves while Kurt's dad is at some kind of garage
thing, which is a-okay by Puck. It took a while for Mr. Hummel to believe his
son was seeing Puck because he actually wanted to and not because he'd
developed Stockholm Syndrome or PTSD after one too many tosses into the trash.
And no parental figure present means a perfect excuse to crash at Kurt's and
make the most of it. Even if, at the moment, that consists solely of Kurt
hugging him like an oversized teddy bear and somehow not making Puck feel
claustrophobic about it. Kurt tries to keep still when he sleeps, saying it's
best to lie on your back so that fluids drain from around the eyes and don't
create puffiness, but he can't ever seem to stay in one position for long,
always wrapping himself around pillows or blankets or Puck.
At the moment, that entails Kurt's face nudging into the side of Puck's neck,
slim fingers open-closing aimlessly over his chest. Murmuring vaguely, and Puck
nearly misses hearing him because he's half-asleep himself. "Love you..."
It's like being drenched with the force of a hundred ice-cold Slushies.
Andrealizing you don't have an extra pair of pants. He freezes up, wakes up,
clenches up; all intensely, all at once. They've been together for a few
months, which is a pretty impressive stretch for Puck and both the first and
longest time Kurt's been with anyone, but goddamn.
Puck's heart is thudding in his ears and he almost doesn't catch it when Kurt
shifts and mumbles again, warm-lipped and quiet against the patch of skin
behind his ear. "Love you, daddy."
What. The. Fuck.
No, really. What the fuck?
He very nearly yelps it aloud.
If they were both fully awake, he'd be saying Kurt seemingly has a whole lot of
something that rhymes with fatty tissues, even though Puck's aware that he
probably has some pretty enormous daddy issues of his own since he's the one
who doesn't actually have a dad even though he is one now. Then Kurt nudges
into him again, body molding against Puck's own with a small muffled sigh.
So maybe it's no big deal. What the hell. Everyone does crazy shit in their
sleep sometimes. Kurt mumbles things occasionally. Finn twitches like a dog
dreaming of chasing Frisbees. Puck's own sister used to drive him crazy by
sleepwalking back and forth on the couch.
He kind of likes it, the way Kurt squirms against him without even realizing
he's doing it, completely trusting and uninhibited. Distracting. It's nice.
Would be even if Kurt wasn't hard and pressing against him through thin cotton
pants, a bundle of restless limbs and too-heated skin and vague sleepy
sounds—all wrapped up in those fucking pajamas.
It's a simple enough solution. Tugging the waistband down over the crest of his
ass and touching. Just looking his fill, at first, before rubbing a thumb over
the red-flushed flesh between pale thighs, letting his fingers map up the
underside, only to have Kurt wriggle and hum, turning fitfully onto his back.
Pajama top riding up his body and leaving Puck free to bend in and kiss the
delicate skin below his navel, flicking the tip of his tongue into the little
dip of skin, and he might very well be on his way to scouring that really
unfortunate sleep-talking incident out of his brain. So that's good.
There's a flicker and blink and the black-obscured blue of Kurt's eyes coming
open. "Do it, daddy, please." Voice giving way to a quiet sigh when Puck takes
a small pink nipple into his mouth and sucks it into hardness. Face tipped back
and gaze glinting shrewdly under heavy eyelids, and Kurt has to be awake enough
to know by now what's going on even though he doesn't say so. Because, instead
of recoiling and hand-wringing like a normal person, Puck fucking groans into
his skin for some reason he's too shaken up to think about.
Burning it out of his brain. Like any sane person should. Yeah.
He really isn't sure which one of them is more perverted right now, but the
odds are moving steadily onto his side when he stares at Kurt like he's daring
him and rasps out, "Say it again," in a voice still sleep-husked and strained.
Kurt peers up at him, lips reddened and parted, debauched and tousle-haired and
still with that neat little pajama top caught under his armpits. Amused as hell
and way too on point for someone who just woke up. "I'm sorry, Noah, what was
that?"
Puck doesn't answer. Not immediately, not with any words. Both his hands
curving, guiding Kurt's legs to fall open so he can insinuate himself between
them and use his mouth for another kind of reply. Taking his time with it,
pausing just long enough to reach over to what Kurt calls a vanity and Puck
just calls the table-thing with lube in it. Presses open the tube, ducking
right back down and mouthing and slurping audibly, shamelessly, because Kurt's
a fan of messiness in bed the way he never is outside of it and Puck's never
had any trouble being a little obscene. Kurt, who whine-hiccups his name and
curls his hands into the sheets.
When he lifts his head again, Kurt meets his eyes and slowly smiles again,
languidly rolling his body up into the roaming press of Puck's palm. "Oh, I
see." He actually titters, though his breath catches hard when Puck slides a
finger into him just for a moment, fast and firm. "Someone's got issues..."
"Say it, you goddamn tease," biting lightly at the inside of one thigh, and
teasing that finger against him. Probing and withdrawing and biding his time,
but venturing no further.
Kurt makes a tormented little sound, working into a fantastic crescendo because
Puck has that finger undulating up into him all over again and there's no
pressure to be quiet. "You're an ass."
"Yup. An ass who owns your ass." He smirks at him, drawing his hand back and
reaching for the pants still tangled at Kurt's ankles as if to draw them back
up again. "But, y'know, if you're not interested..."
Sex and bribery is a combination that doesn't often disappoint and Kurt's as
susceptible to it as anyone. "I...okay..." goes Kurt, haltingly. "Just...okay."
Like he's steeling himself up for a particularly spectacular solo. Squirming
and twisting until he can kick the pants off his feet, a hand down the front of
Puck's boxer briefs and a leg winding around his waist. Puck can feel every
breath he takes, quivery and far too fast. "Go ahead, wanna feel it, want you
to fuck me so hard." The room is dark, but Kurt's face is hot against his and
Puck knows that means he has to be blushing scarlet, which just makes it that
much more filthy when one of those slim little hands curls around him. "Put
your cock in me, daddy, please." His voice breaks a tiny bit
For at least a solid minute, Puck goes fucking cross-eyed and possibly has an
aneurysm. His fingers are digging into Kurt's ribs. "Shit, man."
"'Mm? 's that what you want?" Big-eyed and faux-innocent, making Puck bear him
down and duck his face against that pale stomach and groan. Again. Kurt isn't
helping at all, almost purring under him and saying shit like, "Was I good
enough? Gonna take care of me now?" He sounds a little mortified with himself,
but in Puck's opinion that makes it even better.
"Fuck, yeah." Then he's licking and gasping into that nicely parted mouth,
sucking at his tongue till Kurt's nails are biting into his shoulders and his
teeth are biting into Puck's lip. "Yeah."
He's gradual about working him open, bringing him up to a strung-out mess of
unintelligible little pleas, slick-tight and arching around three of Puck's
fingers. Slow, each step of the way, all the way up to slipping on a condom and
slipping inside him. Not giving it to him all at once, even then, and there's
something damn near unholy about getting Kurt to leak and swear and almost
fucking sob for him to fuck him again. Dripping against his belly and bringing
his knees in as far as he can, exposing himself that much more. He's not
calling Puck any name but his own now, and probably too far gone to realize
he's saying anything at all. Christ. It's fucking hot. Christ. He thinks maybe
he's saying it out loud.
"Hey now, I've got you." Slow, full movements with his lower body, and Kurt
actually works a hand down between them to press clumsily where where the skin
stretches taut around Puck's cock. "Fuck, yeah, that's it. Do that again."
Feeling the quiver in Kurt's slighter form, the agitated leap of the pulse in
his throat when he kisses there.
"'s a good boy." Muttering while he's stroking bed-wrecked hair, and Kurt
doesn't take umbrage, doesn't assume Puck's got to be patronizing him—just
hisses and clings to him until he's crying out and slowly coming back down.
There's something really fucking weird about how not weird this is all going
down. Maybe it's the prospect of actually being able to take care of someone
and not fuck it up. Kurt doesn't suffer fools gladly and, somewhere in there,
Kurt's opinions actually started really kind of mattering. Maybe around when
Quinn was putting their baby up for adoption, months before, best for everyone,
and he'd suddenly been positive that he'd screwed things up so fucking much.
Puck's still not able to shake off that feeling sometimes, not even during
fight club, but at least he won't be knocking anyone else up in the near
future. Lesson fucking learned.
He untwists himself enough to trash the condom and give Kurt the space to
straighten himself out—he uses Puck's underwear to scrub himself off, which
means Puck's not putting it back on, which is probably Kurt's logic as well.
"We are never," Kurt finally announces, choosing now to sound scandalized,
"never, ever doing this while my dad is within less than a fifty mile radius of
the house. Possibly even fifty thousand. That's like...I dunno, taking his name
in vain or something."
"Huh." Double-taking at the implication Kurt might not mind this happening
again, period. "I dunno, I think you must really miss your dad now, huh?"
"God." Kurt makes a face and actually punches him on the arm, which only gets
Puck to grin. "Don't be gross. You're the one who totally got off on it."
"And you were, what, lying there thinking of Poland the whole time, right?"
"England." Kurt tries to flip his hair, but without any gel it just falls back
into his eyes. Puck doesn't fare much better, but the way it glides coolly
between his fingers is kind of addicting. "And I mean it. You have issues."
He's too busy yawning to say it with any conviction whatsoever, and perfectly
content to nestle back under the blankets and squirm a bare leg over Puck's
hip.
"See, what I wanna know is how you're gonna top this the next time you talk in
your sleep."
Kurt makes a small sound of despair, but Puck's already brainstorming. This is
going to be the best summer assignment ever.
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