The Rules of Sir Brunet (Or, The Cons of Badassery)
I was taking a break from my Teasing!fic, and when I was rummaging through puckurt's Fic Meme for a prompt to fill, I found: "Kurt loves when Puck pulls/strokes/touches his hair...but never in public, or he'll throw a fit. Do you know how many products he has to use to make it look perfect? But when they're alone together, he can't get enough. Captcha: sir brunet. Exactly." Suffice to say, not only did the prompt inspire me to write this, but the Captcha provided some inspiration of its own as well. x) Thank God for challenge-response tests.
This was also a perfect opportunity to fill another prompt for my kink_bingo card (Body Part Fetish - Other), and I embraced that opportunity fully.
I hope you enjoy. (: (Also: italicized lyrics from "Hair" - Hair, The Musical.)
Give me down to there hair, shoulder length or longer
Here baby, there mama
Everywhere daddy daddy
Each and every person has that one thing, that one aspect of their character that they let define them. Ewan has his adorable cleft chin, and Marilyn, she was always playing up that famous Monroe birthmark.
Kurt Hummel is no different. If you were to go out and question each and every person who so much as stole a glance at the up-and-coming fashionista (come on, someone this fierce was destined for the Big Apple), depending on who you ask, you'll get a different answer every time. Burt would give you a dopey lopsided grin while tilting the brim of his latest fashion travesty of a baseball cap and say something about Kurt's sass, a trait he said came from his late wife. Karofsky would go with something a little more plebian like "his queer-ass clothes." The matronly neighbor who's always out watering her rose beds clucks her tongue in obvious disapproval. "It's that boy's… strangeness," she says with a you-know-what-I-mean frown on her wrinkled little face. Her eyes are narrowed and sharp, emerald glinting beneath her oversized sunhat. "He could use an attitude adjustment, that boy. And maybe a new haircut."
Mercedes, Kurt's honest-to-god soul sister through and through, would probably say something along the lines of, "My boy Kurt, he's got it all. He's got everything. How can I say it's his clothes without feeling like I'm sinning for not mentioning that tight white-boy ass?" He really doesn't know how he functioned pre-glee, because a life without Mercedes Jones-especially after he's had her by his side, the fuel to his fire and the yin to his yang-is a life he'd rather not live. Who would he give mani-pedi's to while bemoaning Lima's dunderheaded populace?
But if you went to the source and asked Kurt Hummel what he believes defines him, he would probably say his hair. Hard to believe, (heavy on the sarcasm, especially where Burt Hummel, better known as The Bank of Kurt, is concerned) but Kurt loves his brunet locks: the way it feels after a long, piping-hot in-shower hair treatment, how the soft fringe tickles the back of his neck like an angel's kiss, the feel of it as he shifts a little bit to one side, parting it in the dingy girl's bathroom mirror… Kurt loves his hair, and he does what he can to keep it looking its dapper best.
Before romance came along for Kurt (actual romance, not the wistful sighing of unrequited puppy love), he was never privy to just how sensitive his scalp was. It felt good to give his head a good massage with his serums and damage-repairing creams, sure, and he practically purred whenever 'Cedes would run her long fingernails through his hair while they watched ANTM re-runs. But it took Noah "the badass Puckzilla" Puckerman, once he came 'round the bend and into Kurt's bed, for Kurt to realize what an erogenous zone his head of hair could be.
It started when they started. The roughhousing in the empty choir room (which was mainly the result of Puck being bored; Kurt was just eager to get whatever kind of nookie he could have) had been just that: rough. Teeth tugged at swollen lips to the brink of breaking skin, perfectly filed fingernails bit into cotton-clad biceps, and when Puck took a fistful of Kurt's hair in one hand and yanked, two things happened: Kurt made the hottest sound in all of existence (even better than Sasha Grey porn, but Puck would never outright admit it) while, like a light-switch flipped on, his orgasm was triggered from that one harsh tug.
Kurt had felt awkward and embarrassed by it but Puck didn't seem to care, especially when Kurt, once he was able to focus without feeling woozy, had helped him out with his own (not little, Kurt was always more than eager, much to Puck's proud amusement, to declare) "problem."
Puck hadn't heard the end of it afterward, after their adrenalin-charged hearts mellowed out. This hair was royalty, Kurt cried, it didn't deserve to be ripped out of his head. Puck had the courtesy to not point out the extremely large elephant stomping around the room. Instead, he tousled some of that soft brown hair, smirking at Kurt's offended (and slightly murderous) glare in the boy's compact mirror, before strutting out of the choir room with a bounce in his step.
Puck had come back for more, something Kurt pretended was something to be expected, while inwardly, he was both frozen and spazzing out from exhilarated shock. Of course, when Puck pressed his body up against Kurt's, forcing them into the brick wall behind the school, Kurt had the decency to look offended. "I'm not some cheap whore, Puck," he had insisted, while Puck did his best to avoid snorting in Kurt's face. (Could've fooled him, since the last time, Puck had Kurt moaning and begging for it.) "You want more? Earn it."
So Puck stepped up to the plate like the badass he was, and asked Kurt if he wanted to go out with him to the mall that weekend. He had to go to Game Stop anyway, to pick up his new nun chucks he'd ordered after the last pair went airborne and flew into one of his mother's vases. It wasn't the fall that broke them; his mother's dagger-like high heels had done the deed when she saw her favorite Swarovski vase lying in shambles on the dingy living room carpet.
Of course, that didn't mean he went home with just his right hand for some intimate company. He had smirked after Kurt had said yes, all sunny smiles and "Because you're worth it" confidence, and scraped his blunt, jagged nails along the border of a hidden widow's peak, swooping down to the hair that lay on the back of Kurt's neck like the swooping breath that Kurt inhaled with a gasp.
Puck has never had his own personal plaything before, and while Kurt is definitely not a bitch to be tamed and ordered about, all it takes to warm him up was a well-placed tousling, with just enough force to pull at the roots of that silky hair without hurting him (too much).
But just because Kurt likes having his hair played with doesn't mean he likes it twenty-four seven. Puck has learned that the hard way, after being left with blue balls more than once in the middle of a school day, just for giving Kurt a (sort of adorable) cowlick when Kurt always specifically instructs for Puck to "keep his hands below the chin." Puck wishes Kurt knew how hot he looked with tousled, just-sexed hair combined with a faint afterglow flush staining his cheeks. As it is, he decides it's in his poor, whipped-boyfriend interests to squeeze at Kurt's hips instead of tugging at chestnut-brown locks like he wants to. (Like he knows Kurt wants.)
It's a strict rule: no hair-groping in public, Or Else. Capitalized and italicized, it's an intimidating threat Kurt doesn't have to build upon. Five separate cases of unfinished business-of-the-dick later, and Puck's got it built into his system like some primitive instinct: no touchy Sir Brunet (yes, Puck's given Kurt's hair a nickname. Got a problem with that?) while in the Public Eye. If he does, there is hell to pay.
The moment he's got Kurt behind closed, locked and barricaded doors (read: downstairs in Kurt's awesome basement bachelor pad), it's all fair game and Puck takes advantage of the alone time as much as possible. If Kurt's beastly dad isn't home, they fool around: Puck forces Kurt down onto his dick, using Kurt's hair to bob the boy's head over his man-meat. (The humming moans around his cock are like fucking ecstasy.)
When they're not doing the dirty, which is actually a far cry less often than with his past girlfriends and casual hook-ups, Kurt puts his head in Puck's lap, a silent demand for attention that Puck is all too happy to comply. Sometimes he lightly skates the tips of his fingers along Kurt's scalp until the boy is a purring, melted mess of mindless pleasure under his hand.
It's no secret that Kurt loves it when Puck uses the callused pads of his fingers to massage Kurt's temples, the pressure ridding his head of the school- and Rachel-induced demon headaches that are always threatening to blossom. It jostles his roots, stimulating them until he thinks he can feel each individual strand of hair, until he's a live wire of arousal and want and oh God, I need.
Puck is always too happy to comply.
It's something Kurt finds embarrassing to talk about. Whenever Puck goes "You sure have a thing for your hair, don't you?" Kurt gets all quiet and flushed, his hands nervously plucking and rearranging stray locks in his vanity mirror. Glasz eyes flounder about for something to stare at, meeting Puck's hazel before looking away.
"I do not," Kurt will always hiss, closing the subject with the snap of his squeeze-tube of laminator. It's the rattlesnake's maraca of warning, the hiss before the claws are whipped out Krueger-style.
If Puck plays stupid and doesn't immediately fondle Kurt's hair, just to humiliate Kurt as he stutters out a broken plea into Puck's navel, if Puck asks why, Kurt offers the painful lie of "It's good stimulation for the follicles." Puck always relents just before Kurt caves from embarrassment and leaps out of Puck's lap, grinning down at Kurt's hidden (definitely red) face and trailing his fingertips through thick, healthy brunet hair.
He's gentleman enough to not call Kurt out on his lie, since it could equal serious cockblocking he'll need to work and compliment his way out of; he does the smart, not-so-badass thing and plays it safe, but only because he plans on giving Kurt that hot just-sexed hair without any time before Monday's glee practice to fix it up.
He considers the glare he'll get from the hotter-than-porn-looking Kurt, all flushed and full-lipped with his hair in total disarray, will be more than worth it in the end. Especially since he's totally blackmailing that Israel snot into taking pics. Least he can use it as fap material when Kurt goes all Ice Queen and chaste on his sorry ass for breaking one of the most cardinal Rules of Sir Brunet. Sure, the sex shark may be endangered without the waters of fornication to sustain his sexy hide, but the whole point of being a badass is to live dangerously, right? Right.
(Lord have mercy on his balls.)