By the time they've made it up to Blaine's bedroom, Kurt is ready for everything. They made good time on the hour's drive from Lima, though it seemed among the longest hours of Kurt's life. But they are here now, and it's here and it's now in a way that had, for so long, been a destination remote and unreachable. The years of lonely yearning, which had morphed into the recent months of stolen moments together and daydreams of more, all the past aches and hopes and fears, are dissolving into the real present; and it's so incredibly good to be here and now with Blaine.
Kurt's lips are buzzing from the fierceness of Blaine's mouth. His whole body is humming hot from the way Blaine has been pulling at his clothes as they fondled and fumbled their way from the front door to the stairs, up the stairs (with a delay at the wide landing where Kurt lost his coat, scarf, and waistcoat to an affectionate murmur of "Layers, Kurt.") and down the hall with Blaine slipping impatient fingertips under the hem of his shirt or up the cuff of his sleeve or down his collar, fumbling for whatever bare skin he could reach as their kisses became ever more demanding.
Now they're through Blaine's door, and that door is shut behind them, even though they are alone in the house (Kurt is grateful for Blaine's parents' frequent business trips). They do an awkward shuffling dance toward the bed. Blaine hits it first, his knees buckling as he sits with a soft "oof". Kurt's knees collide with the mattress between Blaine's, but Kurt steadies himself against Blaine's shoulders and keeps himself standing despite the tremors in his legs. It's enough of an interruption, they both pause. Cocooned in the warm masculine nostalgia of Blaine's bedroom, the frantic urgency that had propelled them up the stairs melts away.
As he catches his breath, Kurt finds he is holding too tightly to Blaine, perhaps, but it's all that's keeping him upright. It's like his muscles are half melted from the fever that's taking hold of him. It's not just from the kissing and the increasingly bold groping, but the knowledge (and simultaneous enigma) of what is imminent. Kurt thinks of a hundred different things to say but none of them makes it to his mouth. Instead he just breathes and watches Blaine do the same. He wonders if he looks as desperate as Blaine does, panting for breath with his gorgeously screwed up hair and wonderfully flushed face. Kurt probably looks a disaster; his pale skin gets so blotchy when he blushes.
Then Blaine's hands are at the waistband of Kurt's jeans. His fingertips skate along the top edge of Kurt's belt and come together to rest at the buckle. Blaine looks up at him with dark, dark eyes and asks him with his beautiful kiss-bruised mouth, "May I?"
"Yes," Kurt manages, swallowing hard with a dry throat. The way Blaine is looking at him, it's so hungry. When Kurt's imagined this moment in his fantasies, it's been kisses and tender caresses, soft lighting and romantic music—and he would have made some quip about visas having been granted. He's thought so much about the love; he's avoided thinking about the lust. Not that he doesn't feel it—of course he does—but it often seems inappropriate to think about Blaine too much that way. It's as if he were taking liberties. Even though Kurt knows—he does know—it's not wrong at all, it's hard to shake the vestiges of shame clinging in the back of his consciousness about having those desires. But sexy thoughts are at least part of the point of having a boyfriend, and certainly the knowledge that Blaine entertains sexy thoughts about Kurt—that knowledge is arousing in its own right. Nevertheless, Kurt has shied away from dwelling in his more tawdry fantasies, which hasn't, he supposes, prepared him all that well for this particular moment.
For there's no kissing, no candles, and no music. There's just Blaine, looking utterly shameless in his state of erotic disarray, his hands poised to undo Kurt's belt, under the steady illumination of his bedroom ceiling light; and the only sounds breaking the silence are those of breath and motion, and the quiet thunder of blood in Kurt's ears.
Kurt had been so sure when he'd said, "No, I want to go to your house," and he is still sure, but his desire is a mass of incoherent wanting. He thought he knew what to expect, how he would respond, but with Blaine's fingers carefully tugging the tongue of his belt off the prong and sliding it free of the buckle, Kurt feels paralyzed by potential.
"Blaine," he says, because it's the only word he can bring to his lips. He loosens his grip and smooths his palms over Blaine's shoulders. He tries to fill the simple utterance of his boyfriend's name with all the strange awe and possibility and terrible desire—and love, always love—he's feeling, all the words for which are locked up where he can't quite reach them.
"I'm right here," Blaine says in a low voice that sends a curl of heat right to Kurt's groin. As does Blaine's smile as he moves one hand up to gather the edge of Kurt's shirt to push it up, baring Kurt's stomach, while, with his other hand, he thumbs the button of Kurt's jeans through its buttonhole. He does this with a confidence that makes Kurt wonder just how many times Blaine has enacted this moment in his own imagination, because, yeah, that's hot. Then Blaine leans forward and presses his smile to Kurt's skin.
Kurt wonders if it is possible to go mad with the sensation: Blaine's lips are warm and soft and ticklish on his belly, just above where Blaine's hand is tugging his zipper down, and the movement and light pressure of that near his— (Kurt's brain rebels for one moment more before acknowledging the truth of the situation) —his cock is making him shudder and pant, and the air is catching in his throat, and he's starting to make these helpless little rasping moans in his throat every time he exhales.
Kurt glances away for a moment and catches his reflection in the mirror above Blaine's bureau. He sees his dumb doppelganger, so flushed and flustered, rumpled and unzipped, set behind the immaculate Blackglama-esque portrait of him Blaine has framed and on display. Then he sees Blaine; the movement of his head as he kisses Kurt's skin, the way his hands are undoing and seeking. Kurt nearly chokes on his next breath. It's hotter than any porn he's ever tried to watch: it's them. The realization brings a shocking clarity, and he tears his gaze away from the mirror just as Blaine reaches into his open fly.
Suddenly his desire is no longer an amorphous unknowable thing: it's condensed and specific and right under Blaine's hand. The very pulse of his blood strains toward the heat of Blaine's palm, and his flesh trembles beneath the caress of Blaine's lips. Kurt knows what he wants; the want is so sharp and explicit in his mind, the words crowd up against the root of his tongue: Suck my cock, Blaine, please.
But he doesn't say it—can't say it, really—because it's too much to say for so many reasons. The thought is heady enough. Saying it? Kurt thinks his brain might combust.
When there's a warm, wet slip of Blaine's tongue low on his belly, tracing a swift arc below his navel, Kurt stares at the flash of Blaine's tongue against skin. Blaine's never done that before, but then Blaine has also never had his hand tucked in the fly of Kurt's pants pressing hot and firm over his erection. Kurt can't stop himself from groaning when Blaine rubs up the length of him with the heel of his hand and then curls his fingers over the waistband of Kurt's underwear to start tugging them down.
Air hits the head of his cock as Blaine peels away that last modesty protecting layer. Abruptly afraid to witness his own debauching, Kurt looks anywhere else: at the blinds, at the shirt sleeve hanging out the top of Blaine's laundry hamper, at the glossy black lenses of Blaine's vintage cameras staring blindly down. Inevitably he ends up catching another glimpse of himself in the mirror, and he can't not stare at Blaine's lips leaving his skin as Blaine rocks back far enough to look as he frees Kurt's erection. It's borderline obscene, seeing his cock right there in front of Blaine with Blaine's attention fixed so intently upon it. It's also hot in a way that feels like a cannonball to the gut.
Kurt's burning up. Even taking deep, deliberate breaths he feels stifled. He keeps his eyes open and—to hell with modesty—he pulls his t-shirt off and tosses it aside. His nipples tingle and contract as Blaine wraps his fingers loosely, maddeningly around his shaft and looks up Kurt's torso, his eyes roaming freely. Kurt watches it all happen to his half-naked twin in the mirror, but feels it immediately in his own body; feels, too, the ethereal tug of Blaine's gaze and forces himself to turn his eyes back to meet Blaine's. There's a sudden puff of breath across his cock as Blaine releases a breath he must have been holding. "Are you all right?" Blaine asks.
Kurt nods mutely. It's insane how much he wants right now, just wants, all of it and so much and Blaine is so deliriously close to— "Your mouth," Kurt blurts out, because he has to say something, but his internal filter isn't working so well right now. "Blaine. Your mouth."
"Yeah, Kurt," Blaine says softly, sounding just as dazed as Kurt feels. "I want to... I will." And then he does. Blaine bends his neck, and his lips are a yielding press against the tip of Kurt's cock, and then Blaine is sliding off the edge of the bed to his knees, forcing Kurt to trip back a step. Kurt digs his fingers into Blaine's shoulders as Blaine parts his lips and presses forward, his mouth all liquid heat and suction and—
"Oh my god," Kurt says. In his brief, vague fantasies of receiving fellatio from Blaine for the first time, he'd always imagined Blaine would be a little shy, maybe a little tentative at first, but this is neither. Blaine is enthusiastically taking as much of Kurt into his mouth as he can, sucking and licking and (Oh!) sliding as he bobs his head. Kurt's hands move as if of their own volition to Blaine's head. He means to cradle gently, but Blaine's sucking a little harder, moving a little faster, and Kurt ends up just shoving his fingers into Blaine's disheveled curls, cracking through the remnants of stiff gel as his hands clench and fist and pull at Blaine's hair in a nonsensical sort of rhythm. Judging by the way Blaine moans when Kurt accidentally yanks too hard (the vibration of which has Kurt making a sound that sounds embarrassingly like "Ugh!" although there's nothing ugh-worthy about any of this) Blaine really doesn't mind. But Kurt's not sure he can remain standing much longer. His knees are trembling with the threat of giving out altogether, and his hips are trying to wrest motor control from his brain with some kind of imperative to thrust and rut and grind and fu—
"Wait, Blaine..." Kurt grits out between ragged breathes. "Stop a minute. I can't... Oh, god, I can't."
Blaine slows and stops, pulling off Kurt gently enough, though the absence of heat and touch is abrupt and unwelcome. The gaze he turns up to meet Kurt's is so naked, the way he's looking up at Kurt with desire and entreaty and other more complex unnameable things; Kurt can't process it. "Too much?" Blaine asks.
"Yes," Kurt says, except that's not it, not at all. "I mean, no, that was—you are—amazing, but maybe we could lie down on your bed before I end up collapsing on you?" Kurt gives a wobbly smile and smooths Blaine's curls back, carefully finger-combing through the snarls he's created. "And, um, lose more clothes?"
"Sure," Blaine says, and Kurt offers him his hand.
It doesn't take long for Kurt to shed the remainder of his clothing and to get Blaine down to his black cotton boxer-briefs. But before Kurt can strip off Blaine's underwear, Blaine is pressing Kurt back into the pile of pillows at the head of his bed with an exhortation to "relax" and a "you're so sexy" (Kurt doesn't roll his eyes), and then Blaine is laying sweltering kisses down Kurt's chest until he's back at Kurt's groin picking up right where he left off, swiftly sucking Kurt's cock into his mouth with a deep moan of such utter satisfaction, Kurt thinks he might pass out. He tangles one hand in Blaine's hair, careful not to pull or push this time; he just holds on as the waves of bliss wash over him, and he tries to keep his hips still. "Blaine," he murmurs. He makes himself look without anxiety muddling his enjoyment, and the sight of Blaine doing that to him prickles heat all over Kurt's skin. "That feels—my god. Incredible."
And then Blaine does something especially clever with his tongue, and Kurt arches off the bed before he realizes what he's doing. "Oh, fuck," Kurt says. His internal censor must have keeled over in exhaustion, for there's no impulse check to prevent him from saying it again more loudly, "Fuck." It feels so good to let it out. He lets his hips roll up like they want to, to meet the next downward stroke of Blaine's amazing, hot, perfect mouth; and Blaine fucking takes it. Kurt does it again, thrusts up as Blaine bears down on him, all sweet suction and slide and— "Fuck, Blaine."
Blaine goes still, before gently releasing Kurt. Kurt opens his eyes to see Blaine wiping across his lips with the back of his knuckles.
"Why—" Kurt starts, because why did Blaine stop? And then it hits him. His mouth—and body—were running away with him. Kurt is mortified. "Oh..." His internal censor revives enough to swat aside the careless 'crap' that threatens to follow. "Blaine, I—"
"Do you want to?" Blaine cuts him off, the words coming out in a rush. He sits up, straddling Kurt's knees, and reaches to rub the thumb of one hand over the ridge of Kurt's hipbone. With his other hand, Blaine takes Kurt's cock in a firm grip and runs that thumb up the underside to rest just under the head, rubbing maddening slow circles with the pad of his thumb.
"Wait, what?" Kurt asks, seeking hints in Blaine's serious face, which is not at all perturbed, just expectant, and he's asking— Is he asking that?
"Fuck. Kurt, do you want to?"
And, god, he is asking that, and that word, coming from Blaine's polite prep-school mouth, it's doing something to Kurt's brain. "Oh. That."
"Yeah, that." Blaine smiles a smile Kurt is pretty sure he hasn't seen before. It's sort of naughty. "I have condoms and stuff." Blaine tilts his head; it's almost coy. "You can fuck me. If you want to."
"Oh, I hadn't actually thought about it. I mean, I have, of course I have..." Kurt has his own stash of essential supplies in his bag, after all. "...but I didn't assume we wou—"
"I have. Thought about it."
"I think about it a lot, Kurt. I think about you, and your dick. And if you wanted to, I would love it if you would fuck me. But only if you want to, and only if you're totally comfortable with it." Blaine delivers all this with his 'I'm such a good, responsible young man' air, which is a surreal juxtaposition, especially when he starts sliding his hand to go with the crazy patterns he's scribing with his thumb, and if he doesn't stop soon, the question will be moot: a question Kurt needs to answer.
"I, um, can you stop doing that with your hand? It's making it hard to think."
Blaine laughs. "Sorry, I just." He shrugs and lets go. "I really like this." He shuffles forward on his knees until he's over Kurt's hips, and he lowers himself until the heavy warmth of his balls, cradled in the soft cotton of his boxer-briefs, nestles against Kurt's cock. Oh, that's nice, but, yeah.
"That's not actually helping," Kurt says through clenched teeth, but it doesn't dissuade him from bringing his hands to Blaine's thighs and sliding up the hard muscles until he meets Blaine's torso and his fingertips are tucked under the legs of Blaine's boxer-briefs. He stops there and doesn't take hold of Blaine like he wants to, doesn't push his hands farther or grab his hips and tug, or reach up for the waistband of his underwear, he just lets his hands rest while he tries to think. Which is hard because a mostly naked (and gorgeous) Blaine straddling a completely naked Kurt with their junk pressing together is a titanic distraction.
"No?" says Blaine and starts rocking his hips a little, dragging that intimate contact along Kurt's length. He leans forward until his breath is against Kurt's lips, but not quite touching. "Weren't you the one who said he wanted to get dirty?"
"Blaine," Kurt pleads, his brain scrambling for thoughts beyond 'that feels awesome, do that forever' and 'my boyfriend is absurdly hot'. He's pretty sure that wasn't exactly what he said. "I wanted to know if you ever did."
"I already told you I did. And I do."
Kurt tries to close the distance between them to kiss Blaine, because kissing is easy and familiar, but Blaine pulls back just out of reach and puts a hand on Kurt's chest to keep him from following. "So I wondered if you want to, Kurt."
"Ugh," Kurt says, and half means it this time. "Why are you teasing me?"
"I'm not," he says. "I'm offering."
But he is, and what he's offering? This isn't like passing around a plate of canapés. There's something else, coiling even hotter than before, deep in Kurt's belly, something about the way Blaine is teasing, the way he's playing with Kurt's self-control while maintaining his own. It makes Kurt want to break through all that gel in Blaine's hair again with his hands; break through the hard candy coating of Blaine's own sense of decorum and self-control and leave him a writhing, pleasure-drunk mess. And, it occurs to Kurt, maybe that's exactly what Blaine wants from him. Despite his careful use of language, Blaine's not simply offering something because he thinks Kurt may enjoy it, as if he were simply being a good sex host. He's asking Kurt to fuck him because he wants Kurt to fuck him. No matter how assured Blaine seems, Kurt knows him too well, has seen his moments of insecurity. Kurt knows Blaine has his own inhibitions, and when Kurt thinks of it that way? He understands it, and he knows what Blaine needs from him. Courage.
"Okay," Kurt says.
"Just okay?" Blaine quirks an eyebrow.
"Yes, Blaine." Kurt moves then, quickly, sitting up to grab Blaine around the waist and roll them both until Blaine is on his back laughing his surprise, and Kurt is between his legs. Kurt summons up all his confidence to speak without hesitating over either the sentiment or the words: "I'm going to fuck you."
As the words leave his mouth, something bright twists up inside Kurt. There's an electric frisson like a circuit completing. It's powerful, like the words are settling his intention, hot and strong, into his bones: he's going to fuck this gorgeous boy. Kurt sucks in a deep breath to steady himself.
Blaine's response is immediate. His expression sobers with a whispered, "Okay, then." and his whole body seems to somehow melt beneath Kurt.
It's all the invitation Kurt needs to press his hips down against Blaine's, to feel all the heat and hardness of their arousal trapped between them. Actually having his dick pressed alongside Blaine's like this, with so little left between them, sparks another jolt of electricity. His daydreams are faded sepia toned memories compared to the visceral, technicolor immediacy of this. He swallows Blaine's moan with an open-mouthed kiss and reaches with the arm he's not leaning on to maneuver Blaine's leg up and bend it up, snug against his waist. Blaine mirrors the movement with his other leg, canting his pelvis up, and Kurt has to straighten his arm to let Blaine move below him until they're fitted together in a way Kurt knows resembles some of the porn he never finished watching. He's got his hand cupped behind one of Blaine's thighs and his naked cock is pressed against Blaine's underwear clad ass. And, oh, wow, Kurt likes this. He grinds his hips experimentally, and lowers his mouth back to Blaine's, sucks hard on Blaine's bottom lip, as his cock skids—there's too much friction to slide—against Blaine's ass in a vague suggestion of fucking.
Blaine is so pliant, wrapping around Kurt like they were made for this, rolling his own hips as much as he can in counterpoint to Kurt's feigned thrusts. Kurt kisses his way up from Blaine's lips to his sweat-damp temple. "Is this what you want?"
"Kurt," Blaine murmurs hotly against Kurt's throat, and he is literally getting so hot. The temperature of Blaine's body has reached inferno levels, and Kurt is starting to sweat in a way he usually avoids, but, screw that, this is awesome. "Yeah, Kurt. God, yes."
"You feel amazing like this," Kurt says, because for all the words he couldn't quite find before, they seem to be finding him now. The speaking, saying things out loud, it makes everything that's happening crystallize in his mind; it makes it real and not like a sex dream run amok. He knows he won't be waking up from this tangled in sticky sheets. "You're so hot."
"Yeah, Kurt, it's good," Blaine says, gripping behind Kurt's neck to keep him close.
The unfortunate reality is that it's far too tempting to just keep rutting against Blaine's ass until he comes (because, it really is the most incredible thing, being close like this), but that's not going to get Blaine off, and it's not what Blaine asked for, and it's possible to be even closer. So he says it, to make sure Blaine knows, "I really want to fuck you, Blaine."
"Then do it."
"I will," Kurt says before carefully disentangling himself from Blaine and sitting back on his heels between Blaine's legs. "But I need a minute." He needs to cool off a little, be more in control, think about what he's doing rather than just fumbling forward and blindly doing it; Blaine deserves his care. He coaxes Blaine to plant his feet on the mattress and rests his hands on Blaine's knees. Kurt lets his gaze go where it wants without any internal censure, and where it wants to go, right now, is a trip from Blaine's face (his expression so fantastically loose), across his spectacular torso, down to rest upon the ridge of his cock still shrouded in thin black cotton. "I want to look at you first."
But before Kurt can reach for Blaine's underwear, Blaine's already shimmying out of them, throwing one leg over to strip them down his legs and off. And then he's settling back on the bed, hooking his leg back around Kurt, his heel pressing into the small of Kurt's back, and Kurt has an unimpeded view of Blaine's cock, which is thick and dark and beautiful, and Kurt wants to hold it in his hand so badly, to feel the heat and weight and hardness of it. "Whatever you want, Kurt," Blaine says. "You can do whatever you want to me."
Kurt's brain translates this as 'ravish me, please'. He's pretty sure Blaine has some specific ideas about what he does want Kurt to do to him, ideas he can't quite find the voice for, and that's kind of overwhelming, the level of trust Blaine's demonstrating. Kurt really doesn't want to screw this up, for, while he knows Blaine is more knowledgeable about and comfortable with sex than Kurt generally is, what Blaine isn't comfortable with is having and expressing his own needs and desires (at least while sober). From the past week Kurt knows how wrong that all can go, and how fast.
So rather than trying to guess what unspoken things Blaine wants, which seems frightening and impossible and far too much responsibility, he decides to listen to Blaine's words and considers what he wants himself; how he wants to do this, because he thinks if Blaine is trusting him with this, then he can trust himself at least that much. "I'm going to put on some music, okay?"
As he moves off the bed, Blaine lifts himself up to his elbows. "I made a playlist for us. My iPod should be plugged in to the stereo."
"You did? For this?"
"Yeah, I figured we'd be doing this eventually, you know, and after—" Blaine glances away with a sigh and runs one hand over his hair. "Well, I wanted to be sure I was prepared. So it's got some Sting for you, Roxy Music for me, and other stuff, too, for both of us. It's all sexy and romantic."
"Blaine," Kurt says fondly, smiling as he scrolls through the playlist titles until he sees the one that has to be it. "'Lilac Fields for Kurt.' Really?"
"That's the one."
"You're a dork," Kurt says as he presses play and moves back toward the bed and Blaine. "But I love it," he says as the opening notes of "Fields of Gold" fill the room.
"I love you," says Blaine, and he opens his arms for Kurt.
"I love you, too," Kurt says and puts all of his concentration into kissing Blaine. He remains braced on straight arms hovering over Blaine so nothing will distract him from the contact of their mouths. Everything he's learned about kissing—all the techniques of lips, breath, tongue, and teeth he's developed through months of kissing Blaine; and even a few things Brittany showed him—he uses until he's feeling too starved of oxygen and he lets his lips drift down Blaine's throat to catch his breath. Beneath his lips, Blaine's pulse is a rapid, but even, flutter. Blaine chants his name softly and digs his short nails into Kurt's back.
All the things he's wanted and feared to want; the things he's desired but never let himself fully articulate, even within the privacy of his own mind, it's all possible right now, because of Blaine, because of them. The voices that have told him he can't feel, can't do, can't be are drowned out; silenced. Kurt shuts his eyes and presses his face into Blaine's shoulder and feels the rush of simple truth. In this moment, everything is beautiful and right.
So he lets himself experience his lust, stops pushing it around and aside, stops trying to deflect it or deconstruct it. The desire to touch Blaine wells up so sharp inside him, rapture yaws in his mind and inflames his gut. He can feel it tight and hot in balls, a heavy imperative in his cock. His whole body trembles with it, his whole being is shaken by it, and Kurt doesn't question or challenge the desire, he surrenders to it.
Kurt touches Blaine. He soaks up the sensation through his palms and fingertips as he maps all the contours of Blaine's torso. With his hands, Kurt catalogs where Blaine's skin is smooth and soft and where there's a smattering of coarse hair, where his muscles are hard and where they're yielding. He notes the places that make Blaine shudder or suck in a sudden breath or break out in goose bumps. The way Blaine's nipples pebble tempts Kurt to lower his head to press his lips to them, each in turn, to flick his tongue until Blaine whimpers and buries his hands in Kurt's hair. Blaine's wordless pleas send Kurt kissing down Blaine's sternum while he brings his hand to Blaine's cock, to finally, finally grasp its solid weight, to cradle this precious piece of Blaine in his hand, to savor the mounting tension of Blaine's body: how his body arches against the bed, how his breath comes faster as Kurt moves his hand, how his moans come so high and needy.
He lifts his head to look up at Blaine's face, to see how his touch is manifesting there. What Kurt finds steals his breath and prickles the backs of his eyes with unexpected tears. If he'd thought Blaine's expression naked and loose before, it was closed off and remote compared to this. For all the care Blaine takes to be composed and controlled, it's all in disarray. There's no artifice left, nothing but Blaine, vulnerable, adoring, and—Kurt can't help but acknowledge with some pride—really fucking turned on. And Kurt understands, in a way he hadn't before, what his Dad meant when he said that sex, the intimacy of it, does something to you, to your heart. He can feel it happening and knows it is changing him.
It's terrifying and awesome and absolutely fantastic. Kurt holds Blaine's lust darkened gaze with a smile while tightening and speeding his grip on Blaine's cock until Blaine's eye's close, his hand closes tight around Kurt's wrist, and he's gritting out a harsh, "Too close." Blaine opens his eyes, and Kurt sees so many unspoken things there, too many to decipher, but of one thing he's sure.
"Okay," Kurt says, slows and loosens his hand. Much of the tension leaves Blaine's body: he takes a deep breath and licks his lips but he doesn't open his eyes. Kurt lowers his mouth to Blaine's chest again, circling a nipple with the pointed tip of his tongue before, with his lips still brushing against tender skin and his pulse hammering in his throat, saying, "Turn over, please."
And then Blaine is tugging Kurt up to look into his eyes, and he says so softly and so seriously, carefully even, "You don't have to say please."
Because he doesn't—or hasn't, historically—spent a lot of time thinking about these things, it takes Kurt a moment to comprehend what Blaine is telling him by way of this obliquely polite declaration. "Oh," Kurt says. It takes him another moment to apply the knowledge to his own intentions, and when he does that, the dark undertow of his lust surges up inside him like some kind of ecstatic nausea. Even as he permits himself to experience it, Kurt has been trying so hard to keep it tempered, only indulging those flares that escape his restraint, because it's incompatible with so much of the kind of person he tries to be; but it's been there this whole time, clawing at his dignity like the ragged edged shadow to his brighter, tidier desires. It's the chaos to his control; the coarse to his careful; the profane to his polite.
Sex is going to take them both apart, and a wave of blank terror crests cold up Kurt's spine at that realization. It only lasts half a heartbeat, but it's long enough that Blaine's hand is suddenly there, warm against his cheek and Blaine is searching his face, concerned. But fear, Kurt learned long ago, is not a cue to turn away. Rather, it is the thing you turn to face with your head held high. You embrace it, and if you're steadfast, it's conquered. And, even better, he's not alone with this. They're doing this together.
"Kurt, you don—" Blaine starts, but Kurt silences him by pressing his fingers against Blaine's lips. He looks directly into Blaine's eyes and steels himself, though his heart is beating like rabbit's.
"I said, turn over," Kurt says, and the words crack louder and sharper than Kurt intends.
But it may be they came out just right, for Blaine's eyes widen, his pupils dilate, and his chest heaves. And then he complies.
Kurt shifts sideways to give Blaine room to roll over and settle prone with his arms wrapped snugly around a pillow sham. It shows off Blaine's biceps and shoulders and makes his lower back dip deliciously to accentuate the perfect round swell of his buttocks. The strength and suggestiveness of his posture is a thrilling contrast with the unexpected vulnerability of hugging his pillow. "Beautiful," Kurt says. "You're beautiful."
Blaine smiles at the compliment. "The stuff we need, it's in the top drawer," he says, nodding toward his nightstand.
Kurt leans over, pulls the drawer out, and turns his attention to its contents. There's a bottle of lube (a brand Kurt doesn't recall seeing at any of the local drug stores, so Blaine must really have planned ahead), a brand new box of ultra sensitive condoms, and a travel pack of hand wipes. "You're quite the boyscout," Kurt says. Behind him, Blaine chuckles.
The wipes Kurt sets next to the box of tissues on Blaine's nightstand, and the lube he sets on the bed. He's proud of himself for the lack of shaking his hands do. He needs the dexterity to unwrap the cellophane from the condom box, which is refusing to tear in any helpful direction. Words and phrases from his gay sex ed pamphlets scuttle about his forebrain, urging 'be patient', and 'listen to your partner', and 'too much lube is almost enough'. (The last is accompanied by a winking smiley face in the margin. Yes, really.) The box nearly ends up torn to pieces by the time Kurt's got the cellophane off.
The winning combination of nerves and impatient frustration at modern packaging isn't doing much for Kurt's level of arousal, so when he pulls out the instruction sheet to get at the condoms he has a horrified moment of staring at it and wondering if he's supposed to be reading it first, but he's sure he gets the idea of a condom—his pamphlets covered them—so he drops it, tears one of the foil squares off, and turns back to Blaine, and, oh. Holy Teapot.
The cap of the lube is off and rolling to bump against Kurt's thigh as he moves, and Blaine. Blaine has tucked his pillow beneath his hips and is propped up on one elbow with his other hand reaching back between his buttocks, moving, and Kurt has to close his eyes for a moment against the mental assault of that image: his boyfriend, so sleek and tawny and gut-tinglingly, gloriously indecent, preparing himself to be fucked. By Kurt. Kurt thinks, if sex is dirty, then he wants to get fucking filthy.
He finds enough of his voice to say, "Blaine, honey." and he stretches over to turn Blaine's face toward him for a kiss, slow and soft, just lips, until Blaine lets out a gasp and Kurt can't help but slip the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip and then deeper. His hand skims down Blaine's arm to rest on the back of the hand Blaine is using to stretch himself. Kurt feels it, the way the tendons, muscles, and bones of his hand are shifting and striving to work away the resistance. Kurt pulls back from the kiss, tips his head forward until their foreheads are touching. "That's so hot, Blaine. You're so fucking hot." And he almost asks if he can look, please, before amending it to a firmer, "Let me see." Kurt kneels up on the bed, and moves to straddle one of Blaine's thighs. Kurt slides his hand from Blaine's hand to his ass, puts both hands on Blaine to open him up to Kurt's view. "Show me how you're getting ready for me, Blaine."
Under Kurt's gaze, Blaine tucks a third finger against the two he's already using and groans at the thicker intrusion. "Feels good already?" Kurt asks, flicking his gaze up to Blaine's face. Blaine nods wordlessly, panting through parted lips and meeting Kurt's gaze with heavily lidded eyes. "You've done this before, haven't you?" Kurt presses.
Blaine licks his lips and whispers, "Yes."
"Tell me, Blaine," Kurt says, "do you think of me when you do that?"
The emphatic, raw pleasure abrading Blaine's utterance makes Kurt regret that this isn't something he's done for himself. He's thought about it, made a few aborted attempts while showering, but he's never let himself go there, not completely. There was always the specter of shame, of being the guy the others feared, the horrible version of himself he once glimpsed in the panicky funhouse mirror of Finn's eyes: a person he never actually was, could never actually be. But it was enough to stay his hand, for him to promise himself, not that, not now, maybe someday when... When?
Kurt shakes himself from the maudlin introspection, because Blaine's unabashed display is shattering those brittle old insecurities into dust. This, right now, is nothing but good: head spinning, nerve wracking, balls aching good.
"You think about me fucking you." Kurt says, before he loses his verbal momentum, because every time he speaks, Blaine gets little more lost in his passion, his hand is moving faster, he's biting his lip, and he's grinding his hips down. It's so wanton. "You fuck yourself with your fingers and pretend it's my cock."
"Kurt," Blaine says. It comes out broken, almost sobbing, "Please."
"Yes, Blaine. I will." Kurt reaches for the condom wrapper and tears it open. He makes sure it's up the right way and he's pinched the air from the end of it before rolling it with trembling fingers down his cock. Then he reaches for the lube where's it's resting near Blaine's hip. He squirts what he hopes is far too much on his hand and smooths the cold, slippery stuff over his cock. And now his hand is really messy, and the pamphlet didn't mention that literally dirty detail. He doesn't want to wipe it off on Blaine's bedding—or Blaine, so Kurt twists away and reaches for a tissue. The whole box tumbles over onto the bed, and that's okay, because Blaine might want one too. Kurt wipes the worst of the lube off his hand, and takes a deep breath, and then another. Right. He's ready as he'll ever be; and Blaine is beyond ready, following Kurt's movements with his hungry gaze, panting and damn near squirming.
Kurt coaxes Blaine's hand out of his body and away so he can position himself over Blaine's thighs, guiding the head of his cock between Blaine's buttocks to rest against Blaine's tight—still so very tight—hole. The logistics appear impossible, but his mental checklist is complete. He nudges his hips forward, trying to gauge just how hard he's going to have to push, and it's going to be harder than he's hoped. "Tell me if it hurts. It's not supposed to hurt," Kurt says, remembering the exhortations to communicate with and listen to his partner. And also to take it slow. He can do this. Slow and careful.
Kurt sucks in a breath and pushes, and Blaine's body yields deliciously, just enough for the head of his cock to slip in. And it's so fucking tight, like choking tight, and Kurt swears he can feel it in his throat, but it's also— "Oh my fucking god." —glorious. He pushes a little more and probably only slides another centimeter, but the close friction is crazy, and Kurt has to remind himself to start breathing again.
Blaine groans and shudders and his body spasms, squeezing Kurt like a vise. Kurt steadfastly holds still, panting, sweating, and waiting for Blaine to relax again. He wishes he could see Blaine's face, but even a glance over his shoulder toward the mirror is fruitless at this angle. He looks back to Blaine and sees what he can glean from the tension in his neck and shoulders and the heave of his deep breaths, which honestly isn't much. Pleasure and pain can look so similar. "Blaine?"
Blaine turns his head enough for Kurt to see profile. His eyes are closed, his color high. "It... fuck... it doesn't hurt."
The tension slowly melts from Blaine, and he sinks down into his pillows. Kurt lowers himself from straight arms to his elbows, and lets gravity and momentum draw him deeper yet, but he's still got some way to go. His weight is partially on Blaine now. Kurt presses a kiss to Blaine's shoulder and relishes the hard warmth of Blaine's body, the cooler, softer press of his buttocks beneath his hips.
"God, Kurt, you feel huge," Blaine gasps.
And, hell, if that's not flattering, but he doesn't want to be too much for Blaine. "Is it—?" Kurt stops himself, rephrases. "You can take it, baby." Baby? Where did that come from?
"Yeah, Kurt," Blaine says, and shifts beneath Kurt, trying to push back for more, "keep talking."
"Okay, yeah, I'll try," Kurt says, his mind scrambling because the simplicity of his cock enveloped in slick heat is kind of dominating any more coherent or eloquent mental processes. "You feel so good, Blaine. So tight, so hot." Kurt winces; that sounds a little glib, a little cheap and common. He needs to do better. "We're almost there, baby. I'm going to give you the rest, okay? And you're going to take all of it. All of me."
"Kurt," Blaine pleads and then moans long and low as Kurt drives in until he can't, and they're as close as they can be.
Slow, Kurt reminds himself, because the imperative locked in the base of his spine is urging the opposite of that, and, Christ, he feels like his brain is sweating.
"Kurt," Blaine whimpers, tries to move, but Kurt's weight is on him, and maybe this isn't the best position, but the pamphlet had recommended it, and Kurt likes feeling this connected, not just where he's inside, but how he's pressed to Blaine's back.
"Shh," Kurt murmurs against Blaine's neck, and he kisses his nape before dragging the tip of his tongue over to Blaine's ear. "Just let me do this," Kurt says. "I'll make it good." And, okay, that last wasn't his best work and it's possibly a bit optimistic; Kurt's not convinced he'll last long once he starts moving, which he does, because his willpower is down to fumes.
He starts slow and shallow, a rocking that's meant to be gentle, but it's doing decidedly ungentle things to him, and yeah, Kurt realizes, he's never going to want to stop doing this. Never. He closes his hands over Blaine's shoulders for leverage and huffs a breath behind Blaine's ear before finding more words for Blaine. "How— You've been wanting this for so long, haven't you?" Kurt lengthens his strokes, goes a little harder, which has Blaine making these amazing little staccato grunts, which is like some kind of feedback loop for Kurt. He tightens his grip on Blaine's shoulders and speeds up.
"You've wanted my cock in your ass for months," Kurt says, and it's not poetry, but Blaine is responding to it, and to being, finally, fucked. And Kurt cannot deny, there's something about unleashing these words, dragging all his hidden desires into the light to hear them, share them, and make them real. An orgasm is already winding up in Kurt's gut, so he slows, goes back to grinding into Blaine, swiveling his hips to mix it up, and Blaine is moaning and writhing beneath him. "You love this," Kurt says, and repeats a twist that made Blaine swear. "I want you to come for me. Can you?"
"I think... Almost," Blaine pants, increasingly restless.
"Tell me what you need."
"Just, more. Of that."
"Okay," Kurt says, and raises himself back up on his arms, to give himself more room to move, to rediscover that angle that has Blaine swearing at him. It's not dissimilar from dancing, the way he controls and twists each snap of his hips. He gives himself a few careful rehearsal runs, makes sure Blaine is really feeling it, before he gradually adds speed and force.
"That's it," Blaine mumbles, his head drops, back bows, and he fists his hands in the bedding. "Don't stop," he says.
"I won't," Kurt says, and he just goes for it, fucking into Blaine harder and harder with each quick thrust, all while trying to maintain a form to make Beyonce proud.
"Come on, Blaine, come for me," he urges. His triceps are starting to tremble, and, while Kurt wants this to last, the longer they go, the harder it is to hold himself back, to maintain any finesse. His fucking is devolving into frantic, rough shoves, and heat and pleasure is screwing tight in his balls, but he doesn't stop. The pitch of Blaine's cries and the tension of his body tells Kurt he's getting close. So when Blaine's orgasm seizes him, and Kurt can feel it shaking him apart, it doesn't take much longer for him to succumb to his own.
After the spasms and tremors have passed, everything feels viscous: time, air, existence. Kurt remembers to hold the condom at the base as he pulls out, and Blaine shivers through an aftershock as Kurt slips free. He feels weirdly clumsy and blank, reaching for the tissues and wipes. He gets the condom off and in the trash, cleans himself up, and then cleans up Blaine, with a shared lazy smile.
As Blaine rolls to his side and tugs his pillow away, he wrinkles his nose and says, "Well, my pillow's definitely been defiled." Kurt laughs and passes him the wipes.
"I'll get it in the laundry for you. Once I'm sure my legs will actually work."
"No rush," Blaine says. He wipes off his stomach and tosses the used wipe away. "Come here." He pats the bed in front of him.
Kurt crawls over and lies down to face Blaine, sharing a soft gaze and a smile, and Blaine scoots a little closer until their legs are tangled together and Blaine has laid his palm over Kurt's heart.
There's something he should say here, Kurt's sure, but even 'I love you' seems too small for what they've shared. Which is, Kurt realizes, the point of it all, to be more than the words. But the words, yeah. He said some stuff. With his head mostly clear of lust fog, Kurt wonders. There is one more thing to say though, and it's easy.
"Blaine," Kurt says, "thank you."
Blaine scribes abstract patterns over Kurt's sternum. "Thank you. It was incredible. You were incredible. Everything was incredible."
"Everything?" Kurt echoes, because, yes, it was amazing, but he's sure with practice, he can be better.
"Yep," Blaine answers with a grin.
"Okay," Kurt says, "I just. Some of the things I said. To you. I hope I didn't sound too much like bad porn."
Blaine laughs. "You didn't." Then Blaine smirks. "Not bad porn anyway."
Kurt pokes him in the waist, and Blaine mock pouts. Kurt grins. "Just wait 'til you see where I'm getting my porn star tattoo." Then more seriously he continues, "It just." He puts his hand over Blaine's and slides his fingers between Blaine's. "Saying some of those things. It felt a little, I don't know, like I was objectifying you—or us—or something."
Blaine shrugs and squeezes Kurt's hand. "Exactly what part of any of what we just did do you think I didn't love?"
"The right answer, Kurt, is none of it." Blaine rolls closer toward Kurt and reaches with his other hand to cup Kurt's jaw. "It was amazing and hot and we did it together. And..." Blaine quirks his eyebrows in a manner Kurt thinks is meant to be lascivious, but it's mostly just adorkable. "I want to do it all again, with you, as soon as you're ready."
"Well, in that case," Kurt makes his best gas pains face, Blaine laughs, and Kurt tips the rest of the way forward to kiss Blaine's laughter away.