Kurt isn’t unreasonable. At least, that’s what he’d told himself.
When Blaine had come to him a couple of months ago (eyes downcast and brow lined in that endearingly fearful way he had), asking if Kurt would be willing to entertain the idea of an open relationship, only the slightest tremble in his voice, Kurt had undeniably kept his cool. At least outwardly.
Kurt had frozen in place, sure, old insecurities he’d abandoned years ago slimily crawling up his calf. But he’d kept calm despite it all, had quietly asked Blaine exactly what he meant by that, words impressively steady. He’d allowed himself to be placated by Blaine’s assurances of the steadfastness of their commitment and the ultimate meaninglessness of the casual sex he was pitching.
And Kurt, well. He wasn’t sure he got it, entirely, but Blaine was very convincing, earnest and adorable as ever, and he wasn’t a child anymore, he wasn’t blind to the fact that they’d lost some of that tumultuous passion they’d had in their teenage years, knew that after six years of marriage it was only to be expected. They’re peaceful now, and Kurt had often worried that some kind of unrest would eventually accompany that, and, sure enough, there it’d cropped up, right in front of him, with the shockingly casual admission that his husband wanted to fuck other people.
It stung, just a little, but not in the all-consuming way it would have once (and that itself brought a keener, different kind of sting.) But Kurt...he’s not unreasonable. He knows Blaine has needs, needs Kurt hasn’t always been adept at deciphering and fulfilling, and there Blaine had stood, revealing them, brave and gentle and cautious as he’d always been and Kurt still loves him so much he feels lightheaded with it, sometimes, in moments like this.
Kurt had agreed, finally, because those youthful games of distrust and jealousy had lost their thrill long, long ago, and he’s learned that sex isn’t everything, bodies aren’t everything, that Blaine sitting in the waiting room during Kurt’s therapy appointments and Kurt keeping a hand on Blaine’s knee as he takes rare phone calls from his father have bound them together in ways even their raunchiest fucking never managed. He’d agreed because he wants Blaine to be happy, comfortable, doesn’t want him to want for anything. He deserves that, after all their time together, all his support, the way he still surprises Kurt with armfuls of dewy roses sometimes.
He’d felt funny after, proud of himself (of them) and a little scared at the same time, and for a while it felt like nothing had really changed at all, that Blaine hadn’t actually asked for anything real, anything with practical consequences in the quotidian custom of Kurt’s day-to-day life.
Until one night when they’re in bed, bubbly and tipsy from a shared bottle of champagne, and Blaine reaches for a condom. He reaches for a condom, and it’s a gesture that shouldn’t be as shocking as it is, because they do that sometimes anyway, when anal happens a little spontaneously and they want everything to be clean, but only blowjobs are on the roster for tonight, and if Blaine is reaching for a condom, it means...well. It only means one thing. He’s done it. Done something, with someone else.
Kurt had said nothing, and Blaine had said nothing, and they’d both done an excellent job, really, pretending nothing weird was happening, that the entire room hadn’t gone suddenly aslant.
And all of Kurt’s pride in his capacity to be reasonable is shattering, now, as he hysterically recounts this story to Elliott and watches his face do that Thing Elliott’s Face Does, that thing that’s both disbelieving and judgmental and that always makes Kurt feel like he’s lived every step of his life incorrectly.
“What?” Kurt asks, stopping mid-rant and already feeling a little ridiculous and embarrassed, damn him.
Elliott laughs softly, reading the self-consciousness on Kurt’s face, probably, like he always does, and Kurt hates him a little.
“What?” Kurt repeats, because Elliott doesn’t get to judge him quietly, it’s not allowed.
“I’m sorry, I’m not--” Elliott clears his throat, dropping his mug of coffee down onto the table they’re sharing in his living room.
Kurt crosses his arms, preemptively defensive.
“Okay,” Elliott continues, the features of his face stabilizing into a kind expression that makes Kurt’s arms drop just a little. “So, I just want to make sure I’m hearing you correctly. Blaine came to you a couple of months ago, asking if you’d be willing to try an open marriage.”
“And you agreed.”
Another nod. Kurt feels like he’s teetering over the edge of a trap.
“And now you’re mad that he acted upon the contract that you both consented to?”
That Thing Elliott’s Face Does has returned, and, just as Kurt suspected, he feels it: metal clamping down around his ankle.
“You always do this,” Kurt responds, voice accusing.
“Translate your situation back at you objectively?”
“Take his side!” Kurt tightens his arms where they’re still crossed against his chest.
“Oh, Kurt, come on,” Elliott’s rolling his eyes, but not cruelly. There’s always a fondness in his judgement that makes Kurt want to be better, somehow.
“I know,” Kurt sighs, conceding finally. “I’m being ridiculous.” He lets his arms fall into his lap and slumps forward miserably.
“Only a little,” Elliott laughs. Kurt looks up to the sight of Elliott’s bright grin, and smiles too, despite himself. “But, really, Kurt, if you’re uncomfortable with the arrangement, you need to tell Blaine. I’m sure he’d be happy to stop fucking around if he knew you had a problem with it.”
“I’m not sure I do have a problem with it.”
“You didn’t hear the pitch you hit ranting about it a second ago. Trust me, you have a problem with it.”
“It’s not…” Kurt wrings his hands in his lap, struggling to find an appropriate articulation of what he’s feeling. “It’s not the ‘fucking around’ itself, I don’t think. I’m just...jealous.”
“Well, no shit you’re--”
“No, you don’t understand. I’m not jealous that he’s messing around. I mean, maybe a little, but that’s not it, not really.”
Elliott raises an eyebrow.
“I’m jealous that I’m not,” Kurt raises his chin, something clicking together in his head, because, yes, that’s it, this sick sort of intrusive feeling that’s been inarticulably banging around inside his head for days now. Blaine is getting laid elsewhere, and Kurt isn’t, and it isn’t fair.
“Oh,” Elliott looks a little surprised, but recovers quickly. “Well, then, why don’t you? We could hit up some clubs or bars together. You definitely wouldn’t have a hard time finding a willing body.”
Elliott’s eyes trail suggestively down the length of him, playful (but with just a smack of truthfulness that always makes Kurt’s ears go a little hot.)
“No,” Kurt shakes his head, unease rising in his chest at the thought. “I can’t do the one-night stand thing. I tried it, once, in one of those brief windows of ‘single’ time between dating Blaine. It was cataclysmic and nothing even happened, ultimately. I’m too tragedy-prone to have fun.”
“That sounds like a story.”
“It is,” Kurt smiles. “But not one for right now. Maybe if you get me drunk later.”
“I do love getting you drunk,” Elliott’s mouth tips up impishly, and Kurt feels the same full-body crackle he always feels when their play-flirting skirts a little too closely to the real thing. It’s comfortable at this point, though, after years of development. It’s their normal.
“We’re getting off-track,” Kurt whines.
“Right, right, so, your sex problem.” Elliott looks up at the ceiling, face scrunched up contemplatively. “I don’t know. Hire a prostitute?”
Kurt glares over at him. “Oh, that’s very helpful, yes. Know any good ones?”
“Don’t you? I remember Santana mentioning you and Rachel were living with one for a hot second there--”
“Oh my god, Elliott, that was years ago,” Kurt raises his hand to his mouth to cover the laugh threatening to creep out. “He was hot, though.”
“Well, there you go. Dilemma solved. You can stop moping around and start singing with me now.”
“Ugh, you’re useless,” but Kurt’s smiling, of course, and, god, he does want to sing.
This sentiment seems to inspire something in Elliott, however, face lighting up.
“Do you and Blaine have any stipulations regarding friends in your agreement?” Elliott’s voice is...cautious, and Kurt feels suddenly on edge again.
“Like, are you only allowed to pursue sex with strangers?”
“Oh,” Kurt comprehends finally, “No, we decided anyone was fine. To be honest, we didn’t talk about that part as much as we probably should have.”
Elliott laughs. “There’s a shocker.”
“We do alright,” Kurt doesn’t quite snap back, but he’s a little defensive, because, seriously, Elliott can judge, but how many people actually manage to make their high school relationships work? Not many.
“You do,” Elliott admits, an unspoken apology.
They’re quiet for a few moments, sipping at their respective mugs, but it’s not uncomfortable. So few things with Elliott ever are.
“Friends, though, there’s a thought,” Kurt says finally, the beginnings of a giggle in his throat. “I did have the misfortune of finding a strap-on in Santana’s room once when we lived together.”
“Of course you did,” Elliott twists his mouth. “Santana with a strap-on. You know, I wouldn’t say no to that.”
“Oh my god.”
“What, you would?”
“Oh my god,” Kurt repeats, eyes wide. He makes every effort to emulate that judgemental look Elliott is himself so fond of deploying, but breaks quickly with a laugh, shaking his head. “Santana strikes fear into every part of me. I’m pretty sure my asshole would seal itself shut if bared before her.”
“Hm,” Elliott considers that for a moment. “Meanwhile, mine is loosening at just the mental image. Santana has a certain something.”
“Oh my god, I’m done with this conversation.”
Elliott holds his amused grin for a few seconds longer before his face settles into something almost pensive.
“You know,” he begins, wrapping a sure hand around his mug. “In the event that Santana is unavailable, there’s always me.”
Kurt stares at him, waiting for the cheeky grin that usually follows these charged moments when one of them crosses one of those invisible lines they’ve been silently and collaboratively mapping over these past few years of friendship (since day one, really.)
When it doesn’t come, and Elliott’s face only grows more serious, Kurt looks down at his hands. He’s surprised he’s not more shocked, or embarrassed, really. Or maybe he’s just surprised that he didn’t see this proposition coming. It seems the obvious solution now, perfect almost, and it’s scary, that something involving sex and not-Blaine could feel perfect, even for a second, even if only hypothetically.
“Um,” Kurt manages, because he has to say something. He looks up at Elliott, eyes and voice soft. “Wow.”
“You don’t have to answer right now,” Elliott offers, and it’s remarkable, how casual he is, how casual he manages to make Kurt feel. “Or you can say no right away. You know, if you don’t think you could handle it. Sex. With me.”
Elliott’s tongue pokes out the corner of his now-smirking mouth, eyes bright, like this is a challenge.
And Kurt, well. He’s always enjoyed a challenge.
“Oh, it’s you I’m worried about,” Kurt’s leaning in, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and, god, here he is, speaking in utter clichés, but there’s something freeing about it, refreshingly thrilling, even. He and Elliott have spent so much time struggling to fit into the molds available to them, both always erring accidentally on this side of too strange, that their ability to fall into hackneyed phrases around one another has always felt bizarrely like a refuge for them both.
“No offense, Kurt, but I think that if I was in any danger of going romantically moon-eyed over you it would have happened ages ago.”
“You say that now. You’ve never seen me naked. I hear laying eyes upon my ass is perspective-altering.” Kurt feels warm, emboldened by this sudden dismantling of every platonic boundary that’s lain between the two up until now.
“Oh please,” Elliott snorts, the perfect picture of skepticism.
Kurt’s mouth drops open in exaggeratedly feigned offense.
“I’m willing to risk it if you are,” Elliott responds wryly. “My ass is powerful, too.”
“Hmm,” Kurt smiles, face softening. “I’ll think about it.”
“Okay,” Elliott says in response, and that’s that.
“So, about that Sondheim-Bowie mashup you’ve been texting me about all week…”
“Oh, yes! Yes!” Elliott bounds upward and scampers toward a messy table stacked high with precariously placed piles of dog-eared sheet music.
Kurt watches him with a hand on his chest and a contented buzzing coursing through his veins.
As Elliott moves back next to him, already humming and rhythmically snapping a finger, Kurt takes just a second to marvel at how weirdly normal this still feels.
It’s well past midnight by the time Kurt gets home, tipsy (not drunk, definitely nothing as undignified as drunk) and still a little stupidly giggly from the usual musical whirlwind of a day spent with Elliott. A musical whirlwind of a day that had also had the possibility of sex bubbling under it, and while that hadn’t changed things as much as Kurt might have imagined, it had added an unfamiliar layer of color to their usual interactions, Elliott’s arm around Kurt’s shoulder heavier, somehow, the weight of it different, carrying something new.
Stepping into his home now, stumbling (gracefully) in the dark, he feels almost guilty about it, even though there’s no need, because Blaine had wanted this, started it, had brought the taste of latex back to Kurt’s mouth after years of letting him grow used to the tangy smack of glistening skin against his tongue.
He’s not mad, though, really, that hadn’t been a lie. He’s just...guilty, for himself, and vicariously for Blaine a little, which makes no sense, but there’s a part of him that still feels so indebted to that seventeen-year-old boy who wanted only to feel the pad of Blaine’s finger up against his knuckle (and maybe that had been a lie, he’d always wanted more, cock and orifices hungry, but still, an open relationship, sex with a friend, condoms out of necessity and not just cleanliness, these weren’t things he would have wanted, back then, wide-eyed and so, so scared.)
He makes it to the bedroom, thoughts whirring, and finds Blaine asleep, small and secure under thick blankets, breathing softly. And, yes, this is what Kurt had always envisioned, coming home to him, peaceful and waiting and looking incomplete in that big bed with no Kurt wrapped around him.
Kurt crawls into bed, eyes stinging fondly, and presses his face against the tender crook of Blaine’s neck, inhaling deep. Mint shampoo doesn’t fully cover over the lingering smell of cigarette smoke clinging to Blaine’s skin, and Kurt feels a messy twinge in his navel, guilt-jealousy-curiosity-hunger all at once. It’s emboldening, somehow, to know that whatever Blaine did wasn’t a one-time thing, but to be shut out of the particulars of it anyway, smoke in his nostrils acting as information and mystery all at once, and Kurt has missed that, maybe, the electrifying spark of never really knowing. He feels warm, suddenly, squirmy; terrified but delighted to know that even after six years of marriage there are still things Blaine does and wants that Kurt can’t see. He kisses Blaine behind the earlobe, soft and sweet, and rolls over onto his side, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his constricting jeans with some effort.
To Elliott (2:51 AM): I thought about it. Let’s do this.
Kurt smiles to himself, places his phone face-down onto the nightstand, and falls asleep within minutes, blissful and loose.
To Kurt (10:14 AM): how does next friday sound?
To Kurt (10:14 AM): good morning, by the way. hope you’re not too hungover.
To Elliott (11:56 AM): I’m dying.
To Elliott (11:57 AM): But next Friday will do.
To Kurt (11:58 AM): temper your enthusiasm there, bud.
To Elliott (12:04 PM): I already told you I was dying.
To Kurt (12:05 PM): ha! after just a little whiskey. and you think you can handle me.
To Elliott (12:11 PM): Why is it you’re never the one in pain? Maybe you can ejaculate some of your magical alcohol-absorbing properties into me on Friday.
To Kurt (12:12 PM): oh my. dirty talk already.
To Kurt (1:45 PM): you alive?
To Elliott (1:47 PM): Just barely.
To Kurt (1:47 PM): well, i have a question you should answer whenever you’re feeling up to it: what do you want to do on friday exactly? what should i come prepared for?
To Elliott (1:49 PM): What are you open to?
To Kurt (1:50 PM): most things.
To Elliott (1:54 PM): Well, I want to go...you know. All the way.
To Kurt (1:55 PM): i don’t know, actually. what does that mean?
To Elliott (1:57 PM): Ugh. I hate it when you play dumb.
To Kurt (1:58 PM): :)
To Elliott (2:01 PM): Penis. Butt. Lube. Thrust.
To Kurt (2:02 PM): there we go. and your preference in that regard?
To Elliott (2:03 PM): You know I’m flexible.
To Kurt (2:04 PM): so is that sentence.
To Elliott (2:07 PM): Oh. Ha. Yes.
To Kurt (2:08 PM): i’m flexible too, incidentally.
To Elliott (2:10 PM): So what do you want, Mr. Gilbert?
To Kurt (2:11 PM): it’s your show. you decide.
To Elliott (2:15 PM): Okay. I want you on top.
To Kurt (2:16 PM): that’s ambiguously worded.
To Elliott (2:17 PM): I want you inside?
To Kurt (2:18 PM): better. okay. sounds like you’re the one who’ll have to come prepared then.
To Elliott (2:19 PM): Yes. I’m going to resume dying in peace now. In the meantime.
To Kurt (2:20 PM): rest up. you’ll need your strength. ;)
To Elliott (2:21 PM): Ugh.
To Kurt (2:21 PM): :)
Kurt is standing outside Elliott’s apartment, and he can’t even believe how nervous he is.
All that conversation had been easy. Just a slightly intensified and altered version of their usual friendly banter.
But now he’s here, staring at the brick red of his door like he’s done countless times before, only this time he’s groomed and cleaned in his most intimate of places and standing with a condom in his back pocket, and the reality of what he’s so casually agreed to do is hitting him square in the chest like a freight train.
He shuffles his feet anxiously and swallows back the desire to feign illness and run home to masturbate instead. He wants this. He trusts Elliott, and the promise of tonight has re-opened channels of energy within him that he’d forgotten existed (the sensation of feeling nervous about sex again is itself refreshing, reinvigorating in its distant kind of familiarity.)
For all his queasy lust, he’s become suddenly aware of his own inexperience with this kind of thing, and it’s ridiculous that Kurt can think of himself as inexperienced after some of the truly jaw-dropping things him and Blaine have tried over the years, but it’s only ever been Blaine, and Kurt never stopped to consider the oddness of that until the prospect of a new, unfamiliar body was dangling in front of him. He doesn’t think Elliott even knows that Kurt’s only ever done this, any of it, with the one person, and Kurt prides himself on his ability to perform above all else, but he worries anyway that it’ll somehow be visible on his bared skin, a vulnerability he’s feeling suddenly unwilling to expose.
But he wants this, and that simple fact drives his hand toward the doorbell, steady and sure. He straightens his back, lifts his chin, and is only a little startled by how quickly Elliott opens the door, arm still raised.
“You were standing out here for a while.” Elliott’s voice isn’t accusing, exactly, but there’s a mischievous slant to his face that makes it sound that way to Kurt anyway.
Kurt warms, feeling compromised. He remembers all those sharp clamps of sudden entrapment he’s felt in Elliott’s presence before, back stiffening defensively for just a second before Elliott’s smiling at him and Kurt remembers how much of this is only ever in his head.
“Sorry. I was having a moment.” Kurt steps in, hands pressed against his own hips.
Elliott closes the door behind him and ushers him toward the couch with a lazy arm gesture, gliding toward the kitchen.
“Tea?” Elliott asks, moving a bright red kettle from his stove to the counter facing Kurt.
“Um,” Kurt takes a seat, sinking comfortably into the familiarly soft give of Elliott’s couch. “No.”
Elliott quirks his head in acknowledgement of Kurt’s reply, then goes about preparing himself a mug. The sleeves of his navy blue top are rolled up just enough to reveal the slimness of his forearms, adorned with the artful thin black lines and grey shading of his tattoos. Eyeing them now, Kurt remembers the feel of his own against his back, the stingy scratchiness of getting it done, shirtless and tense, and the reckless euphoria of it all, the jolt of surprising himself. He squirms in his seat, skin heating.
“Do you always have tea before sex?” Kurt asks to defuse the tension, the smell of lemon ginger filling the air as Elliott’s mug steeps.
“Only when I’m nervous,” Elliott laughs, looking up at Kurt knowingly. Something in Kurt loosens at the kindness of the admission, and he’s not sure why he’s surprised to hear it, once it’s out. Elliott has always been generous this way.
“Nervous, huh?” Kurt raises an eyebrow, but there’s no real bite to it, especially not after Elliott caught on to him lingering wide-eyed and shifty outside his door for several minutes before finally knocking.
Elliott only smiles, moving over to sit next to Kurt with large, graceful strides. Kurt admires the strength of his legs and the breadth of his shoulders, and it may not be the first time he’s let his eyes linger but there’s intent behind his gaze now. His breath catches as Elliott shuffles closer to him, larger and more magnetic than he’s ever looked to Kurt before, newly draped within the vibrant filter of viable sexual possibility.
They make eye contact and everything in and around Kurt goes electric.
“How long have you wanted to fuck me?” Kurt’s voice is soft, low, goosebumps prickling up his arms at the sound of that sentence leaving his mouth, bold and shameless.
It feels utterly, thrillingly inappropriate, but, more than that, like a question he’s wanted to ask for years, percolating in the back of his throat, because there’s always been a sizzle here, between them and all the offbeat ways in which they connect.
“God, Kurt,” Elliott’s eyes are wide, sharp, slate blue, the shapely curves of his upper lip trembling around the words. “Since the beginning.”
Kurt doesn’t will the whimper that curls out of his mouth but hears it anyway, every muscle in his body going slack before tensing up again with a jerk as he moves to throw a leg over Elliott’s lap, hands gravitating to the warm-soft skin of his neck as Kurt straddles him, thighs spread around his hips and lips open and hungry at Elliott’s gaping mouth.
Elliott’s hands are at his waist, strong and tight, tongue inside Kurt’s mouth hot and still tasting slightly of the tangy ginger tea lying forgotten on the coffee table behind them. For all of Elliott’s usual calm he’s moving frantically now, messy and blisteringly fast, the prickly stubble of his jaw rubbing hard against Kurt’s chin and oh god any worries Kurt may have had about the spark of this all vanishes with every desperate swipe of their tongues and each swallowed moan.
Kurt pulls away with a gasp, face stinging, to lower himself back against the thick muscle of Elliott’s lap, arching his back and rolling his hips like he’s riding him, torturously slow. Elliott’s hands are at his hips now, feeling and guiding the leisurely rotations, and Kurt looks down to see him looking up, reverentially, plump lips wet and parted as he watches Kurt move.
Elliott reaches up to kiss him again, and it’s slower this time, lips tongues and teeth moving in tandem with the tempo of Kurt’s decadent hip swivels; no rush, just exploration. They’re both drawing deep, unhurried breaths, drawn-out exhales into each other’s mouths and Kurt is stiffening inside his pants, pulled tight by the interlaced easiness and terrifying novelty of this: Elliott wrapped around him, under him, feeling every breath and noise echo inside his mouth as his ass springs softly at his thighs.
It’s Elliott who pulls away this time, his grip at Kurt’s hips tightening. They stare contentedly at each other, Kurt still rocking, and Kurt drags his hands up to the sides of Elliott’s face, fixating on the darkened, dramatic arches of his eyebrows and the black-lined intensity of those piercing eyes.
“You’re very light,” Elliott says after several moments of mutual examination, raising Kurt up with a jostle of his hands as if to prove the point, and Kurt’s eyes drop to his mouth, pink and framed by the dark stubble smattered over his cheeks and chin.
“And you’re very...striking,” Kurt smiles and runs a hand up through Elliott’s hair, unbelievably thick and standing absurdly tall atop his head.
Elliott makes a playful noise of agreement and cranes his neck up to press his lips against Kurt’s neck, tongue poking out to lick, then suck, and it’s not the spot that Blaine always starts with, the one that makes Kurt’s eyes roll back within seconds, but that only makes it hotter, somehow, to have someone discovering him for the first time, their aim a little off but earnest and searching.
He gets there eventually, and Kurt rewards him with a gasp when he does, hips stilling as the hot suction at his neck temporarily impairs his ability to focus on anything but the mind-melting, ass-clamping tickle of it. He moans, wordless, then remembers; this is a new body beneath him, a new name, one he can’t wait to feel coming out of his mouth, and so he lets it: “Ungh, Elliott…”
The sound of it has an effect on Elliott, too, because the suck at his neck grows harder, Kurt squealing, before Elliott’s backing off with a grunt, eyes cloudy. He holds Kurt up with his hand and shifts his position until he’s nearly lying across the cushion, slowly guiding Kurt back down until his ass is seated against the hard denim-clad bulge of Elliott’s cock.
Kurt grinds against it as Elliott thrusts up, both of them panting. Elliott’s dragged the hem of Kurt’s top up, fingers digging into the bared skin of his lower back. He’s flushed, head thrown back, and he doesn’t look all that different, really, than he does when he’s on his knees onstage, eyes shut and belting. Kurt thinks of that odd eroticism he always feels while performing, how heightened it is when he’s sharing it with Elliott especially; those charged moments before and after when they’re facing each other, chests heaving and faces sweaty, the too-close press of those after-show hugs always leaving Kurt with a tremble in his hands.
“This has been a long time coming, don’t you think?” Kurt’s breathless, and speaking is a struggle, but he feels the need to acknowledge it.
“Oh,” Elliott laughs, hips slowing for just a second before the steady pace resumes. “I think so. I never thought it’d -- ungh! -- happen, though.”
“Me neither,” Kurt admits, watching Elliott throw his head back again, and something about his bared neck rouses Kurt enough to pull his own top off over his head and toss it onto the coffee table behind him.
It’s not the first time Elliott’s seen him shirtless, obviously, but it is the first time it’s happened while his cock is rhythmically rubbing against Kurt’s ass (and, as it turns out, that changes things.) Kurt feels exposed, a little debauched with Elliott’s large hands sliding up to his now-naked waist, nipples beading up.
“We should move to my room,” Elliott says, each word punctuated by a gentle thrust.
Kurt bends forward and unbuttons Elliott’s shirt in response, slowly popping it open and bending forward to teasingly lick the outline of one his pecs. He sits up again with a rough roll of his hips, shooting Elliott his smuggest and most irritatingly self-pleased of looks when he grunts out a “fuck, Kurt” in response.
“Sit up,” Kurt speaks gently, eyes sure.
Once Elliott has complied (with some effort), Kurt slides the sleeves of his top off entirely, immediately running his hand down the length of Elliott’s long, smooth arm. He stares at the tattoo criss-crossing across it with wide-eyed interest, noting that he’s never had a chance to inspect it this closely before. It’s lovely; elaborate and gorgeously detailed, spanning from the tip-top of his rounded shoulder down to that slim wrist. Kurt isn’t sure what to make of any of the cluttered images comprising it, and won’t ask (never has.) The older he gets, the more he learns to appreciate a little enigma.
He traces the outline of the top of it with a fingertip, then his tongue, savoring the taste (a little salty, not that different from Blaine, really) and fighting back a smile when he feels Elliott squirm beneath him.
“Okay, let’s move,” Kurt pulls away from his shoulder with a watery laugh, not sure why he’s suddenly feeling emotional. He wraps his arms around Elliott’s neck and kisses him, soft and close-mouthed, before swinging a leg over to the other side of his lap and standing up, smoothing his pants down.
Kurt allows Elliott to lead him toward his bedroom, laughing and feeling a funny surge in his chest when Elliott grabs his hand. By the time they’ve walked the few feet over, Kurt is feeling shaky again, small and unsure.
Elliott turns toward him, eyes eager, and Kurt wills himself to focus on that intricately inked arm, the toned sweep of his chest, and the bulge at the crotch of his jeans. His heart rate jumps and his neck goes hot, but not before Elliott notices the shift.
“You alright?” Elliott eyes him carefully, cautious but not panicked.
“I’m fine,” Kurt replies, and it’s not a lie, he decides, as he steps closer to place a raised hand to Elliott’s high shoulder, still damp from Kurt’s saliva.
“You’re sure you still want to do this?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Kurt snaps, annoyance flaring. This isn’t going to work if Elliott insists that he sit here and think about it, now of all moments.
Elliott raises his eyebrows. Kurt sighs.
“I do want to. It’s just…” Kurt looks down, eyes dropping to a sharp clavicle. “I’ve never gone this far with anyone but Blaine.”
When Kurt looks up again after a couple seconds of silence, he finds Elliott’s eyes wide, cheeks flushed (and he is not a man who colors easily.)
Self-consciousness consumes him.
“Maybe I should just go,” Kurt states, chin high, angry, because, come on, it’s not that big a deal.
“No! I mean, unless you want to...”
Elliott breaks off with a laugh. Kurt’s spine stiffens. He pulls his hand off of Elliott’s shoulder, seeing red.
“Kurt, wait, hold on, I’m not--” Elliott breathes deep, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s just...I’m surprised. It’s hot.”
Kurt frowns. He’s not sure that makes him feel any better. But Elliott looks more desperate now, face still pink and a finger stroking lightly at his hipbone, and, well. That’s hot.
A coy smile crosses Kurt’s features as he tilts his face a fraction downward to look up at Elliott through his eyelashes. Elliott’s breath hitches and Kurt feels like maybe he’s the one doing the trapping for once.
“Kiss me?” Kurt asks, voice small, posture shy and calculated.
Elliott surges forward without another word, one hand moving to Kurt’s neck and the other to his bare chest, thumb flicking a nipple. Kurt opens his mouth with a moan and lets Elliott’s lips move to meet him.
Elliott’s mouth on his is different now, harder, his tongue more insistent as fingers press against his jaw. The thumb working at Kurt’s nipple has him dizzy with arousal, a surplus of sensitivity fanning out across his skin as he holds his mouth open and surrenders to the tingly-bruising feel of Elliott everywhere.
Wet lips move from his own to his earlobe, and the beginnings of a whimper form at the back of Kurt’s throat until Elliott’s whispering “I want to fuck you so badly” into his ear.
“Then do it,” Kurt’s breathing back, hard and shivering, stepping backwards and letting himself be pushed onto the mattress when he feels his thighs hit the bed frame.
Flat on his back, legs bent in the air, he watches (and feels) Elliott rip his shoes and socks off with a rapidity that amazes him, a snarky comment dying in his throat when those large hands move to the button of his pants, the reverberating lowering of the zipper against his hard-on making him yelp.
His pants and briefs are pulled off of him within moments, so quickly Kurt barely has time to register the fact that he’s buck-ass naked with his legs spread before Elliott’s pushing his thighs even further apart, staring at Kurt’s crotch (and more, probably) with an intensity that makes Kurt’s face burn.
Elliott strokes his palms up the insides of Kurt’s thighs and Kurt jerks with a sharp intake of breath, goosebumps prickling. Elliott bends Kurt’s legs further back, thumbs parting the cheeks of his ass. Kurt can feel his stare against his hole and he squirms beneath it, throbbingly turned on, a little embarrassed, watching Elliott’s face for any signs of repulsion.
“You’re gorgeous,” Elliott says, breathless, eyes still fixed on Kurt’s spread cleft.
Kurt tries to mumble a thank you but contrives only a jumbled high-pitched blur of syllables instead, thighs shaking. If Elliott stares for any longer Kurt’s pretty sure he’s going to lose all ability to breathe, so he sighs in relief when Elliott lets go and he feels the curves of his ass bounce back together with a gentle smack.
“Keep your legs up,” Elliott commands, and that’s new, a tone to his voice Kurt’s never heard before. He complies with a moan, thigh muscles stinging from the effort as he moves a hand to his cock, stroking lightly. It’s absurd how good it feels, how novel his own dry hand suddenly seems with Elliott standing just a few feet away, kicking his loose-fitting jeans off. Kurt moans again, then once more, louder, higher, feeling brazen, his own sex sounds hot as fuck to him.
Once nude, Elliott moves over to his nightstand, and by the time Kurt’s craned his neck he can only catch the back of him, legs long and thick, back strong, ass pert.
“I want to see your cock,” Kurt exhales between breathy moans, getting louder as he says it, surprised by his own lewdness, eyes devouring every available centimeter of Elliott’s naked skin.
“You know,” Elliott’s laughing softly, voice strained as he sifts through a drawer. “I had a feeling you’d be needy and demanding.”
“I can be lots of things,” Kurt babbles, because it’s true. He just needs this one particular thing right now. Really, really badly. He moans.
Elliott turns around, a bottle of lube and a condom in hand, and Kurt’s eyes drop immediately to--
There it is.
“You’re huge,” Kurt intones, grunts stopping dead in his throat, because, woah, who knew, he’s bigger than Blaine, bigger than Kurt. Bigger, even, than the compact dildo the two so fondly share.
“You sound bored,” Elliott quirks a night-black eyebrow and drops the contents of his hand onto the bed.
“I’m not,” Kurt promises, voice going throaty again, stare riveted to the veins and seemingly endless length of Elliott’s stiff cock. “I’m adjusting. Wow.”
“That’s better,” Elliott glides over, grinning as Kurt’s eyes follow him. He pulls Kurt to the very edge of the bed, until his ass is just barely hanging over it, legs still bent high in the air. Elliott drops to his knees and digs the tip of his pointed nose into Kurt’s crack. “I’d like to help you with the adjusting part, if you’ll let me.”
“Oh my--” Kurt squeals, unconsciously pressing his hips closer to Elliott’s face. “Yes, oh god, please, yes.”
Elliott’s spreading him open again and then there it is, a thick wet wriggling tongue sliding fast and hard from the bottom of his exposed crack and up, just under his ballsack, then down again, even harder, and Kurt practically screams when the hardened slippery tip glides over his hole, lingering briefly with a swivel before the pattern starts anew: down, then up, rim given dawdling attention with each sopping swipe.
Kurt is helpless, legs flailing, hands gripping the edge of the bed so hard he feels a knuckle crack, noises leaving his throat he’s not sure even Blaine has heard before. It’s so much, so good, and it’s Elliott, tasting him, there, of all places; it took him and Blaine months of awkward fumbling to try this, and now here he is, the face of an (admittedly close) friend buried between his cheeks like it’s nothing. His chest tightens.
“S-stop,” he calls out, voice weak, cheeks flaming. There’s a moment of regret when Elliott pulls away, all that spine-sparking toe-curling sensation leaving with him, but Kurt needs...something. A minute. His eyes are stinging again.
“Are you okay?” Elliott is soft, eyes open as he stands up and moves his hands to the tops of Kurt’s thighs, gently guiding them down.
Kurt props himself up onto his elbows, squeezing his knees around Elliott’s naked hips and staring up into his face, kind and concerned, his nose and chin glistening. Kurt flushes, but he feels comfortable again, with Elliott’s face where he can see it.
“Yeah,” Kurt breathes. “That was good. It was just...too much, maybe.”
“Okay,” Elliott’s hands remain still, but his shoulders visibly loosen at Kurt’s words. “What do you want now? What can I do for you?”
It’s so thoughtful, and so Elliott, that Kurt feels like he might cry. More urgent, however, is the steady pulsing of his cock and the spit he can still feel slip-sliding between his cheeks. He lies onto his back again, arms reaching flat behind him. He curls a leg up and over Elliott’s right shoulder, hips wiggling.
“I want you to fuck me.” He’s sure, now, surer than he’s ever felt about anything, entranced by the pale length of his calf resting against the tan skin and black ink of Elliott’s chest.
Elliott reaches for the bottle lying next to Kurt, opening it up and squirting lubricant onto his fingers. Then there’s wet, sticky pressure back at Kurt’s hole, intimate and delicious but manageable, this time, and after a long, low moan and some rough rubbing two of the digits are slipping inside him, intrusive but so very welcome, Kurt’s breathing growing more and more labored the further up they go.
With quick jabbing motions Elliott fucks Kurt with lube-wet fingers, eyes trained on Kurt’s own. The eye contact heightens everything somehow, every quirk and reddening of Kurt’s face as erotic as the flexing of his ass around Elliott’s hand.
“Feels so good,” Kurt whimpers, slowly rocking his hips and pinching his asshole to get those fingers deeper, needing the stretch to extend further. Kurt imagines the burn forcing its way up into his belly, remembering the ridiculous length of Elliott’s engorged cock and how capable it looked of accomplishing just that.
“Oh god,” he cries, voice high, undignified. “I need your cock, please, please just fuck me--”
The fingers slip out with a final twist. Kurt hears the sharp crinkle of a wrapper being ripped open and watches unsteadily as Elliott rolls a condom onto himself, followed by several lube-spreading strokes of his giant hand. Kurt is shivering.
Elliott grabs a hold of the leg not already flung over him and hooks it over his left shoulder, a wet hand sliding down Kurt’s thigh as he grasps his hip. He leans forward, Kurt’s long legs bending with him, the both of them breathing hard and fast.
“Good?” The word is shaky, accompanied by the wet press of Elliott’s dick against Kurt’s hole. A bead of sweat drips down Elliott’s nose, rose-red lips split and sheening.
Kurt nods, a hot tear leaking out the corner of his eye and sliding down his cheekbone. He watches Elliott watch it, faced awed, unworried, and he lets out a whimpering sniff. He wants this, wants the fat weight resting at his opening to plunge in so fast that it hurts. He wants Elliott, wants to acknowledge just how long he’s wanted him, knows that this will change everything no matter how much they pretend it won’t and wants so, so badly to see-feel-live that change.
“Please,” Kurt repeats, so small, muscles tensing as Elliott begins guiding the tip of his cock up and down, teasingly soft over the spot Kurt just wants filled. “Elliott, please.”
“Okay,” Elliott says, a promise he sees through when he holds himself right at Kurt’s trembling entrance and pushes, forcefully, grunting as the head of his thick cock works itself in.
It’s exquisite, everything Kurt wanted: burning, bruising, scary-intimate and so fucking hot he can’t even voluntarily control the way his eyes screw shut and his mouth falls wide open, a long guttural sigh deepening as Elliott pushes further in and the stinging stretch amplifies and extends upward. They’re both struggling, Elliott so big and Kurt’s body tight and almost resistant around him, the challenge of taking it matched only by the challenge of Elliott’s scared-steady push, hand comfortingly rubbing at Kurt’s hip as he gets closer and closer, whispering “tell me if it’s too much” when he’s almost bottomed out.
“Ungh, oh god,” Kurt is panting, everything but the fiery band of Elliott’s cock gorging into him forgotten, all his nerves and sensory cognizance hyperfocused on that maddening blaze. It is too much, really, but that’s the joy of it: the excess sensation and the fear that he may have to back out at any minute. Kurt hasn’t felt a thrill this sharp in ages, Elliott looming so large over and inside him, his husband none the wiser (at home, maybe, or at a bar, or in someone else’s bed, doing the same thing.) The sigh in his throat turns into a moan, loud and high.
Kurt feels nearly bent in half by the time Elliott’s shoved himself as far inside him as he can reasonably manage, chest heaving and sweat droplets plopping onto Kurt’s neck. They’re still for several moments, clinging to each other desperately, Kurt shifting minutely around the immense cock nestled agonizingly and so, so deep within.
“You’re so hot, Kurt,” Elliott pants into his ear, sweaty fingers gripping tight against him, hips wavering against Kurt’s ass.
Kurt knows he should reply, but his throat feels tight and far from him. Legs tense, he rocks his hips experimentally. A strangled noise he recognizes vaguely as his own meets his ears as the shift deepens the stretch, and fuck, it’s so good.
He clamps down around Elliott, hard and deliberate, a burst of vivid light tearing through him as he clenches and clenches until Elliott is whimpering into his neck, shaking but remaining infuriatingly still.
Amazing though this feels, Kurt came here to get fucked. He squeezes mercilessly, and when that doesn’t send the message, he wills his vocal chords to return to him with an angry grunt.
“Fuck me, god dammit,” he hisses. He’s done making requests. He jabs his hips up quickly to prove the point, sparks of yellow blossoming behind his rolled-back eyes as Elliott’s girth slips slightly out then deeper in with a forceful stab.
Elliott laughs softly but immediately steadies himself, pulling back. Kurt feels the emptying agony of withdrawal and wails until Elliott’s slamming into him so hard he jerks backward, every nerve ending in his ass howling as he’s stuffed anew, slippery and thick and so deep he can’t breathe.
“H-huge -- you’re huge--” he’s gasping, body flinching away from Elliott even as he wants only to get closer, to feel more in newer, untapped parts of him.
There’s near-emptiness again, the painful slide out tormenting Kurt before the ass-gaping fill pummels into him once more, and he hasn’t even had a chance to adjust when Elliott’s cock is half-gone again, then back, deeper, wider, Kurt’s knees bouncing against his own shoulders as he screams, another thrust tearing out and then into him, rhythm and force increasing exponentially on every turn.
“Fuck -- ungh -- Elliott -- yes--” Kurt’s gone incoherent, jabbering between yelps as Elliott pounds into him, hips lifting off the bed, the changed angle letting Elliott’s massive cock hit him right where he needs it. Kurt’s screaming, rainbow colors bursting behind his eyelids as Elliott boxes his prostate again and again and again, getting rougher as Kurt goes unbearably sensitive all over, crying out as if for help as his ass hollows out and then gets filled afresh, repeatedly, again again, each thrust of the sequence sending the stiff dick inside him harder against that hungry sore spot.
Elliott’s moaning a series of Kurts, each exclamation louder and more disbelieving, and Kurt wonders if Elliott has ever exhaled his name exactly like this before, alone in bed at night with a hand wrapped around himself and a finger up his ass, wonders if Elliott had ever envisioned exactly this, Kurt split open and fucked out and taking his cock with tears leaking down his cheeks.
Tell me how I’m comparing to your fantasies, to those other boys you fuck, am I tight; am I good, would you want me and only me if the option was available to you--
Kurt’s thoughts are cut off when Elliott cries out, panicked, “I’m going to come Kurt fuck fuck fuck I’m sorry,” blurting out as his thrusts get harder, rhythm off, and oh god, Elliott’s coming, coming before he’d even planned to because he’s fucking Kurt and has wanted this from the beginning and he’s still so big and thick and gunfire-hot inside that Kurt will feel him for days.
Kurt rolls a hand up to his sweaty waist, gripping tight as Elliott grunts brokenly, pumping wretchedly, his sounds and thrusts open and desperate and sweet. Kurt pinches down around him, gasp-laughing when Elliott howls before he’s sweatily slumping forward with frantic pants.
Elliott presses a sloppy kiss to Kurt’s cheek. Kurt’s eyes flutter open and he stares up at him, sweat-soaked and flushed coral, that impressive upward sweep of hair wet and drooping. Kurt smiles, he’s so fond of this guy, even fonder now, with his softening cock still buried inside him.
Kurt rolls his pelvis, relishing the feel of his full, full ass, nerves and sensations still dancing up inside him, cock throbbing so hard and, fuck, he needs to come. He makes a whining noise, rolling harder, grunting as Elliott shifts around inside.
“Stay there,” Kurt pleads, not ready to lose it, not yet, and Elliott nods and pushes his hips more insistently against Kurt’s ass, letting Kurt rock and jab and finally moving a still-tacky hand around Kurt’s cock when Kurt’s pathetic whimpers make it clear this isn’t enough.
Kurt screeches immediately, the wet clutch around his dick sending flourishes of pleasure to newer zones, skin buzzing. Elliott’s hand is motionless but fisted tight, and Kurt thrusts up into it, tight moist pressure moving up his shaft, to the tip and down again as his asshole expels Elliott’s cock a fraction with the movement before sucking it back up again. Kurt’s so sensitive and sore, so full and now filling the slippery cavern of Elliotts closed hand, ass and cock pulsing, moving, taking and giving; and Kurt speeds up, thrusts harder, coiling tight as he fucks up, then back, tempo fast fast fast, sweat dripping down his body as he works and works at it until he feels release coming, in his ass and balls and the shaky quiver of his thighs.
Elliott feels it too, moving his free hand up to Kurt’s face and stroking, cooing, whispering “come for me, let go” and Kurt looks up and his eyes are so bright and loving that he comes as if on command, slamming back onto Elliott’s shrinking cock and crying, the blissful void of orgasm shooting onto his stomach, ass flexing involuntarily as he rides it out, eyes still fixed on Elliott’s, mouth wide, throat emitting grunts and groans until he’s exhaling Elliott’s name with one final shaky push back.
He lets his legs fall from off around Elliott’s shoulders, breathing hard and giggling when Elliott’s full weight collapses on top of him, cock slipping out. They lie there, chests pressed together, panting in offbeat tandem. Kurt feels so close to him, almost the way he does when they’re embracing after a show, and it doesn’t feel any more or less intense, just a little different with Kurt’s muscles screaming and his ass dully throbbing.
“Okay, get off,” Kurt laughs after a few prolonged seconds. “You’re very heavy.”
Elliott complies, rolling off and sitting on the edge of the mattress with a twitching grin. Kurt hears him pull the condom off and toss it into a wastebasket as he himself scoots up further up onto the bed, still lying down with his legs stretched and his arms behind his head. Elliott turns to consider him, tracing a finger down Kurt’s side.
“Look at you, all sprawled out and loose like a contented cat.”
“That was amazing,” Kurt smiles, eyeing Elliott indebtedly. “Thank you.”
“Any time,” Elliott withdraws his hand gently. “Really, I mean that.”
And, wow, there’s a thought: doing this again, differently, so much about both their bodies still left unexplored. Kurt’s heart races.
“Oh, yes,” Kurt sighs, something a little bit like panic rising in his chest. “I guess I’d have to...I don’t know. I’m going to have to talk to Blaine.”
Elliott must sense the unease suddenly picking at him, because he turns to him more fully, resting a hand on his thigh.
“It’ll be okay,” Elliott promises, voice kind, face earnest, sounding almost like he’s trying to convince himself of the same thing, and something inside Kurt snaps.
He’s crying before he can help it, hands flying up to cover his face as everything bubbles out of him, all that weird guilt and fear and uncertainty.
It’s not the first time Elliott has seen Kurt cry, and he knows better than to try to offer any kind of physical comfort. Kurt feels him get off the bed and shuffle around the room as Kurt sniffles into his hands, willing himself to stop because this is needless and ridiculous and he’s fine, but then Elliott’s throwing a thin soft blanket over him and he’s crying even harder.
Elliott sits still next to him, the weight of him a comfort.
“Do you want me to leave?” Elliott asks after a bit, when Kurt’s small sobs have started to subside somewhat.
“No, no,” Kurt wipes his face with his hands and bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood. He allows himself one last sniff before he’s sitting up, face steely, blanket wrapped around him. “I’m okay. Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Don’t apologize. I get it.” Elliott is so calm, so comforting, and Kurt is so grateful for him. He isn’t sure he’d have survived doing this with anyone else.
Kurt reaches out to take Elliott’s hand, smiling softly.
“Can I shower?” Kurt asks after a moment, head blessedly clearing as his face dries. “And can we maybe rehearse for our gig next week after?” I need to not be home right now remains unspoken, but he knows Elliott hears it anyway.
“I had no intention of kicking you out, so, yes, obviously.”
Kurt wraps his arms around Elliott where he’s sitting next to him, chest warming. The angle is awkward but becomes less so when Elliott shifts to meet him, hands pressed tight against the bared skin of Kurt’s back. Kurt settles his face into the crook of Elliott’s neck, breathing sweat and spice and ginger and thinking, I could get used to this.
He isn’t sure what that means, exactly, but there’s suddenly no urgency to dwell on it. He pulls Elliott closer. When Elliott trembles, and begins weeping softly into Kurt’s shoulder, Kurt feels no surprise.
“Perspective-altering, remember?” He whispers into his ear. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Elliott choke-laughs in surprise, swatting Kurt playfully on the shoulder blade. We’ll figure this out somehow, Kurt thinks, pulling away to push Elliott down onto his back.