Blaine shouldn’t drink with Santana because his filter disappears. Like right about now, actually, as he confesses how much he loves being fucked.
“We don’t do it all the time and sometimes Kurt teases me, so I have beg for it and we still might not get there. But it’s amazing when it happens, you know? It’s great when I get to fuck him but when he’s inside me, it’s like, it’s everything, no other way he can show me how much he loves me. I couldn’t trust him more, no matter what we try. Oh god, we did this thing where Kurt held both my legs like, like a pretzel or something, I don’t even know if it’s called that but there I was, and it’s like being at someone’s mercy, you know? It was crazy intense. Haven’t you ever felt so loved by being fucked?”
She doesn’t answer the question, instead shouting to the bartender that they need more drinks.
“Didn’t I give you a book on gay sex? Was there a chapter on anal being magical that I skipped?” Santana asks and there’s an amused smile playing at her lips before she kills it by taking a shot of tequila.
“I know there are definitions and that if I like being fucked it means that I’m supposed to be a bottom but it’s not like that. It’s different when it’s happening. It’s not technical, top, bottom, what it is, it’s us. It’s lovemaking. Kurt hates it when I call it that.” He pauses to blink since he’s not sure he can blink and talk at the same time. Then he leans in to whisper, “We’re working on Kurt’s gag reflex.”
Santana licks the remainder of lime clinging to her lips. “A dildo would help.”
“We’re not getting sex toys,” Blaine scoffs, accepting the arrival of a new shot by slamming it down, wincing as he swallows. “Why use something fake when you can have actual dick?”
She considers that. “Let’s see. Hot pussy with the side benefit of fun toys or dick? Dick that most guys don’t know fuck all how to use. Real difficult choice for me.”
“You can have all the pussy in the world,” Blaine tells her sincerely, clasping her hands tight because he adores Santana and wants the very best for her. “So long as I can have Kurt’s dick.”
“That’s a fair deal.”
He smiles hard because he can’t even feel his face right now. “You’re the best.”
Santana stares at him a long time, refusing another pour of tequila from the bartender. “Okay, it’s time to leave.”
“Because you’re a drink away from trying to slobber all over me. You are perhaps the only cockslut in the world to go girl-crazy when wasted as fuck.”
“It’s offensive to call me a cockslut.” Blaine takes a long break between words because he doesn’t know why he’s supposed to be offended but he’s sure he has a good reason. Now he’s thinking about Kurt and specifically, his dick. He loves the mental picture almost as much as the real thing.
Blaine leans towards Santana again, possibly wobbling as balance is kind of tricky. He puts his hands on her shoulders and she stills, waiting for the inevitable attack. “I’m just really, really affectionate.”
“Focus your affection on Kurt,” she says, trying to pry away from the heavy hug Blaine’s trapped her in, a hold he’s never going to break because Santana is the best. He even kisses her cheek. Or her ear. It’s somewhere face-related. He’s going to stay here forever. Until she grinds her elbow in his side, forcing him to slide down away from her face. “Look, no tits, no clit, no service, okay?”
“Sorry,” Blaine mumbles, slumping back against her. Breasts are nice pillows. He might have said that out loud but he kind of doesn’t care.
She sighs. “You better not puke before we get back to your apartment.”
Blaine collides into Kurt once he’s past the door. “I love you,” he breathes into Kurt’s skin.
Kurt looks over Blaine’s head, his arms tight around Blaine’s waist. “What did you do? Did you break him? I can’t go to the store and get him replaced, you know.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Santana sounds pretty innocent to his ears so Blaine lifts his head up, smiling at Kurt. He admires the turn of Kurt’s nose from this angle. It’s like a very tiny ski jump without any snow. He slowly reaches to poke the tip but Kurt swats his hand away.
“A likely story,” Kurt says.
“Do you want some pretzels, Kurt? Blaine told me you like them.”
“What? No, Santana.” He’s forcing Blaine to move, which is stupid. Blaine doesn’t have much of a choice when Kurt slings Blaine’s arm around Kurt’s shoulders, holding him tight around the waist, hand splayed across his stomach. His boyfriend is so strong. “I’m going to go throw Blaine in the bathtub now.”
“See?” Blaine says to Santana as Kurt helps him lumber towards the bathroom. “He’s the only dick in the world for me.”
“Oh dear god.” Kurt sounds like he’s laughing a little. “You are going to be in a world of regret tomorrow.”
“No I’m not,” he says but his voice is muffled against Kurt’s mouth as he dives in for a desperate kiss.
They bump into the bathroom door, then the wall. He distantly hears Kurt shutting the door but it all seems so far away.
“Whoa, easy there.” Kurt’s pulling back, turning the shower on, as he says, “You’re really drunk, Blaine.”
Blaine might start tearing up, because Kurt doesn’t want him. “You don’t love me, do you? You could get any guy and I’m suffocating you.”
Suffocating is a surprisingly hard word to say, so he repeats it a few times to make sure he’s got the hang of it.
Kurt looks up at the bathroom ceiling, closes his eyes and seems to count to infinity before he speaks again. “You are never allowed to go drinking with Santana on your own.”
“But I had to,” Blaine tries to protest, which is pointless when Kurt starts taking off his clothes. He smiles then, and can almost feel his face. “Yes. Let’s have sex now. Can we do it against the sink? The mirror…I wanna watch you.”
“Oh no,” Kurt says, and he’s smiling too but it’s a little forced, as he ducks every awesome move Blaine tries to make. Blaine’s sure there’s this spot on Kurt that can get Kurt to say yes if he can only remember where. “Shower, bed, in that order. Maybe if you’re very good—”
Kurt might still be talking but Blaine passes out right about then.
“Rise and shine, camper.”
Kurt swats at Blaine’s arm, yanking the pillow away from his face. The sunlight is unreasonably harsh and Kurt left the curtains open wide because he is a terrible person.
“Let me die.”
“You are so mean to me.”
“That’s my job,” a Santana-sounding voice says and it is Santana, from the way she leaps onto the bed, not giving a shit that she’s landed on Blaine’s legs and could’ve damn well broken his kneecap. Maybe that’s what she meant to do. The pain would be a distraction from the pounding at the back of his skull at least.
He hisses in pain when she slaps his thigh but she’s not done with her attack. Santana goes for the ticklish spot at the back of his knees, no mercy to be found. Oh god, when did he let her know about that?
“Blaine should be fine in a couple of hours,” Kurt says to Santana like Blaine’s not there. Or five years old. An extremely hung-over five year old. Kurt and Santana are the worst parents ever. “I’d stay but I do actually have work today or I’d ask exactly why Blaine wanted me to assure him that I would always want his di—dynamic personality for the rest of our lives.”
“Aww, he gets all mushy when he’s wasted,” Santana says, making a gagging noise at the back of her throat. “Never believe a drunken proposal.”
“I didn’t propose, did I?” Blaine pushes himself up and regrets it instantly as his body is not one with the world, in fact it is very against the world. He has to will himself not to throw up and he’s not entirely sure he succeeds, the back of his mouth tasting foul.
Kurt’s hands are on him before he knows it, pushing him back into the mattress. “No proposals, don’t worry. For the record, now that you’re sober, I’m not breaking up with you. Stop letting Santana get into your head.”
“Hey, not cool, bitch. I’m right here.”
“Sorry, Santana,” Kurt says, not even pretending to sound apologetic.
“I wasn’t trying to break you guys up. That’s so boring. You’d both cry and moan and maybe try to date other people, and it would be tragic. Then you’d bitch to me or Rachel.” She makes her point by poking Blaine’s side and ow, she needs to stop doing that. Even a blunt trimmed nail is still a weapon when it belongs to Santana. “God, you two would suck in the un-fun way. Then we’d have to figure out how to get you back together and Jesus, I am not helping you pick romantic songs.”
“That’s what Rachel’s for,” Blaine says, weakly. They’ve already put together a few lists for several occasions.
“No,” Kurt says. “No she is not. Please do not ever woo me with a Rachel-approved number. That is, no. There’s a line, Blaine.”
“You’re safe in my hands,” Santana says but really squeezing Blaine’s ass isn’t the best way to prove her point. She ignores Kurt’s protest as she shrugs. “Look, it’s more fun to get the skinny on baby gays getting all kinky. Although, you could up the ante there. You and Blaine are so fucking vanilla.”
“Thank you,” Kurt says coldly. “I’m glad that you’re invested in our sex life because it guarantees I have no interest in having one while you’re here.”
“She doesn’t mean it,” Blaine says in a terrified rush. “Not really.”
Kurt ruffles Blaine’s messy hair. “You’re a terrible liar. I’m kidding. Maybe.”
“Dibs on the sex tape,” Santana says, flopping next to Blaine, a motion that sends him reeling.
Kurt rubs his temples for a long time before he walks out of the bedroom, saying, “Please don’t kill my boyfriend while I’m at work.”
“Please don’t kill me ever,” Blaine adds, because hey, it has to be said outright.
It takes more than a couple of hours but by noon he almost feels like a person.
Santana spends the time doing her version of coddling, which mostly involves her mocking him for his inability to hold his liquor. At some point, she discovers the lube that he and Kurt keep in their bedside table, and she approves. Blaine oddly finds this comforting. Then she makes a joke about Hummel Tire and Lube that absolutely scandalizes him.
When not belittling him, she works on a blog entry, occasionally pestering him to drink more water.
“Did I really say pretzel?” he asks, looking over her shoulder. She’s still in the editing stage but he’s not going to ask her to delete it.
The emotional stuff, all the things Santana pretends she doesn’t understand, and what really counts, that’s never in these posts. Kurt and Blaine’s identities are kept anonymous. A gay couple that a lesbian living in San Francisco knows—that’s not just ordinary, it’s boring. Her writing makes it sound special and Blaine’s glad she’s found an outlet. Although Santana claims it only feeds her need for salacious gossip.
“You said a lot of things,” she tells him, finishing her last edit.
“I regret all of them.” He doesn’t actually.
“Yeah, whatever,” she says as she hits post. She opens up her email briefly and Blaine realizes it’s one she uses for dating considering the subject headers are rather suggestive, so he politely looks away. A few minutes pass by and she says, “For fuck’s sake.”
“What is it?”
She just points at the screen, frowning.
There’s a comment thread at the end of her entry with some graphic porn posted, obviously gay-for-pay straight actors, the smaller guy’s dick soft between the men, more pain than pleasure on his face. Apparently someone is using the images to explain what a pretzel position looks like to another commenter. “Huh. Why do people think I must look ‘petite?’”
The word is unpleasant to his ears and he can’t help frowning.
“Everyone thinks it’s gotta be one hulking dude and like, a femme girly gay.”
“Heteronormativity strikes again,” Blaine says tiredly. He’s always been done with this bullshit and he’s lucky that he rarely has to deal with it but he’s heard Kurt rant enough to know it’s still astonishingly prevalent. That evil question always seems to be lurking in any social situation: which one of you is the woman?
“Isn’t it fucking cute,” she says, taking the computer over, fingers curled over the keyboard. “I love banning those fuckers and bitching them out.”
“You’re defending my honor? And my height?”
“What? No, you’re totally a hobbit. I don’t want these idiots straight-splaining all over my blog that all gays are like whatever.” She types with a fury, nails hitting the keys hard. “There. Try and come crawling back to me now, fucker.”
“It’s just some idiot with access to the internet.” Blaine likes believing that because he doesn’t want to dwell on the actual unpleasant truth.
“Yeah and maybe I ruined someone’s day and made them cry. Tears raining down their face because of an evil dyke hating on them straights. Score one for me.” She exhales loudly, shutting her computer off and tucking it under her arm as she gets off the bed. “I’m hungry. Let’s go out and get some food.”
“You’re not using the internet as a replacement for sex, are you?”
“Blaine, the internet is for sex. Who the fuck are you trying to fool?”
She insists that they go to Central Park and they buy dirty water hot dogs from a cart outside of the park. He buys her a frozen popsicle when they make their way over the bridge.
Santana dutifully makes a scene, deepthroating a few times for emphasis. “Now, I hope I’m not teaching you any new tricks.”
Blaine can actually teach her a thing or two and he finally does, while she laughs and applauds, loud and obnoxious enough to startle gawking tourists.
He takes a picture of her climbing on the Alice in Wonderland sculpture, her arm outstretched to help up a little girl who can’t make it past the smallest toadstool.
“That better not be blackmail,” she says under her breath once she’s back on the ground.
“I’d never let anyone know that there might be a soft spot in your heart for cute kids.”
He’ll set it as his phone background later.
“Gross, you make it sound even worse.” She pushes her sunglasses down so she can narrow her eyes at him. He pretends to be mollified for her benefit. “Come on. Let’s go fuck with some bitchy bicyclists and pretend we’re blocking the bike lane.”
She lets her guard down when she’s dipping her feet into the Bethesda Fountain. “I hate being caught in a pattern, okay? They always have a big heart. Every single girl I meet. Fuck. Whatever.”
“You have a type,” Blaine says, as noncommittal as possible, dripping water over her bare leg. It keeps her eyes from looking too sad.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, today. You’re not a shrink, and listen, I—I don’t want love.” She says it with conviction but won’t look him in the eye.
“This is going to piss you off, but you know that’s bullshit, right?”
She sucks in a breath. “I don’t—”
“Love is messy and hard, Santana. But it’s worth it. That’s the whole point.”
“Really. You know all the answers because you ran off with the first boy who’d be ass over balls for any guy who liked him back? Fuck you, Blaine.”
She’s dying for this, he realizes. It’ll distract her and make her sure that she’s vindicated, and Blaine cuts her off before she can really tear into him. “Are we going to do this?”
“Fight. Each other,” he clarifies. “That’s not why you’re here.”
Santana considers a noisy cluster of kids on the other side of the fountain before she answers, eyes shining. .“No it’s not.”
He waits her out.
She flashes him a too-bright smile. “I’m here to get laid. Scandalize Hummel. Tons of summer fun just from that.”
“Who said I ever gave a damn about you?” She splashes him good, a long swipe across the water’s edge that soaks his shirt.
“Because we’re in this together,” he says and before she snarks back at him, he grabs her and pulls her into the water with him. If they’re going to be soaked, so be it, from their heads to feet.
No anger comes in the form of a well-placed hit, not even a vocal complaint that he’s ruined her clothes. She’s laughing as she stands, futility scrunching her soaked shirt as she shakes off water.
“I am going to destroy you.” But she says it with love, or rather the Santana version of it. “At least I won this wet T-shirt contest. This is why breasts are awesome.”
“Santana,” he says, the idea coming to him fast and loose and he bounds over to her, glad he ditched his shoes and socks before sitting by the fountain. It’s a stroke of foresight that he tucked his phone into one of his shoes since he’s going to have some calls to make. “Would you like to go meet a group of ridiculous people?”
“Oh god,” she says, wringing out her damp hair, “Rachel’s bozo friends?”
“I think they prefer Boho.”
Blaine can’t bring himself to disagree.
It’s shockingly easy to gather the troops considering he’s really only been acquainted with them the one time but apparently Karaoke Marathon Night is kind of a thing and usually Rachel is in charge of organizing it.
“Of course Rachel’s the de facto leader,” Kurt says when they’re sitting in a restaurant technically too expensive for them. But they’ve got time to kill and they’re all dressed spectacularly and it feels strangely rebellious to obviously stand out when contrasted with the other diners. Blaine didn’t even gel his hair tonight.
(Karaoke is murder on any attempt at severe styling plus it totally encourages Kurt to touch his hair at will.)
Santana leans forward, a useless gesture as her cleavage is wasted on them. “Who do you think she killed to take over?”
“Can’t answer that,” Kurt says as his hand slips under the table, touching Blaine’s knee, the most innocent of all dirty moves. “I might have helped her out.”
“Murder mystery.” Santana approves, stealing a bite from Kurt’s salad. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Kurt’s now mid-thigh. Blaine tries to plaster the most banal of expressions so that he doesn’t give away how very turned on he is right now. He also isn’t going to look Santana directly in the eye or she’ll know in an instant.
Shrugging, Kurt says, “That’s a lie.”
“Lying’s one of my favorite things I do with my mouth. The other—”
Their classy dinner falls apart after that.
No matter, because soon they’re piling into a cab and while they should be able to fit comfortably, three across the backseat, Blaine winds up halfway on Kurt’s lap and he’s not about to complain.
The karaoke bar is one of those places on the Lower East Side that Blaine believes only exists in the dark of night, as there’s no signs or any obvious noise to mark its location. A few smokers hanging outside, that’s their best approximation for the entrance.
“Well, boys? Are we ready to destroy those who dare compete against us?”
“Um, while we do have flawless voices,” Blaine says, looking to Kurt, unable to not smile because damn, they are awesome, “we should only destroy them a little. To be polite.”
“Fuck. That.” Santana almost grabs Blaine by the shirt collar before Kurt steps in between them. “Total annihilation all the way. If you’re too much of a pussy, me and Hummel will win on our own.”
Expecting his boyfriend to defend him is pretty stupid because Kurt’s got that competitive gleam in his eyes and nothing can stop him when he looks like that. “They’ll never sing karaoke again without looking back on this day and weeping at their failure.”
He shouldn’t say guys it’s just karaoke, he really shouldn’t and he bites his tongue long enough that by the time they find the bizarre collective, he’s now concerned he might have permanently damaged his tongue. His fear is assuaged when he accepts a “no Rum and Coke” and his mouth feels fine, the bubbles tickling his nose.
Kurt and Santana each claim a songbook, flipping through pages to get the codes for the karaoke machine. “Oh my god, they have so many Broadway classics.”
Santana snorts. “Gonna make the crowd fall asleep?”
Kurt shoots back with, “Another tired Winehouse impersonation?”
“You bitch,” Santana says but she’s laughing. “Oh, jackpot for me. Watch and learn, boys.”
Blaine would watch but Kurt pulls him into a back corner, a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.
“What?” Blaine says because he’s being an idiot right now and questioning kisses from Kurt.
“To make up for last night. You were really drunk and upset.”
“And horny,” Blaine says because his brain is finally catching up and if one of the queer-leaning girls in the group catches Santana’s eye and takes her to someone else’s apartment, there’s a high likelihood he might get laid tonight.
“That too,” Kurt says and suddenly Santana’s belting from the top of the bar, clearing calling out for them to pay attention.
“Hey! I wanna tell you a secret. You can keep your double standard love and keep it. I can’t help the devil likes to make my heart a double bed and I can’t help he sometimes likes to come and rest his little head.”
Blaine wants to sing along but he’s not about to ruin her solo. She stalks down the bar, bending down to grab a drink offered by a very tattooed woman with dark hair set in finger waves. Her eyes stay on Santana.
It’s magical, the joy exploding out of her as she encourages everyone to take the chorus with her, bouncing up and well, it’s a good thing Santana’s wearing panties.
“We’ll need to duet to beat her,” Kurt says as the Santana reaches the end, bowing to riotous cheers and hollers.
“Or,” Blaine says, pretending to think about it, nose bumping against Kurt’s cheek as he nuzzles him, “we could do it. You, me, our bed? Give or take a couple of hours?”
Kurt smacks Blaine lightly on the bicep. “Last pun warning of the night.”
“It’s my first warning.”
“First and last.”
He’d push Kurt a little more, actually he already is, his hand on Kurt’s hip. He’s working on the border of shirt and tight jeans as Santana stomps over to them, scowling. “You just let Blondie Dreadlocks over there follow me. Way to ruin the momentum. Jesus, stop flirting at least, it’s pathetic. Shouldn’t you be over all the foreplay after Kurt jerked you off at dinner?”
“Blaine,” Kurt interrupts loudly, face slightly red. “I’m going to sing with Santana now.”
“What?” It’s said simultaneously, Santana and Blaine openly staring at Kurt in confusion.
“I’m sorry, Blaine, but Santana’s voice is more suited to this song.”
It’s hard not to reel back in shock since it feels a lot like he just got slapped in the face. “But. Our duet.”
“Will come later tonight.”
Blaine totally hears that as we’ll come later tonight and it’s obvious Santana heard that too.
“Santana,” Kurt says, offering his hand. “If you dare.”
“Oh, you think you could ever beat me?”
Kurt’s got that dangerous smile happening. If Blaine were a lesser man, he’d be sporting a humiliating erection. For now, he’s only halfway there. Living on a prayer, and man, screw Dreadlocks for singing Bon Jovi, it always gets stuck in his head.
Then Kurt and Santana start singing “Government Hooker.”
Thoughts of Bon Jovi are effectively killed off but his dick is now closing in on causing a scene levels of readiness.
He has to think of really gross things when Kurt takes the low parts of the song, because damn Kurt and his stupid, sexy range. The hypnotizing effect is killed when Santana stomps on Kurt’s instep in order to rattle him. Blaine forces himself to regroup and watching Dreadlocks pawing at a girl’s décolletage is an effective boner killer.
He’s gay and even he knows that it’s poor form. See? His friendship with Santana is font of valuable information. Also, now he isn’t dying which is nice because the song’s over and he can applaud honestly without thinking about pulling Kurt off somewhere and blowing him.
Though. That isn’t the worst of ideas, it isn’t how karaoke battles are won.
Kurt actually bounds towards him, hands fisted in Blaine’s hair before he’s even ready for the kiss, teeth clacking awkwardly before he settles into it.
“Did you find a song for us?”
“Want to join a boy band? For one night only.”
Kurt laughs. “I believe I already have. What did you pick?”
“A classic,” Blaine says. “’N Sync’s Bye Bye Bye.”
There’s a pause that Blaine doesn’t notice as they walk towards the little stage set up in the bar’s corner. There are microphone stands to use and it’s just as well. Santana’s already stolen his thunder by jumping on the bar.
Before the song starts up, Kurt says, covering the mike, “I’m only singing this with you because I love you. Blaine, you really need to stop picking breakup songs for us.”
Blaine can’t help but be surprised. It’s such a happy song. “But I really like the dance moves.”
“I’d rather sing Sexy Back,” Kurt grumbles, flashing a bright show smile to the crowd.
“But you hate that song.”
Kurt stares at him. “Exactly.”
“I’ll be the JC Chasez to your Justin,” Blaine offers.
“Yeah you will.”
He doesn’t know why Kurt didn’t want to sing this, this song is made for them. Sure, he might knock into Kurt once or twice in his enthusiasm as he bops around the stage but that’s a sign of the energy between them and he’s not the only one who knows every dance move by heart. He’ll make it up to Kurt, he decides. They’ll totally sing a Beyoncé song later.
“That wasn’t so bad,” he whispers, accepting the applause as they head off the little stage.
Kurt gives a tight British royalty-style hand wave. “Never letting you pick our duet song ever again.”
Blaine smirks because he can tell Kurt’s blushing a little, thinking about their first kiss.
The opening of Don’t Stop Believing start up and Kurt groans. The entire bar’s already shouting out the lyrics, drowning out the singer, Whatley. Or maybe it’s Wheatley, Blaine’s still not sure.
“Okay. We’re leaving.”
“But what about Santana?”
“Escaped in the back with one of her lady admirers when we started singing ‘N Sync.” Kurt says ‘N Sync like its’s a dirty word. Blaine makes a note to never make Kurt sing a boy band song unless it’s for a really awesome reason. Like doing Everybody (Backstreet’s Back) for a Halloween costume party.
“Does this mean we’re accepting a loss?”
“What are you talking about? We’re winners.” Kurt licks his lips as he leans forward, breath hot against Blaine’s ear. “In fact, I was thinking about victory sex.”
“Oh my god, yes,” Blaine says, gripping the back of Kurt’s head to keep him there. “Let’s go.”
“How much time do you think we have?”
What a silly question, that implies that they need to like, hurry or something and Blaine is so not interested in that, not when his mouth is on Kurt’s dick. He’s going to time forever, thank you, his lips stretching as he makes his way down, thankful that he is the luckiest guy on the Upper West Side because lacking a gag reflex is the best thing ever.
Fuck, he loves blowing Kurt.
It’s wonderful when they can do it like this on the bed, utterly naked. Kurt’s legs are spread wide and bent at the knee, the perfect excuse for Blaine to run his hands across the expanse of pale skin. He still can’t get over the feel of leg hair going from sparse down to wiry and strong so maybe he drags his fingers slower and slower while moaning around Kurt.
He has only so many hands and while he’s gotten good at sucking Kurt off without needing to hold his dick, Blaine is clearly depriving necessary attention to his balls. This is a tricky matter best resolved by tasking one hand with the important mission of working Kurt up into a frenzy if he’s any good. Since he currently has the most awesome version of a standing ovation in his mouth, he likes to think he’s doing pretty okay.
He does have to pull off for a moment, because likening an erection to a standing ovation is kind of funny. Yeah, he is never saying that out loud around Kurt ever. Besides, he so very appreciates how Kurt gets hard for him so easily and he’s not going to ruin it by traumatizing Kurt.
The pause gives him an excuse to tease at the head with a swirl of his tongue before Kurt can’t help but shove deeper into Blaine’s mouth, hitting the back of Blaine’s throat. He should be ready for it but it’s a shock to have Kurt suddenly there so he has to readjust and forces himself to relax, breathing through his nose.
It’s a good dammit, a thank you for going down on me dammit, and Blaine flattens his tongue as he forces Kurt deeper and then stills. Now it’s a matter of seeing how long he can sustain this without Kurt yanking his hair and demanding him to move.
What he doesn’t expect is Kurt pulling him off completely.
“Hey,” he says, roughly, “I was teasing, c’mon, Kurt.”
He tries to move back down but Kurt’s holding him still. They stare at each other for a long time.
“You’re going to make me come.”
“Right,” Blaine says, cautiously. “And we don’t have much time. Possibly. So let me get you there.”
Kurt shakes his head. “Let—” He cuts himself off, frustrated.
“Show me,” Blaine begs, hands on Kurt’s shoulders, stroking mindless patterns. “Kurt. It’s okay.”
Kurt forces Blaine to lay down over him, their cocks brushing together as Blaine settles his hips.
“Oh? Like this?”
“No,” Kurt says and he’s shutting his eyes. He wraps a leg around Blaine calf dragging against the small of his back.
“Um. I need to get a condom. If—if we’re doing that.” Lube too, but that goes without saying. He also kind of doesn’t want to move, because Kurt can hold him here with just his leg and he wouldn’t be able to escape through sheer force. Only distracting Kurt can set him free and he tries to not shiver.
A kiss will do as a distraction but Kurt moves his face away before it deepens. “I can reach it,” he says. “Longer arms and all. Give me a moment.”
They lie like that for a whole minute before Blaine gets a little antsy and Kurt smiles fondly as he gets the condom, brushing the edge of the wrapper against Blaine’s cheek.
“So. You want me to fuck you,” Blaine says.
“Don’t kill the mood.”
“I’m not,” Blaine protests, watching in rapt fascination as Kurt opens the condom wrapper.
Oh, Kurt’s going to do all the work. That’s so okay with him. He shifts back as Kurt leans forward, motioning at Blaine to keep his hands away as Kurt rolls the condom on. It’s hard not to grin hugely so he doesn’t resist it.
“I love this.”
“Preparing for sex?” Kurt’s slathering lube on his fingers and yes, Blaine will perhaps help out, just a little, pushing Kurt’s leg up so he can watch. Kurt’s dick is still shiny with spit and seeing Kurt push a finger inside of himself, it’s difficult not to openly whimper.
“You taking charge.”
He can’t jerk off at the sight of this, no matter how much he might want to, he’s got a condom on and he needs to hold out. Blaine dives down to Kurt’s thigh, sucking an open-mouthed kiss, because the noises Kurt’s making is almost too much.
“God,” Kurt says, drawing in a deep breath. “You make me sound so bossy.”
Blaine moves up Kurt’s body and kisses him hard because it’s true and he’s not that stupid to actually say it. He’d stay there a while but Kurt’s still fingering himself open and he’s missing out. Shifting away, he can hear Kurt faintly groan at the loss of contact.
“Sorry,” he says even though he’s not. “I feel like I’m missing out on the show.”
“It’s not a show.” Kurt’s leaking a little precome, dick jutting hard over his stomach.
“It’s pretty sexy.”
Blaine can’t help tasting the bead of moisture at the tip, dipping down to cover Kurt’s flat stomach in slow, gliding kisses. He settles back on his knees, waiting. It’s no game, this give and take; it’s far more precious than that.
“Oh my god,” Kurt says as he twists a third finger in, neck stretching as he tosses his head back. “You can’t—Blaine, please.”
Blaine runs his thumb over the wide stretch of Kurt’s bottom lip, effectively quieting him.
“What can I do?”
“You can,” Kurt cuts himself off, slipping Blaine’s thumb in his mouth, flicking his tongue. He turns his head away. “Don’t make me wait anymore.”
“Oh,” he says, because that’s good advice and he’s more than happy to take it. He reaches blindly for the lube. Just as he’s about to pour it over himself, which’ll be messy and not the smoothest of moves, Kurt steals it away.
He’s done with preparing himself and Blaine’s familiar with this aspect of Kurt’s personality, how desperate he in the face of delays. It’s more than welcome to see Kurt consumed with a goal but Kurt needs the control and Blaine’s happy to oblige.
Blaine does very best not to come while Kurt’s spreading the lube over his dick, checking the condom one last time, and Blaine huffs a little.
“It’s fine,” he says.
“Can’t be too careful,” Kurt says, gripping the base for much longer than necessary. He is so messing with Blaine.
“This’ll be over a lot sooner than either of us want if you keep doing that.”
“Really,” Kurt says as he idly runs a hand down Blaine’s thigh. Blaine’s body hair is not only darker than Kurt’s, it’s a lot coarser too. He’d once joked about looking into waxing and Kurt had expressed his negative opinion of that by kissing every inch of his body, whispering words against his skin that still makes Blaine’s heart race a little.
That was an incredible night. He ought to do something wild and try to make tonight almost half as good.
Blaine grabs Kurt’s wrists because he’s too damn talented and yeah, he does want to at least pretend he’s not moments away from coming. He pins Kurt’s hands near Kurt’s head, stilling him. “Patience.”
Kurt raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to be quiet, too?”
“You know I love your voice.”
“You love my everything,” he teases.
One everything he’s fond of is Kurt’s ass and he’d like to be intimately familiar with it right now. He frees Kurt’s hands. Shockingly Kurt keeps his hands still and cants his hips forward when Blaine hesitates. He’s trailing his fingers at the curve where Kurt’s thigh meets his ass, a little unsure at what they’re playing at.
“Blaine, I want it.”
“Oh, okay,” Blaine says, because it’s not like he needs to ask permission, although, asking is the polite thing to do. He pushes Kurt’s thighs up and Kurt reflexively angles his hips before he shakes his head, blowing an irritated puff of breath. “What’s wrong?”
“Not enough,” Kurt searches for a word and doesn’t find it. “Okay, I’m going to—move.”
Before Blaine can say that is moving is okay, or they can try another position (they have so many favorites), Kurt’s grabbing at his bent knee, pushing his leg out. He taps Blaine’s arm so Blaine adjusts properly, settles his leg over Blaine’s shoulder.
Positioned like this, it’s not much to rub against Kurt’s ass. He grips the base of his dick as he pushes in, his gaze flickering from Kurt’s face to where they’re connected. It’s too much, seeing that, and he cries out when he feels Kurt flex against him.
Once he’s deep, he realizes that he’s not going to last very long and secondly, he really hopes sucking off Kurt has gotten him close because he’s going to need to go hard and fast to get Kurt off because taking it slow is not an option.
“You can take it, right,” he asks a little desperately, pushing at Kurt’s leg to confirm he’s not hurting him.
Problem is that Kurt writhes against him in wonderful ways when he does that and yeah, if he has to do it, he’ll give the best head ever to make up for how he really needs to come like, now.
“I think,” Kurt pants, closing his eyes, “I am.”
“Please look at me.”
“Okay.” It’s a shaky promise, no real foundation to it, and Kurt doesn’t focus his gaze directly, looking off to the side before he collects himself.
This is a moment, a moment where they’ll stare at each other forever and Blaine loves this but fuck it, there’s enough not time.
Blaine starts thumbing at the head of Kurt’s cock, turning his face against Kurt’s leg, licking him. It’s really not all that appealing, he’s sure, but he has to keep his mouth occupied as he tries not to fuck into Kurt or it’ll be all over. Fortunately Kurt’s not about to complain while Blaine is jerking Kurt off and inside him.
It’s a good plan and lasts almost several whole minutes before he rebalances his weight on his knees and his pushes his forearm against the mattress, helplessly saying, “I can’t wait anymore.”
Whatever Kurt’s about to say gets turned into a deep moan as Blaine thrusts back. He’s rocking fast and shamelessly working Kurt’s dick with everything he’s memorized as the tricks to Kurt’s undoing.
Maybe Blaine’s making these high little noises in the back of his throat because he really wants Kurt to kiss him but there’s Kurt’s leg keeping him from getting a decent angle and Kurt’s trying to keep his eyes open, fuck, Kurt is holding back. His palms are pressed flat against the bed and his fingers are almost white—oh.
“You can do, whatever,” Blaine says and Kurt makes a questioning noise so Blaine tries to remember that nouns are important. “Hands. Your hands. Don’t. God, Kurt.”
It’s terrible, the way he has to bend over but it’s Kurt to the rescue as his flexibility continues to impress and they somehow meet in the middle. His hands grip the back of Blaine’s neck and he’s panting in Blaine’s mouth, breaking away every now and then to tell Blaine he better not stop, then shoving his tongue in Blaine’s mouth and taking away that little bit of resistance Blaine’s been counting on to hold off for a while.
He can’t help it anymore, shuddering as he comes, a few stilted jerks as he tries to get Kurt to at least come after him. Kurt’s leg has already slid off his shoulder and his grip on Blaine is getting a little slack when he bites down on Kurt’s bottom lip, a poor attempt at an apology. Then he feels Kurt twitch, that familiar pulse. He's so, so close, and yes, warm and wet shooting over his hand, between them.
Somehow he manages to pull out before collapsing on Kurt, breathing heavy. They’re sweaty and it’s really gross and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Oh my god.” Blaine tries to bring his head up to look at Kurt but he’s too tired for that. “Did you magically get like, super-powered stamina and not tell me?”
“What? No of course not,” and Kurt’s voice is a little strained and rough. Dammit, he totally blacked out on Kurt shouting when he came. “I jerked off before we went out.”
“While I was here?”
“No.” Kurt wipes at Blaine’s eyebrow, pushing away drops of sweat. “Before that.”
Blaine puts together the pieces of today. It shouldn’t seem too hazy but he did just come moments ago. “When I was out with Santana?”
“We’re too naked to talk about Santana.” Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine, which is nice, because eventually one of them will have to move and if he’s trapped then Kurt will be the responsible party. “Yes, though. While you were out. I was bored.”
Blaine chokes back a laugh. “Do you jerk off a lot when you’re bored?”
“That is an amazingly stupid question.”
Kurt’s ruffling Blaine’s hair now, combing through the curls. It’s better when he drags his fingers down Blaine’s spine, the half-hearted start to a massage.
“Well, no. You though, yeah. You’re pretty nice.”
Kurt’s breath hitches, with what, Blaine doesn’t know. He’s quiet for a long while before he finally says in a pretend bratty tone, “Am not.”
They hold it for exactly half a minute before they burst into laughter.
“Afterglow officially ruined,” Blaine says, rolling off of Kurt.
Kurt’s arms are still wrapped tight around him so Kurt presses up against Blaine, absentmindedly kissing Blaine’s shoulder. “I’m getting sticky.”
“We’re filthy,” Blaine agrees. Kurt smacks his shoulder when he sits up. “Hey, you just kissed me there.”
“Yes, it means you’re impervious so it didn’t hurt,” Kurt says.
“I have a magical boyfriend, huh? Can you grant me wishes, too?”
“Oh, shut up.”
Kurt tosses a couple of tissues at him, and right, he has to get rid of the condom. He likes that the wastebasket is a decent throw away but most certainly does not like that it hits the rim and then bounces off. He’s better than that.
Kurt’s already standing, boxers in hand, a witness to Blaine’s failure. He shakes his head and quickly picks it up, tossing the condom and crumpled up tissues in the trash. He puts on a robe before opening the bedroom door, searching for a Santana that isn’t there.
“Can I join you?”
Blaine has no actual interest in moving but he likes to ask.
“Only if you can move on your own.”
“You drive a hard bargain, sir.” Blaine yawns and half-heartedly tugs the clean bed sheet folded at the foot of the bed over him. “Sleep it is.”
“Don’t fall asleep before I get back.”
Blaine fulfills that request, Kurt warm against his back before he drifts off.
He wakes up earlier than expected which means Kurt’s still in the process of getting ready, currently inspecting between his eyebrows, tweezers inches away from his face. Talking is for the caffeinated so he’s halfway to the door before Kurt hisses, “Boxers, Blaine.”
So he dresses in order to go into the bathroom to get naked all over again, standing under the shower spray until his thoughts progress to half-formed concepts. He gets dressed in his lightest summer clothes, leaving the top buttons of his shirt open.
“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Kurt says when he walks into their bedroom, kissing his cheek. He’s wearing what Blaine knows is only his morning apartment attire, which means he’s going to spend the next fifteen or so minutes putting together his actual daywear outfit. “Santana’s in a good mood.”
“I got laid,” Santana informs him when he joins her in the kitchen. She slices a mango open, tossing the pit in the trash.
Blaine dutifully raises his palm up for a high five because he isn’t going to speak until he’s had at least half a cup of coffee spreading warmth and magic in his veins.
They’re sitting down at the table, Blaine on his second cup and Santana still on her first, when he finally speaks. “Was it nice?”
She glares at him. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Blaine, are you seriously asking about lesbian sex?” Kurt asks, joining the table and the conversation. “Honestly.”
“You’re fucking a lesbian,” Santana informs Kurt, popping a piece of mango in her mouth and making exaggerated moaning noises. “Sorry, but you so are. He’s obsessed with feelings.”
“Do lesbians often deliver impassioned speeches about male anatomy?” Kurt wonders out loud, pointedly not looking Blaine or Santana in the eye.
“You told him?” Blaine asks Santana.
“No, I read it,” Kurt says, flicking a napkin at Blaine.
“Hey, you read my blog,” Santana says, smiling.
“Only on special occasions. Like the day after you get Blaine incredibly drunk.” Kurt’s cheeks are a little pink. “I had time to kill during my lunch break.”
“A likely story. I’m so proud,” she says, in a fake fluttery voice, “the baby gays are growing up. Maybe we can hit up a sex shop while I’m here. Ever think about cock rings?”
Blaine is too sober for this conversation.
“And I’m never eating again,” Kurt sighs, pushing away the bowl of sliced fruit.
There’s a brief wonderful moment of silence before Santana throttles it. Kurt and Blaine sit in horror for several minutes as she lays out details that neither of them ever wanted to know and they are not better men for it.
“And that’s why we’re going to see her roller derby game this weekend,” Santana finishes, her gestures mellowing out at the end.
Kurt’s wide-eyed and Blaine, well, Blaine is gripping his now cold coffee wondering why he didn’t spike it this morning.
“I don’t know where to begin,” Kurt mutters.
“Oh, keep the claws retracted,” Santana says. “You can audition for the Jeerleaders, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Blaine says, because he’s fairly sure he heard jeerleader, “but what?”
“Cheerleaders for roller derby. Vixen told me all about it last night, they need a couple of new ones, injuries. Some bitches shouldn’t somersault.”
Santana shoots a look at Kurt, some secret cheerleading code that hasn’t been forgotten as Kurt smiles in response.
“Why exactly do you think I’d be interested in that?”
Santana fakes a gasp. “I guess I’m the only one at this table that’s kept up their fitness regime.”
Kurt pushes an errant lock of hair off his forehead. “I beg to differ.”
“Or maybe we could go to the beach this weekend,” Blaine says, reaching wildly for anything.
“Ooh, Fire Island is like the gay Mecca around here, isn’t it?” Santana frowns. “Or is that too many dicks on the disco floor?”
Kurt’s hand is over Blaine’s before he speaks. “No, honey. Let her figure out that one on her own.”
Santana ignores Kurt’s comment as she's plotting their queer adventures while she’s in the city. Kurt clears away the table, occasionally shooting down a more outlandish idea.
“I’m not spending Fourth of July in an abandoned warehouse. I don’t care how epic an all-night rave might be.”
“I’ve always wanted to see the fireworks over the water,” Blaine confesses.
Kurt grins. “We could have a picnic.”
“Without the hickey on Blaine’s neck, I wouldn’t believe either of you fucked.” Santana stands up, hands on her hips. “Yeah, I know you two screwed each other's brains out last night. I really hope you didn’t cry-max, although I bet you’re both cuddlers. I’m gonna go ask my loyal readers where all the hottest parties are in the city. Or where I can find some fun gay boys.”
“She’s a demon.”
“Kurt, that’s mean.” Blaine has a good thing going with nervously tapping his fingers on his thigh but he’s done with it the moment Kurt sits in his lap.
He bends down to Blaine’s ear and says, “I notice you didn’t disagree.”
“Plead the fifth.” He kisses Kurt. “You taste good.”
“I’m not Santana.”
“Is filming us.”
Blaine looks over his shoulder and sure enough she’s got her phone out, hands steady.
“Oh come the fuck on. Rachel told me you two get handsy all the time and I gots to record some action while she’s away, made a deal and shit.”
Kurt gets off of Blaine’s lap and Blaine isn’t sure he’ll ever forgive Santana for that. “Unless she actually sold her soul to you, no, you don’t have to film us.”
“Maybe I want to.”
“Oh my god,” Kurt mutters and he yanks Blaine’s hair, exposing his throat and licks an angry path up to his jawline. “There’s your porn. Hope it’s everything you ever wanted.”
“Nah, pretty much what I expected. Boring and super vanilla. Oh well.” She shrugs, turning on the TV and settling on the sofa. “What channel is Ellen on?”
Kurt blinks and before he can ask, Blaine answers, “Apparently an obligation in the lesbian community?”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Kurt says, confused.
“Honey,” Blaine says, because he never really calls Kurt it and when he does, Kurt’s breath catches a little. He clicks his tongue a little, as he leads Kurt to the sofa so they can watch with her. “Don’t question it.”
For you amusement, here are the songs sung in the fic, including a bonus track because hey, sometimes Santana has feelings too, only she’s a BAMF about them.
Link to playlist
1. Girls and Boys | Blur
2. Hermit the Frog | Marina & The Diamonds
3. Government Hooker | Lady Gaga
4. Bye Bye Bye | ‘N Sync
5. Oh No! | Marina & The Diamonds