I was a taller girl too, once. (regala_electra) wrote,
I was a taller girl too, once.

Fic: Karaoke Curiosities (Glee, Kurt/Blaine, NC-17, Part 1/2)

Karaoke Curiosities
Author: Regala Electra
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: S2 New York
Warnings: Sexual Content, Language
Word Count: 15,000
Summary: “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.” Wherein Rachel Berry has exciting news, Blaine’s music choices remain questionable but his ardent love of Kurt's dynamic personality continues to endure, Kurt attempts to avoid the madness of Blaine and Santana’s friendship, and Santana has the most awesome blog you’re probably not reading. Oh yeah, and Blaine and Santana fondly reminisce on their fierce high school duet. Plus Kurt and Blaine totally do it. (Then they duet.)
Author’s Notes: Sequel to Fleet Week Follies and set shortly thereafter. Major thanks to those who indulged me rambling about this story and special thanks to ccmskatechick for audiencing and to memphis86 for pointing out that I did not mean "sexcapes" although that is indeed a sexy form of escape.


She tells Blaine this college thing is so easy she might as well pull a Franco and sleep through her classes next semester.

“Really,” Blaine says, moving his phone to his other ear. He’s waiting in line at the lunch counter, precious time slipping away as the most indecisive woman on the planet takes forever to select her salad mix-in options. “Are you unhappy in California?”

“Shut up, Blaine,” she says and he can hear the faint sound of typing, an irritated huff of breath before she continues. “Look, I’m bored, okay? It’s summer and everyone’s fucked off to see their families or everyone’s somebody’s ex here. There is so much drama than even I’m like tired of it and you know next to my vibrator, nothing gets me off like drama.”

“And I’m glad to know that,” Blaine says politely, though he quite emphatically isn’t. He deeply regrets that time he got a little (lot) drunk and delved into the tenuous subject of sex toys. In his defense, he had been confused and sought clarification and why not go to someone who labeled herself as an expert? While Santana had given him a fairly reliable crash course, he regrets knowing so much about her own personal preferences.

“Beverly got all clingy last week,” Santana adds. “So I dumped her. Got insane traffic on my How to Dump Your Girlfriend and Have Awesome Breakup Sex post.”

“How is the blog doing?” Blaine asks desperate to change the subject after quickly giving out his salad order once it’s his turn and simultaneously apologizing for being on his cell phone. Santana mocks him for being so proper.

“I get so many emails begging for more stories about you and Kurt. I’m depriving my readership. Anything juicy you want to share with Auntie ‘Tana?”

“Santana,” Blaine hisses, shocked. “I’m in public. And no.”

“Please we were at a party when you told me about the first time Kurt fingered you. I can’t remember, what was it you said? ‘Santana, I almost kicked him in the head ‘cause it felt so good.’ You’re such a sex fiend.”

“That’s different,” Blaine huffs. “And I’m not that. I’m in a committed relationship. Kurt and I care deeply about each other.”

“Balls deep, I bet,” she says. “I bet you’re secretly into really kinky stuff and don’t even know half the words for what you want to do to Kurt. Or vice your versa. Switch it up and shit.”

Blaine’s paid for his food and is out the door when he stupidly says, “Kurt’s kinkier than me.”

Really,” Santana says and Blaine regrets the week long separation from Kurt. If Kurt were here, he’d remind Blaine to stop being so eager to confide in Santana because once he lets something slip, she will not stop until she gets every nitty gritty detail.

“I have to go back to work,” Blaine says a little loudly, hysterically wondering if he can pretend there’s shitty cell phone service in the elevator. (There isn’t.)

“That’s okay, “ Santana says and he knows how wide her smile must be for her to sound so pleasant. The Cheshire Cat’s got nothing on her. “I needed to make a call about summer plans. See you later, bitch.”

It isn’t until Blaine’s halfway through his salad that he realizes she said see instead of call.


The subway ride home is an exercise in infinite patience and Blaine’s fraying at the edges by the time he’s on the street, breathing in hot air. At least it’s not as bad being in a subway car with no air-conditioning. Like he experienced, oh, five whole minutes ago.

He climbs every step in his apartment building dreaming of the air-conditioning that awaits him. Rachel’s already assured him via text that it’s cranking.

As soon as he’s inside he faceplants to the floor. After a moment, he thanks Rachel for tossing a pillow to soften his fall because he’s not entirely sure he would’ve had the foresight to keep from breaking his nose against the hardwood flooring.

He’s fond of not having a broken nose and would like to keep it that way.

Soon enough, he starts feeling like a person again, smiling when Rachel nudges at his side with her bare foot.

“Still alive?”

“Barely,” he answers because he’s too tired to bitch about the bizarre moments during his commute. They all have their own amazing subway stories to share since moving to New York. He’ll save it for another time when it doesn’t make his skin itch and leave him wanting to be very unkind and judgmental.

“Go take a shower,” Rachel says in that non-filtered way of hers.

“Do I smell that bad?”

“Come on,” she says, insisting, bending down to tickle at his sides. She forces him to rise on wearied feet through sheer force of will. They spend the rest of the night satisfying Rachel’s whims. She pulls out a bottle of nail polish and threatens him with a pedicure after he flubs a line while they work on her audition piece.

Rachel makes him go with her to her singers’ collective later that night when she declares he’s ruining the apartment by moping.

“Did you let me waste away when I was having difficulty adjusting to my life here? Without F—when things became difficult? No, you and Kurt made sure to ply me with society and culture. I’m doing the same to you for your own good. Or I’m telling Kurt.”

That last threat is the best in her arsenal—it’s pathetic to pine after less than a week and yes, Kurt would totally not respect him as much if he knew about it. Blaine dresses to the nines and puts on his favorite wingtips he wears only for the most special of occasions, offering her arm as they brave another summer rainstorm to venture into the heart of Queens.

He’s introduced to a colorful whirligig of people with unusual names he tries his best to remember. By the time they wind up at a seedy hookah bar, the names have vanished much like their better senses. Rachel protests that it’ll ruin her voice but she’s keeping up with the rest of them. Once she’s mastered breathing out the smoke, she criticizes everyone on their technique, insisting she knows better.

Blaine learns he becomes indecently cuddly after trying the double apple flavor several times (to really appreciate the taste, he claims). He doesn’t understand what they mean by double apple and he asks if there’s single or triple apple too. It’s pleasant enough and his heart is a lighter weight in his chest.

Rachel orders appletinis when the waiter doesn’t I.D. them and they try to finish the drinks off despite tasting sickeningly sweet. He’s moved onto mint hookah and he’s now assured of one thing: everyone is spectacular and fascinating.

Also, if he could feel like this forever, that would be awesome.

Rachel keeps a close watch on him, her arms tight as she clutches him from behind as if he’s liable to run off and she’s been tasked with Blaine Watch Duty. They’re seated against the enormous cushions. It’s like they’ve suddenly become very small and now they’re stranded on a giant banquette.

He lolls his head back to rest on her shoulder, saying, pleased as anything, “Hiiiiiii.”

“You look like you want to hug everyone, Blaine.”

“I do,” he says. “I already have. Wait, I don’t think I hugged Whatley.”

“Wheatley, you mean? Oh, Blaine,” she says, tugging his arm. “We better get you home. Someone has work in the morning and I don’t think they’ll like you hung over.”

“But you like me.”

Rachel giggles until she’s almost snorting.

“Everyone likes you. Right?” She says this to the group at large and a cheer rings out. Drinks are raised and everything.

“You guys are awesome,” Blaine enthuses but Rachel prevents him from starting off another round of hugs.

She lets him lean on her during the long ride back, laughing at his random observations, which he thinks are particularly inspired. He sees an older couple get on for a few stops, and it’s not until they take each other’s hands when they depart that he realizes he didn’t immediately notice that they were both men.

“I almost forgot,” he says, but he didn’t, not really.

What happened is this: it was safe and everyday, the background to his own self-absorbed concerns, just like any other couple. He gets quiet after that, counting off the stops in his head until they’re finally back to their apartment, to almost-home.

He falls asleep face-first on Kurt’s side of the bed, pushing his face deeper against the pillow. There’s a scent he catches right before he drifts off. Missing Kurt is unbearable but it’s not like anything’s lost.


It’s 6am his time when he answers his phone, Santana’s voice thick and unsteady when she stops breathing in his ear. “Anderson.”

Shit. It’s never good when Santana uses his last name.

“I’m a little out of it,” he apologizes and it takes him a while to realize he’s alone in his bed. He’d instinctively reached out and with nothing but air he fists his hand into the bed sheet.

“Good. So I’ll talk. And you do that listening shit and go mmm-hmmm when I pause and don’t you fucking say you’re sorry.”

“Mmm,” he says and Santana sighs in relief.

“Remember when you transferred to McKinley?”

“Remind me,” he says, breaking the rules but she lets him get away with it. They’re pretty fast and loose about their friendship.


It isn’t like Blaine entered McKinley during his senior year with grand plans of making a stand or forming a real support group for gay students. He’d gone to school because of many reasons that at the time he thought were important. While it’s easy to claim he did it for love, he didn’t get hit with a slushie for love.

He’d gotten slushied for Santana.

She’d finally come out publicly and while she’d been defiant, her artificial persona was showing cracks. Santana could barely walk down the hallways without getting shit and began making up excuses to walk with someone. Her face was brave but Blaine had noticed it wasn’t going to last for long. He’d been there and she might be stronger but there’s only so much a person ought to take.

That slushie hurdling towards her could have been the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back and Blaine had been nothing but reflex, taking the hit hard.

Santana had chided him when she pulled him into the bathroom, Kurt following after, Mercedes too, the whole glee club might’ve joined in if they were there to witness it. She’d been the one to start viciously wiping him off, pulling his shirt off his body before he’d even registered the cold leaching away leaving a hot burning sting across his skin.

“Why did you do that? You’re not a hero, okay? It’s the same shit, different day.”

“It’s better not to go it alone, right?” he’d said, echoing what she’d said once upon a hallway incident last year.

“You’re a damn idiot.” She’d turned to Kurt and said, “You’re willingly bumping uglies with an idiot.”

Kurt had sputtered and so had Blaine. Santana used the moment to cast a look at Blaine’s chest, cocking an eyebrow, settling her mask back on, and said, “He’s got a decent body, though. Well done, Hummel.”

“Santana,” Blaine had said, trying to stop her from shutting them out, but she’d raised a hand and shook her head. She might have said don’t but it was quiet and she’d slipped out once Kurt and Mercedes took over slushie cleanup.

A day later, as New Directions was issued with a fairly questionable assignment from Mr. Schuester, Santana had initiated contact. Everyone in the club had to sing a duet with someone but not someone they were dating, or had previously dated. This left most of the glee club working out complicated charts on who could sing together, and Blaine didn’t want to know.

Santana pulled him aside and said, “We should duet.”

Of course, Blaine heard it as do it and launched into a lengthy explanation that coming out was difficult and even he found himself questioning his sexuality when he’d found that he liked kissing Rachel quite a bit while drunk. But he and Kurt were soundly in love and he didn’t want Santana to feel like she needed to prove anything or try to prove her orientation with a needless experiment. He finally petered off at Santana’s growing smirk.

“Oh,” he said. “You meant a duet. For the assignment.”

“Wow. Kurt really goes for the dumb ones, huh?”

And that’s how it started.


“You sucked at dancing,” she tells him.

“A filthy lie,” he says, because they’re moved past her request for him to offer only supporting noises. The tension she’d had before has drifted away and now they’re fondly reminiscing. “Don’t mock my dance moves, we choreographed that duet together. Santana, you should know you’re my second favorite duet partner.”

“Ooh, that means Kurt or Rachel is competing for the top spot.”

Blaine pauses. “Shit.” Rachel’s going to kill him if she ever learns she’s rounding out the top three.

“You make it too easy for me sometimes.” Santana hums a little, the familiar strain of their duet. “I remember Kurt’s face. It was like I took your virginity right in front of him. Which, sorry, but gross.”

“Thank you.” He’s really fond of the actual way his virginity eroded away until on all counts, he became unable to cling to even the faintest definition of the word. “I still don’t think it was that shocking.”

“Oh honey,” she says. “Denial’s not a pretty color on you.”


This was how it was cemented.

Mr. Schuester had waved off Puck and Tina, who finished Born to Run to a hesitant smattering of applause, directing Blaine and Santana to the front of the room.

“All right, guys, Santana and Blaine are up next.”

“You better bring it like there’s a sex famine,” she’d whispered as they had their backs to everyone. Her hand brushed against the back of his but pulled away before Blaine did something stupid like grab hold.

“Hope you can keep up with me,” he said in return.

They didn’t do much to alter the song, trading off lines like they were competing in a tennis match between two people out to destroy each other through sheer talent.

Santana worked a mocking tone in her lines. “Love in the nineties,” she sang as Blaine came up behind her, locking her in his arms, one hand splayed across her clavicle as he countered with “is paranoid.”

They separated and started the more complex steps as they tackled the chorus together: “Looking for girls who are boys who like boys to be girls who do boys like they’re girls who do girls like they’re boys.” The audience disappeared as Blaine did what he did best—gave it his all.

Santana pulled his hair a little early but he went with it as they harmonized on “Always should be someone you really love.”

They were nailing the choreography, especially a moment that involved Blaine bending over while Santana thrust behind him, grabbing his hips and pulling him against her. She was gripping him hard enough that he nearly stumbled over the next lyric, gathering his wits at the last second.

The silence once they were done was deafening.


In hindsight perhaps their rendition of Boys and Girls was a little risqué.

“Yours was the last real dick that ever got close to my lady business,” Santana offers, like it’s supposed to be comforting.

“Well. I guess I’m flattered?” Blaine bites his lip. “You’re the only girl to put her hand down my pants.”

As far as he remembers. He’s pretty sure during that disastrous party at Rachel’s house that the only touching Rachel did was around his face and his hair, which she claimed marked him as soulful. It’s something he’s still puzzling over.

“Whatever, Blaine. I only grazed your fuck cut muscles. Which, yay for you, I hope you’re keeping that up.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Blaine lies, running a hand down his stomach to check. He’s not vain, more, considerate of his appearance. A put together look relies on having a relatively nice physique. And he is fond those times he catches Kurt openly staring at him.

“What was Kurt’s favorite part of our song? Was it when I licked your neck? Or when you pulled me into that slow bend, pressed up real nice and tight? No, wait, it was when I got my hands full of your ass, wasn’t it?”

“So many choices,” Blaine says, wincing a little as he recalls each moment. He takes his time to decide. “I don’t think he liked it when I was kneeling in front of you.”

That’s putting it mildly. Kurt puts it as remember that time you sang into Santana’s crotch, Blaine? Then he shakes his head and mutters about sex riots and with Santana of all people. Once Blaine had stupidly asked Kurt if singing the song with Rachel would’ve made it better. He’s very lucky that Kurt gave him the silent treatment for a couple of days as punishment for his obliviousness.

It’s not an argument he’s ever going to win, although he will always claim innocence. Yes, he was kneeling in front of Santana but he had his face turned away to sing to the audience. Specifically to Kurt.

At the time he thought Kurt would like it and that the suggestive nature of the song had romantic appeal. On that count, he was wrong.

“He’s possessive,” Santana says, nearly purring. “Work that jealously angle. Makes the sex smoking.”

“I think we’re doing all right without it.” He glances over at his alarm clock and nearly swears. “Santana, as lovely as this conversation is, I have to get ready for work.”

“Whatever will I do without you hanging on to my every word?” The sarcasm is meant to cut deep but Blaine’s used to it. “I’ve got a late night booty call so. Later.”

She doesn’t let him say goodbye.


The rest of the week goes by in a blur. He learns not to mope in front of Rachel after she sends incriminating photos of Blaine “Cuddle Monster” Warbler to Kurt. Blaine wisely decides not to ask where else she distributed them. He’s been getting way too many friend requests on Facebook from girls lately.

Pretty soon he’s on a plane and irritated from the long wait to board. He drinks as much Coke as he can until he’s a jittery mess, and plasters on a fake smile when his dad is the one at the airport waiting to pick him up instead of his mom.

He keeps his conversation as frivolous as possible once his grades are dissected and found wanting despite getting a 4.0 GPA for his second semester. His mother gets home late and rescues him from feeling immensely awkward at their house, though he doesn’t ever stop performing for his parents. They aren’t that impressed with his role as Good, Obedient Son (who remains a disappointment) but they give him their version of applause, telling him that he should try to come home for the holidays. Blaine makes half-hearted promises that he will.

Blaine doesn’t think he’s giddy until he winds up at the Hummel-Hudson house and nearly pounces on Kurt. A week and a handful of days is far too long and he doesn’t care that Kurt is epically judging him. Call him a sap, fine, but at least do it with that fond look Kurt can’t help hiding. It’s wonderful, actually, the exasperation of look at my silly boyfriend—and Blaine craves it more than anything.

Well, almost anything.

They don’t have sex in the house because Kurt claims it’ll be too weird and they only manage hasty, mutual handjobs in the car during a date night. They go to Breadstix afterwards, for nostalgia value, where Blaine learns that they’ve both gotten kind of snobby as they can barely eat the inauthentic Italian.

“How long until we’re home?” he asks Kurt one night when they’re hanging out in the background, lying on a blanket spread over the freshly mowed lawn, admiring the stars.

Kurt tenses and he doesn’t answer for a while. Blaine almost forgets he asked a question, enjoying the feel of Kurt’s fingers in his hair. There are beads of sweat on his forehead but Kurt doesn’t seem to mind it, bending down to kiss his brow. Kurt finally says, “One more week until we’re back in New York. It’s going to be a scorcher this summer.”

“Looking forward to taking lots of showers with you.”

Kurt laughs and nuzzles closer to Blaine, hair falling out of its hold and strands sticking against his forehead. “I hope you remember that Rachel has banned us from any actual sex in any of the common rooms.”

“Well,” Blaine reasons, “if we stick to fooling around, then it isn’t really sex.”

“Your logic is flawless. Tell that to my dad so he’s fine with us sharing a bed in his house. See how that works out for you.”

“We could sleep under the stars.”

“You’re such a romantic.” Kurt means it like a slight against Blaine’s character but he can hear the curl of content in Kurt’s voice. He pulls Kurt into a kiss and tries his very best to make sure Kurt doesn’t break away until they’re both breathless.


They go back to New York on the same flight and no matter how many jokes Santana texts (and emails) him about joining the mile high club, that doesn’t happen. Membership to that club must be seriously exclusive because Blaine cannot figure out the logistics. He also doesn’t want to have sex in a cramped airplane bathroom. Frankly, that’s kind of gross.

Kurt refuses to deal with subway train travel and wrangling several pieces of luggage through the train transfers, so they take a cab.

Paying the taxi driver is a trial in and of itself, as he tries to scam them by claiming that it’s not the flat fare plus tip. By the time they’re at the apartment front today, they’re ready to shred all clothes and get down to something fairly quick and dirty to slake the growing need between them. Naturally they’re cockblocked from this awesome plan.

Quite literally. Rachel is standing in their way, with her adorable luggage set that Kurt claims is gaudy. Blaine secretly thinks the multicolor polka dots are charming.

She’s beaming.

“I’m so glad I didn’t miss you,” she says, wrapping each of them in a tight, forceful hug and Blaine can feel the nervous energy humming off her skin. “I got a part! In a real play!”

That much is evident and she quickly summarizes the events that lead her to accepting the role and how she’s going upstate for a full month and that she’s going to working with some true veterans of the stage—

“Are they animals?” Kurt holds Rachel’s hands in his own, staring at her very seriously. She stills in his hands and Blaine is suitably impressed by the action, because he’d be jumping up and down even with the physical drain from traveling. He might be bouncing on his heels a little regardless. “You shouldn’t work with animals. Not yet at least, you need experience before they start stealing your scenes.”

“No,” Rachel says with a laugh. “And don’t worry, Santana will be subletting my room while I’m away so the rent will be fine. I really do need to go. I can’t be fashionably late until I’m the lead.”

And with a trilling bye, she’s out the door and Kurt wheels his shock onto Blaine and says, “Did you know about that?”

“Well,” Blaine says, begging his brain to catch up with his mouth because he’s sure he might blurt out this is wonderful! I’ve missed her and that’s definitely the wrong response, “Rachel just told us, so no.”

“Santana didn’t say anything?”

Blaine did get a text this morning about Santana looking forward to some ass-pinching but he figured she mistakenly hit his name while she was sexting.


It’s the best answer he can give Kurt and Kurt does not appreciate it. However Blaine very much appreciates Kurt saying, “Screw Rachel’s roommate rules,” and yanking Blaine close, mouth on his before he gets a chance to process what Kurt means.

Kurt proceeds to strip off Blaine’s jeans and give Blaine the most impressive blowjob of his entire life. Blaine has to lean against the sofa to keep his balance and comes spectacularly, almost crashing to the floor afterwards. He’s pretty sure he lost a year of calculus in the orgasm, a fair exchange, because holy shit.

Fortunately Kurt catches him before Blaine slides to the ground. His dick is hard against Blaine’s thigh as he rocks against him. Blaine gets hit with an awesome aftershock, frantically palming his softening cock with his hand willing it to calm down with a promise that yes, there will be more, this is only the beginning.

“Where to next?” he says against Kurt’s jaw, teasing his tongue over a sensitive spot.

Blaine really has to commend Kurt for insisting that they spend extra on a fairly sturdy kitchen table. Although he hopes he doesn’t get any bruises on his stomach from the way Kurt fucks into him from behind, hands firm on Blaine’s hips. Kurt’s holding Blaine through it and doesn’t allow him to do anything but take it.

It’s when Kurt’s sucking a near-bruise between his shoulder blades that Blaine knows it’s almost over and he reaches behind blindly, his hand digging into Kurt’s ass as he says (pleads more likely), “Kurt, let go.”

Kurt always stills when he comes, always, his breath hot against Blaine’s skin when he exhales. The business of dealing with the condom is taken care of before Kurt turns Blaine around. A hand around his dick is pretty much the only thing he needs. If he hadn’t come before, being fucked would’ve gotten him off, but it’s nice when it’s like this, languid almost, like a dream.

Somehow they move off the table and Blaine pulls Kurt into a long, slow kiss before they have to stop.

“You’re cleaning up before Santana gets here by the way,” Kurt says later from his comfortable location on the floor. He has a blanket folded beneath him and a sofa pillow tucked under his head.

Blaine’s managed to make it to the sofa, curled up a little in wonderment at all the new places he can feel stinging and liking the ache in a way he’s never really noticed before. Even his lips buzz when he brings his fingertips to his mouth. “Why?”

“She’s your BFF.”

Blaine would try to argue but he’s too fucked out to care. “Okay. Will you help me to bed?”

Kurt sighs. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“We should do that again sometime,” Blaine says. Maybe once he’s regained full mobility. He may have uncovered new muscles that are in desperate need of a workout.

Kurt’s laugh is short but kind of devilishly dark. “I was thinking we could finally christen the bathroom.”

“I love the way you think.”


Kurt is flexible and Blaine fucking loves it.

He says exactly that, panting into Kurt’s ear as he thrusts against his ass. They’re not foolish enough to actually go too far. Water and condoms don’t always mix but that doesn’t mean that he can’t tease, frotting up against Kurt’s ass, fisting Kurt’s dick as the water pours down Kurt’s neck. He licks him there because it makes Kurt go a little crazy, nearly biting down because it’s the purest taste of Kurt’s skin he can get underneath the warm water. Leaving bite marks isn’t going to happen but it’s awe-inspiring that it could, that Kurt might let him.

“Why is the lube so far away,” he whines, pressing his fingers closer and closer until he’s teasing Kurt’s hole.

“Because your plans lack inspiration,” Kurt says but he doesn’t really mean it. At least his hips don’t, seeing as Kurt can’t stop rocking against Blaine’s fingers. “I’m so close, Blaine.”

“I can get you closer.”

“I need it.”

What Kurt means is that he needs Blaine and that’s enough to dare. They’ve not broached the subject of rimming, and he’s not entirely sure how to ask about it without absolutely killing the mood. What he does is suck two fingers in his mouth, laving them with spit. Running water isn’t enough, and when he stops stroking Kurt’s cock, Kurt whines, craning his neck to look at Blaine.

“Why are you stopping?”

Blaine holds the back of Kurt’s thigh, enough of a hint to get Kurt to move his leg so he’s balancing his weight now with one foot over the tub’s edge. “I’m not. Just. Trust me?”

“If I didn’t, I’d do it myself.” There’s a laugh at the edge of Kurt’s voice as well as the obvious signs of sexual frustration, so Blaine doesn’t hesitate anymore. One finger is enough to start and Kurt’s hands nearly slap against the tiled wall as he bends down and his back arches, trying to perfect the angle.

“Do you know what’s best?” Blaine says after he’s got his right hand back where it belongs around Kurt’s dick and he’s playing with just the rim, pretending he’s about to push in deeper and then pulling back and touching everywhere but there, which leaves Kurt whimpering with need. “Everything.”


It’s a loaded word. It means he loves him, that Kurt needs Blaine to let him fly apart, and that he agrees. Under that, maybe there’s something more, a hint of forever that Blaine knows they’re not supposed to be sure about but they so are.

When Kurt comes Blaine can’t help following after, a slightly embarrassing showing since Kurt didn’t even touch Blaine. But that’s what the shower is for, washing away the mess and they lean into each other until it gets too uncomfortable not to move.

Kurt’s still shaky afterwards ands spends more time than necessary getting ready for bed. He picks up different bottles for his nightly skincare routine, staring at the labels like he doesn’t remember where to begin. By the time he’s sliding back into bed with Blaine, he moves to get up again.


“We have to hide everything.” Kurt’s inching towards the bedside table, his fingers outstretched.

Blaine rolls over on top of Kurt, effectively pinning him down. “It’s fine.”

“It’s Santana.”

“Hey,” Blaine says. “We have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Blaine can see Kurt rolling his eyes in the semi-darkness. “Your optimism is terrifying sometimes. Fine. You have to keep an eye on her when I’m not here.”



Kurt actually has somewhere to be the morning of Santana’s arrival. When her flight is delayed, he doesn’t even pretend he’ll wait with Blaine, adding before he leaves, “She isn’t allowed in our bedroom unsupervised.”

“Kurt, it’ll be fine, she’s not going to spy on us,” Blaine says but it’s a feeble claim. Santana’s likely to inform the internet en-masse what kind of lube they prefer if given the opportunity. Really, he doesn’t think that’s such a terrible thing, but he can’t even begin to explain why he thinks that to Kurt.

Instead of a kiss goodbye he gets a curled lip and a shake of Kurt’s head. “Gullibility. It’s a definition you should learn by heart.”

Blaine isn’t a nervous cleaner but the kitchen is nearly sparkling by the time his phone rings with Santana’s personalized ring tone. When my heart just burst like a glass balloon.

“Let me up,” Santana says.

“What’s the magic word?”


It’s correct so he buzzes her in as he paces the little foyer.

Due to the building’s former glory as a townhouse for a wealthy family, the apartment rooms are all oddly formed. The kitchen still has a servant’s entrance in a corner half-heartedly blocked off with mediocre brickwork and a so-so paint job, one they aren’t allowed to alter as per their lease. It is the bane of Kurt’s interior decorating spirit. The decent sizes of the bedrooms are worth the agony though.

He leaves the door unlocked and Santana doesn’t bother to knock, bursting in and taking off her enormous sunglasses as she adjusts to the inside lights.

California’s been good to her. She has a deeper tan and her hair has been cut to her shoulders and styled in an exaggerated faux-bob. She looks like she’s ready to kick ass but not angry.

She will continue to take names while asskicking, but he wouldn’t have Santana any other way.

He accepts the air kiss-kiss as she digs her fingers in his biceps and almost pulls him into a hug. Instead she pushes him back for further inspection, her hand capturing his chin as she turns his head this way and that. He’s had worse inspections from his aunties so he’s not shocked by it, not even when she pats his chest.

“You must be fucking a lot to burn the calories.” Blaine blushes and she mock-gasps. “Oh you were so doing it before I got here. Where’s Hummel? I wanna see if I can get him to blush as red as that time I caught you jerking him off at Rachel’s disaster of a graduation party.”

“He’s not here. Don’t mention that, please. It was a dark time, Santana.”

“You seemed to be having a lot of fun then. Hope you’re still having a lot.” Blaine tries not to sweat out her lengthy pause and mostly succeeds. “Of fun.”

“Can we talk about anything else? Like, how was your flight?”

“In the air,” she says, handing him her suitcase. “You better help me unpack and give me all the deets on your sexcapades. I needs to know that my boy is satisfied.”

“So you can share it with your readers?”

“I could pretend I care about you if that makes you feel better but don’t be a bitch. Or worse, a fake bitch. You totally get off on bragging, you freak.”

“Let me show you to your room,” Blaine says, carrying the luggage into Rachel’s bedroom.

Santana takes a good few minutes to inspect the room (Blaine really hopes that if Rachel has anything incriminating that she wisely took it with her) and comments on Rachel’s posters with her usual color commentary. She nods in appreciation at the photo collage over Rachel’s desk. There’s one photo of Santana and Blaine together taken during their senior Regionals. It captures them in an unguarded moment. Her leg is thrown over his shoulder while he helps her stretch. It looks like they’re wrapped up in a tango and Santana’s smile is open and easy.

He catches Santana making a motion to touch the picture but she stops at the last moment, tapping on a photo of Blaine and Rachel making ridiculous faces at the camera. “Shit, Blaine. Don’t do this with your face ever again.”

Blaine takes the hit in stride, because he sees the opening and one thing he knows about being friends with Santana, he’s got to let her get some potshots in before they dive into the real things that are on her mind.

There’s an art to getting Santana to really talk and it sadly involves revealing things that he probably shouldn’t share.

But if he gets Santana laughing about his fear that Kurt will one day wise up and find someone taller (he has in fact had nightmares about it, only to wake up and find Kurt nowhere near him, not realizing that Kurt’s up in the living room writing some new musical that won’t leave his mind) then it’s worth it when he gets to see her being real and not keeping it real.

“I need to stay away from B-named girls. You know, after Britt—” She cuts herself off, scowling. She’s got her legs crossed as she leans back on Rachel’s deskchair, foot making a circle in the air. She doesn’t want to talk about it, but she presses on. “Brianna, Beatrice, Bella, not even Isabella, her mom named her Bella, which like, is so trashy. She had this whole complex about Twilight and ‘cause she looked a little like Kristen Stewart she kept smiling. All the time.”

Santana mimics the fake plastered smile, a terrifying rictus, and Blaine shudders. “Poor girl.”

“Then Beverley. Hot, screamer, and up for anything. But. She kept asking me where I was and if I was screwing around. So fucking clingy and dramatic.”

“Well,” Blaine says, trying to be as delicate as possible. “You weren’t being entirely faithful.”

“I’m up front, okay? No monogamy, no bullshit. But every girl I do anything long-term with decides I’ve got to be fixed or something.” She sighs, disgusted. “I don’t need that.”

Blaine kind of thinks she does but it’s not his place to fix her on his own. He’ll wait her out. Brittany’s name is verboten in their conversations unless it’s very late at night and Santana is very drunk and maudlin. After Brittany got left back and Mr. Schuester did nothing to help her despite most of New Directions trying to find another way, summer school at the very least, Santana had sort of an epic meltdown in front of Mr. Schue. Only Blaine had witnessed it.

There were harsh accusations thrown around, notably that Mr. Schue didn’t really care about any of them, how he’d have one of the most talented dancers for his baby glee club and that’s what he wanted, to keep his stupid dream going. Blaine doesn’t think that’s true but the way Mr. Schuester didn’t say anything in his own defense had been pretty damning as far as Santana was concerned.

Everyone’s leaving her behind Santana had told him the night before graduation, voice creaky over the phone. Even me.

“Take me to your favorite sketchy bar,” Santana declares as she stands up, pulling off her top. Blaine really hopes she’s planning on changing into something else because he caught a glimpse of a bra that was more theoretical than an actual support system.

“They really check I.D.s around the city,” Blaine says, admiring the ceiling.

“Well it’s a good thing I’m totally twenty-one.” He listens for the distinct sound of clothing over skin (Blaine’s least favorite noise when applied to Kurt as he hears it on regular basis) before he chances a glimpse. Santana grabs something out of her purse and flicks it at Blaine, hitting him square in the chest. He stares at the driver’s license of one Blaine A. Cooper. “Look at that. So are you.”

“There’s no way I can say no, is there?”

“Nope!” And she jumps in his lap, kneeling between his legs, her knee dangerously close by Blaine’s favorite personal anatomy. “You’re too much of a gentleman to turn me down.”

He’s not scared. Gulping for air is a perfectly natural response when a deep breath is needed. As long as they don’t get arrested, this will not be a harrowing experience. When he can make himself believe that a hundred percent, then there will be no reason to be worried.


Part 2: Blaine shouldn’t drink with Santana because his filter disappears. Like right about now, actually, as he confesses how much he loves being fucked.
Tags: fic, glee fic, kurt/blaine
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