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They’ve been planning this date night for days now: dinner at that Peruvian place they’ve been meaning to try, then splurging on a movie before coming back to spend the night together at the loft. Not the most imaginative date in the world, but the thought of it has sustained Kurt through a dull, grinding week. Any evening out with Blaine is always at least a little magical, and really, Kurt just wants to spend time with him.
While Blaine moving out was definitely a good and mature decision, Kurt wasn’t prepared for how much he would miss him once he was no longer underfoot every minute of the day. It’s certainly much healthier to long for Blaine’s company than to resent it, of course, but it’s not much fun, either. The past couple weeks have been particularly hard. Between Blaine’s sessions with June and Kurt’s shifts at Vogue and the diner, they haven’t been seeing much of each other outside of class, so Kurt is pretty thrilled at the prospect of having Blaine all to himself for a whole night.
The best part is that if all goes as planned, they should make it back in enough time to properly appreciate the empty loft. Santana has a late shift, Rachel has a show, Mercedes is keeping Sam occupied on a date of their own, Artie has plans with some of his film school friends, and Elliott is a respectful adult who wouldn’t dream of dropping by unannounced – all of which means they might actually have some privacy, for once.
It’s possible that Kurt has chosen his clothes with the latter part of the evening in mind. He’s wriggled into his new jeans – he can barely breathe in them, much less sit, but they do phenomenal things for his legs – and laced himself into what Santana scornfully refers to as his “fuck-me boots.” Add in a sweater he hasn’t worn in a while, the dark green cashmere that tends to encourage Blaine’s hands to wander, and there’s no way this outfit won’t earn him at least some enthusiastic groping in the movie theater. He’ll award himself extra points if Blaine doesn’t make it through dinner.
Though they won’t have time for any of that if Blaine doesn’t get here soon.
Kurt frowns at the clock on the wall. It’s not like Blaine to be late, especially when they have plans, and he texted that he was on his way an hour and a half ago. He should have made it to the loft with plenty of time to squeeze in a nice, leisurely make-out before they had to leave.
He checks his phone again. Blaine still hasn’t called, nor has he responded to any of Kurt’s carefully worded texts. Kurt hesitates, debating whether or not to try calling him again.
If the circumstances were reversed and Kurt were the one running late, Blaine would definitely call again. Of course, he would also be calling Rachel, Santana, Elliott, Isabelle, Kurt’s dad, the police, and the mayor’s office, so he’s not exactly a paragon of sound judgment when it comes to these things.
Blaine drove him insane the week after he got out of the hospital. He seemed to always need to know exactly where Kurt was, where he was going, how long he expected it to take, and whether he’d arrived safely. Kurt tried to be understanding, he really did, but some days he just wanted to drop his phone down a storm drain. If they had agreed to meet somewhere, Blaine would text him relentlessly for status updates, and the messages would only get more frantic if Kurt didn’t respond quickly enough. If Kurt was even five minutes late, or if he didn’t pick up when Blaine called, Blaine would work himself into an absolute panic.
“I know it’s crazy,” he admitted, when Kurt gently informed him that he was planning to change his ringtone to Bug-a-Boo soon. (Maybe it was a little cruel to use Blaine’s love of old-school Destiny’s Child against him, but Kurt was at the end of his rope.) “I just can’t stop myself from imagining the worst. Something awful can happen so fast.”
Kurt refuses to indulge that sort of paranoia in himself. Blaine is fine. He’s just been held up somewhere along the way, or gotten sidetracked. He would have let Kurt know if there was a serious problem – and in the extremely unlikely event that there was an actual emergency, he has Kurt’s contact information displayed prominently in his wallet. Someone would have called.
There are a million and one perfectly reasonable explanations for why Blaine’s not here yet. He could have stopped to buy flowers, or gotten waylaid by a lost family of tourists, or felt compelled to rescue a kitten stuck up a tree.
Or there was a train delay. In fact, that’s probably it. He’s probably stuck in a tunnel somewhere, which is why Kurt’s calls keep going straight to voicemail.
It’s fine. It’s not like their plans are set in stone. They can skip the movie, maybe come back here after dinner to catch up on their DVR queue instead. And then Blaine can get started making it up to him for being late.
Kurt sets his phone down (on loud, just in case) and tries to distract himself. He surveys the fridge and kitchen cabinets, and starts writing up a grocery list for tomorrow. He likes going on Saturdays, because it usually means he can drag Blaine with him to help carry bags. One of the many perks of having a strong, chivalrous fiancé.
He kills another few minutes double-checking that all the windows are shut tight against the rain. It’s been gray and drizzly all day, but it must have picked up at some point, because it’s coming down pretty hard now. Fortunately, it’s only a couple minutes’ walk between their building and the bus stop, and Blaine has one of those oversized golf umbrellas that’s plenty big enough to shield both of them. Kurt will definitely need to grab a raincoat, though. He loves this sweater, but if it gets even the slightest bit damp, he’s going to smell like a wet dog all night.
He backtracks to his room to pick out a jacket, and then, since he’s there anyway, allows himself one quick moment to admire his outfit in the mirror. He adjusts the visible strap of his tank top, checks to make sure his ass still looks as good in these pants as it did twenty minutes ago, and forces himself to walk away before he can start fiddling with his hair.
Blaine still hasn’t called. Kurt scowls down at his phone and goes to make a cup of tea.
+
Of course, it’s probably not Blaine’s fault that he’s late, and even if it is, Kurt really doesn’t want to start the night off with a sniping match. So he eases himself to his feet as quickly as his jeans will allow and heads for the door, prepared to greet Blaine warmly and graciously, with minimal comments about –
“Oh my god.” He claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh, honey.”
Blaine is…wet. Not gently rain-spattered, not a little damp from the knees down, but drenched – just utterly, impossibly soaked through. He couldn’t be any wetter if he’d just climbed out of a swimming pool. His dove gray cardigan has been stained a grim charcoal, his water-logged jeans are sagging down his legs, and that bowtie is probably ruined – oh, god, and his shoes. His hair is a disaster, flat and greasy with melting gel. In his hand is a half-open, conspicuously broken umbrella, plaid nylon drooping down almost to the floor.
He doesn’t say a word, just stands there dripping, looking unhappy and cold and very, very wet.
“You poor thing,” Kurt breathes, trying hard not to laugh. He waves Blaine inside and slides the door shut behind him, careful not to get too close. Again: water and cashmere, not a good combination. “What on earth happened?”
Blaine sniffs, loudly, which Kurt fervently hopes is just a side effect of the weather. “My phone died,” he says. There’s an edge to his voice that suggests this is only the first of a long list of grievances. “I could have sworn I plugged it in last night, but I guess not. I was already running late, so I figured it didn’t really matter, I could just use your charger when I got here.”
Well, that’s one mystery solved. Kurt nods, encouraging him to continue.
“Then I got to the station, and it turns out I lost my MetroCard, somehow – I don’t know, I must have stuck it in my pocket or something instead of putting it back in my wallet, and…who knows. Anyway, I had enough change for the train, but not the bus, and I thought I’d just walk here.” He gestures with the umbrella, which flaps forlornly in his hand like a large, deformed bat. “And then the wind broke my umbrella, and I couldn’t even get it to close, and people were just, like, staring at me. I probably should’ve just waited it out somewhere, but I was already soaked, and I knew you were waiting, and I just…” He trails off, draws in a shaky breath. His eyes are starting to get that shiny look to them. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Kurt is torn. He wants desperately to swoop in and wipe that awful look off Blaine’s face, but he also recognizes that Blaine is in that precarious place where too much sympathy will completely undo him. He needs to tread carefully, giving Blaine the support he needs without accidentally tipping him over the edge into a full-on meltdown.
He lays a comforting hand against Blaine’s cheek; it’s like touching a melting cold pack. “Honey,” he begins, but he’s obviously miscalculated somehow, because Blaine makes a sharp little noise and squeezes his eyes shut, and his mouth goes all wobbly, and –
Oh, fuck it.
He drops his hand from Blaine’s face and falls back a step, just far enough to peel quickly out of his sweater. He tosses it blindly at the kitchen table, then moves forward again to pull his soggy, miserable fiancé into a tight hug.
Blaine burrows into the embrace, tucking his icy-wet face against Kurt’s neck and gripping the back of Kurt’s tank top with clumsy, freezing fingers. “I’m sorry,” he says, sniffing again. “This has just been the worst day.”
“Sounds like it,” Kurt says. He rubs at Blaine’s back, his hand dragging unpleasantly over the soaked wool of his cardigan. “But it’s over now. I’m just glad you’re here.”
(Not that he was worried, because he wasn’t. Not at all.)
He lets Blaine slump against him for another minute, then gives him a quick extra-tight squeeze, gently signaling that he’s about to let go. “Come on, let’s get you warmed up. I feel like I’m going to freeze to death just touching you.”
Blaine reluctantly releases him. He glances down at Kurt’s very damp front, and the furrow in his brow deepens. “I got you wet.”
“I got myself wet,” Kurt corrects him, heading for the table. He brings back his half-full mug of tea, still warm, and presses it carefully into Blaine’s cold-numb hands. “Here, drink this. I’m going to go get you a towel.”
The tea seems to help some; the towel, not so much. Blaine’s clothes are so saturated with water that he’s like a walking raincloud himself, ready to unleash a fresh torrent at every touch. Kurt does his best to clean up his face and neck, at least, wiping away the sticky trails of dripping gel while Blaine stares at him with those mournful kicked-puppy eyes. He’s shivering now, a little pathetically.
Kurt brushes a kiss to one sad, flat eyebrow. “Okay, into the shower with you.” He pauses, considering the logistics. “I guess you’d better just strip right here. Otherwise you’ll flood the whole place.”
Blaine’s lips twitch a little, hinting at a smile, as his hands move obediently to start unbuttoning his sweater. “Trying to get me out of my clothes, huh?” The attempt at teasing would probably be more effective if his teeth weren’t chattering, but it’s a good sign in any case. He wriggles free of the cardigan, which flops to the ground with a heavy slapping sound. “Should’ve guessed that was your real motive.”
“It usually is,” Kurt agrees. He helps with Blaine’s jeans, wrestling with the long line of uncooperative buttons. “And of course, out of all the pants you own, you just had to wear these today.”
“This isn’t – “ Blaine interrupts himself with a sudden violent shudder. “It’s not exactly how I imagined them coming off.”
Kurt sighs to himself, thumbing the waistband of Blaine’s tight burgundy briefs with a sort of resigned appreciation. It’s clear that they both had similar hopes for tonight.
Piece by piece, they get Blaine out of his wet clothes. Blaine makes a valiant effort to untie his shoes himself, but he’s not quite nimble-fingered enough, and Kurt ends up swatting his hands away when he looks like he’s in danger of toppling over. The way his day has gone so far, he’d probably give himself a concussion.
Finally, Blaine steps out of his briefs, leaving him standing completely bare, prickly all over with goose bumps. Gorgeous as ever, though tinged a little bluer than Kurt generally prefers.
“I really hope Santana doesn’t come home right now,” he says, still shivering.
Kurt snorts. “She should be so lucky.” He gives Blaine’s poor cold ass a comforting pat. “Go hop in the shower. I’ll bring you some clothes.”
Blaine trudges off toward the bathroom, leaving a trail of damp footprints behind him. Kurt watches him go, slightly concerned but mostly just admiring. Blaine has a particularly lovely rear view, and Kurt hasn’t seen nearly enough of it recently.
Of course, now it’s up to Kurt to deal with the mess. He mops up the worst of the small lake Blaine brought in with him, then deals with the wet clothes, wringing them out roughly and laying them to dry on one of his folding racks. The shoes may be a lost cause; he turns a small fan on them and hopes for the best.
With that taken care of, he changes out of his own clothes, regretfully exchanging his artfully styled date night outfit for something better suited to cuddling on the couch. He’s not giving up on the evening entirely, but it’s clear that a new approach is called for. Something lazy and comfortable, with plenty of the easy physical affection Blaine soaks up like a sponge.
The shower has been running for a while now, so he decides to bring Blaine some clothes before he gets started on dinner. While he’d personally enjoy Blaine wandering around naked all evening, Blaine probably wouldn’t appreciate it quite as much.
Blaine has his own clothes at the loft, of course. It’s a necessity, given that he usually stays over at least a couple nights a week. It would be ridiculous for him to have to do the Commute of Shame back to his own place every morning before class, so it makes sense for him to have a stash of clothes here, as well as some other basics – hair gel, moisturizer, deodorant, razor, things like that. Kurt loves that man with all his heart, but he’s not sharing his toothbrush with him. They’re not animals.
So there are plenty of Blaine’s clothes to choose from. All Kurt has to do is rifle through the available options and select something appropriately cozy. Pajama pants and a henley, maybe, like he’s picked for himself. Ooh, or one of the classic pajama sets Blaine wears so well, the ones that make him look like the star of one of those old TV shows where the husband and wife sleep in separate twin beds.
For some reason, though, he goes back to rummaging through his own drawers, looking for something that will accommodate Blaine’s ass and shoulders without totally drowning him.
He can’t really explain why. A whim, or maybe an instinct. Something to do with the way Blaine will curl up around Kurt’s pillow if Kurt gets up before him, or how Kurt’s hoodies have a habit of vanishing from his hamper and then magically finding their way home a week later, neatly folded and smelling of Blaine’s detergent.
It just feels right. When it comes to Blaine, Kurt has learned to trust his gut.
He ends up choosing his favorite pair of yoga pants, which haven’t actually made contact with a yoga mat in months. These days, he only wears them when Blaine’s around and he’s in the mood to get bent over the back of the couch; he can’t even wear them in front of the girls anymore without embarrassing himself. Aside from their usefulness as a trigger to Blaine’s libido, they’re comfortable and stretchy, so they should fit Blaine as well as anything else Kurt owns.
He grabs an old, well-worn Hummel Tires & Lube shirt, too, along with one of the luxuriously soft towels Blaine gave him as a graduation present, and strides off to deliver the whole little stack before he can think too much about it.
The bathroom is warm and humid, filled with sweet-smelling steam. Kurt sets the clothes and towel down on the closed lid of the toilet, and just stands there for a minute, content to listen to the shifting sound of the shower spray ricocheting off skin, the splash of Blaine’s feet moving through the water near the drain.
He tugs on the shower curtain. “Feeling better?”
“I think I’m melting,” Blaine says, sounding groggy.
“Try to stay conscious,” Kurt advises. “You don’t want to have to explain to June how you broke a hip in the bathtub.”
There’s the snick of a bottle being opened. “That only happens to old people, Kurt.”
“You never know. Don’t go tempting fate, grandpa.” He listens intently for a moment, trying to figure out what stage Blaine’s at. Shampoo, he thinks. And then, in a brilliant flash of inspiration: “If you don’t put anything in your hair, I’ll give you a head rub.”
Blaine makes an odd, indistinct noise. Probably a good one, though it’s hard to tell over the sound of the shower. “I love you.”
Kurt smiles. “I love you, too. Don’t drown in there.”
+
As promised, Blaine’s hair is loose, toweled-dry and curling in a way that Kurt rarely gets to see. It’s tragic how insecure he is about his natural curls. Kurt likes the way he normally styles his hair, but he’s so pretty like this, all relaxed and tousled.
And the clothes…oh, the clothes were a good idea.
The t-shirt is agreeably snug in the shoulders, a little baggy around Blaine’s narrow waist. He’s already lost most of the weight he gained earlier this year – which can’t have been more than ten pounds, though he carried on about it like he was turning into Danny DeVito – but he’s kept the little tummy he’s had since his junior year, for which Kurt is secretly grateful. Oh, of course his love isn’t conditional on the shape of Blaine’s body. To him, Blaine will always be the handsomest man in any room, no matter how much he weighs or how gray his hair gets (another inexplicably deep-seated fear).
Above all, he wants Blaine to feel comfortable in his body. If that means losing weight, or gaining weight, or chiseling himself a set of rock-hard abs, Kurt will support him.
But he has to admit, if only to himself, that he’d be sad to see the belly go. It’s a comfortable place to rest his hand, and an even better pillow. He likes the give of it, the way it feels against his cock when Blaine’s on top of him, the creases that appear when he hauls Blaine’s legs up over his shoulders. And right this minute, he likes how it looks in his t-shirt, the way the thin fabric drapes just-so over that sweet little soft curve.
As for the pants, they clearly have magical powers like the jeans in that awful movie, because they look at least as good on Blaine as they do on Kurt. They’re a little long on him, puddling around his bare feet, and they stretch beautifully over the thick muscles of his thighs. His ass probably looks incredible. Kurt makes a mental note to persuade him to turn around as soon as possible. Surely there’s something that needs fetching from one of the top shelves in the kitchen. Or under the sink. Or over the back of the couch.
Best of all, Blaine looks happy again. His eyebrows have perked up, and there’s a playful tilt to his lips as he saunters right up into Kurt’s personal space, sure of his welcome.
He’s right, of course. Kurt reels him in close for the second time tonight, pleased to feel him so warm and loose-limbed from the shower. He smells delicious.
“You brought me your clothes,” he says, nosing against Kurt’s jaw. “Did you get lost?”
“If you’re complaining, I can always reclaim them,” Kurt says. He snags a finger under the hem of the shirt and makes to tug it up, and Blaine bats his hand away, grinning.
“Nope, too late. They’re mine now. You’re never getting them back.”
Kurt is highly confident he’ll be able to talk Blaine out of them one way or another. For now, though, he allows himself to be distracted by Blaine’s lips, peppering warm kisses down his jaw and over to his mouth. He loops his arms over Blaine’s shoulders and hums into the kiss, silently preening over his defeat of Blaine’s bad mood.
As wonderful as this is, their dinner is getting colder by the minute, and Kurt’s going to be the grumpy one soon if he doesn’t get some food in him. He breaks the kiss with a sigh, tilting his forehead to rest against Blaine’s. “Are you hungry? I heated up some of the risotto from Wednesday. And there’s some of Rachel’s weird avocado cake left, if you want.”
Blaine pulls away from him so fast he almost trips over his own feet. Kurt would feel offended, except that Blaine is giving him a look like he’s done something much more amazing than sticking a Tupperware container in the microwave. “Have I mentioned recently that I love you?” he asks earnestly, already moving to slide into his chair.
“Only a couple hundred times,” Kurt says, which may be a slight underestimation. He joins Blaine at the table and dishes the food out for both of them, leaving the serving spoon angled toward Blaine. “I’m telling you, this is just Dance Technique catching up with you. I don’t understand how you don’t eat after that class. If I didn’t bring power bars with me, I’d be attacking innocent bystanders on the street. It’d be a massacre.”
“Uh huh,” Blaine says, clearly not listening. He takes a huge bite of risotto and actually groans out loud. “Oh my god. If I could ask you to marry me again, I would.”
Kurt arches an eyebrow. “I don’t see why you can’t. I have ten fingers.”
Blaine doesn’t respond, too busy attacking his food like a starving animal, but his foot creeps over and nudges Kurt’s. Kurt nudges back, tucks his toes up under the hem of Blaine’s borrowed pants, and there they are: two young lovers together on a Friday night, in the greatest city in the world, eating leftovers in their pajamas and playing footsie under the kitchen table.
Adulthood.
Five minutes later, Blaine has demolished his first helping and is well on his way to finishing off his second. Kurt still isn’t even halfway done with his plate. It’s not that he’s not hungry, or that the risotto isn’t superb. It’s just…well, he’s a little distracted. Blaine has both elbows propped on the edge of the table, and that shirt is doing such good things for his shoulders and biceps, thin cotton straining against every curve of muscle. He’s recently taken up boxing again, and his arms are looking especially well-defined tonight. Hard. Powerful.
Blaine catches him staring, because he has some kind of sixth sense for when Kurt is trying to subtly ogle him. He smirks. “Can I help you with something?”
“We should try fucking up against the wall again,” Kurt says. He’s a little shocked at himself, to be honest – he’s rarely so blunt about these things – but it’s worth it to see the way Blaine’s eyes go wide, that smug little grin falling right off his face. He takes another bite of risotto, deliberately nonchalant. “I bet we wouldn’t fall over this time.”
“Um,” Blaine says. His fork dangles lifelessly from his fingers, tines scraping against the edge of the plate.
“Not tonight, though,” Kurt continues, as if he doesn’t notice the flush creeping down Blaine’s neck. He can feel color rising in his own cheeks, his ears heating up with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment. “You actually might fall over. Still hungry?”
The fork clatters to the table.
Kurt barely has time to shove his chair back before Blaine is on him, climbing into his lap with such careless haste that he almost overshoots and topples off the other side. Kurt laughs at his eagerness, grabbing hold of his waist to keep him steady, and abruptly stops laughing as Blaine seizes his face with both hands and kisses him, hard.
“You’re terrible,” he accuses, sucking on Kurt’s upper lip.
“Mmm, I know.” Kurt slides his hands along the firm planes of Blaine’s lower back, warm through the cotton of his shirt. “This is obviously such a trial for you.”
“Terrible,” Blaine says again, and follows up with another kiss, wet and open.
Kurt surrenders to it, letting his eyes drift shut as Blaine’s tongue slips into his mouth. He kind of figured he’d have to work a little harder for this, after their rocky start earlier in the evening, but for once, he’s perfectly happy to be proven wrong.
That said, he does still have a promise to keep. He reaches up and sinks a hand into Blaine’s hair, threading his fingers through the soft, damp curls. Blaine squirms in his lap, sighing a happy little noise into his mouth, and Kurt scritches gently at his scalp in reward. Maybe if he teaches Blaine to associate gel-free hair with sex as well as head rubs, he can make some real progress.
With Blaine straddling his thighs like this, Kurt has to tilt his head back a little to kiss him. There’s something inexplicably sexy about the switch in their usual positions. He likes that he’s a couple inches taller than Blaine, that Blaine sometimes has to push up onto his toes for a kiss if Kurt’s wearing shoes with any height to them. But this is nice, too, especially when they break apart to breathe and Kurt finds himself blinking up at Blaine’s red cheeks and long, fluttering eyelashes.
It also puts him in an excellent position to get his mouth on Blaine’s neck. And really, what kind of fiancé would he be if he didn’t take advantage of that?
He tugs on his handful of curls, gently, and then not so gently, urging Blaine’s head back to display his heat-flushed throat. He mouths at the golden-pink skin under his jaw – so smooth; he must have shaved before he came over – and Blaine moans his name, low and wavering.
He tightens his hand in Blaine’s hair, licks up the taut line of a straining tendon. “Yeah?”
“Please,” Blaine breathes, thighs clenching around Kurt’s.
Kurt’s cock twitches, already half hard. “Again,” he murmurs, lips just grazing Blaine’s skin.
Blaine whimpers. “Please,” he repeats, begging now, and cries out when Kurt’s teeth sink into his throat.
Blaine likes it a little rougher than he does, likes to feel the scrape of his teeth and the hot ache of fresh bruises. It’s not exactly a hardship to oblige him, though they have to be careful. If Santana spots even the faintest hint of a hickey, she won’t shut up about it for days, so in the interest of his own sanity, Kurt always tries to keep any marks down where they can be hidden by a neatly buttoned-up shirt collar. Thank god for Blaine’s bowtie habit.
While his mouth is otherwise occupied, Kurt allows his free hand to wander, starting with where his yoga pants are pulled taut over the bend of Blaine’s knee. The pants are so tight and the material so soft that his hand just glides up Blaine’s strong thigh, up and around and oh, god, these are the best pants. He’s never taking them back.
He releases Blaine’s hair so he can get a good, double-handed grip on his ass, hitching him in a bit closer. Blaine hums in approval and rocks his hips, pressing back into Kurt’s hands, then down against his stiffening cock.
“You know,” he says conversationally, breath hot against the shell of Kurt’s ear, “you didn’t give me any underwear.” His lips move down to Kurt’s earlobe, suckling teasingly.
“Didn’t I?” Kurt replies, feigning surprise as best he can with Blaine’s dick rubbing up against his. “How thoughtless of me.”
Blaine ruts down harder, thighs flexing with the movement. “God, Kurt. Feels so good.” He tilts Kurt’s jaw up and takes his mouth again, sweeter this time. “Love you.”
They stay like that for a long while, trading kisses and rocking slowly against each other. Kurt is in no rush. He has everything he could possibly want: Blaine’s lips on his, Blaine’s ass in his hands, Blaine’s deft fingers trailing down to pinch and stroke his nipple through his shirt. He would be happy to stay just like this forever. Longer, if possible.
On the other hand, it’s becoming increasingly apparent that the kitchen table isn’t the best place to be doing this. The seat of the chair isn’t wide enough for Blaine to brace his knees, so his legs are dangling, feet only just touching the ground. Neither of them have much leverage like this, and the chair has started creaking ominously as Blaine’s movements pick up speed. As much as it pains Kurt to think it, they should probably relocate before they go any further.
He squeezes Blaine’s ass, simultaneously groping him and urging his hips forward. “Bed?” he suggests. There’s lube by the bed, which would open up a delightful array of possibilities involving that ass and his cock.
“We’ll never make it,” Blaine says, with the certainty of a man who has had to scrub his own come off the floor. He drapes his arms over Kurt’s shoulders and nips at his ear. “Couch?”
Kurt considers it. “You’ll have to get up.” He’s pretty sure he can carry Blaine that far, as long as there’s a soft surface to collapse on at the end, but Blaine is pinning him down with his full body weight; he probably couldn’t even pick him up from this position.
Blaine grinds down against him. “Guess we’re staying here, then.”
Kurt should probably push harder, but he can’t really bring himself to care. It’s been days since they’ve had time to be together like this, and he aches all over with how good it feels to have Blaine’s warm pliant weight shifting just right in his lap. He’s going to come hard, probably sooner than later. He can already feel it starting to build, low simmering pleasure burning a little hotter with every roll of Blaine’s hips.
He sneaks a hand between then and presses it to the hard, hot line of Blaine’s cock, still trapped in those amazing pants. Blaine jolts at the touch, mouth dropping open into a beautiful pink O. “Kurt.”
Kurt feels the fabric going a little damper against his palm. It drives him wild: Blaine’s thick cock, throbbing in his hand, leaking slick and messy all over his pants. He wants to put his mouth there, wants to taste how badly Blaine wants him.
“You’re,” Blaine says, breathless, “god, you’re so…” He rocks down, trapping Kurt’s hand between their cocks. Kurt almost comes on the spot. “If you – if you don’t want me coming in these pants, we should probably stop.”
“It’ll wash,” Kurt gasps, “it’ll wash, I don’t care, fuck, don’t stop.“ He doesn’t care if he’s wrong, doesn’t care about anything but that sweet, perfect pressure against his cock.
He slides his free hand back up Blaine’s thigh, back to where he’s spread open over Kurt’s lap. The seam of his pants goes right down the center of him, neatly dividing the thick, round curves of his ass. Kurt traces that split with two fingers, all the way from the top of Blaine’s flexing ass down to the sensitive spot behind his balls, and Blaine writhes.
“Come,” Kurt demands urgently, vision blurring, “come, come come come, so close, come with me,” dragging his fingers up and down, harder at every pass. Blaine is a mess, legs quaking, clawing at Kurt’s shoulders as he gives up on thrusting and just grinds, close and filthy and so – fucking – good –
Kurt feels it when Blaine comes: the pulse of his cock, the wet heat slowly soaking through the fabric of his pants. It’s the last little push he needs, and he goes gratefully, rutting frantically up against his own hand and letting Blaine’s long, stuttering moans drag him over the edge.
It’s sharper than he expects, tearing through him in surges of searing ecstasy. His hips buck up hard against Blaine’s weight, so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t send him crashing to the ground – but Blaine is clinging to him, arms squeezing tight around his shoulders, riding out the last waves of his own pleasure. They shake and shudder together, holding on for dear life.
Once the aftershocks have died down, Kurt carefully extracts his hand from between their bodies, making them both hiss a little in discomfort. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles. He winds his arms around Blaine’s waist and grips feebly at his still heaving back, trying to remember how breathing works.
God, he’s exhausted. He’s usually not the type to pass out right after sex, but right now, he’s seriously considering bribing Blaine to carry him to bed. He’d slide right down to the floor if it weren’t for Blaine’s dead weight pinning him in place.
He drops his head down against Blaine’s shoulder. “Think we can sleep here?”
Blaine’s fingers drag clumsily through the hair at the back of his head. “Your legs’ll fall asleep.”
That’s probably true. They should really get up. The pressure on Kurt’s spent cock is already starting to hurt, and their pants are only going to get more disgusting the longer they sit here. They need to go change and clean themselves off, and maybe try to scrape the worst of the mess out of these clothes. That’s what needs to happen, and that’s exactly what they’re going to do.
Eventually.
Any minute now.
“So,” Blaine says finally, nuzzling the side of Kurt’s head. “I think I need another shower.”
Kurt huffs out a weak laugh. “Sounds like a good idea.”
Blaine pulls back a bit, putting a little distance between where they’re both sensitive and sticky. “You should probably join me. You know, to conserve water,” he says, with an admirably straight face, as if they have ever managed to get in and out of a shared shower in less than half an hour.
“Of course,” Kurt agrees.
“And then, um.” His smile is lopsided – and, astonishingly, a little shy. “Do you think I could borrow another pair of pants?”