(AN: Someone at the prompting post on LJ's kurt_blaine asked for Harry Potter pickup lines. Since I'd already done my November bulletin board with the exact same theme….this happened. And I kind of res life'd all over it. WHOOPS. lol)
The Magic Words
Kurt's head grinds a little funny into the solid plane of his wall, and it would almost hurt, if it weren't for Blaine's mouth so firmly affixed to his own on the other side, pressing him up hard against it and kissing him for all he's worth. Kissing him like he's actually worth something. He's got one hand firm on Kurt's shoulder and the other so, so gentle curved around his hip, their bottom halves sprawled on Kurt's bed and their top halves just barely coasting past each other's warmth while Blaine kisses him, truly kisses him, and even if Blaine were the fortieth person Kurt had kissed instead of the third he would probably stay convinced that Blaine is the best kisser ever. He can twist his lips, crane his neck in just the perfect way to remain gloriously unpredictable, his hot capable tongue sliding through Kurt's lips and curling with his own in a way that ripples heat through Kurt's very blood, or his lush mouth dragging down Kurt's jaw and the column of his neck until Blaine's nosing around against his collarbone or lightly raking his teeth behind Kurt's ear and it's all Kurt can do not to moan loud enough that the guys three rooms over could probably hear it. It's perfectly blissfully amazing, so much more than Kurt ever dreamed he would get to have, and if you'd asked him two months ago, he'd probably have told you that he could never get sick of Blaine's sweet, steamy kisses just sucking his life away.
But that was two months ago.
Kurt's hips start pumping in the smallest fractional increments up toward his boyfriend and he reaches out to curve his hands around the small of Blaine's back. He kisses harder, deeper, and begins to slip his hands further down...
And then Blaine sits back on his knees and rocks away, fixing Kurt with a stare that Kurt is getting downright sick of seeing. "Nice try."
Kurt, he is not ashamed to admit, full-on whines. "Blaaaaine," he says. "Blaine. Please."
"I've already told you, Kurt, we can't." His hazel-brown eyes are dark in the dim lighting of Kurt's dorm room, but Kurt can still see the wavering, sparkling conflict behind them. His own eyes flick between them and the thick maroon splotch welling up at the juncture where Blaine's neck meets his shoulder. Oh, how Kurt loves these uniforms.
"Is it just that you don't want to?" says Kurt, knowing full well that this isn't true, and dragging his own tie and shirt collar a little looser open at the neck, running a finger across his clavicle, pulling out all the stops.
"Kurt," Blaine groans, "of course I want to." He grins darkly, and slides his hand back over Kurt's hip, running his coarse thumb light and tantalizingly slow over a slim strip of skin that's just accessible between the bottom of Kurt's shirt and the waistband of his pants. The skin-and-bones caress makes Kurt shiver, and bite his lip to control the embarrassing whimper that results. "Jesus do I want to," he says, his eyes transfixed on the spot where his thumb and Kurt's skin connect. "But you know. About the policy."
"Screw the policy, Blaine!" Kurt growls, tangling his fingers in Blaine's hair just above his ear. "I don't think there is anyone in this place who hasn't violated the freaking Dalton no-intimate-touching-below-the-belt policy at least once. Brandon Lovegood is probably violating the policy right now. Come on." He presses his mouth back to Blaine's and sucks thickly on his lower lip, and his hips begin to rock forward in Blaine's grasp again. "Touch me."
Blaine's kiss is smooth and lush and flawless, as usual, but after a moment he pulls away altogether, climbing off Kurt's bed and standing up. "I really, really can't, Kurt," he says, voice laden with genuine apology. "You know I'm the floor monitor. I have to set a good example, and that means not breaking the rules. I'm sorry."
Kurt leans away from the wall, which is finally hurting his head, and frowns. "No one would know."
Blaine grins, teeth impossibly bright in the gloom, and strokes his hand hot around the curve of Kurt's cheek. "Oh, believe me," says Blaine. "Everyone would know."
Blaine, Kurt thinks, is lucky Kurt is in love with him, because to turn around and leave the room after a hot heavy-handed comment like that, and leave Kurt groaning and fumbling with the zipper to his uniform pants, is kind of unforgivable.
Two months ago Kurt was fine with just the kisses.
But after two months, Kurt's about ready to kill for something more.
Yeah, so that's how it went: Blaine was the floor monitor, and it was really freaking annoying.
Kurt doesn't like to deliberately break rules. He's watched Puck do that far too frequently for it to be very appealing, thank you very much. But what he does like to do is have fun, and with a rulebook like Dalton's, that ends up being kind of difficult. Kurt is thankful literally every day for the anti-bullying policy, when he wakes up and sees that his roommate has managed to sleep a night in the same room as him without being scared he'll catch the gay, when no one shies away from him in the hall bathroom, when he can make it from class to class with a shirt that isn't stained with artificial blue raspberry and shoulders devoid of bruises. But he would like to wear something beyond the three options he currently has of blazer/sweater/sweatervest every once in a while. And he would like to stay out a little later than 10:30 pm on weekdays sometimes, because that makes it really hard to do dinner and a movie with Mercedes or the audience-participation Rocky Horror in Dublin with Tina. And what with Blaine being Mr. Stickler about every-freaking-thing thanks to his status as primo rule enforcer for the hall that most of the boarding Warblers live on...well, Kurt's shirts may not be blue, but his balls were definitely getting there.
This is ridiculous.
He rolls out of bed Sunday morning, head still spinning with way too many way too good dreams, to discover a bit of commotion in the hall.
"What is it?" he mumbles, clutching to his overstuffed shower kit as he tries to make sense of things.
David grins. "Brandon's girlfriend was here this weekend," he says.
"You think?" says Kurt. "She wasn't exactly quiet."
"Well, now she's not exactly his girlfriend," says Jonathan, with a bit of a leer. "They broke up pretty hard."
"Be nice to Brandon," Nick advises, "I feel like he got the short end of the stick here."
"So why all the hallway huddling?" asks Kurt. He really just wants to go start his morning moisturizing. "What is the big deal?"
"See for yourself," says David. "Quick, before Blaine gets to it!" Chuckling, he turns back into the clump of them, hovering just outside the bathroom door. Kurt pushes past them and stumbles in, and finds exactly two things:
Blaine, hands on his hips, still wearing his glasses, scowling furiously at the mirror above the sinks.
And the mirror, across which a vile, flirtatious message has been scrawled in purple-pink lipstick.
"I don't know about Brandon, but I sure can 'Love good,'" Kurt reads, and then barks out a laugh. "Ha! That's not bad. I did always like Stacy." Underneath it is a big fat lipstick kiss and the nine digits of a cell phone number.
"I can't believe this," says Blaine. "Housekeeping doesn't come in on the weekends, we're going to have to clean it up ourselves."
"No, no, leave it!" says Kurt, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder, smiling at him in the mirror. "This is hilarious."
"This is against about three different policies!" says Blaine, twisting out of Kurt's grasp to face him. "I know she's not a student here, but to blatantly flout our handbook like that - "
"Oh my god," groans Kurt, rolling his eyes. "Look, you know you've got kind of a reputation for being a stick in the mud, right?"
"Kurt - "
"It's not just me," he continues, "and it's not just because of...Friday night." Kurt takes a step back toward him. "You ought to try to loosen up, just a little. You know the more you crack down on people the more they just want to rebel."
"That's not true."
"The paint balloons."
"That was for Allen's birthday."
"The whoopee cushions at Warblers practice."
"Wes was out that day - "
"Everyone leaving every light on in the whole building until exactly 11:01 every night for a week?"
"Okay," Blaine relents, "okay. I just - why would they make the rules if they didn't want them enforced?"
"We're teenagers, Blaine," says Kurt. "We're going to screw up and push boundaries every once in a while. The rules are just there to remind us not to push too far. If you tried to get kids from McKinley to follow these policies this rigidly they'd probably burn the school down."
"Oh my god, really?" He looks genuinely appalled, and Kurt laughs.
"People are more likely to listen to what you have to say if they like you. And people like you better when you let them have a little fun every once in a while." He pokes Blaine in the ribs and he squirms and giggles a little, and Kurt knows he's winning. Underneath his law-abiding exterior, Blaine is still that sap that'll do anything for Kurt. He gestures back to the mirror. "This isn't hurting anyone."
"Well, that's not true," Blaine says. "It's probably hurting Brandon. She's not exactly being subtle about it."
The two of them stand facing the mirror for a bit, and Kurt has to agree, but then he gets a flash of (totally nerdy oh god) brilliance. "Well we erase the phone number, obviously," he says. "And...I have an idea."
He wets a paper towel and wipes away both the number and the name Brandon. When the glass is dry enough again, Kurt finds the mostly-dead tube of Stacy's lipstick - discarded against the counter in her walk of shamelessness - and fills in the empty space, in his light, curling handwriting, with the word Luna.
"I don't know about Luna, but I sure can - hey!" says Blaine, with a laugh. "Oh my god, that's perfect."
"It's not a personal attack so it's not violating the bullying policy," Kurt recites. "And it's still as entertaining as it was the first time around."
"You know," says Blaine, smiling at him in the mirror, "sometimes I don't know what I'd do without you."
Kurt fakes out a melodramatic, put-upon sigh, but smiles back. "That's what they all say."
It takes two days for the next one to appear.
Kurt's hustling back from his last class of the day with a serious need to hit the bathroom - they'd been mixing so many foul-smelling substances back and forth in his chemistry class that he was feeling kind of queasy. Still, as hurried as he was, he stops dead when he makes it through the door and sees that the Luna Lovegood line is no longer the only one scrawled across the mirror. Someone has taken a green dry-erase marker and penned in some more.
Why don't you make like Salazar and let me Slyther-in? Slyther
Slytheris underlined emphatically and Kurt can't help but laugh. It's clever. And it's also reassuring to know that there are other people on the floor at least as nerdy as he is. (The fact that it's written in green is a nice touch.) Still chuckling to himself, Kurt steps into one of the bathroom stalls and does his business. When he's washing his hands in the one good sink afterward he studies on the new one more, trying to figure out the handwriting, but he doesn't really recognize it. He decides to leave it at that - and hopes that Blaine does the same.
Much to Kurt's relief, he does. They're sitting at lunch one day, Kurt picking all the mushrooms out of his tetrazzini, when Nick and Brandon bound over to them, laughing and messing with the beatboxing part for Flo Rida's Right Round, which some miracle worker has managed to convince Wes to let them do for their Dalton Founders' Day exhibition.
"Did you guys see the new one?" says Nick.
"The new what?" Kurt asks, once he swallows his noodles.
"In the bathroom," says Brandon. "Something like, what was it - I don't have an invisibility cloak, but can I visit your Restricted Section?" Nick chuckles, and so, amazingly, does Blaine.
"That's a good one," he says, a little bit on the defensive, when the others give him a surprised look.
"What did you do to him, Hummel?" asks Nick. "And can you keep doing it for all time?"
"What do you mean?" asks Blaine, but Kurt just smiles at him, teasing but fond.
"I'll do my best," Kurt promises. And he means it.
They catch a glimpse of the new one - written in blue dry-erase this time, and that is so Jonathan's penmanship - rather...first hand when Blaine catches Kurt straight out of the shower that evening and smiles disarmingly at him before pressing him back into the shower's frosted glass door, hands around his ribcage and tongue shoving into his mouth.
"No - " whines Kurt - "my skin - my lotion - " but Blaine won't let up, smiling and humming into the kiss, and once Kurt makes sure the towel around his hips isn't going anywhere he lets himself throw his arms across his boyfriend's shoulders and kiss him back.
"You're yummy," says Blaine, kissing all around the corners of Kurt's lips.
"You're hot," says Kurt, and to make a point he reaches down for Blaine's hips and tugs their bodies full-flush against each other, warmth thrilling through both of them. "I just took a shower, don't make me need another one."
"Okay," Blaine says, a little too seriously, and he worms out of Kurt's grasp.
"Wait," says Kurt, "that was clearly joking, and what I clearly meant was 'please more,' Blaine." Because Blaine is back to wearing his Serious Blaine face, and Kurt feels like they're taking a step backward. He can see the writing on the mirror from where they're standing, and it's not even bothering Blaine any more - that was progress! So he's going to let that slide and not let this go anywhere?
"I can't let up on everything, Kurt," says Blaine, and Kurt actually groans out loud. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? You're - beautiful," he says. "But I can't take this too far."
David walks in on them, then, and freezes. "Sorry," he says with a hiss. "You two...havin' a moment?"
"Moment's over, David," says Kurt, fixing Blaine with a look that says except it so isn't.
"Good," says David, "because I found another great one." He gestures with a red Expo and grins, and Blaine and Kurt watch as he block-prints Are you using a Confundus Charm, or are you just naturally mind-blowing? And the three of them laugh together, and for a minute, their quarrels are irrelevant.
But Kurt makes it back to his room and remembers the hot flush of Blaine's skin against his, oversensitive from the shower, and that combined with all the dirty connotations of the Harry Potter stuff has him thunking his head against the back of his door in dismay.
Pretty soon, the whole mirror is getting to be a mess. There's a halo of blank space around the one good sink that everyone can use, but it gets to the point where they're fighting over it, because the rest is completely scrawled over with about eight different colors of marker.
Whoever's writing in green - Kurt is starting to suspect it's Ross, no matter how hard he tries to act like there isn't a geeky bone in his body - has added two or three more, including a particularly filthy one about a basilisk and the Chamber of Secrets. What is very obviously Brandon's hand has written Before Moaning Myrtle met me, they just called her Myrtle in orange between the soap dispensers. And someone's visiting girlfriend also seems to have adopted the lipstick technique to write If you were a dementor, I'd break the law to get your kiss with a bunch of little hearts after it. (It's almost sickening.) Kurt's personal favorite so far is I don't need Felix Felicis to get lucky! - but that's only because as far as he can tell by the handwriting, none of them have been written by Blaine.
David tried really hard, once. He made some joke about "whomping his willow" in a black marker instead of his usual red, and switched up his Gs and his Ts trying to copy Blaine's looping scrawl. And it might have worked, had he not also laid on some pretty thick innuendos to Kurt for a couple days afterward - trying way, way too hard to convince him that Blaine had directed the disgustingly cheesy line toward him specifically. (Plus his Ws were too pointy.) But since then - and since a really, really great makeout session on Blaine's bed that might have been the best one yet, where Blaine had actually dared to cup Kurt's ass through his pants a little but still wouldn't go any further - Kurt's been thinking a little too hard about Blaine, sweet sexy authoritative sexy Blaine, letting himself be so blatantly sleazy as some of these terrible lines are.
And the lines are terrible. There are so many wand jokes it's disgusting. But if Kurt knew for one second that Blaine had written one of them, he's not sure he'd be able to control himself any more, no matter what Blaine's opinions are on the freaking policies.
He gets up early on Tuesday, gunning for the showers, but when he gets there they are, as usual, all taken, and he's just going to have to wait. He loiters in his towel for a moment or two, feeling kind of awkward, and has nearly decided to give up and go wait out the rest of it in his room when he hears it - a soft humming drifting over the thudding spray, quiet enough that the people in the other showers probably can't hear it but it still carries over to Kurt's ears. And there's absolutely no doubt about who it is.
Entranced, Kurt walks down the line of showers and finds his boyfriend in the third stall - the exact one, if memory serves him, that Blaine had pinned him against a week and a half ago. He grins a little and then lets himself take in the sight - the warm, wet silhouette of Blaine, details obscured but form and shape most definitely clear, through the murky semi-opaque shower door. He twists and scrubs in a way that definitely should not be allowed to be that erotic, and Kurt feels himself start to flush, from his neck behind his ears down to his exposed chest. Oh, Blaine is right there. What if Kurt were ballsy enough to just open the door and join him? What if, like the water, Kurt could run his hands down across all the tight, hard planes of Blaine's body, rinsing clean all the places Blaine can't reach himself just to make everything so deliciously dirty all over again? The mass of hickey on his shoulder is gone by now, Kurt knows it, and he wouldn't mind getting started on another...
But, with a soft sigh, Kurt knows that he definitely can't. Blaine, whether he's admitting it or not, is obviously struggling with this whole thing, be it just because he really doesn't want to violate the policies or because there's a little bit of something bigger behind it. And Kurt loves Blaine. And Blaine would never push Kurt to do something he doesn't want to do, so doesn't Kurt owe it to him to return the courtesy?
Oh, but the song Blaine is singing softly to himself is Teenage Dream, goddamnit. Kurt shivers a little with want, and forces himself to walk away from Blaine's hypnotizing silhouette before he loses all ability to control himself. As he heads to the bathroom door, his eyes catch on the dozens of pithy Potter lines, reading over his favorites here and there like he always does any more.
Kurt, he realizes, has not added any of his own yet either.
And maybe that's the push Blaine needs.
Because Blaine does want him. Kurt knows it. And he knows that absolutely everyone will recognize his handwriting, because by his own admittance he writes kind of like a girl. And anyway no one else is using pink except the two bits written in lipstick. And Kurt is going to write right in the empty spot above the good sink. And everyone knows that Kurt and Blaine are dating, and everyone will know it's directed straight at Blaine, and everyone, everyone will see it.
Pressing his lips together in nervous anticipation, Kurt leans over the counter, braces his forearm against the mirror, and writes, bold and solid,
You don't need 'Accio' to make me come.
By the time he's finished, underlining the last word, Clark is stepping out of the last shower on the end, and Kurt trades off with him before anyone can start asking any questions.
It's funny, Kurt thinks, to go through the rest of his day and spot who from his floor has seen the new mirror message and who hasn't. The people who haven't laugh and pal around with him like usual, hi-fiving as they pass in the halls, snickering when he makes a particularly scathing remark in French class. The guys who have seen it, they grin a little darker, nudge his ribs a little harder. Kurt is glad to have support from as many people as possible. (He wasn't kidding when he told Blaine that most people think he's uptight. The guys are all on his side.)
Blaine himself, somehow, Kurt does not see until he's heading to Warblers practice that afternoon. They'd conveniently missed each other in the showers, and being a grade apart they don't have any classes together. He was a little surprised not to see him at lunch, though, and Kurt's a bit worried that maybe he was pushing Blaine's buttons too much with the mirror thing. It's not his fault, though, right? It's Blaine's fault for taking everything so freaking seriously, isn't it?
But oh, no, nothing is anyone's fault when Blaine shoulders up into him as they pass in the hallway and throws him completely off the path to the music room by dragging him - by his tie - into a small, dark classroom that's been emptied out for the day, and no sooner has the door closed behind them than Blaine is pinning Kurt to the back of it, one hand hard on his shoulder, one hand hard and low on his hip. Kurt barely has the time to think ohmygod yes before Blaine's mouth is hot and fierce on his and he can't really, y'know, think. Because it's so hot that his brain is probably melting out of his ear.
"You," hisses Blaine, as he nips and tongues across Kurt's lips, Kurt's jaw, Kurt's ear, "you freaking tease." Blaine's knee wedges its way between Kurt's thighs and he slots their hips and groins hard together and Blaine is already hard oh my god through his Dalton slacks and that's enough to get Kurt there pretty quickly too. Blaine tugs on Kurt's tie and shirt collar to expose more of his throat, lapping white-hot at Kurt's skin, breathing out these hot little noises that pulse arousal straight through Kurt in exactly the way he's been craving this whole miserable time. He's whining out loud already and they've barely even done anything.
"Do you even know what you do to me, Kurt?" Blaine pants, rolling his hips, his hardness dragging slow and forceful against Kurt's own. "Do you know how good I've been, how much I've struggled, to just every day be able to see you and not just touch?" He's got one hand buried in the hair at the back of Kurt's head and the other gripping tight against Kurt's ass, and he keeps thrusting, and this is so not going to take very long. "Do you know how hard I get off, Kurt, every night, thinking about you, your smell, this mouth, this skin - "
"Blaine," Kurt all but screams, and pumps his hips hard against Blaine's too, and they rut together and clutch at each other until it dissolves into nothing but blazing skin and grasping hands. There's this hard, surprising, hot strength to Blaine - he hefts Kurt up against the door and Kurt wraps his legs around Blaine's waist but Blaine holds on, holds him up, and keeps pounding into him through their clothes, which is not really enough and is yet already so much that Kurt doesn't fight it. This is what happens, Kurt realizes, when you take someone so tightly wound as Blaine and just keep winding him until he absolutely snaps. This is what happens when some miracle of miracles occurs and you get a perfect, hard-bodied boy all to yourself, who will rake his blunt fingernails in heavy sweeping patterns over your back, who will drag the fresh stubble of his afternoon jaw against the skin of your throat, who will cry out in broken but perfect pitch when you curve the palm of your hand over the thick burning bulge in his pants and stick your tongue in his ear. The door is thumping hard behind Kurt's back as they writhe tight together, Blaine's cock so hard and hot in his grasp that Kurt's eyes roll back in his head at the very idea that he could possibly be stroking it with his own hand right now, that this is really happening, that this is really Blaine rutting fierce against him in an empty classroom, and that the crackling moan he lets out a few moments later, the dampness of his pants against Kurt's hand, is Kurt's and Kurt's alone to cherish and relish in, even as his own orgasm wracks through him not ten seconds after.
They slump down the door together and collapse in a heap when it's over, Kurt's legs still looped noodle-limp around Blaine's torso, both of them panting and grinning wide. Blaine's got this totally sexed-out look on his face and Kurt wants to take a picture and keep it forever, and possibly frame it, because nothing in his life has ever looked more incredible than Blaine Walgreen making that face and Kurt Hummel having been the one that did it.
"Warblers," he says after a minute, when he sort of remembers that there is an outside world they should probably get back to.
"Someone'll cover for us," says Blaine. "Everyone knows." (And he's right.)
A moment or two later Kurt's snapshot-face fades away into a frown and a trace of Serious Blaine. "You," he babbles, "this is - it's just I really wanted - our first time was supposed to be perfect."
Kurt pulls him into a lazy hug, and laughs at him, breathing on his neck. "It was perfect."
As the floor monitor, Blaine has a single room to himself, and Kurt spends that night in Blaine's bed. And the next night. And the next. In the daylight hours in between, he racks up the hi-fives and grins way, way more than usual. He does a lot more dry-cleaning and wears a lot more scarves. He finds Blaine's Dalton handbook in a bottom, almost-forgotten drawer in his desk and laughs to himself, just a little.
Saturday morning he wakes up and Blaine's already gone from the bed. Kurt mopes a little, snuggling into the empty space for warmth and a trace of Blaine's scent, but then crawls out of bed and heads to the bathroom. Naturally, he notices it right away.
Every single one of the stupid Harry Potter lines that were scrawled across the mirror before is gone, scrubbed almost clean for the first time in weeks. Almost clean, because there's one single sentence written across the middle, a new one, black marker, authentic handwriting:
I'll put you on my Quidditch team, babe, 'cause you're a Keeper.
Kurt rolls his eyes, and laughs, and follows the sweet sounds of his boyfriend's humming down into the third shower stall.