Title: A Winning Game
Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17 for m/m shenanigans
Summary: Kurt takes parts of his destiny, and some other things, into his own hands.
Author's Notes: It's going to take me a while to find my stride with these two. In the meantime, thank you for your patience. This is one of those stories where I probably put too much porn in. I am keenly aware of this failing and am suitably chastened, and yet strangely unrepentant.
"What do you like?"
Blaine had one warm hand on his knee and the other up behind his neck, and even though it was cramped and awkward working with the limited space afforded by the front seats of Blaine's car, Kurt had really stopped paying attention to that some time ago. He was dizzy and too-hot, flushed all the way down to his toes and up to his scalp, which tingled every time Blaine's fingers tangled in his hair.
"I have no idea," Kurt breathed, disarmed into complete honesty, and he reached for more words because that was absolutely not the whole story—he liked a whole lot of things, and all the things they were doing right now were definitely near the top of that list—but his throat wouldn't work right, and everything he wanted to say just kind of bottlenecked right below his collarbones, and all he could do was breathe and blush and swallow.
Blaine, who—in Kurt's opinion—wasn't always exactly attuned to the complexities of nuance, seemed to get it. Thankfully. "Kurt, it's okay," he said calmly, brushing Kurt's cheek with his fingers. "We have lots of time to figure it out. We'll figure it out together."
"Okay," Kurt said, and then they were kissing again, and Blaine's lips were so smooth and soft and warm, and everything else was a million miles away.
For the moment.
Of course, the moment didn't last, and soon enough Kurt was right back to the key question: what did he like? Some parts of the answer were clear—he liked guys, generally, and Blaine, specifically; he liked kissing and closeness and the way Blaine looked at him when they'd been doing a lot of those first two things. But beyond that, he honestly didn't know. And he should, he really should—here he had this perfectly lovely boyfriend, and no real clue what to do with him now that he'd realized there was more to having a boyfriend than coffee dates and parked-car kisses and having 'Save The Best For Last' stuck on a permanent loop in his head.
He didn't know. And that was maddening, because every time he tried to figure it out his brain skittered sideways and his lungs tightened up like they didn't really want to breathe, and that was stupid, it was stupid to be so afraid of sex—
"I'm afraid," he said out loud, and that brought him up short. So short that he froze right at the dinner table with his fork halfway to his mouth, stunned and silent until he realized that there were three people staring at him. "Sorry," he said apologetically, setting his fork down. "I, uh, just realized I'm afraid. Of, uh, clowns."
Carole looked mildly concerned. His dad raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Finn reached out and grabbed the bread basket, shuddering visibly. "Ugh. Clowns."
"Yeah," Kurt said, keeping his voice low. "Quelle horreur."
It was one thing to be ignorant—he couldn't help that; inexperience was ignorance, and he would remain inexperienced until, until… well, until he wasn't, anymore. But being afraid was altogether different—he'd learned a lot about fear over the past months, including how to separate out reasonable fears from the ones that were just… in his way.
And his fear of sex—that was definitely in his way. That was about as much in his way as it was possible for a fear to be. But he realized later that night, as he was flipping a pencil between his fingers and pretending to pay attention to his calculus homework—it didn't have to be. Because he had options. Lots of options. And he had resources. He had temerity. He had tenacity. He had chutzpah. He had audacity. He had stubbornness—lots of stubbornness.
In short, he had the boldness, the intrepidity, the resolve to take his sexual dilemma, and his sexual destiny, into his own hands.
He was Kurt Hummel. He would fear no penis.
His first approach was logical: he cross-referenced his pamphlets, his muscle magazines, and The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People to create a detailed action plan. It was a thing of beauty and a testament to his creative abilities, only maybe it got a little too creative. Because all the dry words and charts and graphs seemed to need… something, and then the artistic flourishes he added for balance kind of took over and long story short he ended up burning it in the fireplace when nobody was home because God, if anyone had ever found it he would have just died a horrible embarrassed death on the spot.
His next approach was instinctual: he deliberately and methodically broke down the walls and barriers and blocks that kept all his thoughts about sex at a comfortably soft-focused distance, firmly relegated to the background. At first it was scary, and then it was just difficult—but he put his stubbornness to good use and kept at it, and little by little he succeeded. Then he succeeded some more. Then he had to take a bit of time to sit back and marvel at his own ability to succeed at things, because it turned out that his brain, freed from constraints and then offered a choice between thinking about sex and thinking about, say, the conjugation of French verbs, or fashion-forward ensembles, or even not getting mowed down by cars when crossing the street—there was no contest.
"Dude, what the hell's wrong with you?" Finn asked him, leaning back against the headboard of his bed, milk glass balanced carefully in one hand. "You've been walking around like, like you've been hypnotized or something."
He had been. Hypnotized by dick. "I can't stop thinking about sex," he said without thinking, and then winced, because God knew how Finn was going to take that.
But Finn just smiled a little and shrugged, sloshing warm milk over his hand, which he promptly licked off with his huge puppytongue. "Oh. That's just because you're a dude, dude. It means you're normal."
He was touched, offended, and comforted all at the same time, and it gave his brain a happy ten-second break before he told Finn goodnight and walked down the hall to his own room, his own thoughts, his own bed.
Where visions of sugarplums danced in his head, if you allowed for a very liberal interpretation of the text.
He had always relegated jerking off to the bathroom—usually the shower—and ever since he'd started doing it he'd always spent the entire time half-nervous and half-guilty, rushing through it to minimize the chances of getting caught and also because, well, he had other things to do. It had just been a shameful, awkward habit, something he made time for when he had to, then moved on from as quickly as possible.
Now, though, with his beleaguered brain running mad on him, that simple and expedient approach was entirely insufficient. He started taking a lot more showers. Then it occurred to him that he didn't care if it seemed risky and dangerous and also vaguely unsanitary, he was a red-blooded, American male teenager, and he was by God going to jerk off in his own bed.
He waited until he was sure everyone else was asleep, then waited a bit longer than that, then he couldn't wait any more and he jammed his hand down his pyjama pants and went for it—only halfway through he realized he might as well have saved it for the shower, because habit was habit and so he was just rushing through it as fast as he could and feeling as nervous and guilty as ever. So he slowed down. And then he slowed down some more. And the next thing he knew he had one hand up under his pyjama top tweaking his nipples in time with his light, slow strokes below, and his entire body was about to fucking explode from amazingness, and he'd had no idea it was possible to feel like this but that was probably a good thing because he doubted he would have ever had any other hobbies if he'd known. Or any friends. Or bothered with school.
The only problem was he wasn't quite prepared for how devastatingly wonderful everything was when you actually took the time to feel it, and he forgot to keep the noise down. He heard Carole's voice in the hall just in time, and managed to curl up around his raging, aching cock and yank the covers up to his chin before the light in the hall went on and his door creaked open.
"Sweetie?" Carole asked, peering in at him, "you okay?"
"m'fine," he huffed, and realized that although he'd gotten himself decently covered, he couldn't do anything at all about his breathing, or his flaming-hot face, or the fact that he was drenched in sweat. "Nightmare," he managed, praying she wouldn't come any closer. She didn't, but through the open door he could see Finn behind her, bed-headed and blinking owlishly in the light, holding a baseball bat at the ready. Not his dad, but that wasn't exactly surprising—dad could sleep through an apocalypse. "It was a nightmare. Uh. Calculus test. All my answers were just… drawings of clowns."
Finn choked up on the bat, as if a clown were about to spring out of nowhere and attack him. "Gah!"
Carole shot both of them worried looks.
Through trial and error, he figured out he could make it work if he waited until basically the middle of the night before he really got going, and as long as he took precautions like keeping a pillow over his face and locking his bedroom door. It meant he didn't get much sleep, but it was totally, totally worth it. He actually started going to bed an hour earlier, because the more he drew it out and let everything build up the more incredible it was when he finally came—and okay, yes, it was fucking torture, but it was just too good to stop.
It changed everything. Even in the daytime. He was light, giddy, and suddenly very prone to humming obnoxiously upbeat and non-dramatic songs. He realized that a lot of it had to be the sleep deprivation, but he didn't even care. He breezed into the Lima Bean thirty minutes late, and found Blaine sitting at a corner table across from a conspicuously empty chair, arms crossed and brows lowered into a half-disappointed, half-hurt scowl. Kurt ignored all that and just kissed the hell out of him, right then and there. Then he picked up the cold cup of coffee Blaine had gotten for him and chugged it, the whole thing. Then he kissed Blaine again. Then he picked up Blaine's coffee and chugged that. Then he sat down, wiping his lips on the back of his hand and sighing, happily. "Hi, Blaine. Um. Thanks."
Blaine didn't look hurt or disappointed anymore. He looked kind of like he'd just been through Hurricane Kurt. It was actually a ridiculously cute look on him. "Kurt, you… I can't believe you just… God." Blaine shook his head, then squinted at him. "What's gotten into you?"
Kurt leaned in, conspiratorially close. "Nothing, yet," he murmured coquettishly, "but I'm open to suggestions." He slid the toe of his shoe up Blaine's calf under the table, and Blaine jumped. Kurt giggled. "How's Friday night?"
Blaine actually blushed, staring down at his empty coffee cup, and if he didn't stop it, with his pink cheeks and his eyelashes and his mouth softly open in surprise, Kurt was going to lay one on him again. "Um, sure," Blaine said slowly, smiling self-consciously while straightening his tie. "Did you, that is—did you have anything particular in mind? That you want to do, I mean."
"Oh, yes," Kurt affirmed happily. "Lots. Leave it to me." He licked his lips. "Pick me up at seven?"
Blaine was punctual, as always, and beautiful, as always, and as calm and composed as ever, and Kurt's heart did a double-gainer in his chest as soon as he opened the door.
"So," Blaine said while working his way out of his overcoat, "did you decide what you wanted to do tonight?" he paused with one arm free, looking around, peering over Kurt's shoulder to the darkened living room. "Where's… everybody?"
"Monster truck rally," Kurt said promptly.
Blaine blinked at him. "You want to go to a monster truck rally?" To his credit, he sounded only mildly uncertain.
"No," Kurt explained patiently, then got tired of being patient and yanked Blaine's coat off the rest of the way. "That's where my… where everyone is. I 'won' four tickets," he elaborated with air-quotes, "on the radio, and I didn't want to go but Finn managed to talk Quinn into it, so they all went."
"You won four tickets to a monster truck rally," Blaine said slowly, like he was trying to catch up.
"Of course not—I just told them I did. I bought the tickets. And then I gave them to my dad. So he would take Carole. And Finn. To the monster truck rally. And leave me here. With you."
Kurt could practically see the light go on above Blaine's head. "Oh. I… oh." He smiled and glanced away, and he looked so delectably, adorably shy that Kurt almost jumped him where he stood. "So… we're staying in, then?"
"For a nice, quiet evening," Kurt agreed, taking Blaine by the hand and drawing him towards the stairs. "Except maybe for the quiet part."
The thing was, habit was habit, and with his habits lately, his pace had become somewhat… glacial. It didn't seem particularly slow to him, but by the time he had Blaine actually naked and stretched out across his bed, Blaine seemed to have some definite opinions about how things were moving along.
"You're killing me, Kurt," he gasped, fists tight in the sheets and every breath rippling the muscles of his abdomen. "Seriously. I'm dying. Please—"
"Oh, you're fine," Kurt said absently, still mesmerized by slowly dragging his nails over the band of skin low on Blaine's hips that bore an imprint from the elastic waist of his boxer-briefs. Blaine hissed and writhed every time Kurt scratched a leisurely path from one hip to the other, his cock twitching, hard and flushed and gorgeous. All of him was just… gorgeous. "You're… mmm. Fine. Yeah."
He slipped out of his clothes quickly, and Blaine got up on his elbows to watch, his gaze level and wide-eyed and caught somewhere between desire and bashfulness—an amalgamation Kurt was intimately familiar with. Both of them gasped when Kurt settled on top, and Kurt let his eyes flutter closed just to relish the feel of it, warm and perfect and hard and naked and so, so close, and Blaine moaned like he was hurt and Kurt kissed him, humming low in his throat because he couldn't help it.
Blaine clung to him fiercely, churning against him, nearly wild. Kurt kept kissing him, kept everything slow and sweet, and resisted every urge to just… finish it. Blaine started to shake, squeezing his shoulders almost to the point of pain, but Kurt held out and held out and finally he felt Blaine go as tense as a bowstring and then relax all at once, crying out softly into his mouth, shivering just the smallest bit, yielding and open and heavy in his arms.
"Kurt," Blaine breathed, his eyes half-lidded and dilated almost to pure black, "what are you… what are you doing to me?" He sounded helpless, breathless, his voice husky and raw.
Kurt kissed him for a long time before he answered. "Do you want me to stop?"
Blaine tossed his head, arching back into the pillows. "God, no—oh God. I'd die."
"I won't let you," Kurt gasped, swiveling his hips and sliding them against each other until Blaine groaned loudly, right in his ear.
The thing was, he'd thought he'd keep it simple, slow but sweet and simple, only he hadn't allowed for—hadn't known, couldn't possibly have known—that Blaine would be so hot, that his body and the taste and feel of him and the sounds he made, that the quality of his desire would be so… tempting. It was like everything about Blaine was a temptation, or a dare—and simple kind of went by the wayside at that point.
So he dared. He licked and bit the strong muscles at the side of Blaine's neck, and then worked his way down to Blaine's tight, copper-penny nipples, using tongue and teeth together until Blaine shuddered like a racehorse, but there was more, of course there was more he wanted, so he dared some more and licked a wet trail straight down, his heart pounding in his chest like Blaine's soft, desperate, surrendered cries throbbed in his ears.
Blaine's cock was salty and wet, slippery and hard and unbelievably good on his tongue. He kept it light, kept it slow, and kept kind of a deathgrip on Blaine's hips while he figured everything out. The first thing he figured out was that he could feel it when Blaine was gearing up to come, could feel it and hear it and sense it. Every time that happened he backed off to the tiniest, teasing licks, backed off until Blaine gave up again and then started all over, working it out until he had Blaine gliding smooth and sweet in and out of his mouth, his throat—and that was so good, good in a way he hadn't expected, something that made him ache right down to his core, made him shiver in sympathy with Blaine's helpless, needy noises.
It was another dare, another kind of dare. So he went with it, pulled off Blaine's cock and moved up to straddle his shoulders, rubbing his thumb over Blaine's bottom lip until his mouth opened on a sudden gasp and his eyes went from hazy to wide-shocked and hungry, and then pushed his way in, just a little, just the smallest bit, and Blaine tried to swallow him whole but Kurt got one hand fisted in his hair and held him back, kept it light, moaning uncontrollably while he thrust between Blaine's swollen lips and rubbed the aching tip of his cock against Blaine's silky-soft tongue—but just a little, fighting back everything in him and everything in Blaine's damp-lashed eyes that wanted him to just go for it. "Nuh-uh," he managed, panting, shaking harder. "Not yet."
Blaine's eyes closed and he looked almost like he was in pain, but his trembling hands stroked Kurt's thighs endlessly, and so gently, so Kurt spent a lost, luxurious time reveling in the heat and sweetness of Blaine's mouth before he finally had to pull back, keeping his grip on Blaine's hair and heaving for breath, had to sink down and kiss his open, salty mouth, grateful and shaking and shaken.
"Kurt," Blaine breathed, and his voice was so lost that Kurt just wrapped him up, slid on his sweat and rocked with him, hoisted Blaine's legs up around his waist and then both of them cried out because they fit together like perfection and without even meaning to Kurt had come right up against the biggest dare of all—he had to lock his spine, had to force himself still because it didn't matter at all that he hadn't meant to, what mattered was that his nerves were screaming at him that he could be inside Blaine's body in a matter of seconds, if he wanted to. If he dared.
"Blaine," he said, his breath hitching in his chest. "I don't—I won't if you don't—if you don't—"
"Fucking do it," Blaine said, shocking him, enough of a shock to get him moving, dipping one hand into the bedstand drawer and trying to get himself under control, because he would need it—he would need it for this. For this, he would need everything.
Blaine was exquisitely, fiercely, almost painfully tight around his fingers, but despite all that Blaine started riding his hand almost immediately, moaning deep and low in his throat and utterly abandoned, gorgeous and shameless and working hard for more, and Kurt was kind of amazed and quiet and just watching everything from a balance point between awe and desperate lust until Blaine opened his eyes and fixed him with a look. "Please."
Pushing into Blaine was a pure skinned-nerve experience. He wanted all of him, all at once, and he was so hot that he was melting, and he needed to keep it slow and give them time—because they both needed time—but Blaine was gasping in his ear and kind of softly, brokenly begging. He didn't even stop when he got his hands fisted into Kurt's hair and dragged him into a kiss, but just kept on begging right into his mouth—and then everything exploded a little.
He fucked Blaine hard, groaning so loud it hurt his throat and arching his head back as far as he could. He got both arms under Blaine's shoulders and used what leverage he had, squeezing too tightly and pulling Blaine down while thrusting into him, making him take it, all of it, and Blaine made a wordless, desperate, grateful noise and went boneless under him, all of the machinery cranking up again, and Kurt felt him getting ready to come and just said yeah, yes, God—over and over again until Blaine locked right onto him, his eyes suddenly, shockingly wide, and Kurt managed one, two, three more strokes and then they were both coming, kissing and coming so, so hard and someone was sobbing a little and he didn't even care if it was him, because, fucking hell.
Afterwards, Blaine kissed him for five minutes straight, clinging to him, and then burst into spontaneous, causeless laughter in mid-kiss, and collapsed on top of him. Kurt's breath started to hitch, and he chuckled a little and then a little more and then he got kind of hysterical, weak from laughing and from everything else and then he and Blaine were leaning on each other like a couple of drunken idiots, rocking sloppily with their arms around each other and just… getting through it. Together. It was ridiculously awesome.
Later, in the quiet and dark:
"We can't fall asleep, you know."
"Oh, good. Because we can't fall asleep."
"Yeah. Yes. Go back to sleep."
He woke Blaine up fifteen minutes before everyone was due home, because he didn't want them to have to rush. But then he spent ten minutes kissing Blaine and enjoying the half-awed, half-delirious look in his eyes, so they had to rush anyways. But they got everything together in time, and made Kurt's bed look just a bit less like he'd enjoyed a group-grope with the entire football team in it, and then they went out to Blaine's car and Kurt gently herded Blaine up against the driver's-side door and kissed him some more, just because he couldn't not.
Blaine looked down and away when he pulled back, shaking his head and grinning.
Blaine gave him a look up through his eyelashes. "I can't believe I thought you were adorable."
Kurt snorted. "What, I'm not adorable anymore?"
"No." Blaine caught him around the waist and pulled him close. "You're devastating."
Kurt grinned helplessly. "Oh. Well, as long as I made an impression."
Then they were both laughing again, softly, and Blaine's arms were tight around his neck, and Kurt realized that it didn't feel so much like the end of their night together, so much as the beginning of… something else. Something incredible.
"Daring ideas are like chessmen moved forward; they may be beaten, but they may start a winning game."
—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe