Note: So, a kind Tumblr Anon posted a Glee Kink Meme prompt to my ask. It, uh, resonated, so I decided to give it a shot. Of course, since it's Monfer I was unable to avoid fluff entirely (Monfer = Fluff + Love x Dorktasticness), but I hope that the fluffy framework will not detract from the ::koff:: robust serving of smut within.
Title: I'll Take You There
Fandom/Pairing: Glee RPS, Chris Colfer/Cory Monteith
Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex and mild kink
Summary: This story came very close to bearing the title 'Giant Pile of Gratuitous Monfer Porn'. But then I decided it worked better as a summary, because, apt.
"It just sucks," Cory said. It wasn't quite a whine, but it was getting there.
Chris nodded, then remembered he was on the phone. He dumped the change the barista handed him into the tip jar, and went to wait for his coffee. "Yep. Sucks."
Cory sighed in his ear. "This is the first time we've both had time off in… God, I don't know how long, and I have to go to stupid Canada."
Chris smiled. "Cory. Did you just insult Canada? Like, all of it?"
"I'm allowed to," Cory said grumpily. "All patriotic Canadians are allowed to. But nobody else."
"I see." Chris took his coffee and made his way out into the sunshine, fumbling one-handed through his bag for his sunglasses. "How long will you be gone?"
"Four days. And it sucks, because I could be with you. Because I'd rather be with you. Because I miss you, and because I've become mildly obsessed with the fact that you're spending your days surrounded by a bunch of young and pretty boys, at least half of whom undoubtedly swoon every time you walk by."
Chris snorted. "You'd think I would have noticed that. The swooning."
Cory tsked. "They're probably swooners of great subtlety. That's how they reel you in."
"How very devious of them." Chris had to put his coffee on the roof of his car to find his keys. He reminded himself sternly not to drive off with it still sitting up there. Again. "But sadly, I don't think I'll have a chance to spend any of my precious days off calculating the threat posed by my covertly swooning co-workers—"
"Of course you won't," Cory scoffed. "That would take up an entire track in your terrifying billion-track mind, which would hamper your plans to conquer the world by the time you're twenty-two. Unacceptable."
Chris sighed. "It's like you know me." He locked his seatbelt, paused—then unlocked it, got out of the car, and got his coffee off the roof. Then he tried to remember where the hell he was supposed to be going. Right—grocery store. Because he was out of… everything. He shook his head. "God. My brain."
"Little crowded in there, lately?" Cory's tone was light, but nevertheless the compassion, the understanding in his voice made Chris close his eyes for just a moment, squeezing his coffee cup and swallowing hard.
"Nothing I can't handle. I just… sometimes it's so… loud." Okay. That was enough. This was not going to be a whiny, maudlin phone call. Was not. "Really, though, Cory—I'm fine. Fine. I, uh, I have to go. But call me when you get there, okay?"
Cory was quiet for a beat, but when he spoke, his voice was cheerful. "You know I will. And if you actually answer your phone, I'll probably swoon."
It sure didn't feel like a day off. He was so far behind on chores that they took half the day, and his phone rang every five minutes with one or another thing that he had to file away in the overstuffed mental cabinet he'd labeled 'handle this', and when he finally settled down to write he just couldn't focus, because he was twitchy and restless and distracted and his brain was going in fifty different directions and his phone would not stop ringing and he was about to turn the damn thing off when he looked at the screen and—oh.
"I need to ask you something." Cory sounded a little… wired. Must have been a bad flight.
"You know all that stuff you said to me, that time you were drunk?"
Chris blinked. "Uh. Which time?"
Cory hummed a little. "We'd only been together, I don't know, a month or two, maybe—but we were at a party and you got pretty wasted and then you whispered all this stuff in my ear, all these, uh… fantasies you had—"
"Oh." Chris used the hand that wasn't holding his phone to cover his face. "That stuff."
"Yeah. That stuff. Well, I need to know if you meant it."
Chris curled his fingers into his hair and pulled, his eyes shut tight. "Cory. Don't do this."
Chris sighed. "Yes, okay? I meant it—at least, the parts of it that I can remember. But I can't talk about it—not now. Because my brain is being unruly and I'm already frustrated and my skin feels too tight and if you remind me about all the filthy, reprehensible, and totally hot things I said to you that night I'm probably going to have to jerk off four times before I can get to sleep instead of just twice, and that doesn't really fit in with my current time-management plan. Also: jeez, embarrassing. So you don't get to—oh hell. Someone's at the door. Hold on."
He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and opened the door. Cory was standing there, phone in one hand and a duffel bag in the other. His cheeks were bright, flaming pink.
Chris caught his phone just in time before it slid to the floor, and clicked it off. "Oh. You're… here."
Cory's eyes were dark, intense. "Yeah."
"You're not… in Canada."
"Nope." Cory stepped in, dropped his phone in his pocket, and closed the door. "Changed my mind." He locked the door. The click seemed very loud. "I decided I had more important things to do. With you."
The hair on the back of Chris' neck prickled. "My time-management plan is about to get pretty seriously compromised, isn't it?"
"Blown straight to hell," Cory agreed solemnly, looming over him and moving in close, closer, as close as he could get without touching.
Chris swallowed. "I don't… I don't remember everything I said to you. That night."
"That's okay." Cory's eyes flashed. "I do."
Chris cleared the bed quickly, bundling everything but the bottom sheet into a ball and tossing it aside—because sure, there were times when all he really wanted to do was huddle with his sweet, goofy boyfriend under the covers, making out and slowly working up to something and giggling like a couple of idiots who couldn't keep their hands off each other—but his sweet, goofy boyfriend was apparently AWOL right now, and… and this was not one of those times.
"How do you—" want me, was supposed to be the rest of that question, only when he turned to ask it he found that Cory was already naked. Naked and… evidently interested. Extremely interested. Chris flushed hot right down to his toes, and cleared his throat. "Ready to go, I see."
Cory looked down at himself, and touched one finger to the tip of his cock, pulling it away from his body. When he let go, it bounced back against his stomach with an audible slap. "Yep. I guess… that would be the Viagra."
Chris blinked. "Uh. The… what?"
Cory ignored his question, rooting through the duffel bag. He took out the biggest bottle of lube Chris had ever seen and set it on the nightstand, then went back to the bag, dragging out a tangled bundle of straps and wide leather bands; leather bands with very shiny clasps.
"Oh my God," Chris said, but no actual words came out, just a dry-sounding squeak.
"I liberated these from the back of John's closet," Cory said mildly, like he was just making conversation. "That barista he dated a few months ago? Apparently, she had depths."
Chris stared at the tangle hanging from Cory's hand, watching it swing slowly back and forth, mesmerized. He swallowed, and heard an audible click. "Apparently I do too, when I'm drunk."
Cory tossed the tangle at the bed and came to him, reaching for him. "Oh, I think you've got plenty when you're sober," he said, and yanked Chris' t-shirt up and over his head before moving on to his jeans, stripping him quickly, yanking his clothes off with a kind of detached, brusque efficiency that… was actually much hotter than it should have been. "In fact, I'm counting on it."
He really should have had something to say to that, only he couldn't, because once he was naked Cory guided him firmly to the bed and laid him out, facedown with both hands stretched up above his head. Chris' breath caught in his throat when Cory put the first strap around his wrist, and sped up when the second one went on, and then they were locked together and secured jointly around a central point between two of his headboard slats and Chris was… obviously a genius when he was drunk. "Cory," he said softly, stretching a little, feeling somehow much more naked with those three-inch-wide hunks of leather encircling his wrists. "I just… I should probably let you know—I'm probably going to come as soon as you touch me. It's been a while, and these—" he rotated his wrists, and the leather creaked, "are kind of hot."
"I'm not going to touch you," Cory said with calm detachment, and Chris gasped when Cory's heavily-lubed fingers slipped into him—no teasing brushes beforehand, no light, circling strokes, not so much as a single kiss—just a perfunctory and rough invasion, something that spoke of practicality more than seduction. "But you can go ahead and come whenever you want. I'm not gonna stop."
Chris was stunned, wordless, also hard and aching in a matter of seconds. He couldn't help a little noise when Cory's fingers slid out, or another gasp when they came back with—jeez, more lube. He wanted to talk—normally they talked pretty much nonstop, just little things like 'that's so good' or 'please, more'—but that… was with the Cory he knew. Whereas the giant, naked, terrifyingly erect guy methodically and efficiently greasing up his ass was—might as well have been—someone he didn't know at all. And, yeah, it was kind of disturbing how hot that was, but he decided to roll with it.
He rolled with it right up until Cory climbed on top of him and shoved his legs apart and started pushing into him, faster and rougher than he'd ever done it, miles away from his usual slow, careful, maddeningly teasing pace.
"Jesus, Cory—" There was so much lube Chris could feel it dripping off his balls, and his ass was throbbing like crazy trying to handle Cory's oversized cock all at once, and he just couldn't stop gasping, couldn't stop pulling on the cuffs around his wrists, thrashing around a little every time they brought him up short. Cory didn't seem to care, except that he used every move Chris made as an opportunity to sink deeper into him, and gave him no time at all to adjust before he started fucking him fast and rough, squeezing his hips hard and panting in his ear.
The problem was, Cory wasn't the only one who usually kept things under control—although he hadn't really realized that until now, until this moment when there was no time, no room for anything other than raw response. He was overwhelmed, awash in an overload of sensation, his neglected dick humping the sheets while he tried to find a way to handle it. But he couldn't—it was too much too fast, and any kind of control he might have had was gone, and he had no fucking idea he was about to come until it was right on top of him.
"Cory, fuck—" he managed, heaving under Cory's weight.
"Take it," Cory growled at him, a dark, demanding growl right in his ear, and that was it—Chris took it and shuddered and then groaned and came all over himself, his muscles locked tight until all the strength ran out of him.
True to his word, Cory didn't stop. Cory didn't even slow down. He hauled Chris up to his knees and kept fucking him, deeper now and slamming his prostate with every stroke. Chris cried out once, loudly, then bit his lip. It was… so intense, too intense, and he would have crumpled into a puddle if it weren't for Cory holding him up. There were bright flashes going off behind his closed eyes, and everything was somehow too much and not enough all at once. And Cory was… quiet. Really, scarily quiet except for his heavy breathing, and it was excruciating and embarrassing and also embarrassingly hot to be falling apart in such a spectacular way when Cory… wasn't.
The urge to touch himself was overwhelming, the need for some kind of counterpoint to Cory's deep, relentless strokes. He kept trying to, but then his wrists would catch and his whole body would jerk like he'd been shocked. He struggled a little, then a little more, biting his lips to keep himself quiet, but he surrendered before he knew he meant to and just gave up everything, let everything come, soft cries and helpless shivers and his hips bucking, his cock hard and needy and dripping onto the sheets.
As soon as he gave up, he heard Cory's breath hitch, and then one low, urgent moan. It washed over him almost like a caress, weirdly tender and intimate given that Cory was basically attempting to fuck him into next week. And as soon as he heard it, he was on fire everywhere, his spine curling around a new craving that went bone-deep.
"Come in me," he breathed, only then he couldn't stop saying it, softer and then louder and then hoarse syllables uttered between moans, and something broke in him and then he was begging shamelessly, working himself back on Cory's cock as hard as he could. He cried out when Cory clenched a fist in his hair, pulling his head back, and then the noises coming out of his stretched throat had no more words, just a soft, helpless keening that went on and on until Cory gasped behind him. Cory slammed into him once, twice, three times, almost brutally hard, and Chris shocked himself by coming again as soon as he felt Cory jerk inside him, dizzy and overloaded and saturated with the exquisite clarity of Cory coming in him, every twitch and throb distinct and overwhelming.
"God," he said when he could talk, his hips still moving, churning slowly like they'd never stop. "Cory… that was—"
He cut off when Cory pulled out of him, and then sucked in a grateful breath when Cory flipped him over onto his back, relishing the touch of the cool air on his sweat-slick, come-streaked skin. But his relief was short-lived, because even though Cory was flushed and dewed with sweat and visibly shaking a little, he was still—amazingly—hard, and was also—alarmingly—going for… more lube.
"You're not… Cory. You. Oh my God—" Chris watched openmouthed as Cory slid a giant handful of lube down his dick, his hands rough and careless on himself, then rough and careless on Chris as he grabbed his thighs and spread him wide and shoved right back inside, fully sheathed in him in a single stroke. Chris let go of one strangled, shocked cry before he started panting, his crossed wrists pulling uselessly against the straps, stupidly trying once again to grab his dick, because—Cory.
Cory was staring at him, impossibly tall up on his knees and staring right down at him, fucking him hard and fast, gorgeous and scary-hot as he squeezed Chris' thighs and spread him wider, shifting him easily until he found the angle that worked best for him and then just going for it, obviously lost in pleasure. It was one thing to feel Cory using his body, but another thing altogether to watch him doing it—Chris had never really found porn appealing, but at the moment he would have given an obscene amount of cash to have this on film; except then he'd probably never leave the house again, or do anything at all other than watch it and jerk off. His dick ached so badly he whimpered a little, lifting his hips, only Cory just held him tighter and… fucked him harder. Christ.
"Cory, I need to—let me, please—" Chris moaned, wrists twisting, pulling. "I need to—" he couldn't say any more, he could only twitch convulsively in Cory's grip, almost sobbing.
Cory hummed a little, eyelashes fluttering down over his pleasure-glazed eyes as he started running his hands over Chris' shivering, straining body—everywhere except where he needed them. "I like you right where you are," he said, his voice husky and low. "Just like this." He tossed his head, sighing. "You're so fucking tight when you're needy."
Chris had a lot of things to say about that. A lot—like how it was unfair, and awful, and also not even remotely fair—but he couldn't, he couldn't say any of it, because Cory was bumping right up against his prostate in a way that made it feel like he had a tiny, glowing sun deep inside him, and he was so, so sensitive there he was having some kind of helpless spasms, an unstoppable rebellion of overburdened nerve endings. He gasped and felt things start to slip away from him, tingling from his wrists down to his cramped, curled toes, his body going on some kind of autopilot while his brain went fuzzy and soft-focused and lost. He was rocking, also moaning, and kind of hyperventilating a little, but it all seemed very distant and unimportant just now.
All of that kind of blended together, everything too much and not enough, his body out of control and his brain gone, just gone, nowhere to be found—Chris felt his breath go high and light in his chest, very high and very light, soft, shallow breaths…
For a second he wondered if he was maybe coming again, but then he realized there were black, blossoming fireworks at the edges of his vision that bloomed and spread, bloomed and spread, and then a swoop like heading downhill on a rollercoaster into the darkness and he thought: holy crap. I'm passing out.
The first thing he heard was moaning. Moaning that sounded suspiciously like… him. When he opened his eyes he figured out why, and also why his hips ached—because Cory had him spread so wide it was amazing he hadn't snapped like a wishbone—and Cory was still fucking him. Apparently his own body had just gone ahead without him because he was awash, lapped in waves of pleasure and a little pain. His hips were bucking, his back was arched, his nipples were hard, tortured peaks and he was going to come, completely out of control and barely conscious but about to come so fucking hard if Cory didn't stop…
Cory didn't stop. Chris tried to stop himself, tried to say stop but there was no way, no room around all the noise he was making. There were high, soft, tiny cries and he could hear the wild flutter of his racing heart in each one and then something like an erotic supernova went off in him and he felt all his muscles not just flex but cramp hard, so hard it hurt, locking down everywhere, one wave after another and it was so good, so fucking good, no more pain at all except for where Cory was squeezing him—
"Fuck!" Cory yelled, and Chris could only moan a little and watch him come, soaking up the sight of Cory with his eyes closed and his head back, drenched with sweat, flushed red all the way down and just so fucking beautiful coming in him, curling over him finally, shaking hard, moving in him slower and slower still and then finally, finally still.
Chris closed his eyes and listened to the sound of their mingled panting, wanting to say… so much, so many things, but unwilling to break the fragile spell of the moment, basking in the sense of such unbelievable peace in every cell of him, and so much love—
He stayed quiet while Cory undid the straps around his wrists, only sighing a little when Cory chafed his skin there. He opened his eyes when Cory scooped him up off the wrecked bed and walked him over to the wide armchair in the corner, and he snuggled close, happily boneless in Cory's arms. It made sense—of course Cory was going to want to cuddle with him somewhere that wasn't sodden with lube and sweat and come. But as soon as Cory got himself settled in the chair with Chris on his lap, Chris realized Cory wasn't exactly the most comfortable thing to sit on—only then Cory solved that problem by lifting Chris bodily and sliding right back into him, so deep that Chris yelped in shock.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he squeaked, but Cory only hummed in his ear and started fucking him again, lifting him effortlessly and then pulling him down hard, over and over and over. Chris gave up and let himself whimper, sprawling bonelessly back against Cory's heaving chest. There was nothing else to do. And he would have left it at that if it hadn't been for his own traitorous, treacherous, idiot cock—which of course didn't know when to lie down and give up, and didn't care that every nerve in his body was saturated and overwhelmed and just plain fucked-out—no, all his dick seemed to care about was Cory's gasps and soft groans in his ear, the waves of need pouring off him that were palpable, and how strong he was, lifting him as if he weighed nothing.
"Cory," he whispered, suddenly hot and twitching all over again when he realized he had his hands back, that he could finally do something about it…
Only Cory had gone still, utterly still, in him up to the hilt but not moving at all, except for how he was shaking, hard. He heard Cory gasp once, and then twice, and then Cory's hands left his hips and slid up, up to his face, and Cory's forehead pressed against his shoulder. "Chris," he said, and he sounded wrecked, he sounded like a man who was at the end, the absolute end of everything. "Chris, I'm sorry, I can't, I have to—"
He was at a loss for whatever it was Cory needed so badly until Cory twisted him to the side a little and cupped him under the chin and then kissed him—and then he got it. Cory kissed him like he was starving, like Chris was oxygen and he'd spent the last hour without it, like this was the last kiss he was ever going to get, and he wanted to make it count. It was dizzying and sweet and made Chris' heart thump hard in his chest, but then one of Cory's hands left his face and slipped back down, down and down and finally around his cock, touching him so softly, so gently, so tenderly that Chris couldn't stop himself from shaking, although Cory was the one who cried out.
"It's been killing me, not touching you," Cory breathed against his lips, quick and raw-sounding and then right back into kissing him, sucking on his tongue while stroking lightly, slow and light and just the complete opposite of everything else that had happened, but it was so, so hot.
"Just… stay still, okay?"
"Oh. Okay, I—ohhh…"
Chris spread himself out over Cory's lap, resting with his head craned back to keep their mouths together, his hands fisted tight on the armrests while he worked his hips, fucking Cory's hand and then back onto his cock with slow, gentle circles. It was easy and dizzyingly erotic and endless, and Chris was shaking, they were both shaking. His face was wet and he was pretty sure that was because Cory was crying, but it was okay, it was good, everything was fucking amazing.
Cory's kisses were wet and desperate and salty-sweet, and Chris could feel him hanging on, struggling to stay still. He kept everything slow and drew it out, went right to the very edge of everything and then just kept going, Cory sobbing in his mouth and throbbing in his ass. He came helplessly, the two of them sliding against each other, skidding on sweat and clinging to each other like the rest of the world was falling away from them.
Later, after the world's most-needed shower and a full change of bedding:
"No, it was… really hard—no pun intended. I kept wanting to… take care of you." Cory touched his bottom lip gently.
Chris stretched luxuriously, snuggled happily under the covers with his sweet, goofy boyfriend. "Um. I don't know how to break it to you, Cory, but… you did. That's exactly what you did. You just took the best care of me ever."
Cory smiled a little, his cheeks abruptly pink. "Really?"
Chris nodded through a yawn. "Uh-huh. Really. Listen."
Cory waited, watching him, then leaned in. "What am I listening to?" he whispered.
"Don't you hear that?" Chris whispered back.
"I don't—I don't hear anything." Cory was listening so hard he was squinting.
Chris leaned in close. "And that's exactly, precisely how it sounds inside my head right now."
"Oh." Cory's blush deepened. "Good."
"Yep. Good." Chris curled up with his head pillowed on Cory's arm, closed his eyes, and listened, enchanted, to the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.
Author's endnote: veracity compels me to admit that I did do some research into Viagra and how it works on non-ED males, and in this story I am guilty of what could most charitably be called 'a high degree of creative license' (or 'rampant bullshittery and fact-avoidance', if you favor the plainspoken approach). But the prompt had asked for it, and I was more than happy to take the opportunity that was afforded by it, due to the EGREGIOUS AMOUNTS OF FUCKING I wanted to shoehorn into this story.
N.B.: One last thing. I'm an enthusiastic advocate for and practitioner of endurance sex (although this is the first time I've written any), and there's certainly fun to be had there—but if your partner passes out, you should stop whatever you're doing. Duh.
Title is from a lovely song by The Staple Singers, who did nothing to deserve such shoddy treatment at my hands.