DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, FOX does. And Ryan Murphy.
Uh, not many warnings for this. Some swearing (not really by characters), drunken fooling around, rebellious Blaine, and some underage drinking. This was written pretty quickly, and like all my other stories is also unbeta'd, so I apologize profusely for any errors and anything else that probably went wrong.


"It seems that you're always alone when you call me," Blaine says as soon as he picks up his phone. "Is that a subtle message?"

Kurt blushes, glad Blaine can't see it; see just how much his suggestive teasing affects him like he's still in elementary school and has a playground crush who has just presented him with a marvelous, heart-touching gift of some dirt and dead bugs. "I believe that that message is that I'm alone for a reason," he quips. "And how did you know?"

"You told me in Sociology on Wednesday, remember?"

"Oh," Kurt says eloquently. "Okay, well, yeah. I'm alone."

Blaine laughs. "Let me just saddle up my ride and head on over."

"Red-line it the whole way here, cowboy."


They haven't been dating long and they've been intimate for an even shorter time, but with Blaine, Kurt feels comfortable enough that he doesn't bother with the front that he usually puts up at school and sometimes around the house. There's an unspoken connection between them that goes far beyond physical attraction.

It's also this connection that leaves Kurt at home, alone for a whole weekend while the rest of his family heads up north for some reunion thing that he had begged off under the pretense that he had a killer AP History exam coming up that he needed to study desperately for because "B's are frowned upon at Dalton, Dad. Frowned upon."

They weren't, really, and several students were living proof that maybe money can buy everything, including an education, but it's not like Kurt could tell them the real reason he was opting to stay at home by himself for three days. He's always been a rather studious kid, so it wasn't an unbelievable lie. And somehow "I want to stay here to experiment sexually with my boyfriend" just didn't seem like the right thing to say to his dad who did, in fact, own a shotgun or two.

They were for hunting purposes—defense, if necessary—but could easily, easily be for boyfriend-killing purposes. That would just be tragic and poor little Pavarotti would have died for naught.

The prospect is nerve-rattling; Kurt knew the moment that he told Blaine of his intentions halfway through an increasingly-boring Soc lecture that Wednesday that there was no going back. Blaine's eyes had lit up and he looked like he was trying to reign in his excitement as he coolly replied, "Yeah, sure. That'd be awesome, Kurt."

It'll be awesome if he doesn't die of nerves first. Several times he finds himself bringing his nails up to his mouth, preparing to bite down to the quick, before he catches the action and tries his best to steel himself against the raging army of hornets in his stomach. He'd broken himself of nail-biting before he'd gone into middle school; now wasn't exactly a good time to start up again.

He's so used to being confident, calm, bossy Kurt Hummel that this insecurity is frightening and oh god, he should have just stuck to the original plan of grinding and handjobs because Blaine's pulling into the driveway and this is all so real now, oh god oh god oh god.

Blaine has been an absolute gentleman to Kurt from the moment they had their Jack and Rose moment on the staircase. He's mentored him, confronted Kurt's demons while simultaneously still being haunted by his own, given him advice and Kurt can excuse the Gap Attack because Blaine is, for all his dapperness and air of easy confidence, still just a teenage boy, and teenage boys tend to do stupid, reckless things like that.

He's never pushed Kurt, and even though their first kiss could be considered that, Kurt didn't exactly push away. That was kind of hard to do when he was almost quite literally melting into Blaine's surprisingly soft lips.

It'd been under Kurt's own discretion that late-night fumbles through sleepwear and make outs turned into inexperienced handjobs and frotting. Blaine had loved it—at least he said he did, and Blaine and his dick never lie—and Kurt was quite content to keep it there because now, a little over a month after their first covert under-the-sheets handjob exchange, he'd finally begun to feel semi-comfortable.

The only problem was, now he'd decided that maybe, if Blaine truly was the one, they should go further. And second thoughts or no, Blaine's here now, getting out of his car, and Kurt would feel like a pretty shitty boyfriend if he changed the weekend's plans, especially since Blaine had appeared to be rather interested in them.

The doorbell rings and it may as well be an executioner's ax for all Kurt's concerned because walking to the front door feels like he's marching down death row. He pulls open the door and does his best not to tuck his tail between his legs and run to the opposite end of the house.

"Honey, I'm home!" Blaine sing-songs as he steps through the threshold, red-checked flannel pulled on to ward off the late-April chill. "And I come bearing housewarming gifts!"

Kurt eyes the bottle in Blaine's hand, gripped loosely by the neck in Blaine's long fingers, and reads the label. He rolls his eyes and says, "You brought Dom Perignon Rose?" He shakes his head. "Spoiled brat." A little self-conscious smooth of an already wrinkle-free shirt. "And I'm not sure that'd exactly be a housewarming gift since we moved into here way before I knew you."

Blaine grins and reels Kurt in for a kiss. "My parents have, like, six bottles. They won't miss this one." He sets it down on the coffee table. "It's housewarming because isn't that what we planned on doing tonight?" He raises his eyebrows suggestively. "You know, warming the house with our sexual heat?"

Kurt's torn between wanting to choke and die or laugh hysterically. Thankfully he does neither and only stares at Blaine, unable to articulate any words that express his feelings right now. He doesn't like alcohol, he thought that much was clear, and even his delicious boyfriend bringing him delicious, ridiculously-overpriced champagne wasn't going to change his mind.

And Blaine seriously looks delicious, like it should be a sin. Kurt has always loved the whole boarding-school-boy look, but something about Blaine's effortless street attire of preppy-meets-hipster gets him. He even allows Blaine's pants that seem to be unsure if they want to be man-capris or jeans because that little bit of ankle makes Kurt feel like he's back in the Edwardian era when such things were scandalous and therefore all the more desired.

Even though Blaine's faded checked flannel drapes in all the right ways over his stocky, muscular physique Kurt can't help but imagine it off and thrown somewhere far, far from Blaine's body. Preferably on the stairs leading up to his room, or just there on the foyer floor, the display of such carelessly-shed clothes tantamount to the unresolved tension hovering in the air like some stupid phantasmal presence.

From somewhere outside of his swirling eddy of worry and the beginning throbs of arousal at imagining Blaine naked he hears the distinct pop of a cork from the kitchen. He swivels to face the source of the noise and Blaine is perched on the little granite-topped island, corkscrew in one hand with the sharp bit of the screw embedded into a hay-colored cork, green bottle of champagne in the other.

Blaine lifts the bottle to his lips and knocks it back, mouth wet and shiny when he sets the bottle to the countertop with a dull thud. His tongue darts out to trace along the curves of his lips, and the entire time his eyes do not leave Kurt's. He looks like a damn Marc Jacobs or Calvin Klein model with his legs loosely crossed and hair just the right amount of curly and Kurt can appreciate this fact.

Okay, and so maybe he could appreciate alcohol as well.

"This isn't a good idea," Kurt begins, the side of him that rarely does wrong winning over the more animalistic side that wants to tackle and pin Blaine to the damned floor and ravage him the way boys who look so effortlessly sexy should be ravaged. He sort of wants to punch himself in the face for being so prudish.

Blaine just laughs and takes another hearty swallow of the expensive champagne. "Live a little, Kurt," he says, holding the bottle out. He notices Kurt's conflicted look and says, gentler, "Look, you know I'm gay. I know I'm gay. One hundred percent in love with the male body." He smiles, a close-lipped one that he uses only when he's trying to get a point across and lets his gaze shamelessly rake along Kurt's body. "And there's no Rachel Berry here for me to kiss this time. Just you, my boyfriend."

The words drip from his voice silky smooth and thick, like honey. It's a heady concoction of promise and lust and love and Kurt knows he's hooked like an unsuspecting fish and yeah, no going back now.

The yellow-white light of the kitchen backlights the bottle and Kurt suddenly feels emboldened as he reaches for it, fingers brushing against Blaine's slightly as the bottle switches owners. When the bubbly champagne rushes down his throat he's surprised to find that he likes the strong, sweet taste and he goes in for another swallow or two and feels so adult, so free with the third and fourth that he never wants to stop.

Blaine pries the neck of the bottle from his fingers and sets it on the counter, hopping off and cupping Kurt's face in steady, warm hands, eyes round and intense and so bottomless with emotion that Kurt feels like he's absolutely drowning and he never wants it to stop. Blaine's breathing heavily, like he's just run a mile, and Kurt finds himself captivated by the elegant flick of Blaine's thick eyelashes as he blinks.

Their lips connect, wet and messy and too uncoordinated and they're not even tipsy yet, what the hell. It's pure desperation that takes over as Kurt pins Blaine against the cabinets, fingers woven into thick, dark curls and mouth kissing along a stubbled jaw. The sudden display of ferocity must spark something in Blaine because it's not long before he's whimpering and pushing against Kurt and oh, his hardness is pressing and rubbing along Kurt's thigh and he doesn't think he'll ever tire of the sensation.

"What do you want, Blaine?" Kurt breathes when they part, air hot and heavy between them. His fingers stroke along Blaine's cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, like he's mapping him out and never wanting to forget, wanting to always have the sight of this new, desperate Blaine etched into his memory.

"What do you want me to do?" Kurt's voice drops a little, filtering low and filthy through his mouth. Blaine can't help his shudder and Kurt's totally unprepared for Blaine's hand sliding down his back, tracing over the curve of his spine, to cup his ass, and now it's Kurt's turn to shudder and squeak in surprise. His seductive, controlling demeanor evaporates quicker than water on a hot day.

"Blaine!" he gasps, hands clutching uselessly at Blaine's broad shoulders, working their way deeper into the fabric on his shirt as Blaine begins kneading like some cat. Kurt feels a high, hot flush settle over his cheeks as Blaine groans deep, and suddenly it's like it's their first time again as nerves hit him like a ton of bricks.

Kurt's not sure if it's the alcohol making him self-conscious—because it did, after all, contribute directly to Blaine locking lips rather enthusiastically with Rachel before, but he hadn't even begun to touch Blaine and suddenly there are nimble hands on his ass and Kurt really wants them to slide around front and pay some attention to his cock.

"Let's drink some more," Kurt says, gently pushing Blaine away and unsuccessfully ignoring the kicked-puppy look Blaine shoots his way as he reaches for the forgotten champagne bottle. He may or may not need a bit more alcohol in his system if he wants to continue this night in the direction that it seems to be going.

And it's a dumb, dumb decision, Kurt's aware of that; alcohol and sex is never a good combination, look at Quinn, but he's also not exactly a stud and he still feels a little embarrassed when Blaine touches him. That's just not the way to feel when your boyfriend's hands are on your cock.

He takes a long pull and squeezes his eyes shut at the burn.

Blaine laughs and reaches up to brush away an unruly strand of dark brown hair off of Kurt's forehead that must have come loose during their liplock a few minutes ago. "You are adorable," he says fondly, grabbing the bottle from Kurt's fingers and taking his own drink.

"Shut up," Kurt says through a smile as he grabs the bottle back.


"No, no, Blaine. Get—get down," Kurt orders, words slurring and unsure as he tugs off Blaine's shirt and pushes him down onto the couch. He strips off his own shirt and straddles Blaine's waist, giggling as he situates his legs, one folded underneath him on the couch cushions and one stretched out to anchor him to the floor.

Blaine's eyes are slightly unfocused as he curls his hands around Kurt's hips. He looks up at Kurt like he's some Greek god, like he's the most perfect definition of some Adonis ever and Kurt can't resist squirming a little on Blaine's lap, feeling the hard line of Blaine's definitely-interested cock right underneath his ass. Blaine chokes out a gasp and tilts his head back, eyes sliding shut and mouth partly opened.

"Sit still," Kurt says before bringing the bottle back up to his lips. There's a little over a fourth left and Blaine watches him raptly, watches the way Kurt's lips close around the rim and the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

Kurt tilts Blaine's head, keeping their eyes locked, and leans down. He doesn't tell Blaine what he's doing, doesn't mention that there's still some champagne in his mouth, but it's like Blaine already knows because his mouth is open wider before Kurt even makes contact and then semi-warm champagne is dripping in a frothy mess from Kurt's mouth and into Blaine's and Blaine is groaning like it's the best thing ever, swallowing and kissing Kurt, tongue delving deep into his mouth to lick at the remnants of the liquor. He pays no heed to what spills from the corner of his mouth and trails, sticky, down to the cushions below.

"So hot," Blaine breathes against Kurt's lips. "Oh god, I just cannot get enough of you."

He shouldn't be able to speak so eloquently when he's had a lot to drink, Kurt vaguely thinks as Blaine mouths at the line of his jaw. He's just too perfect. Blaine shifts under him, rocking up to press his cock between Kurt's legs, somewhere around the soft skin behind his balls, and Kurt gasps sharply, pushing down and almost losing his balance. He pulls Blaine into a searing kiss and reaches a hand between them to palm Blaine's cock through his jeans, cupping and rubbing a bit rougher than necessary.

"These pants should not be here," Kurt murmurs, reaching to tug at the zipper and button of Blaine's pants. It takes a little longer than normal—Kurt will swear it was the alcohol, Blaine will swear it was the stupid design of Kurt's pants—but then their skin is touching and shit.

"Let me blow you," Blaine almost immedaitely says as he kisses at the pale column of Kurt's throat, teeth slightly punishing and lips soothing. Kurt nods, unable to say anything with Blaine's hot breath on his throat and the cooling lick of his tongue dampening the skin. Blaine flips their positions and wastes no time in closing his mouth around the head of Kurt's cock, flattening his tongue before sucking hard like he's some sort of pro or something that Kurt wasn't aware of.

They haven't done this yet, both agreeing that they weren't entirely ready, but Blaine seems enthusiastic as ever, and through his hazy state Kurt has to admit that Blaine's got a fantastic pair of lips and remembers his really, really talented fingers as he slides his free hand down to cup Kurt's balls and he shamelessly voices his pleasure for the house to hear as Blaine swirls his tongue and closes his hand around what his mouth hasn't reached.

Blaine's enthusiasm, however, does have its downfalls as he attempts to take too much at once and has to pull back, spluttering and teary-eyed and coughing, but Kurt pets his hair gently and murmurs encouragements and it's like the incident never happened. Then Blaine is doing more amazing things with his tongue and hollowing his cheeks like a fucking vacuum or something and what did Kurt do in another life to deserve all this?

"Blaine," Kurt gasps as he arches his back, "Blaine, stop." He's too close and he doesn't want this to end, not this soon.

"Hmm?" Blaine hums as he pulls away, hand wrapped tightly around Kurt's cock, and what the hell, how is Kurt supposed to focus and talk to Blaine when he's sliding his palm in smooth, short strokes like that?

Kurt moans, says, "Like dating a Dyson or something," and sweet Gaga that is not what he wanted to say. He squeezes his eyes shut at Blaine's huff of laughter and finally gets out, "Ugh, floor, now. Hands and knees. 'S what I meant before."

Blaine gives him a little smirk and licks spit-wet lips, peering up at him through dark lashes. He slides to the floor in what he probably hopes is a sexy manner but actually involves a lot more stumbling and awkward limb-flailing because they're both still a little tipsy and uncoordinated. Blaine is already a wreck; his hair is tousled and all over the place, mouth cherry red, pupils blown to ridiculous proportions, cock a dark flush against his tan skin.

"You're going to kill me," Kurt groans as Blaine spreads himself out more than is probably necessary, knees spaced wide and ass up in the air and it probably really is a good thing that they're both not entirely sober, otherwise there'd be a lot more blushing and biting lips and they'd never get anything done.

Kurt kneels behind Blaine, reaching a hand out to tentatively stroke along Blaine's hip, trail up and over the curves of his ass, fingers sliding down the divide and teasing just enough at his entrance that Blaine jerks and whines high in his throat, pushing backwards before Kurt pulls his hand away.

He feels completely in control here and it's exhilarating, the knowledge that he can make Blaine this needy, this wanton, and he wraps his fingers quickly around his cock, pulling in hard, fast strokes.

Blaine's body shifts downward on his right side and Kurt knows that he's reached a hand under himself to wrap around his cock. Kurt wishes, in this moment, that he was the type to speak dirty. He wants to tell Blaine how much he wants to fuck him, how he'd like to see him at his complete mercy and just how much begging he'd be willing to do. He wants to tell him how gorgeous he looks, spread for the world like this, how hot his lips look wrapped around his cock.

Instead, Kurt is reverent, relishing in the noises spilling from Blaine's mouth as his muscles flex in his left arm as he holds himself up. Kurt wonders if he'd be so willing to spread himself like he is now when he's sober, and he's almost shocked to find that he wants to know.

All Kurt can do now is say Blaine's name like it's some sort of prayer and it's not long before he feels the heat curl low in his abdomen, feels his balls tighten and then it only takes a few strokes more and he's coming over Blaine's back with a loud gasp that tapers off into a moan.

Kurt runs his fingers through the opalescent mess when his senses come back, gathering it on the tips before he brings his hand down to Blaine's mouth and Jesus he doesn't even have to say anything before he feels Blaine's lips close around his fingers and his tongue is laving over the digits like a thirsty animal, little grunts and uhs as Blaine jerks himself off faster.

He comes a few moments later with a groan that Kurt can only describe as manly and so damn sexy and just quintessentially Blaine. The champagne-induced buzz is slowly starting to wear off and little by little what they've just done is starting to register in Kurt's brain and that damn blush and those stupid nerves are starting to make their presence known again.

He's just about to get to his feet and grab at least his briefs before he feels Blaine's hand latch around his wrist and he's being pulled back down to the floor. "Stay," Blaine murmurs sleepily, little strands of hair sticking to his forehead and eyes already half-lidded from exhaustion. "And you'd better not regret this. 'Cause I don't."

Kurt smiles and presses his sweat-slicked body next to Blaine's. "Fine."


Saturday morning brings light, and with that light also comes what feels to be a jackhammer in Kurt's head. He squeezes his eyes shut, groans, and buries his head in the crook of Blaine's neck, fuzzy memories of last night gradually flashing through his mind.

Blaine stirs and Kurt wishes that he wasn't trapped by Blaine's arm because running away sounds like a fantastic idea. Blaine saying he didn't regret it last night pretty much held no water, because, hello, a whole bottle of champagne gone between the two of them.

Kurt never knew his boyfriend had such a rebellious side to him. He's not going to complain, though, because as uncomfortable as he is right now with Blaine's reaction when he wakes up it was a damn good idea.

Blaine groans a little, apparently in as much pain as Kurt, and opens his eyes to slits and staring what Kurt can only assume is daggers at the open blinds in the living room. He closes his eyes and croaks out, "Morning, sexy."

Kurt splutters and blushes and begins to tell Blaine that he's the sexy one because wasn't it just a short time ago that he was the one in Kurt's bedroom giving failed sexy lessons but Blaine presses his finger to Kurt's lips before he can start, smiling softly.

"Don't even think about it," he says. "You are sexy."

Kurt's response is a well-practiced eye roll.

"Seriously," Blaine insists, words honest and eyes pleading. "I've never come so hard, not even that first time you jerked me off." Kurt rolls his eyes again but his devil-may-care expression is contradicted by the ever-present stupid rosy blush.

Blaine leans in and kisses both of Kurt's cheeks, right at where the temperature is the hottest, and adds, "Your blushing is so cute. I love when you're all flustered and embarrassed even though you're a total sex kitten when you're drunk."

"Who says it's only when I'm drunk?" Kurt counters, suddenly feeling an urge to prove himself, that same emotion that Blaine had said, weeks and weeks before when he was auditioning for the solo, he needed to tone down, that he didn't always need to be a spectacle and maybe sometimes it was okay to let the blazer take over and blend him in. Blaine looks as taken aback as Kurt feels, and that gradually morphs into something challenging and devious.

"Well," Blaine says nonchalantly, sitting up and stretching. Kurt can't help but stare at the ripples of Blaine's muscles, the arch of his back and stretch of his arms as he pops any stiff joints. "I think we need some more 'boyfriend bonding' time, don't you think?"

"We have two days," Kurt replies. "I intended on using every second."

Maybe he hadn't intended that before, but now, now he did.