DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title from "Sending Postcards From A Plane Crash (Wish You Were Here)" by Fall Out Boy.
When I started this, it was PWP. Then it had a little backstory. Warnings are: as usual, consensual sex between minors, loads of dirty talk, rimming, rough sex that involves barebacking, jealous!Kurt.
It's really, really not Blaine's fault that the new exchange student is from Britain. It's also not his fault that he's loved Harry Potter since he was a curly-haired boy, too shy in elementary school to make many friends and instead found solace in what he still firmly believes is the best trio of friends that anyone could ever ask for. Naturally, British culture fascinated him, accents included. Everything from cockney to refined held Blaine's attention like a fly stuck to honey.
He'd never really travelled, inside the United States or out, so having someone come to Ohio with that elusive accent was amazing enough. Though this kid—Jude, his name was, or some other Beatle song name or whatever—was attractive and all, Blaine stared at him solely because when those—kind of attractive as well—lips opened an American accent didn't come out. A British one did. Blaine loved it.
Kurt, however, did not.
Kurt was a jealous person. He's always been that way, from the time he was six and Tommy Ryan had a nicer jacket on than him the first day of kindergarten, all the way up to Rachel hogging all the solos—solos that he still sort of believes should have been his. He's gotten better, though, he swears. Living in a sea of blazers and gray slacks and solos that automatically go to Blaine have taught him that the finer things in life are not envied but rather admired, especially if one didn't possess them.
Kurt unfortunately couldn't admire much when the aforementioned Blaine, his boyfriend, was staring at that new exchange student, Jude somethingorother, like he was the Most Interesting Man in the World. And with that haircut and obvious lack of style had he not been wearing the Dalton uniform, interesting was farther from him than fat was to being accepted by Karl Lagerfeld.
It hadn't taken long for Kurt to pluck Blaine from the laughing group of boys, Jude's stupid accent slinking around like a cat that's up to no good, and drag him off to his dorm in the West Wing. He couldn't even be bothered to make his usual slew of jokes at the wing's name, instead letting anger fuel his actions. It was a dumb decision, but everyone's allowed to be hasty and angry once in awhile.
"Whoa, Kurt," Blaine says, looking alarmed at the determined look on Kurt's face and how his hand is fisted so tight in the starched collar of Blaine's white dress shirt and how it clearly has no intention of leaving anytime soon despise the wrinkles that will undoubtedly appear as the result of such manhandling. Kurt stalks into his dorm room, still dragging Blaine behind him, slamming the door once they're both inside. "Calm down, sweet pea. What's wrong?"
Kurt whirls on him then, towering over Blaine and feeling like the most oppressive force Blaine's ever met. His eyes are stormy sea-gray, mouth set in a line so fine it's almost nonexistent. His grip on Blaine's collar has ceased and Blaine finds himself rubbing his throat where the fabric had chafed as Kurt drug him along. Kurt's gaze almost physically burns and Blaine finds himself shrinking down and cowering.
"Don't you call me that," Kurt says dangerously. Blaine unconsciously shrinks lower, wondering what he had done wrong because Scary Kurt was seriously fucking terrifying and he hasn't encountered him much because Kurt always feels the need to externally be composed and immaculate. "I saw you looking at him."
"Who?" Blaine knits his eyebrows in confusion, cocking his head as he assesses the situation. "You mean Jude…?"
"You looked like you wanted to jump him right then and there," Kurt continues, exhaling through his nose like a seriously pissed off dragon. Blaine wonders if it'd be inappropriate and would warrant him a slap or something equally as devastating if he compared Kurt to Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback.
Blaine watches his fists clench and unclench at his sides and wonders—again because it's all he can do when someone is angry at him; it's like a coping mechanism—if Kurt is like Wolverine and literally does let his claws out. "And knowing you, you were more than eager to suck his dick."
"Kurt!" Blaine exclaims, his utter confusion being overtaken by hurt. His lower lip trembles slightly as he looks at Kurt. "You know that before you I had never—"
"I know," Kurt snaps. "And now you're ready to try it out on someone else, is that it?" My god, is this me? Am I really attacking Blaine with no evidence other than my stupid, irrational jealousy? Kurt feels like he's having an out-of-body experience and can only watch as he tears his boyfriend down, layer by layer and façade by façade.
Blaine's eyes mist over slightly and he starts to take a step forward but thinks otherwise, rubbing at his nose to distract himself from the barrage of tears pinching behind his eyes. "Kurt, I only want you," he says, swallowing thickly to even out his voice. He blinks a few times and chances a look up, hazel eyes wide and teary. "Please believe me."
Kurt steps forward; taking the opportunity Blaine overlooked, he presses their mouths together. He fists his hand in Blaine's tie, pulling him close and keeping him there as Kurt kisses him deeper and rougher than he ever has. His teeth are punishing and when their tongues meet Blaine moans while Kurt growls possessively.
"First," Kurt says after he's kissed a wet line from Blaine's chin to his ear, "you're going to beg, because I know how much you love doing that. But since you've already started in on that, why don't you kindly continue?"
Blaine's mouth opens but no sound comes out at first. He's never seen this determined, masculine, demanding side of Kurt before. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't completely turned on by it. He breaks and finally presses their bodies together again, rubbing against Kurt's thigh, saying, "Please, please, please," over and over again like a broken record.
Kurt allows himself a little smile, pulling Blaine back to slide off his blazer and unbutton his shirt. Blaine's hands go up to his tie but Kurt forces them away. "Leave it," he says, eyes glittering and changing to a less-intense almost seafoam green color. Blaine's hands obediently fall to his sides and he vibrates on the spot from a mixture of arousal and anticipation.
When Kurt palms him through his slacks it's rough and Blaine can't help but rock on his toes into it, more pleas falling from his lips, shivers running up and down his spine as Kurt whispers, "Pants, off. Now, Blaine. They're in the way."
He's honestly probably never undressed faster in his life. It feels a little funny to be standing in just his boxers and tie while Kurt is fully dressed but he doesn't have much time to think before he's being pressed against the desk, legs splayed, ass jutted out and the sharp edges of the wood digging into his palms as he leans his weight forward.
"Second," Kurt says airily, like he's discussing song choices or tomorrow's weather, "I'm going to lick you open because I know how self-conscious you were about this before." Blaine feels Kurt's hands at the waistband of his boxers, lingering there, hot, for a few seconds before tugging them down and off, letting Blaine reposition his legs. "I'm the only one you'll ever let tongue your asshole, right?"
Blaine gasps, groans, forgets his fifteen years of utilizing words as Kurt's fingers slide down the divide between his ass cheeks, pulling them open and then there's hot breath across his hole and holyfuckingshitKurt there's a tongue swirling warm, wet circles followed by the insistent press of two fingers.
Blaine spreads his legs impossibly wider, juts his ass out further and tries not to grind against Kurt's face. His voice comes from the back of his throat, scratchy and high-pitched as he says, "Oh," over and over again.
Kurt works two fingers in, spreading and stretching and Blaine takes the slight dryness in stride, keeps asking Kurt for "more, more, please, Jesus" and trembling and shaking and biting his bottom lip red and swollen. His nails make slight scraping noises against the wood as he clenches his fingers when Kurt's tongue delves deep, licking and probing and how the hell was he ever shy about this before?
Then there's the coolness of the air conditioning against his ass and Blaine pushes back against air, wordlessly wondering where Kurt had gone until he hears the click of a bottle behind him. He hears the faint moans and distinct sounds of Kurt slicking up his cock before there's a blunt pressure at his hole and Kurt is pushing in without warning.
Blaine hisses his pain and tries his best to relax, let Kurt fill him up like he has so many times before. Kurt grips at his hips so tightly that Blaine squirms uncomfortably, shifting on the balls of his feet until Kurt's pressed flush against his ass.
It's silent for a moment, just their combined breathing in the room, before Kurt begins moving, slow at first and faster and faster, and with the unforgiving speed and intensity come words of the same variety.
"You want my cock, you stupid little slut?" Kurt hisses as he draws out and pushes back in, holding Blaine's hips tight. "You want me to fuck you until you can't walk? Is that what you want, Blaine?"
Blaine's answer is an inarticulate mess of syllables and grunts, sweat beading and dripping periodically from his hairline. He feels his heartbeat pounding in his throat, breaths being pushed out in broken little uh uhs from the force of Kurt's movements, tie swinging and whispering against his skin. His palms slip on the edge of the desk and leave streaks when he readjusts his grip. Kurt grits his teeth and tightens his hold on Blaine's hips. "I saw you staring at him," he murmurs. "That exchange student from Camden or wherever. I couldn't let you do that, Blaine, not when you're mine."
Blaine whimpers when Kurt forcibly hikes his hips up, causing his cock to bump painfully against the desk. "I bet you were wondering what his cock felt like, how he'd feel when he licked and spread you open like the little cockslut that you are." Kurt can feel Blaine's thighs quake. "His tongue probably would have been hot, like this." Kurt runs his tongue up Blaine's back, stopping at his shoulder blades. "You would have moaned when he sucked a mark into your skin."
"Kurt," Blaine groans. His knee knocks the corner of the desk and he winces in momentary pain that's instantly overridden as Kurt sucks his own mark into the skin on his shoulder. He wants to tell him that he wasn't staring at that boy, that Kurt is the only one he wants to lay eyes upon. Blaine just… He has a thing for voices, especially accents.
It comes with being a singer, with paying attention to pitch and intonation all the time and while Kurt's voice is lovely—especially now; low and rough and in control—he has the same faint Ohio accent that Blaine and every other boy he's ever met has. The student from Britain, while also admittedly very easy on the eyes, also had something new, something Blaine thought he'd only ever hear in movies and on TV shows.
"Fuck, Kurt," Blaine says when Kurt changes angles, hits his prostate dead on and doesn't slow his angry pace. It's like expletives and Kurt's name as the only remnants of the English language that Blaine knows.
"You belong to me," Kurt growls into his ear, the tip of his tongue a wet, teasing pleasure on the shell. "This ass, your cock, your mouth. I could take your name, too, like in Spirited Away," and oh god, leave it to Kurt to make an obscure movie reference while he's buried balls-deep in Blaine's ass.
The desk shakes, slams into the wall and Blaine really hopes the boys in the dorm next to him aren't in for the evening yet otherwise he's never going to live this down. Kurt bites down on the juncture of neck and shoulder just underneath where the tie is still looped. Blaine cries out loudly, feeling the freshly-bitten spot throb like it's going to the beat of frenzied salsa music.
"I'm close," Blaine whines, and how is it that Kurt can reduce him to a mass of whines and whimpers and jelly-like limbs? He hasn't even touched his cock yet, too afraid to release his two-armed death grip on the desk. "Kurt, come on, please, let me come. Touch me. Fuck me harder."
"Such a slut," Kurt says again, though this time it's more loving, the tone softer and a little fonder. Most of the anger has seeped from Kurt's limbs but trace amounts of hurt still dwell in his heart, powering the relentless pistoning of his hips. He feels heat coil at the pit of his own stomach. "But you still haven't apologized."
"I'm so sorry, Kurt. I didn't mean to stare. I want only you inside me, coming and filling me up and I want your tongue in my ass, licking it out and then swapping it with me because I'm filthy and disgusting and I fucking love it," Blaine babbles, feeling horny and desperate and teetering too close to the edge to care what comes out of his mouth because it's the truth, because he means it and he'll always mean it.
When Kurt presses his lips to Blaine's shoulder this time it's chaste, soft. His words are on the same frequency. "You're not disgusting. I love you and I love doing this with you." His hands loosen their grip just slightly and he slides one around to the front, gripping Blaine's cock firmly, feeling it twitch into his hand, revelling in the hot firmness of it as he obeys and speeds his thrusts up.
Blaine moans, grinds his hips in little circles back against Kurt before thrusting forward into the pressure surrounding his cock. His toes curl into the thin carpet on the dorm floor and he feels a bead of sweat run down his Adam's apple to rest at the hollow of his neck. Kurt never moves his hand, just keeps his fist in a circle that's tight yet loose enough for Blaine to thrust in to until he's tightening up and clenching around Kurt's cock and coming with a wail.
Kurt moans not long after, high and breathy, as he comes into Blaine's ass and considers, for a moment, doing just what Blaine mentioned before deciding better of it. Now that the adrenaline and endorphins are beginning to wear off he feels terrible for losing it like he did and not at all feeling up for snowballing.
He watches Blaine flex his fingers, probably cramped from where they had been clutching the desk, and wince as he stoops over to pick up his boxers. "I'm sorry," Kurt says quietly, eyeing the dingy gray color of the carpeting to avoid looking into Blaine's eyes. He's the one who needs to apologize, not Blaine. This was so stupid. He chances a look up anyway, peering cautiously like a child afraid of what could be around the bend.
Blaine looks at him, eyes blank. Kurt hurriedly reaches down to pick up his briefs and slide them back on. After a few more emotionless seconds Blaine smiles. "It was still hot."
Blaine presses their mouths together, fingers threading in through Kurt's hair. "Look, I get it," he says, mouth quirking up as he licks his lips, "you're a jealous guy. It's really cute, too. It's actually adorable, really."
Kurt eyes him dubiously but says nothing. "I swear," Blaine adds, crossing his heart. It draws Kurt's attention to the tie still hanging between his sweat-slicked pecs and he has to lick his suddenly-dry lips. He really doesn't deserve this boy.
"I'll ask before next time," Kurt says.
"Please, don't," Blaine replies, grinning. "Really."
"You little slut," Kurt says fondly.